HAVE NATION....WILL TRAVEL.

CHECK YER LOCALE.



INDEED.

CRUEL NORWEGIAN BLACK METAL.

There's one 'round every corner.

Within any so-called creative network, there always proves to be a heady handful of left of field types. Outsiders, creepy sons-a-bitches or 'fringe' players plying their indifference to convention and wrecking havoc on the safe and serene. These are the artistic marks on the human race that serve to set things off balance every now and again through both behavioral traits and tangible output, be it sonic, photographic, drawn out on any given material, whatever. This is the shit and these are the folks that work under the skin and into the subconscious, raping away at what the common man may perceive as 'A-OK!'

Now, I have sworn allegiance to both the bent dementia of the artistic outcast and the non-fiction form in moving pictures. I've been devoting ample time to both subjects in this here column of mine ever since day one ('tis true, just go dig through some moldy back issues at the Appleton Library), thus it would prove second nature for me to fully embrace and digest the coming together of inventive, yet bent, humanity and ace documentation.

A case in point........

The majority of the people I know and tend to run with address the scrappy hard rock sub-sub-sub genre of Black Metal as some kind of guttural train wreck clown routine drenched in quasi-medieval posturings straight outta some random B-movie redressing of deep-rooted Scandinavian folklore. Any average fool need not look further than established brutes Immortal and the layout imagery for their seminal record 'Battles in the North' as impetus to, either, bug your eyes way out in disbelief or let forth a torrent of savage giggles. Two dudes in corpse paint, all stone serious and posing dire with their guitars in a pile of bright, white snow, there you have it, black metal in a nutshell.

Not so fast with such simple, easy judgments, time to scratch just below the surface. Take a more explicit sampling of the recordings and press (and fanboy) response on through the years (in great particular-'Lords of Chaos:The Bloody Rise of the Satanic Metal Underground' by Michael Moynihan and Didrik Søderlind and photographer Peter Beste's tome 'True Norwegian Black Metal') and one can discover a brutal, convoluted soap opera of double crossings, deceit, copious church crisping, murder fantasies (and realities), homo/xenophobic and barely disguised fascist leanings.

All of these handy, highly melodramatic nuggets find themselves dredged up to the surface yet again via an intertwining of dialogs and cultural samplings that make for the bulk of the meat in the newly presented study on this Norwegian Black Metal scene titled 'Until The Light Takes Us'. This rather earnest little slab of immersive reportage attempts to distill the epic scale madness and confounding (to the uninitiated) level of addictive appeal to those among us who've actually taken the time to 'get it' to a manageable degree. The two names behind this project, Aaron Aites and Audrey Ewell, sought to gain unfiltered insight into the inner workings of this mini-phenom by uprooting themselves and moving to Norway to acclimate to the locals and generate trust and accessibility with many of the principles in the normally stand-offish Black Metal fraternity.



In the end, the pair have scaled their point of focus down to two primary voices. Gylve 'Fenriz' Nagell is a founding progenitor of the watershed genre outfit Darkthrone and Varg Vikernes established underground 'fame' via his hand in the notorious Mayhem and his own, one man, raw dog juggernaut Burzum. The choice of these fellas proves an apt one as they offer up sharply contrasting vibes as interviewees. Nagell resembles to me, the archetype death metal rat; skinny, disheveled, with stringy long hair and a mumbling, socially inept demeanor. Hardly an intimidating presence, Nagell is more reminiscent of the countless dudes in patch saturated black leather jackets I'm used to seeing skulking about at many a given metal gig. Vikernes, however, is as strong a persona as Nagell is shrug-shouldered and meek. Varg (sometimes known as 'Count Grishnackh' care, in part, of a predilection toward the works of Tolkien) is an alpha-male straight away, bold, articulate and unwavering in his apparent confidence as he attempts to address the depth of his pivotal role in black metal history from his pale, sterile cell in a maximum security joint in Trondheim.

You see folks, Varg was a very naughty lad, he was tried and convicted for the offing of one time band mate Øystein 'Euronymous' Aarseth (from Mayhem) by way of multiple knife wounds. Vikernes was also heavily suspected as a participant in the then rampant outbreak of area church burnings (a symbolic burden that the black metal scene would prove unable to fully divorce itself from that point on). Varg claims the Euronymous homicide as a 'kill-or-be-killed' situation in which he bested a man who was out to do him in.

The filmmakers chart all this tension and turmoil by bouncing the words of their primary talking heads off footage (both new and archival) of the scene itself, from raw early band formations and alterations (like the shotgun suicide of initial Mayhem frontman, er, 'Dead') to present day evidence of outside cultural encroachment (7-11 and McDonald's do not warrant much affection from these gents). They also manage to wrangle a solid supporting cast of scene players from such essential collectives as Satyricon, Ulver and Immortal (sans makeup, sadly) to augment the topics at large. We learn the whole disaffected youth scenario that led the lads to seek out the rawest possible outlet to vent against their oppressive 'perfect' culture (Norway is not known for poverty and strife, you see). The film goes for a sort of drifting pace that veers between Varg and Nargell, twisting their now very separate paths back around into their shared origins and back out towards the open possibilities that await both men and the now more renowned musical outlet they both, in a basic sense, still embrace.

If the film itself is not at all perfect, it does meander some from time to time as it were an awe struck, slightly stoned youth with a taste of ADD, it serves well enough to guide the clueless newcomer though the bare essentials of why some folks grow rather nerd obsessive over all this raspy and seemingly unpleasant noise-making. It's about stepping away from the constrictions of mainstream metal brands and styles and indulging in the unfiltered, raw power and aggression coming through the music. For the previously well schooled and 'total brutal' completest (the type who pointlessly boast over a rare vinyl 7" pressed in someones cellar in Austria or something), there is that extra shade of persona revealed in the occasionally rambling and less polished discussions at hand (especially in the case of the fidgety Nargell). Plus there comes a few unexpected asides like the sudden two-cents commentary provided by 'Gummo' mastermind Harmony Korine who gushes love for all things Black Metal over appropriately low grade footage of him in corpse paint geeking out solid in some unfortunate gallery. Sometimes, things just sound more fucked the further you attempt to explain them.




A smaller, Brooklyn based distributor, Factory 25, has stepped up to make the film available to one and all on both DVD and Blue-Ray formats. The film can be retrieved in both single and double disc packages. With that second disc, the willing viewer may witness an additional barrage of interview footage (which gives much needed expansion to the Immortal interview as well as a certain Kjetil 'Frost' Haraldstad of Satyricon who ends the film proper with a self-abusive performance piece that does little to dissuade the commonly held notion that this is, indeed, dangerous music). There is also several deleted scenes (on disc one), a theatrical trailer and a long winded lesson in the step by step evolution of the Black Metal scene from the expected Black Sabbath kick start on into the modern era delivered in mostly listless monotone by Mr. Nargell. In total, a worthy project well handled, but for the troublesome way the discs on the DVD version are encased (I damn near snapped both of mine in two trying to take them out...beware!)

Genuinely interested parties are greatly encouraged to stop here (http://www.factorytwentyfive.com/until-the-light-takes-us/ ) to satisfy any and all further steps that need be taken to make this baby theirs.

Enough pure crushing blackened hate for now, stay, uh, 'Evil' why don't you?


killpeoplenamedrichard@yahoo.com





NEVER A SLAVE TO INDUSTRY

A FINE TIME TO FIND OUT YOU'RE THE SAME AS EVERYONE ELSE.

EXPENDABLE ME. (AKA-Every Good Boy Deserves a Body Count)

Sylvester Stallone is feeling nostalgic, he’s consumed by an abstract yearning for the golden peak of the 1980s (and a touch of the succeeding 90s) when meat ruled the marquee. The flex-steady maestro behind the sweat laden brow of such one man brick walls as John Rambo and Rocky Balboa has just vomited his action hero soul up on celluloid for all the world to digest, tagged it ‘The Expendables’ and stuffed the retro centric result into movie shacks nationwide. The films’ extensive novelty value comes almost fully from a loaded cast of manly manness employed to FLESH out its’ shamelessly formulaic ‘rag-tag mercenaries attempt to thwart a third world dictator’ storyline. Many a heartfelt dose of top shelf thespian character development and deep existential contemplation follow suit (bullshit!). Oh, and lots of stuff get lit up, go BOOM!

The most sustaining after shock this beefcake almighty demolition parade left upon the nerd-chic brain pan of yours truly was the faded recollection of days now ancient when little studios that could, actually did. Believe it, or just play along, but there once was a time when dopey and violently quite charming non-intricate shoot ‘em ups appeared on a steady basis at my local Bijou to aptly sate a particular niche of sub-par exploitation devotees. No longer officially ‘grindhouse’ but not yet absconded from public awareness to direct-to-video oblivion, many such pictures managed a meager helping of box office attention before being supplanted by the next tacky trinket out the factory. Speaking of such factories, there were several notables. Let’s see, there was the Roger Corman fathered trifecta of New World Pictures, Concorde Pictures and New Horizons, Vestron (the ‘Dirty Dancing’ people) and even eternally smarmy huckster Charles Band’s infrequently worthy Empire Pictures (who helped propel the career of Stuart ‘Re-Animator’ Gordon and also made a bunch of movies with dwarves and shabby looking puppets) all of which made much cheap shit with lasting cinematic impressions on my young and feeble mind. None, however, held sway over the court of sub-important moviegoing at the level of prolific ferocity that The Cannon Group did.

You see folks, Cannon had a wee something extra, a spark of charismatic showmanship that culled its very impetus from both the brazen studio system of old (contract players and all that cunning, media savvy manipulation of the distribution process) and the brand of ‘quick scheme to make a buck while the gettin’s good’ philosophy that formed the appeal of many a William Castle type product. Keep it topical, keep it cheap, make it look flashy, get asses in seats. Such was the Cannon modus operandi, and it served them well, for a time.

But wait, first, a compact history lesson.

The Cannon Group was first given unto an unsuspecting movie going culture in the fall of 1967 care the efforts of Dennis Friedland & Chris Dewey, two entrepreneurial types who’d set up shop to both showcase lower profile international product as well as fund their own low cost ($300,000 or south) features. Along the way, these early era Cannonites struck minor paydirt with the Peter Boyle dark satire ‘Joe’. Sadly, the success story was short lived for Cannon’s young fathers and so in 1979 the pair sold their baby off for a strikingly low rate=$500,000 to two Israeli born cousins Menahem Golan and Yoram Globus. This duo had already been creating and hustling pictures in their homeland before making the leap stateside, Golan himself frequently took on the role of director as well (a position he would return to time and again during his Cannon tenure) and the boys had a plan cemented in their minds as to how they would make a lasting and financially fulfilling mark on this crazy American thing called ‘Hollywood’.

Golan-Globus (as the cult film world would come to know and adore them) set about procuring a fat catalog of inexpensive and genre faithful scripts to shove into production on the low cost/easy market tip. The fattest of their big screen returns came from the mass of grade B+ action epics and genuinely unabashed sequels to films most folks could have done without one of in the first place (‘Exterminator 2’, huh? why?). Granted, the company did branch out through the possibilities of several types of cinema, championed both break-dancing(more on this below) AND lambada pictures, helped run Tobe (‘Poltergeist’) Hooper’s career into the ground (regardless, I still love both ‘Lifeforce and ‘Texas Chainsaw 2’) and even courted art-snob and literary circles a few times (including both a later stage contribution from John Cassavetes-’Love Streams’- and oft lauded author Norman Mailer’s see-it-to-believe-it curo ‘Tough Guys Don’t Dance’) but the bread that held their butter was mostly laden with bullet shells, supplement infused musculature and many a simplistic line of dialog. It fostered the careers of Chuck Norris, Jean-Claude Van Damme, Michael Dudikoff (c’mon, you remember the ‘American Ninja’ guy, don’t you?) and a waning Charles Bronson.

By the mid section of the 1980s, at the sheer height of their productive powers, the cousins were slapping the slick Cannon logo on as much as 40 or more films in a given 12 month period. Chuck Norris’ Vietnam war inflected tentpole ‘Missing In Action’ did enough wide release business to justify two follow ups, Van Damme flourished with his kicks (if not his line readings) in the supposed true story ‘Bloodsport’ (supported by a young Forest Whitaker) and old man Bronson would milk the shit out of his ‘Death Wish’ anti-hero, Paul Kersey, all the way to a part 5.

Much of this Cannon fodder adhered religiously to the bare bones b-movie mantra of self-righteous ‘good’ overpowering some form of leering ‘evil’ (often heavily stereotyped foreign people). No matter if it was Chuckie Norris single handedly deflecting an impromptu Communist infiltration in ‘Invasion U.S.A.’ or former television heartthrob Richard Chamberlain aping Indiana Jones in ‘King Solomon’s Mines’ (one of many blatant derivatives of Spielberg/Lucas’ beloved archaeologist the Cannon folks would cobble together), the end result remained the same, the world is rendered free of villainy care the fearless exploits of a grizzled scenery chewing second-tier hero.

Which swings this whole thing back in the direction of that new Stallone flick. You see, not only does ‘The Expendables’ bare strong stylistic and thematic similarities to an atypical Cannon action programmer, it also bares some fraternal ties on the casting front. Within the line up of the film, I counted at least four fellows who had participated in the solidifying of the esteemed Cannon legacy(and if I have overlooked someone, too bad). Not only are Dolph Lundgren (He-Man in the wonderfully clunky ‘Masters of the Universe’), Mickey Rourke (‘Barfly’-not quite action, but they can’t all be) and main baddie Eric Roberts (‘Runaway Train’) guilty by association, but the man in charge Stallone has not one, but two Cannon lovelies to call his own (‘Cobra’ and the arm wrestling standard barer ‘Over the Top’). So, as one can clearly see, the bloodline flows on, albeit at a considerably higher cost (‘The Expendables’ ran up a tab in the neighborhood of $80 million, that could easily have funded a dozen or so Golan-Globus puppies).

So, in the end, is it all worth it? Does a pricey, ensemble homage to the good if not so clean big screen heroics of yore really warrant any measure of genuine affection? Why, shit yes, it sure do. Sly and the family steroids have pummeled all the pieces in place to smack your ass back to the age of perfect, cut muscle fibers and bias, well timed gun play. From the moment the elephantine Lundgren bellows out ‘Warning Shot!’ ‘til the last bullet shell falls, ‘The Expendables’ lives up to the one thing so many of this year’s offerings fail to even touch (‘Inception’ not withstanding), it’s promise to give you a reason to head back to the theater. May the ghost of The Cannon Group smile down upon Stallone and his over stretched flesh, first ‘Rambo (2008)’ and now this, the man has made body counting fun again.

ALSO,

In keeping with this month’s ever compelling subject matter, I offer up a dandy double header I snapped up at one of the local Wal-Marts (yes-I gave some dollars to pure evil, if you don’t like it-invert me) for a basement level $5. The object in question is a two disc DVD repackaging of Cannon’s love poem(s) to the finest dance craze of the 1980s. ‘Breakin’ and the vastly superior ‘Breakin’ 2-Electric Boogaloo’ (think of it as ‘The Empire Strikes Back’, only with break dancing and an L.A. back drop, and no Billy Dee). Both fine features follow the plucky efforts of two street smart youths (Adolfo ‘Shabba Do’ Quiñones and the legendary Michael ‘Boogaloo Shrimp’ Chambers) and the sweet thang (Lucinda Dickey) from the wealthy side of town that wants hang and learn to be ‘real’. The trio utilizes their expertise in hip dance moves to put on a show and save both their street cred (in part 1) and save an inner city community center from demolition (the untoppable ‘Electric Boogaloo’).

Both films thrive as vivid and addictively cheesey time capsules of a prehistoric period when a pop, a lock, a drop and a spin could make you famous and ICE-T ruled the earth (he cameos in both films). Pure energy raised to a level of beautiful stupidity that just cannot be forced, the concept of cult status was created with movies like these in mind. More than recommended as a cure for the doldrums of sanity. VIVA CANNON!

For more great, disposable info on the Cannon Group, visit this=www.cannonfilms.com

AGAIN WITH THAT OSHKOSH ZOMBIE WALK.....

BECAUSE MY MAN JOHN PATA AND THE OSHKOSH HORROR CREW KNOW HOW TO BLEED TERRIFIC ANNUALLY.

INFECTION-OSHKOSH ZOMBIE WALK 2010

IT ALL TAKES PLACE IN THE PRESENT DAY AMONG THE FITFUL RUINS OF A HUMANITY GONE SOUR AND DRUNK WITH ITS OWN BLOATED SENSE OF SECURITY.

MORE FROM DAT APPLE/MADDEN 2 THE PEOPLE PART 2

I LIKE TO MOBILIZE THE NEW YORK CANON BETWEEN FITS OF STREETWISE GENUFLECTION AND RANDOM CELEBRITY SIGHTINGS....ALL IN THE NAME OF PHOTOGRAPHIC 'PURITY'......YA.