Archive for May, 2012

Trailer Madness

May 27, 2012

Some of the more bizarre and intriguing horror/sci-fi movie trailers I’ve seen recently. Whether all the films are real or not, or will ever see daylight, is anyone’s guess, but they all have a certain appeal to me.

Gaiking

Thale

Beyond the Black Rainbow

Heartless

Doctor Who fans might recognize a familiar face in that one.

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Swamp Thing

May 19, 2012

swamp thing

Hiking the Blue Hills today and an obviously insane, mutant alien hybrid swamp creature came flailing out of the underbrush at us. Just a complete muck horror, all wild limbs, tentacles and arms, two heads and an undebatable desire to consume human flesh.

I fended the slimy fucker off with little more than a blackthorn shillelagh , an issue of Locke & Key and an adopted greyhound named Soup. Sent the dirty thing back to whatever dark, fornicating den of fetid extraterrestrial filth it originated from. Scary moment, for sure, but what do I live for if not the occasional encounter with the yawning maw of certain, screaming death.

Had a coconut ice cream at Crescent Ridge Dairy afterwards that was the shit-you-not best I ever tasted. And I’ve tried coconut flavors from everywhere from Venice, Italy to Mexico, Maine.

The. Best.

Then I remembered. Alec Holland is dead. And I never was Alec Holland. Just a tangle of mossy swamp weeds that thought it was Alec Holland. I’m saying I’m a monster who dreamed he was a man but now the dream is over and the monster is awake.

Everything’s Gone Green.

Rage of the Screaming Fire Demon

May 14, 2012

fire demon

I may have mentioned this before but the lands just Northwest of the Compound’s borders are rumored to contain an ancient Native American burial ground. It just so happens that that is the same area of my land best suited to what we sometimes call the Bad Craziness Bonfire.

If you hike out northwards from the Compound and slowly head west before you reach the edges of Bear Brook State Park, you can climb a small ridge that, when you crest it, reveals what looks like a crater in the side of the hills where, some tell me, a meteorite smacked into the rocky New Hampshire soil one All Hallows Eve in the early twenties. Killed about 17 nudists and left one hell of a snazzy impression in the rolling landscape that I, for one, am happy to take advantage of. The upper eastern rim is a great spot to chill out and look out over the ponds and the river to the sun setting over the distant hills of Dunbarton and Weare. Nice spot to relax and burn shit.

With that in mind, while I’m landscaping a proper woodland hangout up there, I like to pile up all the old brush and deadwood I can into a big mound and, when it’s big enough, invite a handful of the local ne’er do wells and light the fucker. It’s a BYOB event and, if you know the right people, you can get past security and guarantee yourself one hell of a night. Put it this way, you’ll see the sunset and the following dawn and, in between, the sort of blazing party that would terrorize the fuck out of anyone present during the fall of Saigon.

The main concern is, of course, accelerant. 5 gallons of gasoline, all the used motor oil we can get our hands on form the local farms, that half-can of gunpowder from the 4th and a backpack full of defective fireworks bought cheap. Propane torches, lighter fluid, 4 months worth of the Times and Globe and an issue or two of Barely Legal. Seven finely dried Christmas trees, a seven foot stack of old pallets and that case of Duraflame logs that fell off that truck in Londonderry two weeks ago.

To start.

Pile it high. Light the damn thing. Back. The. Fuck. Up.

It’s a good time, I think. Never heard anyone really complain. Even Dabney Chigger, a Pharmacist fired from over seventeen CVS and Walgreens’ in four states, who was almost wrestled into the coals by Chad Greenlough’s epileptic Russian bride that night in ’09 when we had that pipe bomb making contest. Bernie Dillinger once burned all the hair off his own genitals with a hairspray flamethrower and he was still laughing about it three days later in the infirmary.

Not much holds a candle to what happened Saturday night however. Maybe it was Sketch Lowrie’s moonshine or maybe it was the presence of Pete Nickelsson, last living descendant of a supposedly cursed Maine logging family, on the grounds. Maybe it was the fresh blood we spilled when Cal Deeter said “fuck it” and had his brother Ernesto do an impromptu wisdom tooth extraction on scene with nothing more than a six inch multi-tool and a butter knife. I don’t know for sure. All I know is things got weird fast.

The fire went up with the kind of whooshing roar you’d more expect at a Shuttle launch and the damned flame was forty feet high before the glass from the molotov cocktail even settled in the kindling. Six or eight of us lost eyebrows right off the bat and Linda Deuterrie went spinning down the embankment slapping at her North Face like it was riddled with bees. Glen Johnson was screaming but it’s possible he’d been doing that for hours, I don’t know. Never really got over the lukewarm reception to Ovations, I don’t think.

Then we saw it. Stig Marmoset’s face was scarlet and stretched out in horror as his arms flailed and waived and I looked up above the fire and saw it, a raging, screaming demon of pure flame come to burn us all in terrible judgement. A wave of air pressure like a giant slamming you backwards and the sound of a thousand screaming guitars on feedback and we all fell to the ground, dead eyes raised to the towering flames like the mortal doomed that we truly are.

And then it was gone.

After a good twenty minutes of wordless quiet and only the steadily softening crackle of the fire as it died down to less apocalyptic levels, I suggested we maybe move up the start of the after party and drinks were on me down at Pasties. Most folks agreed, nodding their still smoldering heads slowly. We’d just got Last Call From The Seventh Circle and we knew it.

Anyway. Checked back in at the spot this morning and it was no worse for wear. Spotted a couple aging, dried out pines that need to be put to rest. Think I know just where to drop them. Start building a new brush pile.

I’ll let you know when it’s ready.

MacReady

May 5, 2012

macready thing

I am the Thing.

Covered in orange rocks and as strong as the Hulk? Nyet.

I dunno. Everything has gone green and I’ve gone Mac. iPad, iPhone, iMac. Sometimes all going at the same damned time, each displaying differnt apps/programs/windows. iBooks, iTunes, iPsychotic Break.

Someone needs to take me out into the snowstorm and set me on fire.

Cold Harvest

May 2, 2012

tropic of cancer permissions

I have to admit I’ve succumbed utterly to the allure of the latest wave of music so heavily inspired by the most formative genres of my youth in the early eighties. This is about Post Punk, Coldwave, Darkwave, Synthwave, Goth. Folks like Cold Cave, Von Haze, Chelsea Wolfe, Les Modules Etranges (and their various spinoffs) and a host of others I’m still uncovering.

That’s the most enjoyable part, really. Discovering the new and mysterious all over again. You can almost remember the feeling of bringing home that 12″ ep from the record store with it’s stark, minimalist black and white cover. Perfect design and lettering. Music and words that went well with your black leather jacket and sullen outlook.

The inspiration for this wave of newcomers comes from those very days and the enigmatically shrouded sounds and styles that defined it for so many of us with that sort of bent. Joy Division, first and foremost. Early Cure. Belgian Coldwave like Isolation Ward. Nagamatzu. Mass and other dawn of 4AD bands. Countless others.

Folks remember those days well. Take Tropic of Cancer, pictured above and sampled below, have done a fantastic job of harvesting those sounds and molding them into something just as darkly seductive as you remember. They even like to release their stuff on 12″ ep’s, a wondrously deliberate indicator that they appreciate the history. They understand their audience. They know what we love. They’ve had me hooked since The Dull Age.

As I say, I have succumbed. And though I know I can never really return to that time or totally recapture that feeling, I’m very willing to try and absorb what’s coming along now as much as I can. Delve into the underground and seek out the sounds and the art. The darker the better.

Someone hand me This Mortal Coil’s “Gathering Dust ep. I need to give it a spin.