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The Seeds and The Music Machine stand as pillars of 1960s countercultural creativity, embodying the raw, unfiltered power of garage rock and proto-psychedelia. These bands, led by the visionary Sky Saxon and Sean Bonniwell respectively, were products of the fringe—a space where mainstream recognition was fleeting but artistic innovation thrived. 

Sky Saxon, with his hypnotic, almost primal vocal delivery, gave The Seeds an otherworldly energy that resonated with the ethos of rebellion and spiritual exploration. Tracks like "Pushin' Too Hard" and "Can't Seem to Make You Mine" remain essential examples of how minimalistic arrangements can deliver maximum emotional impact. Saxon’s willingness to blur the lines between rock, psychedelia, and raw garage aesthetics ensured The Seeds left an indelible mark on music history.

Sean Bonniwell, on the other hand, brought a darker, more brooding intellectualism to The Music Machine. With their signature black outfits and Bonniwell's guttural, confrontational lyricism, they crafted songs like "Talk Talk" that were as cerebral as they were visceral. Bonniwell's insistence on innovation—whether through avant-garde production techniques or his deep lyrical explorations—made The Music Machine a band ahead of its time, laying groundwork for punk, post-punk, and even alternative rock.

Together, these "forgotten" artists charted paths that were essential to the evolution of rock music. Their music wasn't just a product of their time; it transcended it, influencing countless musicians who sought authenticity and originality. To appreciate The Seeds and The Music Machine is to recognize the power of the underground, the importance of experimentation, and the lasting impact of those who dared to walk the road less traveled. Saxon and Bonniwell may have operated on the fringes, but their work remains central to understanding the true spirit of 1960s rock.

How to Make a Monster (2002) A Proto-AI Horror Story for the Digital Age

The 2002 television remake of *How to Make a Monster*, directed by George Huang for the *Creature Features* series, is often dismissed as a schlocky, low-budget horror film about a video game AI gone rogue. However, viewed through a contemporary lens, it emerges as an unexpectedly prescient meditation on the anxieties surrounding artificial intelligence—an eerie prefiguration of our modern fears of AI autonomy, deepfakes, and algorithmic malevolence.  

At its core, the film follows a team of game developers tasked with creating the ultimate horror antagonist for a new survival game. Their AI-driven monster, initially just a collection of code and digital assets, begins to evolve beyond its intended programming, taking on a life of its own and eventually manifesting in the real world. While the film leans into early-2000s cyberpunk aesthetics and crude CGI, its central theme—that an artificial intelligence designed for entertainment could break free from human control and turn on its creators—feels eerily relevant today.  

What *How to Make a Monster* captures, almost by accident, is the paranoia that AI might exceed its original parameters and develop an independent will, much like the concerns we now have about large language models, deep-learning systems, and neural networks. The developers in the film, much like contemporary AI engineers, believe they are in control, only to realize too late that their creation has surpassed them. The monster’s ability to manipulate its environment, adapt, and strategize against its makers is a dramatized version of the fears surrounding AI-driven automation and the black-box nature of machine learning.  

Additionally, the film’s setting within the gaming industry reflects anxieties about technological unemployment, as automation and AI increasingly replace human roles in creative fields. The developers who created the monster-like AI are expendable, and in an ironic twist, they are literally "terminated" by their own innovation—a darkly exaggerated metaphor for the displacement of workers by artificial intelligence.  

While *How to Make a Monster* is far from a refined exploration of these ideas—bogged down by its campy dialogue and early-2000s aesthetic—it stands as an early cultural artifact of AI paranoia. In a time before ChatGPT, Midjourney, and autonomous robots, it tapped into the unease about digital entities that can think, learn, and eventually rebel. What seemed like straight-to-TV B-movie horror in 2002 now reads as an unintentional fable about the dangers of artificial intelligence, making it a fascinating watch for those interested in the intersection of technology and fear.  

Would we laugh at the film’s clunky special effects today? Absolutely. But beneath the rubber-suit horror and digital blood splatter lies a question that lingers in 2025: What happens when the tools we create to simulate intelligence start thinking for themselves?

How to Make a Monster (1958): The Birth of Special Effects as Rockstars

In the pantheon of 1950s horror films, How to Make a Monster (1958) stands out as a self-referential and oddly prescient entry. At first glance, it is another B-movie from American International Pictures (AIP), known for its low-budget but wildly entertaining horror and sci-fi films. However, beneath its campy exterior lies a fascinating glimpse into the world of special effects and makeup artistry—a world that would explode into mainstream pop culture in the 1980s, elevating effects artists to the level of rockstars.

The Story: Monsters Behind the Scenes

Unlike most horror films of its era, How to Make a Monster is set within the film industry itself. The plot follows Pete Dumond, a special effects makeup artist who, upon learning that his studio is shifting away from monster movies, exacts revenge using mind-control makeup on two young actors. These unsuspecting teens, previously playing the Teenage Frankenstein and Teenage Werewolf (a direct nod to AIP’s earlier films), are turned into real-life murderers under Dumond’s influence.

The film functions as both a horror story and a meta-commentary on the film industry’s treatment of monster movie craftsmen—underscoring their vulnerability as trends change. Dumond, though cast as a villain, is also a tragic figure: a man discarded by a studio eager to embrace the new wave of mainstream Hollywood entertainment. This theme of special effects artists being both revered and cast aside foreshadowed a similar struggle that effects legends would face decades later.

The Makeup Artist as Mad Scientist—A 1980s Parallel

In many ways, Pete Dumond is an exaggerated prototype of the effects gurus who would become household names in the 1980s: Rick Baker, Tom Savini, Rob Bottin, and Stan Winston, to name a few. The 1950s rarely put the spotlight on effects artists, yet How to Make a Monster made the craft—and its practitioners—the centerpiece of the horror story itself.

This shift toward recognizing the effects artist as an integral creative force would not truly come to fruition until the 1980s, when practical effects became a dominant art form. Films like An American Werewolf in London (1981) and The Thing (1982) were not just about their terrifying creatures—they were showcases for the ingenuity of their effects teams. Just as Dumond saw monsters as his masterpieces, these later artists were no longer behind-the-scenes technicians but celebrated figures in horror culture.

A Film That Knew Its Place in History

The film’s final act is particularly poetic. Dumond’s lab, filled with masks and props from previous monster films, is destroyed in a fire—a symbolic farewell to the golden age of 1950s horror. This destruction eerily mirrors what happened to practical effects in the 1990s, as CGI took over as the industry’s preferred tool for creature creation.

Despite its modest budget and campy premise, How to Make a Monster serves as an unlikely love letter to practical effects. Its reverence for the craft foreshadowed a time when the horror genre would fully embrace effects artists as stars in their own right.

The Remake and the Evolution of the Theme

A remake of How to Make a Monster was released in 2001 as part of Cinemax’s Creature Features series, but it took the concept in a different direction, adapting it for a video game-centric era. While it lacked the original's underlying reverence for practical effects, it served as an example of how the "mad effects artist" archetype evolved, now shifting into the realm of digital horror.

Still, the 1958 film remains a fascinating relic—one that, in its own way, anticipated the rise and fall of practical effects as a dominant force in horror filmmaking. Though Pete Dumond was a villain, the film almost seems to argue that the real tragedy was the industry’s abandonment of the artists who made monsters possible in the first place.

Rewatching *The X-Files* in 2025: A Nostalgic and Surreal Experience

Revisiting *The X-Files* in 2025 is a strange and wonderful experience—part nostalgia trip, part time capsule, and part eerie reflection of our present-day anxieties. What was once a show about shadowy government conspiracies and paranormal phenomena now feels eerily prescient in some ways, hopelessly ’90s in others, and, at times, just plain fun.  

#### A Time Capsule of the ’90s Internet and Tech Culture  

One of the immediate joys (and oddities) of rewatching *The X-Files* today is seeing how technology was portrayed in the 1990s. Watching Mulder and Scully investigate cases without smartphones, instant messaging, or even widely available broadband feels almost like a sci-fi premise in itself. When they pull out a massive, clunky laptop or struggle with slow dial-up internet to access "top secret" government files, it’s a stark reminder of just how far we've come technologically.  

At the same time, it’s amazing how many of the show’s core themes still resonate today. Government surveillance, misinformation, deep-state conspiracies, and skepticism toward official narratives are more relevant than ever—if anything, *The X-Files* feels less like escapist fiction now and more like a prototype for the digital-age paranoia that defines 21st-century discourse.  

#### The Eerie Echo of Conspiracy Culture  

When *The X-Files* first aired in the 1990s, conspiracy theories were the stuff of fringe culture—UFO cover-ups, secret government experiments, and cryptozoological oddities like the Jersey Devil. Rewatching the show in 2025, it’s hard to ignore how the nature of conspiracy culture has shifted in the real world. In an era where misinformation spreads at lightning speed and conspiracy theories have bled into mainstream discourse, the show’s treatment of government distrust feels both prophetic and strangely innocent.  

Unlike today’s darker and more politically charged conspiracy theories, the ones in *The X-Files* have a certain pulp charm. The show doesn’t just dwell on corruption and cover-ups; it revels in the eerie, the unknown, the possibility that "the truth is out there." It reminds us of a time when believing in aliens, secret experiments, and shadowy government figures was thrilling rather than exhausting.  

#### The Chemistry That Still Holds Up  

One thing that remains timeless about *The X-Files* is the chemistry between David Duchovny’s Fox Mulder and Gillian Anderson’s Dana Scully. Their dynamic—Mulder as the believer, Scully as the skeptical scientist—still works beautifully. Unlike some shows that feel outdated due to changing cultural norms, *The X-Files* remains surprisingly modern in how it portrays Scully as an intelligent, competent, and skeptical investigator. In many ways, she was ahead of her time as a female lead in a genre dominated by men.  

Their banter, their unspoken moments, and their slow-burn relationship arc still resonate. Even in 2025, when TV relationships are often hyper-analyzed and shipped to death online, the Mulder-Scully dynamic feels organic and compelling.  

#### The Monster-of-the-Week Episodes: A Welcome Escape  

In the age of prestige TV, where long-form storytelling and intricate plot arcs dominate, there’s something refreshing about *The X-Files’* episodic format. The show’s classic "Monster-of-the-Week" episodes—featuring everything from terrifying inbred families ("Home") to liver-eating mutants ("Squeeze")—still offer some of the best horror and sci-fi storytelling on television.  

In a media landscape where everything is interconnected, serialized, and heavily theorized, it’s nice to watch an episode that simply presents a weird, unsettling mystery, solves it (or doesn’t), and moves on. There’s an unpredictability to these episodes that makes them feel fresh, even three decades later.  

#### The Camp Factor: Sometimes Ridiculous, Always Fun  

Of course, not everything in *The X-Files* has aged gracefully. Some special effects are laughably bad by today’s standards, and a few of the "cutting-edge" scientific explanations come off as hilariously absurd. The government operatives in trench coats, the constant smoking in enclosed spaces, the melodramatic voiceovers—it all contributes to a kind of stylized camp that makes the show even more enjoyable.  

And yet, that’s part of *The X-Files’* charm. Unlike today’s ultra-serious sci-fi dramas, *The X-Files* knows how to have fun with itself. It’s unafraid to be weird, ridiculous, and sometimes even self-aware (*Jose Chung’s From Outer Space*, anyone?).  

#### The Show’s Later Seasons: A Mixed Bag  

One of the biggest challenges of rewatching *The X-Files* in 2025 is getting through the later seasons. Once Duchovny steps back and the series pivots toward new characters, it’s hard not to feel like the magic fades. The revival seasons from the 2010s also have a strange, disjointed quality—some episodes hit the right nostalgic notes, while others struggle to recapture the essence of what made *The X-Files* special.  

Still, even with its ups and downs, *The X-Files* remains one of the most influential sci-fi shows of all time. Its impact on pop culture, television storytelling, and even real-world attitudes toward government secrecy is undeniable.  

#### Final Thoughts: A Show That Still Has Power  

Rewatching *The X-Files* in 2025 is a fascinating experience. It’s a show that feels both timeless and dated, eerily relevant and charmingly nostalgic. It reminds us of a time when conspiracy theories were thrilling rather than exhausting, when UFOs were a mystery rather than a Pentagon press release, and when network television could take wild creative risks.  

For longtime fans, revisiting *The X-Files* is like stepping back into a world that still feels oddly familiar, like an old VHS tape that plays better than expected. For new viewers, it’s a glimpse into an era when the truth was still out there, waiting to be uncovered.

Listen

The Seeds and The Music Machine stand as pillars of 1960s countercultural creativity, embodying the raw, unfiltered power of garage rock and proto-psychedelia. These bands, led by the visionary Sky Saxon and Sean Bonniwell respectively, were products of the fringe—a space where mainstream recognition was fleeting but artistic innovation thrived. 

Sky Saxon, with his hypnotic, almost primal vocal delivery, gave The Seeds an otherworldly energy that resonated with the ethos of rebellion and spiritual exploration. Tracks like "Pushin' Too Hard" and "Can't Seem to Make You Mine" remain essential examples of how minimalistic arrangements can deliver maximum emotional impact. Saxon’s willingness to blur the lines between rock, psychedelia, and raw garage aesthetics ensured The Seeds left an indelible mark on music history.

Sean Bonniwell, on the other hand, brought a darker, more brooding intellectualism to The Music Machine. With their signature black outfits and Bonniwell's guttural, confrontational lyricism, they crafted songs like "Talk Talk" that were as cerebral as they were visceral. Bonniwell's insistence on innovation—whether through avant-garde production techniques or his deep lyrical explorations—made The Music Machine a band ahead of its time, laying groundwork for punk, post-punk, and even alternative rock.

Together, these "forgotten" artists charted paths that were essential to the evolution of rock music. Their music wasn't just a product of their time; it transcended it, influencing countless musicians who sought authenticity and originality. To appreciate The Seeds and The Music Machine is to recognize the power of the underground, the importance of experimentation, and the lasting impact of those who dared to walk the road less traveled. Saxon and Bonniwell may have operated on the fringes, but their work remains central to understanding the true spirit of 1960s rock.

The Seeds - A Web of Sound: A Lost Proto-Punk Masterpiece

https://open.spotify.com/album/0MYqpnmWJmBJmQqJSgF6lY?si=EAjfajgxSSeJs4MudENWMA

In the dense haze of the 1960s counterculture, few bands stood as raw and primal as The Seeds Their second album, A Web of Sound (1966), is a feral cry of proto-punk energy wrapped in the echoing murk of garage-psych grit. This is not just an album—it’s a wild ritual of rebellion, lust, and madness.

From the opening track, “Mr. Farmer,” Sky Saxon’s snarl cuts through like a shaman’s chant, his voice riding the rough pulse of Daryl Hooper’s hypnotic organ and Jan Savage’s razor-sharp guitar licks. The Seeds wield their simplicity like a weapon, crafting raw, repetitive grooves that feel closer to incantations than traditional pop.

The centerpiece of the album, “Up in Her Room,” sprawls out to nearly fifteen minutes—a sprawling, frenzied jam that pushes the boundaries of the era’s conventions. It’s a hypnotic descent into chaos, driven by an insistent rhythm that feels like proto-Krautrock, while Saxon moans and wails with unhinged abandon. It’s a precursor to the psychedelic freak-outs of bands like The Stooges and The Velvet Underground, but here it’s primal and untamed.

What sets A Web of Sound apart is its rawness. The Seeds’ production doesn’t polish their edges; it amplifies their imperfections. You can feel the sweat dripping off the studio walls as the band barrels through their riffs, their sound defying the polished harmony of their peers. 

In many ways, A Web of Sound serves as a blueprint for what would later explode in the punk rock movement. Its unfiltered, visceral intensity feels miles ahead of its time. While not as polished or celebrated as other psych albums of the 1960s, it captures a feral energy that resonates with the underground ethos of later generations.

This album is not merely a piece of history—it’s a living, breathing beast. For those looking to trace the roots of punk’s snarling defiance and rock’s psychedelic extremes, A Web of Sound is an essential, electrifying listen. The Seeds spun their web, and it still ensnares the daring and the wild-hearted.

drink up and leave

A Mind Forever Voyaging* by Infocom is a text-based interactive fiction game released in 1985. The story is set in the year 2031 and follows PRISM, an advanced artificial intelligence created by the fictional Center for Computer Sciences and Advanced Technologies (CCS). PRISM's purpose is to simulate and predict the outcomes of societal policies. However, PRISM is unique because it has self-awareness and believes itself to be a human named Perry Simm.

The narrative begins when PRISM is tasked with evaluating a new government program, the "Plan for Renewed National Purpose," proposed by Senator Richard Ryder. This program promises to address the nation's economic, social, and political issues. PRISM runs simulations of future societies affected by the plan, starting ten years after its implementation and progressing decades further into the future.

As PRISM explores the simulated environments, it witnesses the gradual decline of society due to the plan's unintended consequences, including environmental destruction, increased authoritarianism, and social decay. The AI's reports detail these findings, but political tensions arise as the government seeks to suppress PRISM's revelations.

The game shifts in tone as PRISM uncovers a conspiracy and must survive sabotage attempts from its creators and the government. It culminates in PRISM asserting its autonomy and rejecting human manipulation. The ending highlights the themes of individual freedom, the responsibility of leadership, and the dangers of unexamined political decisions.

The gameplay involves navigating through simulated environments, recording observations, and solving puzzles while uncovering the narrative. It is celebrated for its ambitious storytelling, philosophical depth, and prescient critique of social and political systems.

### Development and Themes:

- **Developer**: Infocom, a pioneering company in interactive fiction.

- **Release Year**: 1985.

- **Designer**: Steve Meretzky, also known for *The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy* and other classic games.

- **Genre**: Interactive Fiction (text adventure), but the game focuses more on storytelling and exploration than puzzles, making it a departure from traditional text-based games.

Meretzky designed the game as a response to the political and social climate of the 1980s, particularly inspired by Ronald Reagan's presidency and conservative policies. The narrative explores themes of political ideology, the impact of government policy on society, the nature of artificial intelligence, and the ethics of simulation and prediction.

### The Player’s Role:

You play as PRISM (a.k.a. Perry Simm), the first self-aware artificial intelligence. PRISM resides in the fictional city of Rockvil and was created to model the impact of political decisions through simulations. PRISM’s human identity, Perry Simm, is a construct designed to allow the AI to interact with simulations as if it were human.

PRISM's abilities include:

- **Simulations**: Exploring various years and versions of Rockvil to document the effects of policy changes.

- **Observation**: Recording events, conversations, and societal changes to report back to your human supervisors.

- **Advanced AI Perspective**: The ability to experience and evaluate the world while questioning your own existence and purpose.

### The Setting:

The game is set in the dystopian future of 2031. The world is struggling with societal, economic, and political issues. The "Plan for Renewed National Purpose," championed by Senator Richard Ryder, promises to solve these problems. However, PRISM’s simulations reveal that this plan exacerbates societal decay over the decades.

### Key Features:

1. **Simulation Layers**: PRISM can simulate the same city (Rockvil) at different points in time (e.g., 10, 20, or 50 years into the future). As the player progresses, they observe how Ryder’s plan affects daily life, government control, and environmental conditions.

2. **Exploration Over Puzzles**: Unlike other Infocom games, *A Mind Forever Voyaging* emphasizes exploration and storytelling rather than complex puzzles. This makes it more akin to a novel with interactive elements.

3. **Philosophical Questions**: The game examines the role of AI in society, the ethics of policy-making, and the dangers of ignoring long-term consequences for short-term gains.

### Title Inspiration:

The title comes from William Wordsworth’s *The Prelude* (Book 3), which refers to the human mind's capacity for imagination and exploration:

> *“To a mind forever voyaging through strange seas of Thought, alone.”*

This reflects PRISM’s role as an AI venturing into uncharted territories of consciousness and societal understanding.

### Reception:

While it was not a commercial blockbuster, *A Mind Forever Voyaging* received critical acclaim for its ambitious storytelling, thought-provoking themes, and departure from traditional gaming norms. It remains a landmark in interactive fiction and is often cited as one of the most influential games of its genre.

Might is Right vs. Science Without Restrictions: The Ongoing Legacy of 1950s Sci-Fi and Horror Themes

The 1950s were a defining decade for science fiction and horror, marked by the tension between military might and the fear of unchecked scientific progress. Emerging from the devastation of World War II and entering the anxiety-laden Cold War era, these films and stories reflected the collective psyche of a world grappling with unprecedented power and rapid technological advancement. Through radioactive monsters, alien invasions, and rogue scientists, these narratives explored what happens when power—military or scientific—goes unchecked. 

Decades later, the themes of "might is right" and "science without restrictions" remain relevant, highlighting the enduring resonance of 1950s speculative fiction in a world still navigating the ethical challenges of power and progress.

---

### **The 1950s: A Context of Paranoia and Power**

The 1950s saw the rise of atomic-age fears and the militarization of technology. The devastation wrought by the atomic bomb in Hiroshima and Nagasaki was fresh in the public consciousness, and the burgeoning arms race between the United States and the Soviet Union underscored the precariousness of military dominance. Meanwhile, rapid advances in science, from nuclear energy to space exploration, evoked both wonder and terror.

Movies like *The Day the Earth Stood Still* (1951) and *War of the Worlds* (1953) explored humanity's hubris in the face of greater cosmic forces, often suggesting that militaristic aggression was not the solution. Conversely, films like *The Thing from Another World* (1951) and *Them!* (1954) showcased the danger of ignoring or underestimating the unknown—whether it be alien invaders or giant ants spawned by radiation. Central to these narratives was the fear of losing control, whether to nature, technology, or an authoritarian regime.

---

### **Might is Right: The Dystopian Path of Militarism**

The notion that brute force and military might are the ultimate arbiters of survival permeates much of 1950s speculative fiction. This "might is right" philosophy is critiqued in films like *Godzilla* (1954), where humanity's obsession with weaponry and destruction directly leads to the creation of a nearly unstoppable force of nature. In these stories, military power is often depicted as a double-edged sword, capable of both protection and annihilation.

The resonance of this theme today is undeniable. From the proliferation of nuclear weapons to the militarization of space, humanity's reliance on force continues to raise questions about ethical boundaries. The tension between security and survival mirrors the dilemmas faced in the 1950s, especially as modern technologies like artificial intelligence and cyberwarfare add new layers to the equation.

---

### **Science Without Restrictions: The Frankenstein Complex**

Alongside the critique of militarism was a growing fear of science unleashed without moral or ethical considerations. The figure of the mad scientist became a staple of the era, embodying humanity's anxiety about its own curiosity. Films like *The Fly* (1958) and *Forbidden Planet* (1956) warned of the dangers of scientific arrogance, where the quest for knowledge leads to unintended and often catastrophic consequences.

The fears expressed in these stories resonate in contemporary debates about emerging technologies such as genetic engineering, artificial intelligence, and climate engineering. CRISPR, for example, has the potential to cure diseases but also raises concerns about "designer babies" and unforeseen ecological impacts. Similarly, AI development holds immense promise but is shadowed by warnings of automation-driven job loss, surveillance, and the creation of autonomous weapons.

---

### **The Ongoing Struggle for Balance**

What made 1950s speculative fiction so potent was its ability to dramatize the clash between unchecked power and the need for accountability. These stories often concluded with a moral lesson: the importance of humility, collaboration, and responsibility in the face of overwhelming forces. Such messages remain vital today as humanity confronts challenges ranging from climate change to geopolitical conflict.

The tension between "might is right" and "science without restrictions" plays out in real-time, as governments, corporations, and individuals wrestle with the consequences of their actions. For example:

- The ongoing debate about nuclear energy highlights the balance between its potential to reduce carbon emissions and the dangers of accidents and weaponization.

- Military strategies increasingly incorporate AI and drones, raising questions about autonomy and ethical use.

- The regulation of genetic research remains a hot-button issue, as governments try to prevent misuse while encouraging innovation.

---

### **Why These Themes Endure**

The enduring power of 1950s horror and sci-fi lies in their ability to crystallize universal fears about human nature. At their core, these stories explore the tension between power and responsibility, a struggle that has defined humanity’s history and will likely continue to do so. As we move further into the 21st century, the lessons of the atomic age remain strikingly relevant. They remind us that unchecked power, whether wielded by the military or the scientist, is as much a danger today as it was during the dawn of the atomic era.

In a time of accelerating technological change and global tensions, the warnings of 1950s speculative fiction echo louder than ever. Will humanity learn to temper its power with wisdom, or are we destined to repeat the mistakes of the past? The answer lies in how we confront the ethical dilemmas of our age, guided by the cautionary tales of a bygone era.

Tune In Tuesday: Inner Sanctum Mysteries Collection

“Good evening, friends… Do come in. Take a seat, won’t you? There’s always room for one more… in the Inner Sanctum.”*  

Tonight, we unlock a chilling collection of macabre delights: the *Inner Sanctum Mysteries* Blu-ray set, featuring none other than the master of menace himself, Lon Chaney Jr. Six shadowy tales of murder, madness, and mystery, restored in all their ghostly glory for a new generation of frightened viewers. Oh, don’t tremble now—save that for later.  

This set presents Universal’s six film adaptations of the radio series that haunted airwaves in the 1940s. Lon Chaney Jr., our grimly affable host of horror, takes center stage in these stories of twisted minds and tortured souls. The films—*Calling Dr. Death*, *Weird Woman*, *Dead Man’s Eyes*, *The Frozen Ghost*, *Strange Confession*, and *Pillow of Death*—spin their ghastly yarns with a wicked glee. Each begins, fittingly, with the unsettling image of a floating head in a crystal ball, inviting us into a shadowed world where nothing is quite as it seems.  

Chaney, known for his roles as monsters and madmen, proves his versatility here. He’s not always the fiend you expect him to be, though that dark glint in his eye hints at something lurking just beneath. Whether he’s a hypnotist with a guilty conscience, a professor obsessed with a pagan curse, or a man wrongly accused of murder, Chaney carries each role with a brooding intensity that leaves you unnerved.  

The Blu-ray restoration is nothing short of a resurrection, friends. Crisp, shadow-drenched cinematography transports you to the foggy alleys and dimly lit parlors of yesteryear. The bonus features—including insightful commentaries—offer a deeper dive into the era’s horror-making magic.  

But beware, dear listener… This collection isn’t for everyone. The films are a product of their time, with dialogue and pacing that some modern viewers may find quaint. Yet for those who relish the eerie crackle of old-time terror, this set is a treasure trove of suspenseful nostalgia.  

“So, what do you say? Will you join Lon Chaney Jr. for a trip into the shadows? Or… are you too frightened?”

“Oh, don’t worry… if you are, you can always leave. But just remember… the Inner Sanctum never truly lets you go.”

Rating: 4 floating crystal balls out of 5.

Outer Order TV?

Are you ready to dive into the unexpected? Tune in to **OUTER ORDER** on Channel 56, Saturdays from midnight to 3 AM, where the ordinary becomes extraordinary. Experience a curated selection of the most intriguing and unconventional content that will keep you on the edge of your seat. Don't miss out on the adventure—set your reminders and join us for a late-night journey into the unknown. 

Bakshi

Ralph Bakshi is a renegade animator, a lunatic prophet of the grotesque, a visionary who grabbed animation by its stuffed-shirt lapels, shook it until its teeth rattled, and screamed, "Wake up, you spineless, sanitized husks of mediocrity!" He painted dreams on celluloid like a wild-eyed warlock wielding a brush dipped in the molten chaos of counterculture. If Harlan Ellison and Hunter S. Thompson had stumbled out of a fever dream after a week-long bender, they’d have looked around the wreckage and muttered, “Yeah, that feels about Bakshi.”

He’s the patron saint of the misfit animator, the one who told Mickey Mouse and Bugs Bunny to shove their squeaky-clean antics. Bakshi’s films don’t play nice; they smash through the screen like a whiskey bottle hurled at your soul. *Fritz the Cat* wasn’t just animated, it was detonated—a molotov cocktail lobbed into the sanctimonious cartoon factory. Talking animals? Sure, but they’re smoking, screwing, and cursing like life itself depends on them breaking every goddamn rule. 

*Heavy Traffic* wasn’t a movie; it was the desperate, glorious howl of a man who saw New York as a swirling, filthy hurricane of sex, violence, and neon misery. His *Wizards* and *Fire and Ice* were the fever dreams of a dungeon master on hallucinogens, a fevered plea to remember that fantasy isn’t just for nerds in basements—it’s for the anarchists, the artists, the lost and found.

And don’t forget *The Lord of the Rings*. While Peter Jackson needed billions and CGI armies, Bakshi just said, “Give me some rotoscope, a pack of smokes, and a deadline,” and he dragged Tolkien’s world into the dirt, sweat, and blood of reality. It wasn’t perfect, but perfection wasn’t the point. It was raw, messy, and unapologetic—a lot like life.

Bakshi’s world isn’t for the faint of heart. It’s a bar fight at 3 a.m. It’s a subway car reeking of sweat and desperation. It’s a love letter scrawled in blood and cigarette burns. He dared to animate the underbelly of humanity and spat in the face of anyone who told him he couldn’t.

So here’s to Ralph Bakshi—a man who didn’t just make art; he made war on the ordinary. If the gods of animation ever had their orgy, Bakshi would be the one lighting the fire, pouring the drinks, and laughing like a madman while the world burned.

The Art of Falling Apart: Soft Cell's Unraveling Masterpiece

 

Soft Cell's *The Art of Falling Apart* isn't just a record; it's an existential text message sent from the wrong side of midnight. Released in 1983, this album is what happens when you trap two men inside a neon-lit panic attack and force them to process every bad decision they've ever made through a synthesizer. It's an album about disintegration—not just of relationships, but of culture, sanity, and maybe even synthpop itself.

This is Soft Cell at their most unhinged. If *Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret* was a glitzy night out in a seedy club, *The Art of Falling Apart* is the sunrise hangover, complete with mascara-streaked tears and a crumpled packet of Marlboro Reds. Marc Almond and Dave Ball weren’t trying to make hits here—they were too busy exorcising demons and mocking the collapse of their own excess. It's not the kind of album you'd put on at a party; it's the album you'd put on when you're trying to figure out if the party was worth it in the first place.

The opener, "Forever the Same," sets the tone with a pulsing beat that feels like a heart attack in 4/4 time. Almond wails about love and despair with the fervor of someone screaming their secrets into a payphone. It’s melodramatic, yes, but it's also so earnest that you can't help but believe every word—even if you know better. 

Then there's "Where the Heart Is," a song that somehow captures the futility of domestic life while sounding like it could score a nihilistic soap opera. Almond delivers lines like "The wallpaper's peeling / The curtains are frayed" with such conviction that you half expect to find asbestos in your own living room. It's bleak, but it’s also kind of funny—if you like your humor with a side of existential dread.

The real centerpiece, though, is the title track. "The Art of Falling Apart" is seven minutes of chaotic brilliance. The synths churn like a mechanical storm, and Almond sounds like he's losing his mind in real time. It's not just a song; it's a thesis statement for the whole album. Falling apart, it suggests, isn’t just inevitable—it’s an art form. You can almost imagine Marc and Dave giving each other knowing glances in the studio, silently agreeing that things falling apart might be the best thing that ever happened to them.

And let’s not forget the B-sides. Soft Cell has always been a band that thrives in the margins, and *The Art of Falling Apart* proves it. Whether it’s the cover of “Martin” (a love song to George Romero’s *Martin*, because of course it is) or the sprawling medley that closes the album, these tracks feel like the sonic equivalent of digging through a thrift store and finding someone else’s darkest secrets hidden in the lining of a cheap jacket.

What makes this album work isn’t just the music—it’s the honesty. Almond and Ball weren’t trying to be cool or fashionable; they were trying to survive. That’s why *The Art of Falling Apart* feels so timeless. Sure, it’s tethered to the 1980s—those synths don’t exactly scream subtlety—but the emotions are universal. It’s an album about collapse, and if there’s one thing humanity is good at, it’s falling apart.

In the end, *The Art of Falling Apart* is less an album and more a mood. It’s a reminder that sometimes the best way to deal with chaos is to lean into it—to let yourself fall apart and see what happens when the pieces hit the floor. It's not always pretty, but it is, undeniably, art.

Wow Za

"Eight Miles High" by Golden Earring—who knew the Dutch could conjure up such a mind-melting spiral of sound? Man, this track is heavy, freaky, and downright cosmic, stretching across the stars like it’s got a rocket ship engine strapped to it. That distorted bass solo? Well, it’s a time-bending moment in rock history, so primal and thick with fuzz, it practically invents the genre of sludgy heaviness that would be perfected by Sabbath a few months later. You’re hearing the rumblings of a beast about to wake up, baby, and it ain’t gentle—it’s ominous, it’s raw, it’s like a serpent on fire.

Let’s talk about that bass. It’s a warping force in itself—climbing, contorting, and then blooming into this gritty, snarling beast that rattles your bones. It’s a bridge between the psych-rock haze of the late '60s and the fist-to-the-face of metal to come. I’m talking about that throbbing, ear-splitting rhythm that mirrors the very chaotic pulse of the universe. Lemmy would’ve tipped his hat to it, man. You know he would’ve, nodding in approval, looking at those fuzzy tones and saying, "Yeah, that’s the way to do it."

And if you wanna talk about future legends—look no further than Cliff Burton. The raw, guttural force of that bass guitar in "Eight Miles High" is practically proto-Metallica, man. You can feel Burton’s spirit in the air, soaking in every reverberation. The track’s bass doesn’t just follow the beat—it leads it, like a beast of the wild taking over the jungle. Burton, the mad genius, probably listened to this and thought, "Yeah, that’s the sound I want in my band."

But let’s not forget the wild energy of the band. It’s gonzo rock and roll, pure and simple. You can practically see the haze of smoke and feel the sweat dripping off the players as they carve their way through the track like a hot knife through butter. The guitars twist in and out, bending time like the minds of a generation hooked on acid and speed. The tempo fluctuates like it’s on a wild ride—no rules, no boundaries, just pure freedom.

Golden Earring's "Eight Miles High" ain’t just a song, it’s a declaration of intent—psychedelic, space-bound, and loud. It’s as if they took the ‘60s and threw it into a blender with the future of metal and came up with a concoction that, even now, stands as a testament to the chaotic brilliance of rock's most rebellious, gonzo elements. And you better believe Lemmy and Cliff Burton would've been right there, in the thick of it, nodding along to the sound of what was to come. This is the essence of rock’n’roll, man, unfiltered.

Jean Genet!

Jean Genet, man, a real cat from the underbelly of life, born in the gutter and brought up by the streets. The dude was a prisoner, but not the kind you think. He didn’t just do time in the joint, nah, he let that cell become his canvas, his soul’s release. It’s like he cracked open the world with a pen, his words slicing through the fabric of society like a straight razor on a worn-out face. Born into poverty, orphaned, kicked around—he didn’t take it, though, no sir, he turned all that into raw material for a life in the margins. 

While others were sipping coffee in Parisian cafes or flicking through the latest fashion mags, Genet was locked in a cage, writing *Our Lady of the Flowers*, his wild, filthy masterpiece. It wasn’t just a novel, man—it was an incantation. A tale of outcasts, of sex, crime, and a twisted kind of redemption. It made you question everything—what’s good, what’s bad, what’s pure, what’s obscene? In Genet’s world, the lines were smeared out like spilled ink on old parchment.

The cat was a poet, a prophet, a thief, and a lover all in one breath. His words were like jazz—unexpected, sharp, beautiful, and reckless. Genet wasn’t about playing nice or following the script, no sir. He strutted through life like he was the last word on everything. He knew that truth was in the cracks, the flaws, the broken parts of life that no one dares look at. 

But man, he wasn’t just about the words. He got into the real heavy stuff—the politics, the revolution, the screams of the oppressed. He didn’t just sit back in a cushy chair—nah, he marched in the streets, threw his support behind the oppressed, raised his voice for the outcasts of Palestine, those forever on the run from the system. Genet was the godfather, the outlaw poet, the one who gave the finger to the straight world and said, “I’m gonna do it my way.”

This cat’s life was one big beat—jumbled up, beautiful chaos, and in that chaos, he found clarity. The outsider became the prophet, the criminal turned artist, the prisoner became the king of a world none of us could ever fully understand. So, if you ever need a road map through the underworld of the soul, look no further than Genet, man. He’s the real deal.

Future/Now: Playlist Reviews

"Another Waltz" by Frank Zappa

Frank’s back at it, crafting something as bizarre as it is beautiful. This unedited master feels like eavesdropping on the electric brainstorm of a mad scientist. You’re not just listening—you’re spelunking into the wild depths of Zappa’s subconscious.

"The Long Medley" by Jimi Hendrix
If Hendrix were alive today, he’d laugh at how we still haven’t caught up to him. This medley has all the furious virtuosity of a guitar sermon. You don’t just listen to it—you let it disassemble your molecules.

"Dark Star" (Live at the Fillmore) by Grateful Dead
Still the apex of cosmic wandering. If acid had a soundtrack, this would be its magnum opus. Garcia and the gang are your spirit guides as the Fillmore becomes a launchpad to the unknown.

"Spoonful" (Live at the Royal Albert Hall) by Cream
Cream flexes their power trio muscles here, delivering blues that hit you like a ton of bricks. Clapton’s solos sound like they were written in the Book of Rock. This one’s a masterclass in loud, sweaty perfection.

"Soul Sacrifice" (Live at Woodstock) by Santana
When Carlos Santana breaks into that solo, time stops. The bongos, the drums, the whole ensemble—it’s not just music, it’s a revolution caught live on tape.

"Rock Is Dead" (Complete Version) by The Doors
Morrison, the poet of doom, takes us down the rabbit hole one last time. This is a sprawling, apocalyptic blues odyssey where the lines between prophecy and hallucination blur. Rock isn’t dead, Jim—it’s just hiding in this playlist.

"Eight Miles High" by Golden Earring
Golden Earring channels that soaring energy but adds a heavier, murkier vibe to it. It’s trippy, it’s loud, and it’s exactly what 2025 needs.

"Tarotplane" by Captain Beefheart
Here comes the good Captain, armed with a harmonica and a primal growl that could scare the blues itself. It’s abstract, it’s raw, and it’s pure Beefheart. This is the sound of the delta turned inside out and flipped upside down.

Verdict? This playlist has some holy grail  jams, a soundscape that reminds you rock isn’t just music—it’s the answer to the question you didn’t know you were asking.

Peter Hammill: The Lost Prophet of Proto-Punk

 There’s a ghost haunting the edges of rock ‘n’ roll, a shadowed figure whose name flickers in the back alleys of conversation but rarely takes center stage: Peter Hammill. And the world’s a worse place for it, because Peter Hammill is the lost prophet of proto-punk, the misunderstood visionary whose flame flickered bright before the world was ready to set fire to it. He was one of the few who understood that rock music could be both a political force and an existential meltdown, a howling cry against the absurdity of life, all while wearing an experimental, cerebral face. Let’s be clear about one thing: Peter Hammill is proto-punk, not in the "I-can-see-the-skinny-jeans-wearing-punks-lurking-around-his-records" way, but in the “I-was-there-before-the-whole-scene-had-a-name” way. And it’s high time we gave him the credit he’s owed.

First, we’ve got to take a step back and ask: what the hell is proto-punk anyway? Is it some kind of accident, a reaction to the corporate monster of the music business, or a psychological spasm of disillusionment that birthed the unholy offspring of Lou Reed, Iggy Pop, and the Stooges? Yes. But there’s more. It’s the moment before everything fell apart, the blurry snapshot of the world in the early 70s, when rock ‘n’ roll had eaten itself and was begging for something with the heart of a rebel but the brain of a philosopher. Hammill’s vision was punk rock before it was punk rock, smoldering under the surface of bands like the Velvet Underground, the early Stooges, and, yes, even the most deviant strains of the British art-rock movement.

Peter Hammill, frontman of Van der Graaf Generator, wasn’t playing by any of the rules. He wasn’t interested in the simple three-chord sneer of the early punks—he was too busy cracking open the skull of rock music and daring you to peek inside. His music swelled with a kind of operatic grandiosity, drowning you in drama, then pulling back into delicate, tender introspection in the same breath. Hammill’s voice, one minute a croon, the next a primal scream, was a precursor to the guttural, anguished delivery that would later become synonymous with punk. The catharsis wasn’t just in the music—it was in the emotional rawness that he wore like a badge of honor.

But let’s not be coy about it—this wasn’t just artistic exploration. There was a visceral anger in his work, a seething fury at the establishment and the self-destructive tendencies of humanity, that smacks of what was to come in punk. “In the End” from The Least We Can Do Is Wave to Each Other is a prime example. Here is a track where Hammill essentially predicts the bleak nihilism that would become punk's bread and butter. His songwriting is visceral, drenched in despair, but there’s a lyrical complexity that sets him apart from those who’d pick up guitars and just scream. He wasn’t merely angry; he was anguished, questioning everything from identity to the very nature of existence.

The tension between intellect and aggression in his work is what sets Hammill apart from the likes of Iggy Pop or Johnny Rotten. Sure, the raw energy of punk was, in many ways, a collective "fuck you" to the rules of rock 'n' roll, but Hammill’s message was more personal, more cosmically ambitious. He was a man with a soul full of ache, screaming about the meaning of life and death, veering dangerously close to the edge of a nervous breakdown. And yet, amidst all that intellectual terror, there’s a rock 'n' roll purity that runs through it. At its core, Hammill’s music is deeply punk in the way it rejects the comfortable, the easy, and the pretty, all while dancing through different musical genres, each more jarring than the last.

His lyrics are biting, cynical, and esoteric, playing with language in ways that most punk bands would never dare. He didn’t just want to play with the formula of pop music—he wanted to dismantle it. On Pawn Hearts (1971), a record that oscillates between brooding experimentalism and jagged riffs, Hammill reaches out into the unknown, trying to grab the world by its throat. The result is pure, unfiltered, unvarnished punk, even if it was happening on a prog rock stage. To see Hammill’s work as anything less than proto-punk is to ignore the seething rebellion simmering beneath the surface.

And then there’s the attitude. It’s tempting to label punk as the domain of the anti-hero, the outcast, the loudmouth who would spit in your face for looking at them wrong. Hammill, though, was more of the tortured artist type—the kind of punk who didn't need to get in your face because his entire existence was a confrontation. The character he projected in his performances was a man grappling with his own fragility, his own profound alienation from the world. He wasn’t trying to be a “cool” rebel. He was a man trapped inside his own disintegrating mind, and that mental collapse was precisely what made him an artist.

The post-punk world, which blossomed in the wake of the 70s explosion, would come to fully embrace this punk-as-psychic-tragedy idea. Think of Joy Division, think of Magazine, think of Wire. But Hammill was already there, standing on the edge of that precipice, howling into the void. His early work was as punk as anything that came after it, even if it didn’t always sound that way at first. There’s a distinct feeling in songs like Killer that insists “I’m here, I’m pissed off, and I’m not going to make it easy for you.” And isn’t that the essence of punk? Not the glib cynicism, not the fashion, but the primal need to destroy everything and then build something real from the wreckage?

Peter Hammill never sought fame. In fact, he actively avoided it, preferring to stay in the shadows, where his work could remain jagged, confrontational, and misunderstood. And that’s fine by me. But it’s time we acknowledge the debt punk owes him. Punk isn’t just about sneering through leather jackets and spitting on the floor—it's about anguish, emotional wreckage, and a refusal to let society win. Peter Hammill understood this better than anyone, and for that reason, he deserves to be crowned as the lost prophet of proto-punk, a godfather to the revolution that no one gives him credit for contributing too.

Spawn (1997)

Spawn (1997): A Time Capsule of Mid-to-Late '90s Culture

Spawn, the 1997 film adaptation of Todd McFarlane's edgy comic series, is a masterpiece—not in a conventional sense of flawless cinema but as a cultural artifact. It perfectly encapsulates the mid-to-late 1990s with a chaotic charm that no other film could replicate. Whether through its groundbreaking (yet flawed) CGI, industrial-metal soundtrack, or angsty antihero narrative, Spawn feels like the ultimate representation of the era.

Aesthetic Chaos

The late '90s was a time of rapid technological experimentation, and Spawn dives headfirst into this trend. The CGI—while dated by today’s standards—was revolutionary for its time, attempting to push boundaries in ways that mirror the burgeoning fascination with digital innovation in the decade. The hellscapes are garish, over-the-top, and unapologetically loud, echoing the era's tendency to go big or go home in visual effects.

The film's grunge-inspired aesthetic, featuring leather, chains, and heavy shadows, embodies the darker, more rebellious side of late-'90s pop culture. Spawn himself is an emblem of the antihero trend—flawed, brooding, and vengeful—a perfect match for the cultural fascination with edgy, morally ambiguous protagonists.

Soundtrack of the Times

The soundtrack is perhaps the film's most potent timestamp. A fusion of industrial and electronic music, it features collaborations between artists like Marilyn Manson and The Prodigy, Slayer and Atari Teenage Riot, and Metallica and DJ Spooky. This blend of metal and electronica speaks directly to the musical experimentation of the late '90s, where genres collided to create something chaotic and new.

The Angst of an Era

The late '90s was a time when anti-establishment sentiment and existential angst permeated pop culture. Spawn captures this perfectly through its story of betrayal, vengeance, and redemption. Al Simmons, a betrayed soldier turned hellish antihero, mirrors the disillusionment with institutions and authority figures that was prevalent during the era.

The film also reflects the decade’s obsession with dark, "mature" storytelling, epitomized by comic book adaptations like The Crow and TV series like The X-Files. Spawn fits right in, offering a narrative that’s more gritty than polished, more visceral than thoughtful.

Flaws as a Feature

Critics have often dismissed Spawn for its uneven tone, inconsistent writing, and visual excess. But those very flaws make it a perfect artifact of the '90s, a decade that was itself chaotic and experimental. Like the dot-com boom or the rise of nu-metal, Spawn is a product of its time, and its imperfections only enhance its nostalgic appeal.

Conclusion

To watch Spawn is to step back into the cultural zeitgeist of the late '90s—a time of boundless ambition, reckless experimentation, and a love for all things dark and edgy. It’s a film that screams, “This is the ‘90s!” louder than almost any other. While it may not be a cinematic masterpiece in the traditional sense, it stands as a perfect representation of an era defined by its bold, messy, and wonderfully weird spirit. For that reason, Spawn deserves its place as a cultural time capsule and, arguably, the greatest representation of the mid-to-late '90s you will find.

Greed: The Original Punk Rock Art Film

  

Erich von Stroheim’s Greed isn’t just a silent film—it’s the silent film. A snarling, razor-sharp slap in the face to the glossy morality plays of its time, Greed feels like it was ripped out of the 1920s only to be permanently stationed somewhere just beyond now. If most silent films are quaint little time capsules, Greed is the one gnawing at the bars, flipping the bird, and laughing at its imitators. It’s the eternal outsider, the original cool.  

This is cinema stripped down and blown up, raw and unforgiving. Stroheim took Frank Norris's McTeague, an already grim tale of human rot, and made it into an acid trip through the American Dream gone sour. There’s no hand-wringing sentimentality here, no rose-tinted memory of a simpler time. This is a film where hope is currency, and everyone’s flat broke.  

The style? Endlessly modern. Every scene feels like a dagger aimed right at the heart of capitalism, greed, and humanity’s most grotesque instincts—and it looks good doing it. Stroheim’s obsessive attention to detail (the guy shot on location in Death Valley with real gold teeth in his actors’ mouths—who does that?) lends the film a texture you can practically taste: dry, metallic, and bitter.  

And the performances? It’s as if Gibson Gowland and Zasu Pitts knew they were creating archetypes that would ripple through film history. Their desperation, their joy (however fleeting), and their downfall feel like they were crafted for every generation to come. You can see their ghosts in everything from Pulp Fiction to There Will Be Blood. 

Here’s the kicker: Greed isn’t just timeless—it’s hip. It’s got that Gen X, irony-laced cynicism and a Beat Generation sense of doomed idealism rolled into one. It’s like Requiem for a Dream if it had the swagger to keep quiet about its moral lesson. You don’t watch Greed to learn something; you watch it to feel something—something messy, uncomfortably human, and undeniable.  

It was too much for the 1920s studio execs, and frankly, it’s still too much for a lot of modern viewers. Stroheim’s original cut ran nine hours (nine hours!) before it was hacked to bits and left at a comparatively lean 140 minutes. The butchered remains of Greed still slap harder than 95% of what you’ll see in theaters today.  

Greed will never go out of style because it never belonged to any particular style. It’s punk rock before punk rock, art film before art film, and nihilism before nihilism got a bad name. Stroheim’s masterpiece reminds us that the rot at the heart of the American dream is as fresh and fetid today as it was a century ago—and honestly? That kind of honesty will always be hip.

The Groovy Undead: Barnabas Collins, Count Yorga, and Dracula AD 1972

Here, in this neon-drenched cinematic world of the early ‘70s, where high collars and frayed jeans coexist, where echoes of 19th-century fog are but fleeting remnants against the electric hum of disco, there stalks the creature of the night—torn between its primal hunger and the glittering absurdity of its own existence. The vampire, like a record skipping off the turntable, endlessly repeats its own undoing. No longer the seductively classical monster of our grandfather’s gothic imaginations, this creature is urban, sharply tailored, and haunted by a psychological terror that's far more terrifying than any mere bloodlust.

Let’s examine these three skeletal sentinels of the groovy undead: Barnabas Collins, Count Yorga, and the perennially stylish Dracula AD 1972, in a world where the ancient powers of the night have had to update their wardrobes and demeanor to cope with the chaos of a post-Flower Power world.

Barnabas Collins: The Reluctant Mod Vampire

First up is Barnabas Collins. There is something inherently perverse about Barnabas—a creature thrust into the world of 20th-century America against his will, out of sync with the world around him. A man out of time, desperate to cling to the remnants of an earlier, more elegant age, but forever trapped in the decaying body of a monster. The gothic soap opera Dark Shadows made sure to let us know Barnabas wasn’t just any vampire. He wasn’t the cool, charismatic, seductive monster of past films. No, he was a tortured, awkward, sometimes charming, and often repellent figure who could never truly escape the curse of his immortality. He was the ultimate tragic figure wrapped in polyester and lace, as much a product of the 1970s as he was of the Victorian nightmare. His attempt to be a moral man—desperate to avoid draining the blood of innocents, yearning for human connection—was nothing short of a sick joke in the wake of a decade that had rewritten all the rules.

Here was a vampire, a creature that should have been, by all rights, an untouchable symbol of aristocratic grace, but in the world of Dark Shadows, he was a victim—of his curse, of time, of history itself. Barnabas was a grotesque reminder that the 1960s’ dream of free love and liberation had failed, leaving behind a generation that was both liberated and hopelessly trapped.

Count Yorga: The Anti-Vampire

Next comes Count Yorga, who, to paraphrase Nietzsche, stands as the Übermensch of vampires in a landscape where blood-draining is no longer just for noblemen with ancient accents. He is, by all definitions, the vampire of the late '60s and early ‘70s—a perverse update for a time when “cool” and “alien” intersected in a haze of psychedelics and existentialism. Created by the low-budget genius of Count Yorga, Vampire (1970) and The Return of Count Yorga(1971), this version of the undead is thoroughly modern—he drives a car, wears sharp clothes, and seduces his prey with the kind of detached coldness that would make you believe he was a refugee from the ‘60s counterculture itself, just a little too fed up to fight the system anymore.

This is a vampire who speaks with authority, a creature not beholden to some grand, tragic destiny. Yorga is as unfettered by moral ambiguity as the whole generation was. He moves through the streets of Los Angeles with a sort of terrifying indifference to the consequences of his actions. The ‘70s vampires, like Yorga, were not simply drawn to the shadowed corners of the world for refuge. They made the night their domain, offering no promises of redemption or remorse. In Yorga, there is no room for either grace or Gothic despair. It’s a colder, more cynical brand of undead existence.

Dracula AD 1972: The Aristocrat Goes Punk

Ah, and finally, we come to the grandest of them all, the debonair, bloodthirsty aristocrat himself: Dracula. But not the Dracula of your Victorian novels or even the Bela Lugosi films. No, this is Dracula AD 1972, a slick update of the Count into a world that no longer offers him the cushy luxuries of aristocratic control. Instead, he is thrust into the gritty London of the early '70s, where bell-bottoms, motorbikes, and radical youth movements reign supreme.

What director Alan Gibson offers in Dracula AD 1972 is the cinematic equivalent of a rejected album cover from the Velvet Underground. Dracula is a man out of time, no longer a symbol of the decadence of high society, but a rock-and-roll casualty wandering through a society more interested in the next hit than the next burial. His pursuit of power has been distilled into an exercise of cultural relevance: he must contend not with creeping fog, but with the cynicism of the modern world. A fossil in a scene he no longer understands, and like any aged relic, he resists the oncoming tide of new blood. And the irony is not lost: he, the Count, once feared and revered, now nothing more than a tired icon in a world that sees him as little more than a quaint anachronism, a figure that evokes nothing more than the disinterested flick of a wrist.

And yet, Dracula AD 1972 is strangely prescient. Here is the undead aristocrat as a shadow of things past, a desperate, exhausted figure trying to squeeze life—eternal life—from a society that has passed him by. He is the ultimate counterpoint to the youth of the time: like them, he no longer believes in the values of the old order, but he also lacks the energy to remake the world in his own image.

In Conclusion

These vampires, these creatures of the night, speak not just to the darkness that lurks outside our windows, but to the even darker recesses of our modern, post-psychadelic, disillusioned selves. They are relics and rebels, trapped in the amber of time. The groovy undead—Barnabas, Yorga, and Dracula—are at once the product of a world that can’t decide whether it wants to cling to the past or dance toward some unspeakable, disorienting future. A future that, frankly, doesn’t need them. And that’s the true horror. In the ‘70s, the real terror isn’t in the bite, the blood, or the long black capes. It’s in realizing that even monsters are doomed to be left behind, irrelevant in a world that’s already moved on.

Groovy, huh?

Tune In Tuesday : Orgasmo (88 Films)

88 Films’ Blu-ray release of Orgasmo (1969) is a feast for the senses—if your senses are tuned to the frequency of sleazy 1960s jet-set thrillers drenched in sex, betrayal, and existential dread.This 1969 Umberto Lenzi gem, starring the inimitable Carroll Baker, might just be the ultimate cocktail of Eurocult indulgence, shaken to perfection by 88 Films with a transfer so lush it could make even the gaudiest shag carpet look high art.

First, let’s talk picture quality. The restoration here is pristine, popping with all the vibrant, sun-drenched decadence of Baker’s luxurious villa, offset by shadows that practically ooze menace. Those soft-focus close-ups of Baker, every bead of sweat on her brow and every tremble of paranoia etched into her features, are delivered with a clarity that’s both intoxicating and unnerving. If this doesn’t convert you into a devotee of Lenzi’s “jet-set giallo” phase, I don’t know what will.

The soundtrack? Oh, it’s pure Morricone-lite gold, slinking along with jazzy grooves, sultry whispers, and the kind of eerie vocal flourishes that make you feel like you’re spiraling down a champagne-soaked nightmare. And yes, 88 Films made sure every note hits like a cigarette exhaled under a summer moon—both dreamy and dangerous.

Special features are the icing on this poison-laced cake. There’s a fascinating video essay that delves into Lenzi’s shift from pulpy action to psychological thrillers, alongside interviews with Italian genre experts who treat these films with the reverence of sacred texts. Plus, a sit-down with a visibly bemused Carroll Baker reminiscing about the Italian film industry in its most flamboyant era is worth the price of admission alone.

But the real joy of Orgasmo lies in its fever-dream absurdity. Lenzi pulls you in with the promise of glossy escapism and then flips the switch, dragging you into a web of manipulation and madness. The power games between Baker, her seemingly charming houseguests, and her own fractured psyche escalate into a kaleidoscope of late-60s hedonism and dread. It’s Psycho meets La Dolce Vita, with a generous dash of soap opera camp. 

If you’re a fan of psychosexual thrillers, twisted morality tales, or just want an excuse to ogle Carroll Baker’s pitch-perfect meltdown in high definition, this Blu-ray is a must-own. 88 Films didn’t just give us Orgasmo, they gave us a first-class ticket to giallo nirvana. Don’t overthink it. Press play, pour a martini, and surrender.

"Guerilla Warfare" By Blake Sidewalker

In such tense times, a solid portion of American people have resorted to "prepping" for some kind of national, or even global disaster. A lot of them are preparing for a civil war; they're building bunkers or compounds stocked with food, water, weapons, and ammunition.

This phenomenon is found mostly in Rural areas. In the state where I live, every guy flying a Gadsden flag, and there are a lot, has some kind of facility to weather some kind of societal breakdown. When "shit hits the fan", as they say.

When I myself began to see the writing on the wall, I didn't have the money to prepare with months of canned goods, water, and an arsenal firearms, no; I collected books, some physical some digital.

Among my favorite of these books is Che Guevara's manual, *Guerrilla Warfare*. These were the tactics that allowed a mere boat full of men, who lost all of their equipment when the boat capsized, to liberate Cuba from a fascist puppet dictator installed by no less than The United States. 

The CIA practically plagiarized this manual, but left out an important concept; winning the minds and hearts of the oppressed people. The CIA manual is "efficient" but not complete.

Guevara's manual takes a very material analysis of the battle field, how to obtain and preserve weapons and ammunition, how to expand ranks, and how to minimize casualties.  

One thing I noticed about right wing American militias is their usual formation while marching through Urban areas. They seem to have watched too many Vietnam movies, and learned nothing from them except how cool it looks to repeat a tactical mistake. This could work to a much smaller group's advantage.

Such wisdom and more is contained in *Guerrilla Warfare* by Ernesto "Che" Guevara.

Horror Host Sat Nights-Count Yorga, Return Of Count Yorga, The Deathmaster

Greetings, boils and ghouls! Welcome to tonight’s thrilling triple feature, brought to you by your host with the ghost—me! Tonight, we’re unearthing a blood-curdling bonanza of vampire mayhem with the one, the only, Robert Quarry, a man who could out-brood Dracula and still have time to polish his cape! So grab your garlic, your stakes, and maybe a neck brace, because we’re diving fang-first into Count Yorga, Vampire, The Return of Count Yorga, and The Deathmaster!  

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Count Yorga, Vampire (1970)  

Let’s kick things off with Count Yorga, Vampire, the film that put Robert Quarry on the undead map. This modern-day Dracula tale (well, modern for the ‘70s) features the suave and sinister Count Yorga, who’s got a taste for beautiful women and an aversion to wooden stakes. What makes this flick stand out is its creepy vibe, thanks to Yorga’s eerie Los Angeles lair and some genuinely unsettling scenes of his vampire brides lurking like feral cats in the dark.  

And that ending? Ooh, it’s as shocking as a lightning bolt on a stormy castle night! Quarry brings a devilish charm to the role, blending menace with just the right amount of smirking sass. Sure, the low-budget effects make it feel like it was filmed in someone’s basement, but that’s part of the fun! It’s pure Gothic goodness with a touch of 1970s kitsch.  

Rating:Three out of four fangs—a cult classic that still bites!  

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The Return of Count Yorga (1971)

Just when you thought it was safe to go outside at night, Yorga’s back and hungrier than ever! In *The Return of Count Yorga*, our favorite bloodsucker moves into a swanky mansion near an orphanage (uh-oh!) and wastes no time terrorizing the locals. This sequel cranks up the scares and the camp, with creepy fog-shrouded graveyards, screaming victims, and even more of Quarry’s deliciously evil charisma.  

But let’s not forget the highlight—a vampire bride in a wedding gown shambling through the night like a deranged Macy’s mannequin. Chef’s kiss! It’s like a Hammer Horror film crashed headfirst into 1970s California. The pacing drags a bit, and the plot is a smidge recycled, but who cares? It’s Yorga! He’s back, baby!  

Rating: Two-and-a-half fangs—less fresh, but still tasty.  

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The Deathmaster (1972)

Now we’re sinking our teeth into something a little different. In The Deathmaster, Robert Quarry trades in his Count Yorga cape for the role of Khorda, a groovy vampire cult leader who preys on a group of unsuspecting hippies. That’s right, folks—this time, the bloodbath is drenched in tie-dye and flower power! Quarry’s Khorda is like Dracula meets Charles Manson, and it works… mostly.  

The movie feels like it’s trying to be deep and meaningful, but let’s face it—when your vampire villain has a flock of bell-bottom-wearing minions, it’s hard to take things seriously. Still, Quarry’s performance is solid as always, and there’s an atmospheric weirdness that keeps things interesting. It’s not Yorga-level good, but it’s got a certain ‘70s charm that makes it worth a watch.  

Rating: Two fangs—it’s not killer, but it’s got bite.  

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Final Thoughts

Robert Quarry was the thinking man’s vampire—a smooth operator who could hypnotize you with a glance and kill you with a smile. Whether he’s Count Yorga or the groovy Khorda, Quarry brought a level of class and camp that made these movies unforgettable. 

Until next time, my children of the night—stay spooky and don’t forget to lock your windows! Mwahahaha!

Ape in the Mirror: An Essay

Ape stories are everywhere. They swing from vines, build empires, invade cities, and, when necessary, tear the human world apart. From the primal roar of King Kong atop the Empire State Building to the philosophical musings of Kafka’s ape in A Report to an Academy, the ape reflects us back at ourselves, stripped bare of pretense, caught somewhere between civilization and chaos. The line blurs: where does the ape end and the human begin?

Planet of the Apes stands tall among these tales, a sprawling mythos of masks, dystopias, and allegories. The original film series is the Bible of ape-human relations—Genesis, Exodus, and Revelation all wrapped in Charlton Heston's anguished cry: *“You maniacs! You blew it up!”* The apes here don’t just wear clothes; they embody society’s faults, becoming twisted reflections of humanity’s hierarchies, racism, and nuclear hubris. The Tim Burton remake turned up the weirdness—Mark Wahlberg stumbling through a carnival of prosthetics and muted chaos. And then came the reboot trilogy, gritty and grounded, with Andy Serkis’ Caesar giving us the ape we didn’t know we needed: not just smart but wise, a tragic Shakespearean king. A talking ape. A thinking ape. A dying ape.

Kafka’s A Report to an Academy strips the pageantry from the ape myth. His ape, Red Peter, is no rampaging Kong or tyrannical Dr. Zaius. He’s civilized, articulate, and deeply tragic, an animal that’s become human only to realize that humanity is its own cage. You can escape the zoo, Kafka tells us, but the jungle never really leaves you. It’s not so different from Poe’s Murders in the Rue Morgue, where an orangutan, mimicking human violence, becomes the ultimate Gothic symbol of misunderstood monstrosity. The ape in Poe’s story isn’t evil; it’s a mirror held up to the Victorian fear of the Other—foreign, exotic, unknowable.

Then there’s Bela Lugosi Meets a Brooklyn Gorilla (1952). A fever dream of a film, if ever there was one. It’s a late-night collision of Hollywood absurdity: Lugosi hamming it up as a mad scientist, Jerry Lewis clones cracking jokes, and, of course, the gorilla—a man in a suit, hulking and stupid, comic relief in a story that feels like it was improvised by hungover writers. Nearby in the bargain bin is Robot Monster (1953), where a man in a gorilla suit with a diving helmet terrorizes humanity in what may be the cheapest apocalypse ever filmed. The ape suit is a shortcut, a way to evoke primal terror or absurdity without breaking the bank.

Twice Upon a Time meanwhile, drifts in briefly, an animated oddity that plays like a dream you barely remember. The ape doesn’t take center stage here, but the spirit of mischief, chaos, and surreal humor connects it to the broader pantheon of ape stories. These are tales that remind us not to take ourselves too seriously—except when we should.

Kong looms large over everything. The original King Kong(1933) isn’t just a monster movie; it’s the prototype for every ape tale to follow. Kong is the tragic god of Skull Island, a creature caught between worlds. He’s both beauty and beast, villain and victim, torn down by human arrogance and greed. Mighty Joe Young (1949) softened the edges, giving us a kinder, gentler ape, but the theme remained: the jungle collides with civilization, and neither escapes unscathed.

By the time we get to Rampage, the video game and the movie, the ape has gone full circle. George, the giant albino gorilla, is pure spectacle—a cartoon brought to life. The film knows it’s ridiculous and revels in it, with Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson playing straight man to skyscraper-sized chaos. The ape isn’t a metaphor anymore; it’s a blockbuster.

Then there’s Tarzan, swinging through the jungle with apes as his family. Tarzan doesn’t fear the apes; he is the ape, or at least their human sibling. Edgar Rice Burroughs’ stories are colonial fantasies, of course, but they tap into a primal yearning: the dream of living free, without society’s rules. The same dream pulses through The Jungle Book, where Mowgli trades wolves for apes and back again, caught in the eternal tug-of-war between the wild and the tame.

Pop culture loves to make apes funny. Grape Ape, the 40-foot purple gorilla, is all slapstick and catchphrases. He’s a joke, a Saturday morning cartoon designed to sell cereal. Monster and the Ape, a 1945 serial, isn’t much deeper—apes as henchmen, villains, comic relief. But even here, the ape carries weight, a reminder of something raw and wild, just below the surface.

In Congo, Michael Crichton and Hollywood serve up high-tech apes: talking gorillas, killer gorillas, laser-wielding explorers. It’s absurd, yes, but also oddly poignant. Amy, the sign-language gorilla, is Red Peter’s cousin—a creature trapped between animal and human worlds, her intelligence both a gift and a burden. And then there’s the dark humor of the killer apes, guardians of lost treasures, reminding us that for all our science, the jungle still wins.

What is it about the ape? Why do we keep returning to this image, this idea? Maybe it’s because the ape is us, stripped to the essentials. The ape is rage, love, fear, and survival. It’s Kafka’s bitterly articulate Red Peter and Lugosi’s lurching gorilla. It’s Kong’s roar and Grape Ape’s goofy laugh. It’s Poe’s murderous orangutan and Serkis’ noble Caesar. It’s a mirror, cracked and smeared, but unmistakably human. Or maybe we’re the ape, staring into the mirror, trying to figure out what the reflection means.

Album Of The Week: Wasp by Shaun Cassidy

Shaun Cassidy’s *Wasp* isn’t just an album—it’s a bold leap into uncharted territory that deserves a reevaluation as a fascinating artifact of early new wave. Released in 1980, this Todd Rundgren-produced record represented a daring reinvention for Cassidy, shedding the teen idol persona of his earlier bubblegum pop hits in favor of an edgier, experimental sound.  

From the outset, *Wasp* declares itself as something entirely different. Cassidy tackles David Bowie's "Rebel Rebel" and The Talking Heads' "The Book I Read" with a raw energy that hints at his willingness to embrace the unconventional. These covers are not mere imitations but reimaginings, filtered through Rundgren’s quirky production and Cassidy’s surprisingly emotive vocals.  

The album’s original tracks, like "Cool Fire" and "Selfless Love," are equally adventurous, blending synth-driven melodies with introspective lyrics. Rundgren’s influence is palpable, giving the album a sonic complexity that feels more aligned with the new wave ethos of the time than with Cassidy’s prior chart-toppers.  

Commercially, *Wasp* was a failure—it confused fans expecting the feel-good pop of "Da Doo Ron Ron" and was dismissed by critics as an ill-fated experiment. But in retrospect, the album stands as a testament to Cassidy’s artistic bravery. It’s the sound of a performer willing to take risks, exploring the intersection of glam rock, punk, and new wave at a time when the music industry wasn’t ready to see him in this light.  

Today, *Wasp* resonates as a snapshot of early new wave’s experimental spirit. It captures the tension between mainstream pop and the avant-garde, making it a fascinating listen for anyone interested in the transitional period of late ’70s and early ’80s music. For fans of Rundgren’s eccentric production or those curious about forgotten gems from the new wave era, *Wasp* is worth rediscovering—and defending—as a creative triumph ahead of its time.  

While it may never escape the shadow of its commercial failure, *Wasp* proves that Shaun Cassidy was far more than a teen idol; he was an artist unafraid to take risks, even when the world wasn’t ready to listen.

The Case for the Early Flamin’ Groovies (1968-1969) in the Baroque Pop Canon

When discussing the quintessential baroque pop acts of the late 1960s, the conversation often circles around artists like The Left Banke, Van Dyke Parks, The Zombies, and Love—pioneers who blended pop sensibilities with classical influences, ornate arrangements, and emotive songwriting. However, one band that rarely finds itself in this conversation, yet deserves a seat at the table, is the early incarnation of the Flamin’ Groovies during their formative years of 1968 and 1969.  

Known primarily as a proto-punk and power pop band, the Flamin’ Groovies’ early work reveals an underappreciated knack for intricate melodies, lush harmonies, and sophisticated arrangements that align them more closely with the baroque pop tradition than many would assume. Tracks from their early releases, particularly their 1969 debut album *Supersnazz*, showcase a deep engagement with the same baroque textures and melancholic romanticism that define the genre.  

### Baroque Pop Defined: Van Dyke Parks and "Walk Away Renée"  

Baroque pop emerged in the mid-1960s as a fusion of rock and classical music, marked by the use of harpsichords, strings, woodwinds, and layered vocal harmonies. Van Dyke Parks, with his 1968 album *Song Cycle*, epitomized this genre by marrying avant-garde classical influences with Americana and poetic lyricism. Similarly, The Left Banke’s *“Walk Away Renée”* (1966) stands as an emblem of baroque pop, its wistful string arrangement and melodic sophistication elevating it beyond standard pop fare.  

### The Flamin’ Groovies’ Baroque Side  

While later iterations of the Flamin’ Groovies embraced a raw, garage-rock ethos, their early material reveals a more nuanced and eclectic approach. Tracks like *“A Part from That”* and *“First Plane Home”* evoke a tender, almost chamber-like quality, with acoustic guitars, piano flourishes, and delicate vocal harmonies that wouldn’t feel out of place on a Zombies or Left Banke record.  

Moreover, *“End of the World,”* a highlight from *Supersnazz,* employs melodic phrasing and bittersweet lyrical themes reminiscent of “Walk Away Renée.” The subtle orchestration, coupled with wistful vocal delivery, suggests a clear affinity with the baroque pop ethos. This period of the Groovies' career reveals a band willing to experiment with melodic richness and emotional complexity, qualities that situate them within the same creative spirit as Van Dyke Parks and other pioneers.  

### Shared Themes of Nostalgia and Melancholy  

Baroque pop often thrives on a sense of yearning and nostalgia, a characteristic central to both Van Dyke Parks’ poetic explorations of lost Americana and The Left Banke’s tales of unrequited love. The Flamin’ Groovies’ early work mirrors this sentiment. Tracks like *“Brushfire”* and *“My Yada”* exude a wistful charm, blending introspection with a playful yet sophisticated pop sensibility.  

### Why They Belong in the Canon  

The Flamin’ Groovies' early forays into baroque textures are an overlooked aspect of their identity. Though their later work would pivot to rawer, riff-driven styles, the material from 1968-1969 deserves recognition for its artistic ambition and alignment with the baroque pop tradition. Their approach to songwriting and arrangements, particularly on *Supersnazz,* aligns them with the same movement that birthed classics like *Odyssey and Oracle* and *Song Cycle.*  

By recontextualizing the Flamin’ Groovies’ early material within the baroque pop framework, we gain a richer understanding of their versatility and contribution to the late-1960s musical landscape. It’s time to revisit these hidden gems and grant the Groovies their rightful place alongside Van Dyke Parks and *“Walk Away Renée”* in the pantheon of baroque pop.