**Video Store Afternoons: Down Twisted and Bloodsucking Pharaohs in Pittsburgh**

There’s a particular kind of afternoon that only exists in the dim hum of a video store—when the sun is too bright outside, reality too sharp-edged, and the only escape is a plastic clamshell promising something lurid, something strange. You don’t browse with purpose. You let the covers talk. The weird ones whisper the loudest.  

That’s how you end up with *Down Twisted* (1987) and *Bloodsucking Pharaohs in Pittsburgh* (1991) in your hands. Two very different beasts, but each a product of that era when rental shelves were cluttered with neon-drenched crime, sweat-slick pulp, and zero-budget splatter that felt like a bootleg transmission from an alternate dimension.  

*Down Twisted*—a classic case of *wait, why don’t more people talk about this?* Directed by Albert Pyun, the patron saint of straight-to-video oddities, it’s a loopy neon-noir that throws Carey Lowell into a conspiracy so convoluted it barely matters, as long as it keeps moving. And oh, does it move. Gunfights in crumbling alleys, jungle intrigue, smoke-cloaked bars where everyone seems like they’ve double-crossed someone else five minutes ago. It’s like someone chewed up *Romancing the Stone* and spit it out onto the grimier side of the ‘80s. It doesn’t just run on style—it bleeds it.  

Then there’s *Bloodsuckimg Pharaohs in Pittsburgh*, which is what happens when you take a cheapo ‘90s direct-to-video horror movie, shake it until its organs fall out, and film what’s left. The title promises something unholy, and it delivers in its own trash-buried way. Gore that’s both rubbery and unsettling. A detective story that plays like someone lost half the script and filled in the blanks with nightmares. The kind of movie you find on a battered VHS with a Suncoast Video sticker still clinging for dear life.  

Two films, two moods. *Down Twisted* for when you want style-first, logic-second adventure with a side of neon sleaze. *Bloodsucking Pharaohs in Pittsburgh* when you want to dive headfirst into the muck and let it stick to your soul.  

Video store afternoons—gone now, but sometimes, if you squint in the right dim light, you can still feel them.

Strawbs & Sherbs

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### **Strawbs – *Dragonfly* (1970)**  

Ah yes, *Dragonfly*, the sound of medieval peasants discovering LSD and deciding that lutes just don’t cut it anymore. A folk-rock fever dream where Dave Cousins warbles on about lost love and existential dread while a ghostly cello moans in the background like a Victorian child locked in an attic. It's fragile, wistful, and deeply British—the kind of thing you listen to while staring out a rain-streaked window, contemplating your own insignificance.  

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### **Sherbet – *Howzat* (1976)**  

Imagine a world where the Bee Gees never discovered falsetto and instead became the house band for an Australian roller rink. That’s *Howzat*, an album that makes up for its lack of depth with an overdose of polyester-clad enthusiasm. The title track? A smug, strutting earworm that makes you feel like you just won a cricket match (even if you don’t know a damn thing about cricket). It’s all sweet, fluffy glam-pop with a hint of sports-bar machismo—cheesy as hell, but undeniably catchy.  

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### **Strawbs – *Ghosts* (1975)**  

Prog-folk doom, like Genesis got lost in a fog-covered moor and was forced to jam their way out. It’s haunted, it’s dramatic, it’s theatrical in a way that suggests Dave Cousins may have actually made a deal with some minor demon for better songcraft. One moment, it’s all medieval ballads; the next, it’s hard-rock riffs and synthesizers kicking down the door. If you ever wanted an album that sounds like an Arthurian legend told by a particularly unhinged pub storyteller, here you go.  

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### **Sherbet – *Defying Gravity* (1979)**  

Sherbet goes full soft-rock, and you can practically hear them slipping on their finest satin tour jackets for this one. Everything’s smoother, shinier, and soaked in that late-’70s desperation to stay relevant as the yacht-rock wave approaches. Some moments still bop (*Free the People* has a punch), but mostly, this is the sound of a band staring at the disco ball and realizing their days are numbered. Not bad, but *Howzat* had more bite.  

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