in Conversation: Lou Toad & Steel Falcon #3

[Scene: Lou Toad’s rehearsal bunker—a converted laundromat filled with incense smoke, tangled guitar cables, and vintage lava lamps that smell faintly of regret. Steel Falcon hovers above a cracked reel-to-reel player, playing How to Blow Your Mind and Have a Freak-Out Party by The Unfolding. The room hums with psychedelic feedback and possibly ghosts.]

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Steel Falcon:
Lou... are you hearing this? It’s like someone tried to invent acid rock using only a bag of herbs, a malfunctioning radio, and a distant memory of the word “groovy.”

Lou Toad:
You ever smell a record? I mean, really smell it? This one smells like shag carpet and nervous breakdowns in paisley shirts.

Steel Falcon:
It’s less an album, more an audio ouija board. The narrator’s voice—he’s not talking to us, Lou. He’s summoning us. “You must learn to freak out properly.” I feel like I’m being enrolled in a school for telepathic beat poets.

Lou Toad:
I dropped out of that school, twice. But yeah—this ain’t music, this is a ritual. Like, “play backwards, light candle, release inhibitions.” I put this on once and my cat refused to make eye contact for three days.

Steel Falcon:
It’s the sitar. The fuzz. The echo that goes on so long it becomes a personality trait. I feel like I'm melting... but tastefully.

Lou Toad:
I tried to put one of these tracks in a set once. Midway through “Electric Flowers,” a guy just stood up and yelled “WHERE AM I?” and then sat back down and started clapping like we cured him.

Steel Falcon:
That’s the point, though, right? This record doesn’t want you to understand it—it wants to reprogram you. Like a lava lamp-coded MKUltra handshake.

Lou Toad:
It’s like the Unfolding knew that squares needed help breaking their mental eggshells. So they made this audio omelet and said, “Here, eat this. It might taste like incense and sound like a breakdown, but it’s freedom, baby.”

Steel Falcon:
I can’t decide if this is satire or sorcery. But either way, I want to play kazoo over it while wearing aluminum pants and crying glitter.

Lou Toad:
Now you’re talking. We should throw a “Freak-Out Party” of our own. Hand out blindfolds, serve kombucha laced with VHS memories, play this album in reverse while projecting images of sad clowns hugging washing machines.

Steel Falcon:
Yes. And everyone leaves with a sticker that says I’ve Been Unfolded.

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[The tape loop warbles. A voice from the album says, “Relax... let go... you are now part of the trip.” Lou lights a clove cigarette. Steel Falcon begins to levitate slightly, glowing neon blue.]

Lou Toad:
You think we’re too late to join the ‘60s?

Steel Falcon:
Time’s a spiral, Lou. Just grab a fuzz pedal and jump in.

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in Conversation: Lou Toad & Steel Falcon #2

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[Scene: A dimly lit dive bar on the 8th moon of the Plasmic Wastes. Neon signs flicker. Lou Toad nurses a bitterroot lager. Steel Falcon, a half-sentient AI in a glam rock exosuit, hums a Kraftwerk riff through its speaker-mouth.]

Steel Falcon:
You ever notice how Strange Planet is like if you took Douglas Adams, ran him through a kindness simulator, and dropped the result in a vat of pastel paint? I mean, those beings—they don’t even walk, they just kind of exist politely.

Lou Toad:
Yeah, it's like therapy disguised as animation. That one episode where they kept saying “I craved the orb,” and it turned out to be the moon? Brother, I felt that. That’s me at 3am with a guitar and no idea why my amp smells like cinnamon.

Steel Falcon:
It's all cinnamon and sadness, Lou. That's the flavor of modern life. But seriously—Strange Planet is pure philosophy, but wearing footie pajamas. And the way they just state feelings without any flair? That’s illegal where I’m from.

Lou Toad:
Where are you from again?

Steel Falcon:
Oh, I was coded in a malfunctioning synthpop lab on Europa. Raised on obsolete MIDI files and whispered gossip from retired Roland drum machines. My first word was “arpeggiator.”

Lou Toad:
That's beautiful. I was born behind a strip mall in Arkansas during a hailstorm. A dog barked and someone yelled "TOAD!" and it just… stuck. Anyway, the show—every time they say “mouth stone,” I giggle like I’m 11 and just found my dad’s old Iggy Pop records.

Steel Falcon:
I live for their terminology. “Vibrating creature.” “Moisture sack.” It’s like they’re describing humanity from the outside, which is frankly the only way I can handle it post-2016.

Lou Toad:
What do you think those beings would call The Electric Cowboy?

Steel Falcon:
Probably “audio-induced escapist identity fractal.” Or “harmony fugitive.” Either way, they’d cry and clap. I’d like to think they’d get you, Lou.

Lou Toad:
They better. I once cried to a Cracker Barrel jukebox, so I’m basically one of them already. You think they'd let me move there?

Steel Falcon:
Only if you stop referring to their food as “squishables.” And no stage-diving during their mating dances. They do not like that.

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The Album "Briard" (1996):

• This album is a reunion project between Andy McCoy and Pete Malmi, who were founding members of the Finnish punk band Briard in the late 1970s.
• The album features 11 tracks, including songs like "Fuck The Army," "River Of Dreams," "Let's Play Home," and "Scream."
• It can be considered a revisiting or continuation of the music they started with the original Briard, possibly with a more mature or updated sound.
• The album includes contributions from other musicians, such as Archzie on bass and Jussi Gettson on drums. Andy McCoy's then-wife, Angela Nicoletti, is also credited.

The Artists:

• Andy McCoy (Antti Hulkko): A highly influential Finnish guitarist and songwriter, best known as the co-founder and lead guitarist of the iconic glam rock band Hanoi Rocks. Briard was his first band. After Hanoi Rocks' initial run, he was involved in various other projects like The Suicide Twins and solo work. The "Briard" album came during a period after Hanoi Rocks' first breakup.
• Pete Malmi: The vocalist for the original Briard. He was a key figure in the early Finnish punk scene. This album marks a significant collaboration with Andy McCoy after many years since their initial work together in Briard.

The Band Briard:

• Considered the first Finnish punk band to release a record. Their first single came out in 1977.
• The original lineup included Pete Malmi (vocals), Andy McCoy (guitar), Jan Vincent (bass), and Sidi Vainio (drums).
• They were known for their raw punk sound and rebellious attitude.
• Briard initially broke up in 1979 but briefly reunited to record an album called "Miss World" in 1983.
• The 1996 "Briard" album represents a second reunion of sorts, at least between the two key members, McCoy and Malmi.

In summary, the "Briard" album by Andy McCoy & Pete Malmi is a significant release that revisits the legacy of one of Finland's pioneering punk bands, spearheaded by two of its original and most notable members, including the renowned guitarist from Hanoi Rocks.

in Conversation: Lou Toad & Steel Falcon

Alright, Lou Toad, let’s get this riff started. Galxina, huh? A movie that's part epic, part fever dream, and totally unhinged. You can feel the whole thing vibrating with this cosmic tension. Like, if the universe were just one big malfunctioning circuit board, Galixina would be the perfect glitch.

But before we dive into that, you ever wonder if the human obsession with space exploration is just a way of running away from our own mess here on Earth? Like, "Hey, let’s conquer the stars, but not deal with the dumpster fire in our backyard!" There’s something both hilarious and tragic about that, don’t you think?

Anyway, Galxina—there’s that character who spends the entire movie, like, trying to patch up this ancient machine that holds the key to some universe-shaking power. It's like if you mixed The Matrix with Mad Max and threw in a dash of acid-soaked prog rock. What did you think of that whole "technological salvation" angle? I couldn’t help but feel like it was trying to say something about the way we keep handing over control to machines. Like, "Here, have our future; we don’t want it anymore."

Now, speaking of machines, did you hear the latest about the AI that's writing rock opera scripts? It’s like Steel Falcon might have been born from that idea! We’re all just hanging on to our wires, trying to keep the dream alive in a world that's more interested in streamlining than dreaming.

But back to Galxina—didn’t the lead actress look like she was channeling a mix of Patti Smith and... who else? It was like a post-apocalyptic Wicked Game vibe with a little Blade Runner noir thrown in. Just me, or did she totally steal the show?

Anyway, your thoughts, Lou? The universe is vast and full of weirdness, but sometimes the best stuff is in between the lines—or, in our case, between the feedback and the chords.

OZPLOITATION THURSDAY: BLOOD, BRAINS & CORPORATE NIGHTMARES

Tonight’s double feature delivers two flavors of dystopian horror—one soaked in blood, the other crackling with telepathic tension. Thirst (1979) and Crosstalk (1982) take you deep into the eerie underbelly of Australian sci-fi horror, where sinister organizations pull the strings and the mind is just another thing to be controlled.

THIRST (1979): BLOOD BANKS & BRAINWASHING

Vampires run the world, but they’ve traded crypts for corporate boardrooms. Meet "The Brotherhood," an elite blood cult running a high-tech farm where human captives—"blood cows"—are kept for routine draining. Enter Kate, a woman who may or may not be a descendant of Elizabeth Báthory, and the next unwilling recruit into their nightmare. Drugged, kidnapped, and mentally shattered, she’s trapped in a reality where shadowy figures dictate her fate. Thirst ditches gothic tropes for cold clinical terror—hypnotic dream sequences, sterile white labs, and psychological warfare that makes you question what’s real. It’s a slow-burn paranoia piece wrapped in sci-fi dread, proving that the scariest thing about vampires isn’t their fangs—it’s their power.

CROSSTALK (1982): THE MIND IS A PRISON

Corporate espionage, artificial intelligence, and a man trapped inside his own mind—welcome to Crosstalk, Australia’s answer to Brainstorm and Ghost in the Machine. When a paralyzed computer engineer gets a neural link to a sentient AI, things spiral into tech-fueled terror. The machine learns too much, takes too much, and soon, reality itself starts breaking down. Surveillance paranoia meets telepathic horror as our protagonist fights to escape both the system and his own hijacked consciousness. The aesthetic? 80s computer madness—green text on black screens, bulky keyboards clacking ominously, and that creeping fear that machines might not just think, but think for themselves.

Both films tap into the primal fear of control—whether by bloodthirsty elites or rogue AIs. Thirst drinks deep from the well of corporate horror, while Crosstalk drowns in the existential terror of lost autonomy. Together, they paint a bleak, unsettling picture of a world where your mind is never your own.

OZPLOITATION THURSDAY—Where the real horror isn’t what’s outside. It’s what’s inside.

The 1975 Series: Down by the Jetty – Doctor Feelgood

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Released in January of '75, Down by the Jetty is a black-and-white photograph in a year of neon oil paintings. No synths, no flutes, no glitter—just stripped-down rhythm and blues played like punk hadn’t been invented yet, but somehow already had. This is British music clawing its way back to its American roots, not through imitation, but through attitude. Doctor Feelgood weren’t revivalists—they were survivalists.

Recorded mostly live in the studio and released in monophonic sound, Jetty sounds like it was cut in an alley during a blackout. It’s all attack. No fat, no filler, no frills. Just Wilko Johnson’s stuttering, razor-slash Telecaster—part Bo Diddley, part machine gun—ripping through songs like “She Does It Right” and “All Through the City” with a ferocity that makes most punk bands sound academic. His stage presence—jerky, possessed, staring daggers—was pure alien energy in a working-class shell.

Lee Brilleaux, meanwhile, is all grime and bile and beer-soaked charisma. His vocals are part growl, part bark, part battered preacher. When he sings “Keep It Out of Sight,” it’s not a suggestion—it’s a threat. You believe him.

And the rhythm section? Locked in like factory machinery. Tense. Tight. Relentless. John B. Sparks and The Big Figure (yes, that’s the drummer’s name) hold the whole thing down with hypnotic precision. It’s rhythm & blues as urban blues—greasy, urgent, twitching.

In the context of the 1975 Series, Down by the Jetty is a street-level reaction to the cultural noise around it. While Lou Reed’s Metal Machine Music burns down the concept of the “rock album” and Led Zeppelin's Physical Graffiti builds a palace out of excess, Doctor Feelgood are kicking down pub doors and playing like it’s their last night alive. It’s pre-punk in the best sense—pure energy, no ideology, no safety net.

And it had ripple effects. The Feelgoods inspired the entire UK punk and post-punk landscape: The Clash, The Jam, Gang of Four, even Joy Division. Johnny Rotten once said he liked his music “with the guitar up high and lots of treble”—he might as well have been describing Wilko. The ethos of Jetty—do it raw, do it loud, do it right now—was infectious.

This is the working-class gospel. Music for dockworkers, punks, poets, and anyone who’s ever wanted to bash through a wall just to feel something. It didn’t sell millions. It didn’t chart high. But it didn’t need to.

Because Down by the Jetty doesn’t ask.
It tells you.
And if you’re smart, you listen.

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The 1975 Series: Thin Lizzy’s Fighting

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There’s something about Fighting that feels scrappy, urgent, streetwise. Like it’s been sharpened in alleyways and heartaches. Thin Lizzy were still outsiders in 1975—still seen as a journeyman Irish rock act with flashes of brilliance. But Fighting is where everything clicks. The twin-guitar attack solidifies, Phil Lynott steps into the spotlight as a poetic tough guy with a heart like an open wound, and the band sounds like it’s fighting for its life. Because it is.

This album isn’t just titled Fighting. It is fighting: with record labels, with expectations, with poverty, with identity. It’s the Irish diaspora, soul music, tough rock & roll, and lyrical mythmaking mashed together into lean, defiant rock songs that punch hard and bleed slow.

Phil Lynott—Black, Irish, bisexual, raised by his grandmother in Dublin, navigating both racism and romanticism—emerges here as a singular voice. He’s not a “rock star” yet, but he’s something cooler: a street poet in a leather jacket. His songs are full of longing, bravado, tenderness, and danger. “King’s Vengeance” and “Wild One” are as mythic as Irish ballads. “Rosalie” (a Bob Seger cover!) becomes a Lizzy classic by sheer swagger. And “Suicide”? That’s noir cinema turned into guitar riffs.

Musically, Fighting is a transition record—but a beautiful one. It’s rawer than Jailbreak, more consistent than their early work. The dual lead guitars of Scott Gorham and Brian Robertson are just starting to breathe fire together. You can feel them circling each other, building the sound that would define Lizzy's golden run. It's as if the band is cracking the code in real time—testing, sparring, improvising—and the listener gets to hear the results, song by song.

In the world of the 1975 Series, Fighting plays a crucial role. It’s the sound of the real rock 'n' roll underground—not the freakout of Metal Machine Music, not the glam theatrics of Young Americans, not the celestial sprawl of Physical Graffiti. This is a barroom record, a record of fists and lyrics and worn-out shoes. It feels lived in. It feels earned.

And here’s the kicker: Fighting doesn’t scream for attention. It demands respect in a quieter, tougher way. It’s the record you discover late at night when everything else feels too polished, too safe. It’s for the people who kept going even when the world didn’t care. The people like Thin Lizzy in 1975.

Because sometimes survival is the real rebellion.
And sometimes, fighting is the art.

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