Saturday, May 16, 2009

Various - Blacula: Music From The Original Sound Track

Yuss, here’s the funkorrific soundtrack to 1972’s Blaxploitation movie rip through the then anaemic jugular of the Dracula legend. Massive stacks of sax and jungle boogie and that swampy whacka wah synth that Stevie Wonder wowed worlds with on Superstitious. There’s nightclubbin’ stompers, Cuban-heel clickers as well as lush ballads (Main Chance especially seems to be what Bowie based most of Young Americans on) and in the title piece Blacula (The Stalkwalk) an undiscovered saints symphony just on the jive-ass wise-crack (don’t get them muddled up in stoned spoonerisms) title, never mind Shaftadelic, heavy Sly Stone funk with Motown strings not unlike Jr Walker’s classico Walk In The Night throughout. A usual sound-off would be along the lines of ‘as far as soundtracks go this is one of the better offerings’. This, fiends, is just deeliteful. Classy, elegant, silky and sleaaaazy. Get some sun, it won’t burn, or bite, you. Once bitten, twice shafted?
Stu Gibson
Frantic Flintstones - Psycho Samba My Way

‘They call me eccentric, I don’t think demented, is a nice way of saying I’m sane’ – Back On The Couch Again

Long and somehow still standing (c’mon, the guy had a fucking heart attack at 23!) Psychobilly stalwart, cyborg, keen as a Labrador chemical laboratory and all-round funtime Charlie Chuck Harvey here returns from solo secretions like Chuck and the Crack Pipes with his main band. Like his old mucker Spark from Demented Are Go, Mr Harvey is a dedicated follower of deviancy and is of the old school where being in a mess and a mess in several psych-sheds is highly amusing and all the other, literally, shit comes with the territory, as neatly laid out on opening address to the review board of Back On The Couch Again. Luckily it seems that old school is in no danger of dying out anytime soon as Harvey and new cohorts (including Os Catalepticos’ Mutant Cox) to his den of delinquents delights are in resplendently raddled form, freshly-laced if not fresh faced from Chuck’s (frighteningly) Brazilian relocation. And adding banjo and cider-saddled fiddle into the churning gutrot ‘billy and then covering T-Rex’s Mambo Sun, fucking My Way and the sodfaced Flintstone’s Yabba Dabba Family theme tune in full on juvenalia japery (‘...we're all on LSD / Cocaine, marijuana too / We know that it's good for you...') transplants you to a goofy country hoedown in Honolulu rather than some squalid shooting gallery in Hackney (as opposed to the finely appointed ones? – self-ed), which comical fetish scene assault Du And Ich and second shot Hypodermic’s heavy swamp threatens to, their lung-suckin’ distorto guitars with skin-scratchin violin being like those bonkers late eighties, well, Demented live albums with the fiddler on the ground-down tooth (that’ll be Go Go Demented! and Live And Rockin’ – self-ed back again). Oh, then you come to the wonderfully ridiculous, refreshing phet-faced gettin’ dressed n’ speshed for Saturday jaunt of Cheatin’ Heart and the ketamine barn dance versions of May The Circle Be Unbroken and Hello, Mary Lou from which they’ve gestated You Can Have Her and Troubled Times and parachuted into a true resurrection of old rockin’ run-through Cast Iron Arm done in a dinner jazz meets Jeffrey Dahmer for cocktails style, revisited later up in his room in a soiree-cum-orgy with Ed Gein as a junky egged on by Ren and Stimpy on the nut-job corpse-cutting knob-knuckling Lying Naked (' I wank n' cut n' gouge away'). So what if it’s all, even honky-tonk weep into-your-cotton-wool Tears In My Eyes, drawled with a grin n’ glazed eye, cheeky leer and I don’t know, and don’t want to know what his kill count is but, like Spark above, that this is the best thing he’s done for a good while, definitely better than the old Flintstones, suggests it’s getting to be like a particularly low-life Jerry Lee Lewis, ailing aboard a ship of good hope, humour n’ inveterate hi-jinks and malarkeying, no matter what the sluiced gates of heroin hell may suggest otherwise. So don’t go expecting heartfelt balladry and hand-wringing but if you want a dose of palpitating rockin’ and a bag of gurn-inducing devilry in your disc player with a far more eclectic scope than the straitjacketed psycho scene usually allows with an equally far more electric presence than you might expect from a one-lunged, self-crippling narco-loon circus then here’s where to go.
Stu Gibson
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