Monday, February 08, 2010

Bunny Tales: Behind Closed Doors At The Playboy Mansion - Isabella St. James
Running Press

'We often wonder why he did it at all. Why bother with this whole charade?' - from the wisdom of St. James

Well, well, well I'll be damned if I don't avow this erstwhile book of latent revelation about as well, as rip-roaringly titillating as the author herself as she happily pleasures herself on a high-horse some heroin-addled higher power divined she could hop along on. It may be of little surprise that this is a tawdry little cash-in, but she could at least have given it to someone to write who was funny, to lighten the intergalactic vacuity and patronising patter ('you'd be surprised how many girls we met who, inside two minutes, would want to come home with us'. Scuse me while I burst, m'dear). Guess she didn't manage to procure such contacts through her martyr like time as moral medusa of the Malibu nirvana. It's not like anyone's gonna expect The Dirt, or even News of the World / National Enquirer, amid choruses of oooh I always imagined what might go on chez Hef, please tell me? At first I chuckled at the 'oh of course you went to law school, that is why you entertainingly, sorry, educationallitically put quotes from Milton and writers from long ago which have even longerer names and stuff atop the chapters', then after the requisite three-to-five seconds it clicks like a Belfast kneecapping. Strong in you the lawyer instinct is. Grab money off old Hef while you can then pitch a bitch cat-calling tell-some under the guise of oooh I'd not really want to but since you ask - it was all them other nasty trashy girls. Sure, Hefner may be a deluded old rich guy living out geek fantasies but she's proof that that ain't exactly, or partly, all it's cracked up to be behind the facade, which she frequently pretends to be startled about. I mean, haul me to court with a surgeons scalpel pointed someplace perilous but our Polish/Canadian (NOT American, as she keeps reminding us, cos, like she's cultured and shit) pouting poultry resembles Vince Neil been shoved through the back-end of one of her precious little pug dogs (and yes, who paid for them puppies, huh?). Unsurprisingly a far sadder depiction of a self-satisfied little princess than an aging lothario, whether of the hype or the hang. Should you be suitably arsed either way. Though if it gets you through the Sunday late shift it's worth it near the end for her exchange with Hugh that precipitated her departure when after as painstakingly as possible depicting herself as the tough, headstrong heroine she bursts into tears and screeches 'You always choose their side'. Ace, I'm off to get a Melrose Place box-set. Taraaa.
Stu Gibson
Dust And Bones - Voodoo

Have you ever wondered if the world what with it being this day & age and all needs another band of bleach-jeaned beachcomb-overs with money to burn on production bills but scantily clad creatively resulting in a well rehearsed but tawdrily tired, self-consciously lascivious slop dribbling from the twin over-nibbled titties of Aerosmith and AC/DC such that cliches clutter your speakers enough to make the bland, barely discernible mark in rock's alley left by Bulletboys seem unavoidably barren all of a sudden? No? Thought not, lucky barstads. I just did. Don't bother. Like you'd need telling. 'One foot in the gutter / one foot in the grave', the strip, dirty needs, sleazy needs, sunset till sunrise, etc etc. For all its blustering personality bypass, or maybe moreso because of it, deplorable. It may be depressing if not for Big Neck et al. Voodoo, my burnt tea.
Stu Gibson
The Sworn Liars - Vile Device
Big Neck

Gloriously sulfurious surf-a-rolla through your solar plexus from these German gourmandising gruelzillas. A jolly Dead Kennedy Cool Germ jerk hatchet job of horrorpop spewing plasma rays in yer palm springs, babes and blobs from a barbedin-brain basement bunker that sure is about the best twenty minutes you could have without breaking your back. In the catastophically over-clogged cess-pool in need of some certain sonic dismemberment that is the whole corpse-paint crowd these ditch-dwelling Devo-looters rage as they schizophrenically eviscerate goth on a bed of it's own Germs, chuck up Dead Boys out of B-52's, burn all your Damned flags black while filling your flagons and boots with bile. Casting off with a long over-subscribed descriptive clod of chainsaw guitars has scarcely felt so ecstatic. Awesome goresome everywhere, lots of bilge for your binge-brown there, for once more Big Neck provide the derangement break custom-made for your crushed cortex.
Stu Gibson
Edge Of Forever - Another Paradise

Blimey, this sort of muck almost demands a reimagining of Magnum. But you wouldn't would you? No doubt sells grease-ladling fuckloads in Italy. But so did Spagna. Still does I hideously imagine. Shame as the cover suggests some heroic battle metal is about to rain down - aside from that the best bit was the three-second smirk that ensued with the namecheck thanking coincidentally (I assume) named ex-member Bob Harris - I assume tis not the BBC DJ. Indeed vocalist Alessandro Del Vecchio (ok, he's probably pulled your girlfriend already, Bon Jovi babe or not) has a shriek that could crinkle chainmail across continents, but as it stands this is stock Euro-AOR full of overbearing banality that gives a Bryan Adams ballad added bite and as such deserves less latitude n' leeway than the emphatically cack-tittedly titled currency, moreso when such slack-intentioned stab at hit single in the guise of the cover of countryman Georgio Moroder's Flashdance theme-tune shows Edge Of Forever as, once again, little more than X Factor fodder.
Stu Gibson
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