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Dissecting Brains On Film 11 by Vic Stanley 
Flipping Switch" and other poetry by Claire Richards 
Tattoo Who?" by Stately Wayne Manor 
"Sex With Animals" by Sally Eckhoff 

CELLULOID VOID w/D. Salem!, R. Palmer, C. Ledbetter, C. Widener 
AUDIO DEPRAVATION w/D. Salem!, R. Cazadores 
"Chopped And Channeled" by S. Jeffries 
"Boring Revolution" by M. Verta-Ray 

BRUTARIAN LIBRARY w/D. Salem!, R. Palmer, G. Goodsell, G. Sheldon 

Front Cover Art by Flick Ford 
"The Dozing Fat Boy" by Jarrett Huddleston 
"Steven" by Doug Allen 

"Dreams Of The Urolagniac Fiend" and other work by P. Reeves 
"Alien Metaphor" by Scott Cunningham A 

Brurtarian Centerfold by Tom Corlette I 

"I Am Not Dead" by Mike Schafer * 

fr* t. 

S)- ; j \ 

Our Father Ai^L*|^Ceasar, who art in these thy Substantial 
Astronomical VU^Scopic Heavens, Holiness to thy Name or 
Title, & reverence to thy Shadow. Thy Kingship come upon 
Earth first & then in Heaven. Give us day by day our Real 
Taxed Substantial Money bought Bread; deliver from the Holy 
Ghost whatever cannot be Taxed; for all Is debts & Taxes 
between Caesar & us & one another; lead us not to read the 
Bible, but let our Bible be Virgil & Shakespeare; & deliver us 
from Poverty in Jesus, that Evil One. For thine is the Kingship, 
[or] Allegoric Godship, & the Power, or War, & the Glory, or 
Law, Ages after Ages in thy descendants; for God is only an 
Allegory of Kings & nothing Else. 


The Lord's Prayer Modernized 
William Blake 1788 


"Brutarian" is published quarterly by Odium Ent. For Submissions and Subscriptions: PO Box 25222 Arlington VA 22202-9998 

Editors: Dom Saleml, Sandy Smlroldo, Jarrett Huddleston. Special thanks to Jkn Schoene The Brutarian Ubrarian, Brian Horrorwttz The Brutarian ll yst sri a n, and to Sara Porter Just tor being her. 

Subscribe to "Brutarian"! Only $12 per annum, ah checks payable to Dom Saiemi. 

Back Issues of Brutarian - $6 each, which is incredibly cheap for works of such unsurpassed genius. 

T o the uninitiated, the Brains on Film (B.O.F.) 
movie review show might appear to be the 
mind jarring result of some diabolical Soviet 
gene-splicing experiment combining Siskel & Ebert 
with Wayne's World to create Seth "The Fly" 
Brundle’s worst nightmare, but there is so much more 
here than meets the eye. This adventurous and ir¬ 
reverent enterprise, which has infiltrated the other¬ 
wise myopic universe of local cable access program¬ 
ming in Lexington, KY, is unlike anything that has 
come before it. As Max Renn discovered about 
Videodrome , B.O.F. is dangerous because it has a 

The co-conspirators who comprise the "Braintrust" 
behind B.O.F. are two kindred spirits named George 
Maranville (accent on the second syllable) and Larry 
Treadway, known by their adoring public as Brother 
George and Professor Tread. In their youth, they had 
each acquired a penchant for everything that is sordid, 
putrid, vile and tasteless in the world of cinema, and 
they were destined to meet and eventually became 
associates in a campaign to refine their hobby into an 
avocation. The obvious and most accessible medium 
available to accomplish this task was public access 
cable. Although their relationship with the local cable 
company is often strained at best, for once, public 
demand has won out over good taste, and B.O.F. has 
secured a regular slot in the Lexington area cable 
access schedule. Amid other local programming 
covering the usual bland topics, George and Larry 
take pride in the fact that B.O.F. sticks out like a sore 
thumb. One thing is certain; nobody remains neutral 
in their opinions regarding the show. Outrage is a 
term which keeps popping up in reference to B.O.F. 

Maranville and Treadway research and develop a 
different format for each installment of B.O.F. In the 
past, with the assistance of their loyal crew, they have 
produced theme shows such as Racism Nite , Sexism 
Nite, Homophobia Nite , White Trash Nite , New York 
Underground Nite and Herschell Gordon Lewis Nite , 
each incorporating appropriate commentary, 
wardrobe, set design and accompanying film clips. 
Although the mood and atmosphere of each show 
remains extremely casual, the production values are 
continually upscaled, with each successive show being 
shot at locations such as butcher shops, abandoned 
drive-in theaters and public buildings. In some cases, 
trespassing is required. 

Brains on Film is very careful to make the distinc¬ 
tion between GOOD/BAD and BAD/BAD. The new 
wave of insipid mainstream stars such as Patrick 
Swayze, Jennifer Grey, Andrew McCarthy and Molly 
Ringwald often incur the merciless wrath of Brother 
George and Professor Tread, although the balance of 
their rancor is reserved for the rich Hollywood 
producers who employ these non-talents and the view¬ 
ing public who patronize their shoddy efforts. Other¬ 
wise fine actors who have made dreadful career 
moves, such as A1 Pacino’s grave mistake with Cruis- 

by Vic Stanley 



Brutarian - Vol. 1 No. 4 

ing y are also on the receiving end of their scrutiny and 
ridicule. But rather than wallow in the misery generated 
from watching these terrible movies, George and Larry 
prefer to revel in the films’ unintentional humor. They 
actually teach their viewers a new way to enjoy them by 
laughing AT them rather than WITH them. In the B.O.F. 
lexicon, the definition of a GOOD/BAD film is one which 
makes optimum use of its resources, no matter how limited. 
The types of films described above are considered 
BAD/BAD because of their misguided excess and their 
fawning, pretentious acting, not because of their production 
values. Cheap does not necessarily equal bad, nor does a 
multi-million dollar budget always guarantee high quality. 
In fact, most films are grossly over-budgeted. 

Although Maranville and Treadway have sometimes been 
accused of advocating an anti-social mindset, those making 
these indictments are simply missing the point. B.O.F. does 
not condone racism, sexism, xenophobia, etc, but merely 
points out the ludicrous manner in which the film industry 
deals with these subjects. In actuality they are ridiculing 
those loopy Hollywood moguls who stray too far afield to 
the ultra left or the ultra right under a banner of strident 
self-righteousness. In their eyes, Charleton Heston is just 
as far off base as is Ed Asner. If the medium is still the 

BG - Brother George / George Maranville 
PT - Professor Tread /Larry Treadway 
VS - Vic Stanley 

Are you products of troubled childhoods? If so, does 
this explain your current interests and activities? if 
not, what does explain it? 

BG: Larry and I are both from dysfunctional families, which 
as much as I would like to deny it, must have something to 
do with our cynicism, sense of humor and obsessions. I lived 
with an alcoholic father until I was out of high school. I 
don’t want to sound morose, though. We’re goofing off 
most of the time. I had a pretty good childhood. 

PT: Troubled? Well, my dad’s been married about seven 
times and my mom four times. I was raised by my 
grandparents who were the best. My grandfather flew back 
from WW II with Errol Flynn and they got drunk together. 
My grandparents also loved pro wrestling. I spent every 
Thursday night at Country World, a little shit hole in 
Georgetown, Kentucky, watching live wrestling. It was 
fucking great! 


message, B.O.F.’s main intent is to remind us all not to take 
ourselves too seriously. According to the B.O.F. manifesto, 
the new age of politically correct hypersensitivity is nothing 
more than thinly veiled fascism, and they continue to ag¬ 
gravate and confound those factions of the media and various 
special interest groups who would attempt to stifle their 
efforts. Even though they reserve the right to insult 
everybody equally, B.O.F. style humor is often self- 
deprecating and the bulk of the tirades dished out by Brother 
George and Professor Tread are aimed at each other. When 
witnessing them nattily attired in the hopelessly exaggerated 
"Superfly Disco Godfather" outfits they donned for Racism 
Nitey one might wonder "Don’t these guys have any self 
respect at all?" Sure they do, but not TOO much. 

In an effort to get to the heart of their philosophies on the 
subjects of film, TV, politics, sex, religion and pro wres¬ 
tling, I felt it best to contact them directly. What follows is 
the result of a series of interviews I recently conducted with 
Maranville and Treadway. 

What were your first childhood experiences with the 
types of films that you address on B. O.F. ? 

BG: At age eleven, I made my father take me to a film 
which concludes with the little girl shooting her mother’s 
boyfriend for hitting her mother. As we left the theater, we 
had to cast "Guilty or Innocent" votes which might have been 
the name of the film. I loved it because it made me feel 
kinda creepy and my father thought it was disgusting. 
Nowadays, all kids have to do to get that same creepy feeling 
is turn on A Current Affair or Hard Copy . No telling how 
weird we’d be if we had that luxury as kids. 

PT: My mom and one of my various step-dads took me to 
the drive-in to see Blazing Saddles , but the first feature was 
a cheap, bad copy exploitation film called Dirty O'Neill. I 
was hanging out at the playground in front of the screen 
trying to get that light headed feeling on the swings when 
BAM! Up on the screen a huge pair of breasts jump out of 
a cake and there they were - a set of 60 foot mams. I was 

Brutarian - Vol. 1 No. 4 

Have you ever been convicted (indictments don't 
count) of e cepitol crime such es mess murder, 
bestiality or espionage? Please be candid. 

BG: No major criminal records for either of us, although 
Tread’s penchant for violence gets him in trouble on oc¬ 
casion. I’m a peacifist or peacenik. Which is it? 

PT: I once got caught sneaking into die drive-in to see The 
Fog y but when they caught me they thanked me for coming. 

VS: Hmmm . . . that’s strange. I could swear that I heard 
about something having to do with bestiality. 

Brother Goorgo, Charter Brutarian 

Please describe any scars, tattoos , missing limbs or 
any other identifying marks. 

BG: No scars except for that hole that looks like a giant 
abscessed blackhead that you get from smallpox. 

PT: Well, my wife an I drove sixty miles to get tattoos. 
Mine is an Aztec eye on my arm. My wife got a black cat 
onher ankle. I cried, she didn’t. But seriously, I’m thinking 
of getting Vic Tayback tattooed on my butt and I don’t even 
know why. 

BG: The day Tread’s wife showed me her tattoo, she was 
screaming "I’m going to have this fucking thing for the rest 
of my life!,” but I think she likes it now. 

Please describe in graphic detail any debilitating 
sexual dysfunction you are currently experiencing . 
(EX: Siy Stallone's recent penile pump implant). 

PT: My prostate seems to be growing on the outside of my 
body but I haven’t gotten it checked because my wife seems 
to like it 


BG: I’ve been married for about three months now and the 
old pencil remains pretty sharp, but to achieve (quite an 
accomplishment) orgasm, The Incredible Mr. Limpet must 
be on TV in the background. I almost splorched last 
Thanksgiving while watching The Ghost and Mr. Chicken. 
No, it was The Reluctant Astronaut. Anyway, it didn’t 
happen. My wife says I have an oral fixation. 

Do things taste salty to you? 

PT: More metallic than salty. That’s die first sign of a brain 
tumor, you know. 

BG: I’m paranoid about clogging my arteries so it’s Mrs. 
Dash all the way. 

Do you have any m legitimate m background in 
filmmaking? If so, has this experience been 

FT: I’ve done some extra work. You know, sleeping under 
trees for $80 a week. Great food, though. I was cowboy 
actor Richard Farnsworth’s lighting stand-in on a film. He’s 
as short as I am. 

BG: No experience whatsoever. Stricdy trial by fire. 

How did you two first become acquainted? 

BG: Some guy suggested that I ask Larry to co-host I guess 
he already knew how dreadful my earlier solo shows had 
been. So did I. We had ideas, resources and people willing 
to work for beer and barbecue. They all hate me because 
I’m the tyrannical, anal retentive producer. 

PT: George came begging for a job where I work! 

How many other people have you met who share 
your interests? Do they appear to be able to function 
normally in society? Are you able to function normal¬ 

PT: My wife and that’s about it! Function normally? 
What’s that mean? That I don’t masturbate in public, I eat 
all my veggies, worship God? I guess I function OK. I buy 
a lot of toys, though. 

BG: More than I ever would have imagined. It’s not a huge 
group, but it’s more diverse than I would have expected. 
Some people are film literate, while some are frat boys and 
rednecks who like the juvenile humor. As far as normal 
social function, sometimes it’s hard to get out of the mindset 
of the show after taping. We often antagonize each other on 
camera, but the most hostile shows elicit the best reaction. 
It’s much like the film Network. 

VoL 1 No. 4 


How are you dealt with by people who don't share 
your interests? 

PT: Ignored! I just tell them it gets me laid all the time and 
then they want their own show. That’s the only thing people 
fucking understand! 

BG: I seldom mention it for fear of freaking people out or 
proselytising, although I’m certainly not ashamed of it. 
After 29 years of hidden passions, it’s nice to get it all out, 
and B.O.F. is the perfect way to accomplish this. Tread and 
I enjoy shoving people’s hypocrisy back in their faces when 
they tell us "What our show means." 

How was B.O.F. first conceived and what were your 
motivations for doing so? 

BG: My show Brother George on Film sucked! I was lucky 
to find Tread. He came up with the "Brain" part, I think. 
It’s difficult to reflect upon the inertia that carried us. Our 
motivation was just to piss people off, and while we did that 
to a point, it backfired and more people than we could ever 
imagine liked it. 

PT: George called me up and asked me to come over and 
shoot something. The next thing I knew, I had become some 
asshole called Prof. Tread and a show was bom. Our 
motivation came from a need to bitch. Pretty high minded, 

How did you first approach the cable company with 
your idea? 

BG: The cable people here are complete idiots and I 
understand that’s a nationwide phenomenon. We just did the 
first show and presented it. They tried to convince us they 
were doing us a favor by not airing it, so we sorta threatened 
’em and they wised up. Since then, they know not to fuck 
with us. We can do anything we want now without a bit of 
whining, and they love to whine. 

What type of personal expenses were incurred in 
getting started? 

BG: A few fights, microphones, a mixer and some beer. A 
couple hundred bucks or so. I think we were all unconscious¬ 
ly stockpiling, stealing and charging various equipment and 
props for the show but we never really discussed it. Now 
beer and recording tape are the only expenses. Oh yeah, 
barbecue for Skidz. 

PT: Beer, tape and a fluff girl for Skidz! 

Detail some of the difficulties you have encountered 
in getting the show on the air. 

PT: I don’t like to talk about it much, cause the cable people 
are so fucked up! I just say that they hate us and we hate 
them, but we try to exhibit mutual respect. If you believe 
that, I’ve got some Mr. Belvedere tapes I’ll sell you. 

BG: It seems that after every show I say "Fuck this. It’s 
too much work!" I tell Tread I’m quitting and two days later 

I’m climbing the walls to do another show, calling him every 
hour with ideas. It’s addictive. 

What types of positive and negative reactions have 
you generated from your viewers and what are the 

BG: We’ve gotten the obligatory "You guys have no socially 
redeeming value" from supposed open-minded liberals. 
They hate us the way people hate wrestling. They know it’s 
just TV, but they still think that anybody who would do that 
on TV must be pretty fuckin’ weird! As far as positive 
reaction, it’s given us some credibility we don’t deserve. I 
sure as hell don’t know as much about obscure films as most 
zine editors, but I guess we make up for it with enthusiasm. 

PT: If we get our asses off the couch and put a show on the 
air we get lots of calls and letters, usually supportive. Other 
assholes think they’re funnier than us and they wanna do 
their own show. Of course, the next day they sober up and 
their little fantasy is forgotten. We get a few hypersensitive 
viewers who wanna string us up but we usually just make 
fun of them on the air. No big deal. Just mention some 
unintelligent individual on TV and they love you. 

How do you choose, research and develop each 

BG: It’s getting tougher all the time. Mainly just whatever 
we happen to be watching or reading about recently, and then 
finding an appropriate location. We’re not like a lot of other 
shows who just sit in the living room filming. 

It's difficult to reflect upon 
the inertia that carried us. 
Our motivation was just to 
piss people off, and while 
we did that to a point, it 
backfired and more people 
than we could ever imagine 
liked it. 

Brother George 

PT: It’s usually a mutual thing. We pool ideas, then we 
research at the library and the thinking man’s resource - the 
zine scene. Keep publishing all you folks. Somebody’s 
buying it. 

What has been your best show to date? 

PT: Almost everybody digs the Poor White Trash II show. 
The skit on H. G. Lewis Night was one of our finest moments. 
Acid 60 y s had some of our best production values - three 
cameras, tighter editing . . . but I like some of the earlier 

Brutarian - Vol. I No. 4 


shows like Films We Hate and Texas Chainsaw Night . 
They’re just meaner, more obnoxious! 

BG: Well, I thought it was Buttload O' Backwoods Buf¬ 
foonery where we reviewed Poor White Trash Part Z7, but 
Film Threat Magazine sure didn’t think so. Poor White 
Trash Part II is the greatest film ever made, by the way. 
Acid 60 f s Nite was good too, with die Acid Cam and all die 
crew dressed in stupid-ass hippie outfits. Incidentally, I hate 

Professor Tread, wannabe Brutarian 

Does excessive drinking help or hinder e perfor¬ 

FT: It usually helps, but in my case, George’s drinking 
hinders mine and the crew’s. I spend a week researching 
for a show and die crew forgets to even turn on the cameras, 
so we have to shoot the fucking thing twice. That happened 
during the H.G. Lewis show. All I could do was laugh at 
George. He was killed. 

BG: Yeah, I’ve been pretty plowed on a few shows. Like 
Tread said, die H. G. Lewis Grue-A-Thon was an abortion. 
Tread usually takes care of the principle shooting, lighting, 
camera placement, set design, etc, so I’m free to be ob¬ 
noxious. Once the show’s shot however, I have to edit the 
fucking thing for fifteen hours, so I feel I deserve a brew or 
seven during the shoot. I’mhorriUe, but Tread’s so uptight 
during the actual shoot, he doesn’t drink. I get uptight during 

What were the greatest lessons you have learned 
through your mistakes? 

BG: I’ve learned that even if I drink to oblivion, Tread will 
carry die show. He’s getting used to that. 

FT: I’ve learned not to let George have twenty-one beers 
in a single Sunday afternoon. Also, sometimes the more 
prepped we are, the worse die show is. 

Any humorous, dangerous or potentially tragic anec¬ 
dotes regarding the show? 

BG: Other than Tread’s violent temper, nothing I can 
remember. It gets pretty heated sometimes. We’ll have a 
disagreement before the show and then take cheap shots at 
one another while we’re shooting. Sometimes people can’t 
tell if we’re really pissed off and I guess we can’t either. 
Tread gets into a fist fight about once a week, so I have to 
watch what I say. He and his wife are like Bonnie and Clyde. 

PT: Some of our best stuff has come out when George and 
I are at each other’s throats just due to stupid stuff, but we 
haven’t killed anyone . . . yet 

Have you met any famous people through the show? 
if so, please say something slanderous about them . 

BG: None yet, so we must be doing something right Oh 
yeah, we did get a soudbite/plug from Jello Biafira when he 
was in town. Slander, huh? Well... he did this three hour 
diatribe on the dangers of redneck violence and then he 
proceeds to bum an American flag and incite the very 
redneck violence he opposes. So he’s obviously a 
dumbfuck, but everybody knows that, I guess. 

FT: Yeah, Jello Biafra. We got drunk with him. I think 
he’s really a Republican. My wife and I also met Roni 
Stoneman, the old toothless housewife from Hee Haw . She 
was standing outside of Shoney’s selling gospel audio tapes. 
The weird thing is that she was a little drunk. We were going 
to ask her to do a promo for the show but it was too pathetic. 

Who do you admire in the film industry? 

FT: Jonathan Demme, if we’re talking mainstream. The 
guy’s kicked ass and still had hits. Most of your so-called 
big name creative types have it made because of their ability 
to hire great cinematographers and dp’s, so I really don’t 
have all that much respect for them. 

BG: I admire movies rather than the filmmakers, but that’s 
a cop out, I guess. Most of who I like don’t make films 
anymore, like H.G. Lewis or William Castle. It’s tough to 
find anything good from America these days other than 
Robert Altman or some documentary filmmakers. Hol¬ 
lywood is a wasteland. 

Who do you despise in the film industry? 

BG: I hate just about all mainstream films but I have to 
review them for a local arts publication and appear to be 
objective. No one comes to mind, except that Cameron guy 
really pissed me off spending a hundred million fucking 
dollars on Terminator H. Even if it would have been a great 
film, that is an obscene amount of money for one film. The 
only thing stupider is that someone gave it to him. 


Brutarian - VoL 1 No. 4 

PT: Travolta, Swayze, Stallone, Fox ... do I have to go 

What are some of the scariest or weirdest messages 
you have received on the B.O.F. hotline? Have you 
ever actually met any of these people? 

BG: I’m a collector nerd. I record all the calls, Most are 
drunks who tell us that we suck. A couple of people 
threatened to kill us. One guy saw our Christl It’s Christmas 
Show and fucking flipped. He said he was an Arab and he 
just went off. I guess the sight of two grown men in elve’s 
outfits screaming "We’re coming after you food-stamping 
Mohammads (sic) and sand hoagies!" was too much. I don’t 
know how Tread and I even got on that diatribe. It ended 
up being perfect timing because the show aired a week before 
the war started, but we had taped it a month previously. The 
Nostradamus-like powers of Brains On Film at work. 
Anyway, satire’s a dead art form. People today think satire 
is a cutesy Dan Quayle joke. Fuck that. 

PT: The guy crackin’ his Johnson on the machine . . . you 
could hear him shoot the goo . . . pretty frightening, huh? I 
run into some of the callers out at clubs but I don’t talk to 
them much. If they like our show, they’re pretty scary. 

Do you sometimes fear for your life? 

BG: Sometimes the show makes me paranoid because I think 
someone’s going to come up and beat the shit out of me or 
just cuss me out, so yeah, sometimes. 

PT: I fear for George’s life. 

Please describe the typical female B.O.F. groupie. 

PT: You know - corporate types. Lawyers, stockbrokers, 
girls with big fax machines. No really - college girls who 
need a good . . . oops! My wife talked with one on the phone 
once and scared the poor girl to death. She can be pretty 

BG: Some sound frighteningly young on the answering 
machine but those we meet at shows and concerts, etc. tend 
to have unnatural hair color, various body piercings, that 
oh-so-cool pasty-faced look and tend to talk about films like 
Blacula a lot. They’re always promiscuous; at least that’s 
what Skidz and M.C. tell us. The rest of us are married. 

What has been the reaction of your friends, family 
and daytime co-workers? 

PT: Our friends sometimes want to help, but they don’t have 
a clue about what it takes to do a show, so I never ask them. 
My family ignores it to some extent, although they probably 
talk about it behind my back. Co-workers sometimes want 
to talk about it, but I try to play it down. 

BG: My friends sometime hint "You’ll never get a better 
job if you keep this up." Shit like that. My parents are 
bible-bangers and surely don’t watch it, but they are very 
supportive. Our daytime co-workers (Tread and I work 
together) just think we're office clowns. We put up the well 

mannered man disguise but occasionally our perverse sense 
of humor will show, especially Tread. A surprising number 
of people actually like the show. They’ll comer us in a 
crowded elevator and say "You guys were pretty disgusting 
on TV last night" and we just hide our faces. We’re both 

Tell us about your able crew, particularly the enig¬ 
matic Skidz Rhubarb. 

BG: It’s a very eclectic bunch. Skidz Rhubarb is the 
ultimate cynic. In our comic "Attack of the Skidz Rhubarb," 
he renders people helpless by rolling his eyes and saying 
"yeah right!" M.C. Hormone is the token frat boy on the 
crew. Every once in a while, to make him feel at home, we 
make him pick up Vienna Sausages with his buttcheeks. The 
Bob suffers from every disease known to man: asbestos 
poisoning, shigellosis (the shits), cancer, brain tumors . . . 
everything but hypochondria. After they read this there 
won’t be a crew, I guess. They already think I"m an asshole. 
The show wouldn’t happen without them, though. 

PT: Aah, the crew! M.C. Hormone loves food, girls and 
horrendous music, but he is the editing genius. MTV-O- 
Matic is in charge of the music video stuff on the show, The 
Bob, give him a line and he’ll take it. Who would have 
thought that this mild mannered guy would want to hang 
around with George and me? I think he has a torrid past and 
is creative as hell. Finally there’s Skidz Rhubarb. He’s been 
on every B.O.F. that’s mattered, is a part time cameraman, 
part time rock star (guitarist for MR. YUK), and full time 
purveyor of Tori Welles videos. His past is sketchy. A 
Turkish director? The funniest thing about Skidz is that his 
mom used to take him to the beauty salon because his hair 
is so pretty. 

If society is better because 
of us, so be it. But I'll do 
my best to correct that 
problem on the next show. 

Professor Tread 

Just who the hell is in charge, anyway? 

PT: George is the anal retentive one. I am the psychotic so 
I don’t fucking know or care. 

BG: I’m the asshole, so I’m in charge. I wish I wasn’t 

Brutarian - Vol. 1 No. 4 


What are your future aspirations for B.O.F. as well 
as any related prefects? 

BG: I used to consider B.O.F. the end all, but I keep having 
these pipedreams that it’s actually the means to something 
else. Not Hollywood movie making or any of that shit, but 
at least doing some low budget films, which we’re working 
on. I used to think our kind of humor wasn’t THAT off 
kilter, but when I see some of die pap that passes for funny 
on TV today, I feel like throwing 19 . Meanwhile, we’ll keep 
doing the show and our weird film ideas, even if there’s not 
an audience for diem. If somebody wanted to buy die show 
and replace us with two fucking dickhead made-up talking 
heads, I’d tell them to fuck off. . . unless they introduce me 
to a few choice pom stars. 

PT: We’re trying to wrap up the drive-in documentary that 
we worked on all summer. We’re also trying to hawk some 
funds to produce a real B.O.F. pilot for Comedy Central. 
We’ve got them nibblin’ but we need about five thousand to 
sell out and go to real TV. If we do, you better watch out. 

What advice do you have for others who want to do 
their own TV shows? 

PT: None 

BG: We always tell people how easy this shit is. Once you 
come up with people you can depend on, it’s a piece of cake. 
If you have to deal with a cable company, don’t back down. 
Remember the First Amendment and Fair Use Doctrine 
Rule. Cable people have the ethics of pomographers 
anyway. Maybe someday, somebody might do something 
with us so we don’t have to be producers, directors, writers, 
editors, set designers, marketers, promoters, etc. It’s fuck¬ 
ing tiring but I can’t stop. 

Do you feel that you have contributed to the better - 
ment of society? 

BG: I’m afraid I haven’t 

PT: If society is better because of us, so be it. But I’ll do 
my best to correct that problem on die next show. 

Have you been a detriment to society? 

PT: That sounds more like it Vic! 

BG: I’d shoot the Pope to be considered a detriment in some 
way. I wish I could outrage people like Russ Meyer or 
William Gaines and EC Comics do, and I guess bands like 
Slayer appear to do it too. That would be good company. 

Has the fact that you are also rabid wrestling fans 
somehow lowered your mainstream credibility even 
lower than the show has? 

PT: Wrestling aaah ... the white trash Olympics. Like I 
said earlier, I was reared on the stuff. You tape traders can 
find me on the ICW stuff wandering around in die audience 
and booing the good guys. We’re afraid to talk about 
wrestling too much on the show. We might lose our high 
brow audience, you know. 

BG: Most of my wresding friends are long distance ones. 
It’s almost useless now since the WWF ruined it. Some 
wrestling fans think that the WWF at least gave them a 
chance to share their hobby with more fans, but I feel the 
exact opposite. If the subject of wrestling is brought up, 
people automatically think "WWF.” I hate that shit. To 
some people it’s all the same, but it’s not to me. 

Will Ric Flair singlehandedly save the WWF? 

BG: Vince McMahon is too busy butt plugging Dino Bravo 
to even consider that. Even with Flair’s jump to the WWF, 
it’s getting increasingly difficult to get into today’s wres¬ 
tling. I’m spending all my money trying to track down the 
Memphis stuff I grew up with. That and Japanese tapes. 

PT: I don’t know if Flair can do it, but I once spit a huge 
green snot gob into what’s left of Hulk Hogan’s hair. You 
can thank me the next time you run into me. 

VS: I’ll thank you and Brother George right now for taking 
the time to do this interview. 

the original pouncAi. comic book of the 'so* and ’*>• For more information on Brains On Film, write them atPO 

Box 1337 Lexington, KY 40590-1337 or call the B.O.F. 
Hotline (606)277-5973 and leave a threatening message. 


Brutarian - VoL 1 No. 4 

mS Vi deo’s 


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1964 UW 

A Mondo Documentary by the 
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the female homo sapiens 



Relatively tame by today’s standards, these 
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Brutarian - VoL 1 No. 4 


T he other day, while perusing my collection of fine contem¬ 
porary literature, I happened across a Homy Biker Sluts 
comic in which a group of geeks revived from an attempt to 
party with dub members and found themselves heavily tat¬ 
tooed. Imagine the total traumatic effect a facial tat would 

At the risk of ruining my image as a warm and compassionate 
human being, I daim there are many who, due to their absdute 
devotion to being utter wastes of oxygen, truly beg to have KILL 
ME permanently inked on their foreheads. Rather than simply 
provide a list of individuals who fit the description, I’ve put 
together a directory of groups of some - but certainly not all - 
of the prime candidates. 

Morning Zookeepers 

Waking up in the a.m. Is horrible enough without having to 
be subjected to a flock (as in sheep) of no-talents on top of it. 
Throwbacks to the jive-talking, insincere disc jockeys of the 
glory years of AM radio, zeroes with handles like Banana Bob 
And His Cuckoo Crew endlessly recyde a half dozen attempts 
at humor several steps beneath Mad magazine. 

The type of people who make it embarrassing to be young 
eat this drivel up, especially the junior high schod level sexual 
innuendo. ("Wow, dude, Gonzo Gary said titmouse on the 
air!"). Manipulators love the complacent "it’s better to be a ddt 
than adult" audience. (I call It "stupid chic"). They’re so easy 
to contrd. 

The only way I’d change my view of the entire Zoo 
phenomenon would be if a reputable source assured me the 
whole thing Is a cruel joke designed to see just how gullible the 
average dimwit is. Ideally, the source would say, "Hey, we hate 
these boobs as much as you do. Here’s a bunch of fish cakes 
who couldn’t find the Pacific Ocean on a globe but they wear 
stupid Hawaiian shirts every Friday because we tell them to!" 

Aging Amateur Jocks 

As a participant in the King Of Sports (pro wrestling, of 
course) I can relate to the fans of athletic competition - to a 
degree. But to those whose entire realm of thought is sports- 
related, I say "Get a death." 

The worst offenders are those every-shirt-in-the-wardrobe- 
has-a-number-on-the-back, wearing-a-baseball-cap-all-year- 
round-to-cover-the-bald-spot "athletic supporters," losers who 
refuse to mentally leave the little league despite their advancing 

Despite inhabiting the planet for a few decades, these zilches 
have managed to ignore every existent topic that does not 
include a win-loss record or a statistic. Place them in front of a 
jukebox or menu; mention an art form, historical event, political 
issue or philosophy - high or lowbrow, it doesn’t matter - they’re 
lost. Some even cop an attitude if you dare imply sports are 
not of paramount importance to the universe. Sorry boys, but 
I can’t seem to recall a single hockey game that changed the 


Bmtorum - Vol. 1 No. 4 

E X C 

she mss 

a thief. 


films on videocassette 


she ’s an 


Pre-THELMA & LOUISE film noir chronicles the 
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SCORCHED EARTH PRODUCTIONS 2201 South Clayton - Denver, CO 80210 







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I am in heaven when somebody comes snuffling 
around my ankles and applies their tongue to invisible 
tasty spots on my pants. Mmmm, salty. Are you hungry, 
tiny one? Would you like a kiss or a biscuit? I think I 
could turn and live with animals. God knows I’ve tried. 
Dogs get on my nerves a little, with their comic willing¬ 
ness, sticking their noses in my crotch when they don’t 
even know why. But my great loneliness lessens, some 
lucky times, when I am very close with brute beasts. And 
so I love animals. I mean I really love them. I want them. 
I would like to please them. I would like to enrapture 
them. I would like to do something really nice for them, 
like experience the ultimate embrace. Give it up, 
animals. I will make you feel the feelins. 

Why not, as long as we’re not able to produce 
children? It’s been tried, but never adequately ex¬ 
plained, unless you count animal porn, which is just 
exploitation. John Berger’s essay, Why Look At Animals, 
articulates the space between us and the lower species, 
but doesn’t go nearly far enough. Stanley Elkin, in The 
Making ofAshenden, a short story from his spicy collec¬ 
tion Searches And Seizures, has one of his characters 
satisfy a bear. While walking in the woods, this lovelorn 
guy stumbles right into the sexual embrace of a 
monstrous mammal-ette in screaming heat. The Kam¬ 
chatkan brown bear-fatale walks up to him, sticks her 
booty in his face, and puts it to him simply: Fuck me or 
I'll eat you. "Her fur, lanolized by estrus, was incredibly 
soft, the two swift strokes, gestures of forbidden brunette 
possibility..." He sees his work cut out for him. 

First he tries the tender approach, which fails because 
he limply realizes he’s not about to make love to a stuffed 
toy. Then he tries some lounge-lizard talk. 'There’s 
something dartin' in a difference," he whispers to her. His 
cock finally obeys. He expects relief, and finds joy. "... 
in the warm syrups of the beast, united with her, ecstatic, 
transcendent, not knowing where his cock left off and the 
bear began. Not deadened however, not like a 
novocained presence of tongue in the mouth or the alien 

feel of a scar, in fact never so filled with sensation, every 
nerve in his body alive with delight... a lovely new energy 
like love’s atoms split." 

Mmmm, salty. This is not the coin-in-the-slot instan¬ 
taneous experience that sheepfuckers are after. That’s 
just a way of jerking off without having to do it yourself. 
It ain’t animals performing sexually for the camera. It 
doesn't fit the category of most human sexual congress 
with animals, which is rape, human aggressor variety. 
The pleasure, explains Elkin, is mutual. And wouldn’t you 
like to make a pair of soft, brown eyes dizzy with joy? 

I would. I have spent too many years dishing out 
gummy Alpo to my pals, looking through zoo bars at 
snow leopards tracing eternal figure eights in their con¬ 
crete cells. And when I look into the opaque grey eyes 
of my rabbit (a Nethertand Dwarf mix and smart as a 
sandwich) I never know whether he’s looking back. He 
is not a person. He does not like my lipstick flavor. But 
he responds to my caresses with squeezed-shut eyes 
and a flattened body, and once when I spent the day in 
bed I swear he tried to mate with my foot. I do not have 
a clue as to how to help Hank get off. But if I did, I’d try it 

Why argue for innocence when there are so many 
emotional factors working in the libido, even in the very 
young? Like many women who grew up easy in the 
green woods and fields of Long Island, I spent my 
childhood on horseback. I’ve heard all the jokes about 
all these girts crazy about horses, so I would like to get 
a couple of things straight. First, the idea of bringing 
oneself to orgasm simply by rocking against the pommel 
of the saddle seems to be a myth. Nobody I asked could 
do it, anyway. Second, attraction to horses is not solely 
based on the size of their penises, though they are huge. 
You will never see a riding horse with an erection, since 
they’ve all been gelded at birth, and the only thing you’ll 
ever get a glimpse of is long, limp, unwashed dicks that 
only emerge when it’s sunny out and the horse is feeling 
sleepy/happy, or when it's taking a piss. Take it from me, 


Bmtarian - Vol. 1 No. 4 

Joyce’s "guttapercha thing" is not the straw that stirs a 
woman’s bestial drink. But a horse twitches his stifle 
when he walks or shudders his coat to throw off flies. 
And the combined stink of horses’ sweat and urine 
mimics a woman’s sexual scent almost perfectly. You 
smell it, and you think, "Where am I? Should I come 
closer?" You start thinking about how. Perhaps uniting 
with the beast would make us more human, too. But for 
women, it can’t be done. 

But we can dream, can’t we? Everybody’s heard the 
story about Katherine The Great being fucked to death 
by a stallion. And everybody seems to believe it. But it’s 
sheer fantasy, cooked up by her political enemies to 
discredit her, and bolstered by that quaint and anatomi¬ 
cally ignorant notion that all that girls really need is a BIG 
one. It’s not that simple. I propose that instead, we are 
driven by the allure of physical extremes. Animal grace 
could erase our self-consciousness somehow, and then 
we’d feel things we never felt before. Watch a draft horse 
hunch its rump and strain in the collar to skid that log 
through the woods. Watch him buck his hips when he’s 
covering a mare. Don’t we need to move like that, to 
unlearn that lesson about ladies not twitching when they 
walk? You can’t be sweet yet robotic out on the street 
and suddenly turn into a tiger just because your 
boyfriend bought you something from Victoria's Secret. 

Unless, unless, unless... he is a tigertoo. But anybody 
who thinks the sexual allure of animals is all snarls and 
big dicks has missed my point. The physical extreme 

that makes us want to cross that gap of silence into their 
world need not be one of sheer mass. In fact, the small, 
lithe sinuous fuzzy thing that licks your face when you’ve 
been crying might wind your clock a whole lot more than 
one that could shred you with one swipe of his paw. In 
fact, vegetarian animals can be the most attractive. Their 
confidence, which so contradicts their most basic in¬ 
stincts, is sweet and rare. Okay, the tiger with his flexible 
spine and lashing tail makes me feel urgent. But lions 
are too paternalistic. Forget dogs; they’ll do anything. 
The gentle elephant seems a possibility but for its ap¬ 
pearance of great age, and the fact that it is never alone. 
What about deer? Dolphins seem like a great idea. 
We’ve all read about how they love pregnant women. A 
newly clipped ewe has a sweet looking little vulva, as 
someone at a county fair recently pointed out to me, but 
I despise the idea of forcing her, and female animals do 
not spontaneously desire people. Bighorn rams? Now 
you’re talking. 

So can we make them betray their grave faces and 
their languid manners? Why would we want to simul¬ 
taneously struggle and receive? In my dreams, baby, I 
know the answers because I have done them all. Please 
don’t get any stupid ideas, though, and don’t write me 
any letters. Get Jayne Loader’s short story collection 
(out in paperback), read Song Of The Fucked Duck, and 
give your dog a bone. I mean a biscuit. 

Next ish: Andrea Dworkin might be right! We’ll take 
a good look. 


Rare Sci-fi & horror movies in cool display boxes. All boxes feature original artwork 
on front and side with credits and stills on the back. We sell both the movie in the 
display box or just the display box. All movies with display boxes come on quality 
brand name tape in the S.P. mode and are $20.00 each. Display boxes alone are 
$5.00 each. NOTE: Minimum order of $20.00. All prices include postage & handling. 









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★ Plus 100's more obscure movies available, send $2.00 for catalog -or- free with order! 

Brutarian - Vol 1 No. 4 




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On The Bowery 
(d) lionel rogosin (1956) 

Revenge Of The Zombies 

(d) steve sekely (1943) 

Dot time whan ya did dot ting . . . 

Gwan, gwan, dat*s nutin\ , . 

Dot wuz da lowest ting a humin bean ever 
done, I tell ya, 

Dere was nutin * dot coulda ’ been done, 
Whadya, whadya, gwan. 

It wuz da lowest, I gives ya fifteen cents for 
shoelaces an ya never showed up not the rest 
of today. It wuz da lowest, , , 

Gwan, dere wuz nutin' I tell ya , . , 
glaaaargh graschk , , , anyways, shaddup an 
pass dot dere drinks. 

This is the way people talk to one another on the world's most 
notorious skid row: New York City’s Bowery. But don’t feel sorry 
for these men and women; they certainly don’t feel sorry for 
themselves. Anyway, how can you feel sorry for people who like 
to drink and laugh and drink and argue and when finished arguing, 
drink and drink and then drink some more . . . until the bars close 
or the muscatel runs out. It’s not a bad life really, not if you don’t 
mind sleeping in garbage cans, constantly peeling scabs from your 
swollen calves, having your drinking buddies waiting for you to pass 
out so they can steal your shoes or swallowing sterao squeezed 
through cheesecloth for breakfast. Documentarist Rogosin, who 
won a prize at Venice in 1956, with this, his first feature, takes a 
somewhat detached and decidedly unsentimental view of this squalid 
demimondaine. He doesn’t romanticize the people who stumble 
about these filthy mean streets and he doesn’t judge them either; he 
just lets us look at them as they go about the business of hustling a 
drink. And the longer we are allowed to look, the more fascinating 
and ultimately, the more pitifully hilarious these individuals become. 
Fascinating, because of the lengths to which these Bowery denizens 
will go to scare up some hootch or to secure a flop, pitifully hilarious, 
because our harsh croak of laughter is the recognition that these men 
and women are ourselves. Others may call them bums or alcoholics 
and while this may be true, they are also human beings, human beings 
searching for a bit of security, a little comfort, some small talk; can 
we honestly say our needs are so markedly different? On The 
Bowery gives the lie to those who would answer in the affirmative. 

Unfairly dismissed as a low budget 
imitation of Val Lewton’s 7 Walked 
with a Zombie , this Monogram release 
is a rather effective blend of slapstick 
and morbid atmospherics. John Car- 
radine stars as a mad Nazi scientist 
feverishly working away in the 
Louisiana swamps in a woebegone at¬ 
tempt to produce a zombie army for 
theFuhrer. So dedicated is Carradine, 
that he intentionally poisons his wife 
and reanimates her corpse in an effort 
to perfect his experiments. This is 
because the undead he has already 
created are obedient but a tad slow 
moving. However, Carradine’s 
tinkering with his already proven for¬ 
mula results in a dead spouse with a 
will of her own, and she, under¬ 
standably upset, leads the zombies in 
an uprising against her homicidal 

At sixty-one minutes, Revenge 
(released in some markets as The 
Corpse Vanished ) wastes little time 
on small talk, director Sekely prefer¬ 
ring to concern himself with creating 
a sense of dread punctuated by brief 
bits of comic relief. Pay particular 
attention to the sequences shot in the 
ominously shadowed cemetery, the 
fog shrouded swamp and the loopily 
overlit laboratory. Revenge also boasts 
a wonderfully creepy performance by 
Carradine and a hilariously pop-eyed 
Stepin-Fetchit turn by Mantan 
Moreland. That the film works as well 
as it does must be credited to its direc¬ 
tor who was schooled in the artsy 
Danubia studios of Budapest before 
coming to America in the late thirties. 


Brutarian - Vol. 1 No, 4 


(d) Oliver stone (1991) 

For many people, the assassination of John Fitzgerald 
Kennedy was a military style ambush, an old fashioned 
coup d’etat planned by the military industrial complex, 
executed by aging, terrified cold warriors in the Pentagon 
and CIA’s covert operation bureaus and covered up by die 
Dallas police, the Secret Service, the FBI and the White 
House with the blessings of both J. Edgar Hoover and 
Lyndon Baines Johnson. This will come as no surprise to 
anyone who has read even a scintilla of that pack of lies 
otherwise known as the Warren Commission Report or 
anyone who was old enough to remember the subsequent 
assassination of Robert F. Kennedy and Dr. Martin Luther 
King, Jr. 

Understanding that people no longer read anymore and 
that the few who do, have allowed themselves to be 
brainwashed by the propaganda devices of our fascist 
right-wing government - television, newspapers and 
magazines of general circulation - Oliver Stone has made 
a movie that attempts to lay everything out for you. For 
Stone, the how and the who is "just scenery for the public” 
that keeps us from asking the real question, that keeps us 
playing this ridiculous "parlor game,” that keeps us from 
asking: Why? Why was John F. Kennedy killed? 

It’s not that complicated really. If you believe, as Stone 
does - and in light of our recent forays in Panama and Iraq 
it’s almost impossible not to believe - that the "organizing 
principle of any society is for war and that the authority of 
the state over its citizens rests in its war powers,” than John 
F. Kennedy was a dead duck almost the minute he took 
control of the White House. Kennedy was a peacenik; he 
wanted to end the Cold War by his second term. He wished 
to call off the moon race in favor of cooperation with the 
Soviets and to sign a treaty with them banning nuclear 
testing. He refused to invade Cuba in 1962 and set out to 
withdraw from Vietnam. And to insure that his plans would 
brook no resistance, Kennedy issued a top secret directive 
that made the joint chiefs of staff wholly responsible for all 
covert para-military operations in peace time. Essentially, 
this ended the reign of the CIA, splintering it, as JFK 
promised he would, into ”a thousand pieces. ” But before 
this directive could be implemented, the major players in 
the CIA, the Pentagon and the defense industry who stood 
to lose over eighty billion dollars a year in profits thanks 
to Kennedy’s policies, entered into an unholy conspiracy, 
a conspiracy which kicked into high gear on November 22, 
1963 and continues to the present day. You think it’s an 
accident that a former director of the CIA is sitting in the 
Oval Office? 

C’mon, think about it, this doesn’t seem so far fetched. 
If it was, would critics be picking Stone apart over minor 
details like whether the Donald Sutherland character actual¬ 
ly existed or whether the Costner character actually had a 
female assistant? Would political columnists be taking 
Stone to task for not proving his case? Not proving his 
case? Merely laying out the conclusions of the Warren 
Commission, an investigative body assisted by the FBI, the 

CIA and the Dallas Police Department, and including such 
eminent personages as future president Gerald R. Ford, 
former Chief Justice Earl Warren (the wonderful man who 
placed all those innocent Japanese-Americans in California 
internment camps during WW II) and the Commission’s 
most active member, the former head of the CIA (fired by 
Kennedy) Allen Dulles, proves Stone’s case. Would movie 
reviewers like the one for The Washingtonian (D.C.’s 
answer to New York magazine) have to resign for writing 
a positive review of the film? If it was so far-fetched, why 
would The New York Times and The Washington Post 
publish lengthy essays attempting to discredit virtually 
every book that has questioned die Warren Commision and 
its primary conclusion that Oswald acted alone? Would 
"journalist" Dan Rather take to the airwaves professing his 
sacrosanct belief in die findings of Warren and his boys? 
And what about all those stories that are suddenly popping 
up in our nation’s newspapers purporting to prove that the 
Mafia was solely responsible for plotting and executing the 

As if the mob could change the parade route, eliminate 
the protection for the President, send Oswald to Russia and 
get him back, get the FBI, CIA and Dallas police to make 
a mess of the investigation, force the Warren Commission 

Tho FBI f akod photo of Kannady's hood 

Brutarian - VoL 1 No. 4 


to issue twenty-six volumes of fiction, direct the autopsy, 
and pressure the national media to ignore the facts. And 
when, as Stone notes, if ever, "has the mob used anything 
other than a .38 for up close hits?" Then again, maybe we 
should listen to our "kinder, gentler" President who had 
this to say about JFK: "I don’t know much about the 
movie. I haven’t seen it, and there’s all kinds of con¬ 
spiratorial theories floating around on everything. Elvis 
Presley is rumored to be alive and well someplace, and I 
can’t say that somebody won’t go out and make a movie 
about that." 

Bush, who ran the agency himself in the mid-seventies, 
made no attempt to review the CIA files on the assassina¬ 
tion. He has no need to. Recently uncovered evidence 
strongly implicates him in the hiring of E. Howard Hunt 
and others as triggermen in connection with the plot to 
murder Kennedy. 

As entertainment, JFK succeeds magnificently. Direc¬ 
tor Stone, who also co-wrote the screenplay, takes the 
gallimaufry of conspiracy theories, effectively separates the 
wheat from the chaff and then puts it all together in the 
guise of a story about Jim Garrison, a New Orleans district 
attorney attempting to try a local businessman, Clay Shaw, 
for conspiracy to commit the assassination. An all-star cast 
is superb. Even Kevin Costner has been miraculously 
coaxed into giving a restrained and at times, moving 
performance. (Only Sissy Spacek’s strained portrayal as 

Garrison’s wife and the maudlin domestic scenes pondering 
to America’s purported need to witness the "man behind 
the mare" offer a minor distraction from the film’s mes¬ 
merizing progression). The editing, often intercutting old 
news footage with staged scenes, is adroitly done; almost 
every sequence is imbued with rhythm and power making 
the film, which is almost three hours long, seem only half 
that length. 

JFK is not only a great film, it is an important one. It 
asks its audience to awake from their slumbers and to come 
to grips with the fact that they have been duped and 
manipulated for almost twenty years by a fascist dictator¬ 
ship, a hidden government that has reduced the presidency 
to a "transient official ... a business agent for military and 
hardware manufacturers." What a courageous act for a 
man like Stone, wealthy and influential, who has only 
money to gain and everything (including his life) to lose. 
It is so bold, so daring, that there really is little, short of 
armed insurrection, that we can do to thank him. As I write 
this, the movie is making money, people are talking about 
it and Stone is still alive. Which only means, I suppose, 
that the big boys aren’t worried. I guess they figure that a 
nation that cheered the slaughter of hundreds of thousands 
of helpless Arabs just a few short months ago isn’t going 
to do anything after watching JFK, except go home and go 
to bed. 

Blood In The Face 

(ed) James ridgeway & michael moore (1991) 

Will Rogers never met these guys. These guys being 
members of various Aryan supremacy groups who should 
be ashamed of having allowed their intellectual and emo¬ 
tional deficiencies to be paraded on film by hot shot Village 
Voice reporter James Ridgeway and Michael (Roger and 
Me) Moore. Of course the "Aryans" don’t see it this way, 
besides they’re too busy worrying about the eminent in¬ 
vasion of Texas by Ruskies in tanks and Mongolians 
mounted on horses specially bred to carry up to seven 
hundred pounds of ammo. How the Aryans came into 
possession of such incendiary "intelligence" while the rest 
of the nation slept is never really made clear, but what is 
made quite clear is that the eventual invasion as well as all 
of this country’s present ills are a direct result of a massive 
Jewish conspiracy, a conspiracy that has as its goal the 
destruction of the white race. Now a Jew, as we are 
constantly told by Aryan leaders (most of whom are alarm¬ 
ingly pale and even more alarmingly inarticulate), is not 
necessarily defined by creed or color, no, it’s primarily a 
matter of attitude. Thus, Ronald Reagan by virtue of 
having appointed "twenty-eight Jews" to his cabinet is also 
a Jew. (At least one has to credit these cretins with 
understanding that Reagan is not their friend). In other 
words, anyone who doesn’t agree with an Aryan leader is 
a Jew. And even if you do agree with the Aryans, if you’re 

Black, or Oriental, or Indian or an Italian whose ancestors 
were bom south of Milan, you’re not wanted. That’s 
because your blood has somehow been irredeemably tainted 
or you’re just an animal. 

This is pretty stupid stuff but these Aryan folk look like 
they’re ready to die for it. And kill you if you happen to 
get in their way. Fortunately, there doesn’t seem to be too 
many of these people outside the state of Louisiana, so I 
don’t think we have too much to worry about. What’s 
fascinating about this acclaimed documentary is that these 
poor cretins are more frightened than frightening (which is 
not to say that you should walk into one of their rallies 
cracking wise). Most of them are dirt poor, semi-literate, 
semi-intelligent and congenitally incapable of accepting 
responsibility for their misfortune and unhappiness. So, 
they blame the kikes and the mud people and the com¬ 
munists for having to live in dilapidated houses and work 
at menial jobs. All of this could get old in a hurry, but 
Ridgeway and company have done a masterful job of 
mixing archival footage, press conferences with the likes 
of George Lincoln Rockwell and David Duke, telling 
personal interviews with nothings and nobodies and scenes 
of cross burnings, marches and hate rallies so that the 
seventy odd minutes of running time seems to literally fly 


Brutarian - Vol. 1 No. 4 

W ;\\\w mm\\\\\m\\\« 



(d) russ meyer (1965) 

More potboiler than satiric 
melodrama, Motorpsycho neverthe¬ 
less delivers a few laughs thanks to 
the outrageous performances of 
Alex Rocco and Stephen Oliver. 
The latter plays Brahmin, a Vietnam 
vet who likes to ride around the 
desert with his oleaginous buddies 
Dante and Slick beating the tar out 
of unsuspecting motorists and gang 
raping their female companions. 
When the trio attempt to work their 
magic on Cory, a thirtyish 
veterinarian (Rocco) and his wife, 
Gail, Cory knocks them on their 
asses. Brahmin and his boys bide 
their time, waiting until Cory makes 
a house call on a broken-down 
buxom blonde breeder of broncos 
before breaking into Cory’s house 
where they proceed to . . . beat and 
gang rape Gail. When the cops 
refuse to get involved, Cory decides 
to track down the psychopathic 
bikers himself. Along the way he 
hooks up with Ruby, a sultry Cajun 
whose husband has had the misfor¬ 
tune of having his truck break down 
right before the gang rides by. 

At this point Motorpsycho veers 
from relatively straightforward, if 
trashy, drama to heavy-handed 
satire. Meyer and screenwriter 
William (Mudhoney) Sprague 


and Killing 





Produced and 
Directed by 



would like us to laugh at Cory, a 
character so consumed by his need for 
revenge that he would knowingly pur¬ 
sue three crazed and armed young 
men through uninhabited terrain even 
though unarmed and burdened with a 
woman, but the whole thing comes off 
rather flat. The opposing parties stay 
a respectful distance away from one 
another and far too much time is 
wasted on the burgeoning relationship 
between Ruby and Cory. By the time 
Cory and Brahmin face down one 
another, you could care less, even 
though both actors have chewed up the 
scenery like rabid dogs in an effort to 
keep our attention. The one exception 
to all this is the scene in which Cory, 
bitten on the leg by a snake, has to 
force Ruby to suck the poison out. 
Listening to the frightened and 
desperate Cory scream, for what 
seems like an eternity, "Suck it. 
That’s right, suck it. Suck it." is at 
once exhilarating and dismaying. Ex¬ 
hilarating because of its goofy wron¬ 
gheadedness, dismaying because it 
clues us in as to the gloriously 
deranged film Meyer really wanted to 
make but for some reason did not. 
One year later Meyer would make that 
film: Faster Pussycatl Killl Kill! 
which was shown in many venues 
ironically, as part of a double bill with 

Wild Gals Of The Naked West 

(d) russ meyer (1961) 

Made for only twenty-four thousand dollars and with a running time of about sixty-five minutes, Wild 
Gals of the Naked West apparently was designed solely to appeal to the ignorant and unwary through 
sensationalism and cheapness. It is a film that only a Meyer completest will love, a messy amalgamation 
of ineffective slapstick, poor plotting - Meyer spends almost a half hour introducing us to the played out 
western town and its denizens - an uninteresting story, and rather surprisingly for a filmmaker acclaimed 
for his taste in feminine pulchritude, a cast that features a number of unattractive women. 

The last of Meyer’s nudie-cuties - Europe In The Raw and Heavenly Bodies were documentaries - 
Wild Gals eventually metamorphoses into the tale of a dappy, diminutive, donkey-riding dolt’s efforts to 
rid himself and the town of the unwanted attentions of a bullying gunslinger named Snake Wolf and win 
the hand of Wolfs girlfriend, Goldie Nuggets. Which the dwarfish dunce does but not before donning 
a ten gallon powder blue hat, orange cowboy suit, purple boots with huge diamonds on each toe and a 
three foot long gun. This is the only bit in the movie that works. Meyer wouldn’t release a worthwhile 
feature length film until 1964’s Lorna in which he added mega doses of ultra-violence to the mix. 


Brutarian - Vol. 1 No. 4 


(d) lucio fulci (1987) 

The ONLY Guide 
To European 
Trash Cinema! 

Craig Ledbetter 
PO Box 5367 
Kingwood, Texas 77325 

Four issues $10 
Single copies $3 (ppd) 

Volume Two, number one is still 
available in limited quantities for 
only $5 (ppd) 

For those of us who are waiting for Lucio Fulci 
to reclaim the glories of the past with such films 
as The Beyond , Beatrice Cenci , City Of The Living 
Dead and House By The Cemetery , I’m afraid we’ll 
just have to wait a little longer. Aenigma is a 
disappointment in almost all departments. 

Fulci is at his best when recreating situations 
that depend on a Gothic horror mood. City Of The 
Living Dead and The Beyond recreate the fetid 
atmosphere found in the literature of H. P. 
Lovecraft, while Zambie was less a Romero styled 
rip-off than an updating of forties voodoo films. 
Even Fulci’s westerns are successful because they 
fully exploit the times they are supposed to repre¬ 
sent. However, let Fulci set a film in the present 
day and he loses what style his directorial 
flourishes seem to possess. Examples of this 
deadening effect can be seen in his early giallo , A 
Woman In A Lizard f s Skin , along with his worst 
film New York Ripper . Even his innocuous sex 
comedy La Pretora suffers this ailment, but this may be 
due to the fact the genre is totally moribund. 

All of this leads up to the fact that Aenigma , set at a 
Boston school for girls, is a stale number that shameless¬ 
ly rips off Carrie and Prom Night 2. I had my hopes 
that Fulci might exploit this setting much like Dario 
Argento did in Suspiria , however, all he does is instruct 
cinematographer Luigi Ciccarese to use as many blue 
and red gels as possible so that the film will at least look 
like the aforementioned stylish thriller. The plot can be 
summed up thusly: Kathi gets humiliated on her first 
date and then is run over by a car on the way home ending 
up in the hospital in a coma. While in this comatose 
state, Kathi spends the balance of the film controlling a 
student with prior mental problems and having her 
minion kill off the people responsible for her condition. 
It’s obvious that our only pleasure will be found in the 
mentis by which the guilty parties are eliminated. Here, 
we get such "creative" kills as death by statue, stran¬ 
gulation and snails. If you’ve never experienced death 
by snail sucking (if you have, please let me know), it’s 
tantamount to watching paint dry! 

Performances are, for the most part, uninteresting, 
with Jared Martin’s bordering on comatose. He’s a 
neurologist who basically copulates with every available 
student. The other players are no-named thespians who 
will undoubtedly keep this film off their resumes if they 
ever become famous. Fulci gives his usual cameo 
performance but as his gaunt appearance shows, his 
health problems have taken their toll. If ever a sequel 
to The Beyond needs to be made, the time is now, Fulci 
may not be around much longer. 

Brutarian - Vol. 1 No. 4 




The Defilers 

(d) lee frost (1964) 

Jim and Carl don’t take crap from nobody, not their 
gold-digging little girlfriends or their rich philistine parents. 
These are tough guys alright, and they’re not afraid to knock 
down anyone who gets in the way of their never ending 
pursuit of kicks. There’s only one problem however, Jim 
and Carl seem to have done it all: smoked grass, made love 
to dozens of women, drunk beer in the car with the top 
down. What to do for thrills man, when you’ve seemingly 
done it all? Well, for Carl who really wants to fuck Jim 
but just doesn’t know how to broach the subject, the next 
best thing is to kidnap a young girl and make her his love 
slave. Jim doesn’t dig the idea but when Carl labels him a 
square, Jim, bowing to the pressure, decides to go along. 

A sleazy and entertaining variation on John Fowles’ The 
Collector , The Defilers boasts a screenplay by David 
Friedman (who also produced the film, his first after his 
break with H.G. Lewis) and some rather effective black and 
white cinematography by Lee Frost. While Friedman 
hasn’t given his actors many memorable lines, he effectively 
plots his story, peppering it with nudity, voyeurism, 
misogyny, latent homosexuality and repressed hysteria. 
Director Frost who began his career in nudies and nudie 
cuties went on to become one of the more talented exploita¬ 
tion mavens achieving a notoriety of sorts with Hot Spur 
and the deliciously hateful Love Camp Seven. (Available 
from Something Weird Video). 

The Last Days of Planet Earth 

(d) shiro moritani (1974) 

Isn’t it strange how some films seem to 
gain wide cult acceptance while other equally 
bizarre titles are virtually ignored? Here’s a 
perfect example. Last Days of Planet Earth 
is a real mind blower that irregularly pops up 
on UHF or late, late shows, yet, with the 
exception of a brief review in the Psychotronic 
Dictionary , it receives few accolades. 

The standard "this is what will happen if 
man doesn’t wise up pronto" theme prevalent 
in so many earlier sci-fi movies is given an 
interesting twist. Last Days foreshadows how 
Nostradamus’ most gloomy predictions will 
come true unless people start acting more 
responsibly. (Fat chance). 

^ i If the overall premise sounds familiar, it’s 
because the film boasts a title similar to the 
Orson Welles comball Nostradamus clunker, The Late 
Great Planet Earth. But, where the Welles film is 
long on words and hocus-pocus atmosphere, its 
Japanese cousin is straight out of action city. 

Director Moritani occasionally pauses to get a bit 
of the spider-web-thin plotline out of the way. This 
accounts for a total of about twenty-minutes of 
rhythm-destroying dialogue. The remainder of the 
film is devoted to a relentless collage of anonymous 
characters suffering violent terminations. 

For the bulk of the picture, Moritani strings 
together an appalling sequence of vividly illustrated 
scenes of virtually every catastrophe imaginable: fire, 
floods, leeches, vampires, food riots, nuclear weapon 
launches and rock music. I seriously doubt there has 
ever been a movie where so many people die horrible 
deaths in such a variety of ways. 

Even the mass youth suicides are memorable. One 
group of bikers draws straws with the "winners" 
having the honor of riding their Hondas off a cliff into 
a river. The Bohemian crowd commandeer sailboats, 
dress themselves in Carnaby Street leftovers and drift 
out to sea in an artsy self-snuff celebration. 

Children attend elementary school wearing gas 
masks. The sky turns into a mirror. Scene after scene 
of negative visual images bombard the screen. The 
kicker is that this isn’t a highbrow feature aimed at 
the snooty "We attend the foreign cinema" audience; 
it’s a Toho production geared to scare the snot out of 

If 2001 was the ideal movie to project behind an 
acid band performance, Last Days is the equivalent 
for a death metal concert. Look for it in your TV 
listings. And pass the word. 


Brutarian - Vol. 1 No. 4 

The Rapture 

(d) michael tolkin (1991) 

For some inexplicable reason, The Rapture 
was a box office failure. It played a couple of 
weeks in a few of die major markets and then sank 
without a trace. A shame really, because the film 
marks the arrival of a major talent in Tolkin and 
the confirmation of the abilities of the statuesque 
Mimi Rogers who had heretofore been wasted in 
thankless parts. 

Rogers has die starring role as Sharon, a bored 
and vaguely frustrated telephone operator. When 
not working the phones, Sharon tools around town 
trolling for swinging couples with her erstwhile 
British boyfriend Vic, a wealthy but badly aging 
playboy. Sharon’s going nowhere and she knows 
it. She’s in her thirties, stuck in a dead aid job 
and looking for a way out of an obscene and 
cretinous relationship: she’s a prime candidate 
for an epiphany, a sucker for an opportunity at 
spiritual rebirth. And when two charismatic 
Christians magically appear on Sharon’s 
doorstep, it triggers a chain of fantastic - but 
dramatically effective - circumstance that leads to 
a religious conversion and concomitant change in 

Cut to six years later. Sharon is a happy litde 
homemaker married to a successful business ex¬ 
ecutive named Randy. They have a beautiful 
young daughter and live in a nicely furnished tract 
house. Bang! It all comes crashing down when 
a disaffected employee shoots Randy through die 
heart. Sharon tries to tell herself it’s God’s will 
but she’s not sure. She’s having visions. God 
and her dead husband are calling her to die desert 
to await the RAPTURE. "And die woman fled 
into the desert where she had a place prepared for 
her by God,” says the Book of Revelations. 
Sharon has no choice; she packs a few things for 
her and her daughter and die two of them drive 
off to the wasteland to wait, and wait and . . . 

Beginning with the premise that emotional 
disaffection is endemic to both libertines and 
fundamentalists Christians, Tolkin spends a good 
portion of the film portraying both as disquietingly 
uninvolved. But contrary to the opinion of many 
blase mainstream reviewers, this rather pedestrian 
notion constitutes anything but die primary diesis 
of the film . With this conceit as a spring board, 
Tolkin folds each of the subsequent scenarios back 
upon itself puncturing the audiences expectations 
at every turn. The film careens towards a 
halucinatory and devastating climax which must 
be seen to be believed. The denouement is per¬ 
haps the single most hateful directorial gesture I 
have ever witnessed. I strongly suggest you see 
this film lest die dies irae take you by surprise. 

Mr. Sardonicus 
(d) william castle (1961) 

Producer-director-huckster Casde made many amusingly 
kitschy horror films, and while Sardonicus may not be as well 
known as efforts such as Homicidal or The Tingler , it is just 
as entertaining. Liberally adapted from Paul Leni’s 1927 
silent film The Man Who Laughs , Sardonicus is the story of 
a humble nineteenth century laborer (Guy Rolfe) who digs up 
his father’s grave to retrieve a winning lottery ticket. The 
shock of seeing the rotting corpse freezes the unfortunate 
man’s mouth in a permanent death head’s grin which leaves 
him looking something like Ed Sullivan in the throes of 
indigestion. The laborer, now very rich, adopts the name 
Sardonicus, adorns himself with a semi-lifelike mask and with 
the help of his sadistic, one-eyed servant attempts to effect a 
cure by performing all sorts of nasty experiments on local 
wenches like attaching leeches to their faces and private parts. 
Naturally, these innovative treatments fail miserably, so 
Sardonicus forces a world famous neurosurgeon into his 
employ by threatening to turn Mrs. Sardonicus into die mirror 
image of himself. The good doctor cures Sardonicus of his 
ghastly grin but the unfortunate side-effect leaves his mouth 
permanently shut, ensuring death by dehydration. 

Creepy, atmospheric and steeped in black humor, Mr. 
Sardonicus also boasts a hilariously histrionic turn by Oscar 
"When die master says do this thing, I do this thing" Homolka. 

When originally shown in theaters, the narrative was 
interrupted by a punishment poll in which die audience was 
asked to choose between alternative endings. Knowing his 
public (or perhaps not caring) Castle purportedly filmed only 
one conclusion in which Homolka, exacting retribution for 
having his eye put out by Sardonicus, refuses to inform his 
employer that his problem is purely psychosomatic. 

Mr. 6ardonicua 

Brutarian - VoL 1 No. 4 


Attack Of The 50-Foot Woman 

(d) nathan hertz (juran) (1958) 





During her all too brief career, Allison 
Hayes made a lasting impression on many 
horror and science fiction fans. Appearing in 
a string of films in the late fifties and early 
sixties, Allison’s heart stopping good looks 
added punch to such movies as The Unearthly , 
The Disembodied , Zombies of Mora Tau and 
The Hypnotic Eye . But beyond being physi¬ 
cally attractive, Allison Hayes was a good 
actress. The films in which she appeared were 
hardly grade-A material, yet in each one, 
Allison brought considerable conviction to her 
parts, whether heroine or viHarness. There 
was something believable and natural about 
her performances: her acting never seemed 
forced. And in Attack of The 50-Foot 
Woman , Allison had her most memorable 

While driving on California’s Route 66, 
the slightly tipsy Nancy Archer (Allison) en¬ 
counters a UFO. Emerging from the flying 
sphere is a thirty-foot space man who is very inter¬ 
ested in Nancy’s star of India diamond. Under¬ 
standably upset, Nancy makes a run for it, yelling 
for her husband, Harry. The local sheriff and his 
deputy try to appease the hysterical Mrs. Archer by 
driving to the scene of her close encounter. They 
find Nancy’s car but no spaceship or thirty-foot 
giant. The sheriff knows Nancy is prone to pop one 
cork too many and blames the whole affair on the 
red eye Mrs. Archer was drinking. We know poor 
Nancy is telling the truth and we feel sorry for her. 
And where is hubby Harry (William Hudson) during 
all the excitement? Why he’s at a nearby bar sucking 
face with the town Jezebel, Honey Parker (Yvette 
Vickers). Harry is a low down hunk of pig dung 
who is only interested in Nancy’s money. For some 
unknown reason, Nancy still loves the two-timing 


In telling Harry the fantastic story, Nancy insists 
he drive her back to the desert. Mr. Archer soon 
learns that his wife is not off her rocker as they both 
meet the giant from outer space. Harry blasts the 
big guy with bullets but they have no effect so he 
burns rubber back to town, leaving his wife behind. 
Later Mrs. Archer is found naked, minus her star of 
India diamond. Nancy’s personal physician, Dr. 
Cushing is called in to treat her. 

While searching the area where Mrs. Archer was 
found, the sheriff comes upon a huge footprint. Soon 
after, he and Nancy’s faithful butler, Jessup, head 
for the desert to investigate where they meet (who 
else) the big bald man from outer space. The huge 
alien smashes their car but zooms back to the stars 
after the sheriff throws some hand grenades at his 
imposing chest. 

Meanwhile, Nancy has begun to grow and grow 
and grow, a process which baffles Dr. Cushing. 
Soon, Nancy’s astounding growth reaches fifty feet. 
Not even heavy sedation can keep her down. She’s 
big and mad and wants the philandering Harry. 
Nancy destroys her house and stomps off looking for 
her cheating husband. When the giantess discovers 
Harry with Honey, things get ugly. Nancy kills 
Honey and carries off a screaming Harry. Bullets 
and high tension wires end Nancy’s rampage, but it’s 
curtains for Harry as well: Nancy’s giant jealous 
hand has crushed her hubby to death. In death Nancy 
Archer finally has Harry all to herself. 

A soap opera laced with science fiction, Attack 
of The 50-Foot Woman will never win any awards 
in the special effects department. Big deal. Keeping 
in perspective that this is a low budget fifties flick, 
the huge rubber hands and superimposed giants are 
enjoyably silly. In addition, the sincere performance 
of Allison Hayes helps you disregard these less than 
special effects. Allison brings just the right amount 
of pathos to the role of Nancy Archer. She wisely 
plays the part straight and so is quite effective as the 
lonely, unloved woman no one believes. And of 
course in her 50-foot state, Allison looks fantastic in 
her bed sheet mini-skirt and matching bra. Hayes is 
well-supported by William Hudson and Yvette Vick¬ 
ers, both acting up a storm. The rest of the cast 
chews the scenery with straight-faced aplomb. 

Mark Hanna’s script is amusing, nicely balancing 
the absurd and the melodramatic. Hanna also 
provides some great lines such as this exchange 
between Dr. Cushing and deputy Charlie: 

Dr. Cushing: She’ll tear up the town until she 
finds Harry! 

Deputy: Yeah, and then she’ll tear up Harry! 

Director Hertz (aka Nathan Juran who also 
directed The Brain From Planet Arous , The Seventh 
Voyage of Sinbad and Black Castle among others) 
does a credible job. The desert town setting works 
well and interestingly, was used in several fifties 
fright flicks including Tarantula and The Monolith 
Monsters . Ronald Stein contributes a nice, "weird" 

The version I watched on Cinemax omits the 
pre-credit preview scene in which the sheriff and 
Jessup explore the alien spaceship. Also missing is 
the campy written narration. Perhaps these scenes 
are in the TV prints only (although I’ve not seen the 
Key Video version). Whatever version you watch, 
The 50-Foot Woman will serve as a pleasing 
reminder that you don’t need a ninety million dollar 
budget to make an entertaining picture. 


Brutarian - Vol. 1 No. 4 

The Vanishing 
(d) george sluizer (1991) 

The World's Greatest Sinner 
(d) timothy carey (1962) 

This agreeably loopy parable about a self-proclaimed 
Messiah’s attempts to win the Presidency should be required 
viewing for any men of God beset by political aspirations. 
Director Carey, the guy who did all the crying before being 
executed in Stanley Kubrick’s Paths of Glory, plays the part of 
Clarence Hilliard, a middle-aged insurance salesman who 
wakes up one fine morning to discover that he is an ubermensch. 
Purposefully getting himself fired from his job, Clarence sets 
out to teach mankin d that everyone can live life to the fullest if 
they are just willing to believe that they are gods. Soon, 
Clarence has progressed from street comer preacher to rock 
and roll idol shucking his suit and tie for a gold lame suit a la 
Elvis. Shucking his wife and children as well, Clarence opts 
for females any age including some who are woefully prepubes- 
cent. As Clarence’s following grows larger, he drops his name 
for God’s, dresses his acolytes in dark suits and ties and has the 
letter F (for follower) sewed on their jacket sleeves. Clarence, 
er . . . God, seems content to play the part of a successful rock 
& roll preacher, but when a disgraced political maven convinces 
God that he can find a bigger audience in the White House, he 
decides to run for President. 

Normally poor shooting and editing would be a liability, but 
here it endows the proceedings with a seedy air of reality. The 
curiously aloof performance of Carey is cleverly accentuated 
by placing his lopsided features and watery eyes constantly at 
screen center in tight close-ups. And the script, also co-written 
by Timothy, is replete with absurdist takes on Nitzchean 
philosophy and nicely underscored by Frank Zappa’s disturb¬ 
ingly modernist soundtrack. 

This extravagantly overpraised French- 
Dutch production is a tightly constructed, intel¬ 
ligent little film, a sure bet to mesmerize those 
who would characterize something like, say, 
Claude Chabrol’s Le Boucher as a masterpiece 
of understated horror. Told in a disconcertingly 
elliptical style, The Vanishing is the story of a 
young man named Rex Hofrnan and his obsessive 
search for his girlfriend Saskia who mysteriously 
disappears one fine day after entering a con¬ 
venience store at a gas station to purchase some 
drinks. Three years later, Rex is still searching 
for Saskia, plastering posters all over town and 
appearing on local talk shows begging for infor¬ 
mation even though he is sure his beloved is dead. 
For Rex, this is more than an obsession, it is "an 
homage to the vanished loved one.” 

An homage which piques the curiosity of the 
abductor, one Raymond Lemome, school¬ 
teacher, faithful married man and father of two 
beautiful young girls. A dedicated man, an 
intelligent and rational man, the kind of man who 
thinks nothing of jumping into a canal to save the 
life of a little girl who is drowning. Yes, 
Raymond is a good French citizen but he does 
have a problem, a problem he has thus far 
managed to keep hidden from family and society. 
He’s nuts. 

As a teenager Raymond jumped from a bal¬ 
cony because he knew he was "predestined not 
to” and knowing also that he would most likely 
kill himself. He didn’t, and twenty-six years 
later, Raymond, for the same irrational reason 
decides he must abduct a woman, which turns 
out after much trial and error to be Saskia. We 
don’t know what has happened to Saskia at this 
point but Raymond after repeatedly sending mes¬ 
sages to Rex to meet him at specific locales the 
three years following the abduction, finally 
reveals himself to Rex. If Rex agrees to come 
home with Raymond, he, Raymond will reveal 
all, but only if Rex follows orders. 

Thus far The Vanishing has been somewhat 
slow moving and rather pretentious, but once 
Raymond introduces himself to Rex, the film 
really kicks into overdrive. You want to think , 
to catch your bearings, to just step back and 
breathe a little, but you’re not given a chance. 
You’re in a little car with a fussy, pompous, 
garrulous maniac driving on the road to hell and 
all you can do is pray that things don’t get any 
uglier than they are. They do. But let me tell 
you this without running die risk of spoiling the 
whole thing, the denouement is quite simply a 
totally unexpected, vicious and heartfelt kick in 
the gut. 

Brutarian - VoL 1 No. 4 


The Church of the Subgenius (1989/1992) 

The Hitman 
(d) aaron norris (1991) 

Tired of working for a 
grinning buffoon who 
pays you only a fraction of 
your worth? Frustrated 
at having to come home to 
a spouse who grows 
alarmingly bigger every 
day and seems to have lost 
all interest in sex? Feel as 
if you are being manipu¬ 
lated by an insane and ven¬ 
geful puppeteer in a 
travesty designed solely for the purpose of degrading 
and destroying you? 

Well, if you answered yes to any of the above, then 
The Church of the Subgenius has a message for you. It 
is the Slack Gospel according to Bob Dobbs which says 
unto those who will listen that the secret of life is to 
make mountains of money with as little effort as pos¬ 
sible. And if you have to make a lot of effort, then 
you’re probably doing something wrong. In other 
EXPLOITING! Oh yes, I know, you’re saying to 
yourself at this point: "Exploiting? Isn’t that a terrible 
thing to do to somebody?" No, no it isn’t, you foolish 
acolyte of the morally bankrupt, hideously hidebound 
and insidiously inane Judeo-Christian ethic. An ethic 
that teaches you to sit still while your government taxes 
you to death and sends your children to die in cities 
whose names they cannot even pronounce and gives you 
as a reward for your pathetic obeisance: the Super 
Bowl! Use these individuals for your own ends, treat 
them like dust unto your feet, for they are the dead who 

Go ahead and take their money, kick these insensate 
beings in the teeth; they won’t feel a thing. Soon you 
will have a mountain of money in which to frolic and 
many new and interesting friends to help you spend it. 
What kind of friends? Well, people like yourself, 
people who communicate with aliens and worship 
money, people who do not work so they might live but 
who live so they may play. Reverend Dobbs calls these 
people: Subgeniuses. 

But why am I telling you this? You read Brutarian 
which has been heartily endorsed by the Church as 
"crucial to your understanding," which means that you 
have in all likelihood long since mutated into a Sub¬ 
genius although you may not know it yet. For you, the 
hysterically funny Arise video will merely confirm what 
you already know to be true: all information disclosed 
by authority IS WRONG and all activity that feels like 
work must BE ABANDONED. With knowledge comes 
irresponsibility, buy this video and send it to your 
parents. It will help them UNDERSTAND you and give 
them second thoughts about writing you out of their will. 

In an effort to reverse his box office fortunes of 
late, Chuck Norris shucks off his image as the Pat 
Boone of the karate world and gets down and dirty. 
How dirty? Well here he plays a hitman, a contract 
killer for the mob. In other words, he kills people for 
money and doesn’t care whether they’re upstanding 
citizens or evil scumbags. Oh sure, Chuck’s nice to 
the neighborhood kids but when someone pisses him 
off, he blows them away with his trusty sawed-off, 
often when it isn’t at all necessary. Chuck actually 
enjoys killing people, and as they’re lying there with 
their guts decorating the walls, Chuck adds insult to 
mortal injury by calling them things like "asshole." 
Yes, Chuck Norris actually curses in this flick. Not 
once but several times - never in front of the kids of 
course. And he dresses in nothing but black even on 
his days off, and as we all know, unless you’re Johnny 
Cash no one but bad, very bad people dress solely in 

The story has something to do with Chuck seeking 
to avenge a set-up by a rogue cop (nicely played by 
Michael Parks) in the employ of the mob, but you 
won’t care about that. What you will care about is 
the impressive body count Chuck racks up in a variety 
of novel and sanguinary ways. And the conclusion, 
in which Parks gets his richly deserved payback, will 
literally blow you out of your seats. 

But perhaps the most impressive thing about The 
Hitman is its direction. I saw the last Aaron Norris 
film, Delta Force Part 374 or whatever, and I feel I 
can safely say without fear of contradiction, that the 
man who made that laughable flick is not the same 
man behind the lens here. For one thing, the mind at 
work is far too well schooled in noirish atmospherics. 
Most of the interior scenes are ominously lit in cool 
blues and soothing shades of black which are utilized 
to blanket much of a character’s physiognomy. 
Someone is always stepping out of the shadows but 
all you see is a half lit face, a shoe or a gun. 

The exteriors, as in so many noir films, literally 
glisten in water, many pools of which gleam with the 
refracted light of neon signs and high density arc 
lamps. In effect, the lighting is given an emphasis 
almost equal to that of the actors creating a fatalistic 
tone mirroring the cynical and embittered persona of 
Norris. There is also a firm grasp of narrative and a 
firmer grip on the performances: there are few ex¬ 
traneous moments and fewer false notes struck, espe¬ 
cially on the part of the star, normally one of most 
wooden of actors. 

The Hitman is a rarity in action genre inasmuch 
as it is a film that is both terrifically exciting and 
visually elegant. Whoever this Aaron Norris guy is, 
I’ll be anxiously awaiting his next effort, in whatever 
field he chooses to make it. 


Brutarian - Vol. 1 No. 4 

Even Hitler Had A Girlfriend 

(d) ronnie cramer (1991) 

But there’s little chance of the protagonist of this 
amusing black comedy ever getting one. I mean this guy’s 
social skills are so limited that he makes Gary Heidnik or 
Jeffrey Dahmer look like Cary Grant by comparison. Not 
that our hero - whose name is Marcus Templeton - is 
homicidal; it’s just that he hasn’t a clue as to how to treat 
a girl. When his mother sets him up with an older woman 
from her church, Marcus doesn’t ask her if she wants a 
drink, or whether she’s read any good bodes lately; he asks 
if he can feel her breasts. And when Marcus does manage 
to bring himself to ask a lady for a date, its not to go to a 
movie or to a restaurant but to his aunt’s funeral or to a 
convenience store to get some of those delicious plastic 
wrapped sandwiches that have been marked down to a 
dollar fifty. Part of the explanation for Marcus’ behavior 
is that he works nights as a security guard and thus doesn’t 
get the opportunity to socialize. Another reason for our 
hero’s social retardation is his total immersion in an erotic 
world of fantasy. You see, Marcus refuses to watch 
anything but the triple X cable channel or soft core horror 
films or to "read" anything other than pornographic 
magazines. Of course none of this would matter if Marcus 
looked vaguely human. As you may have guessed by now, 
this sap isn’t the best looking guy in the world. He’s barely 
5’8, weighs well over two hundred pounds and overall, 
sports a look of dull, insipid stupefaction. Imagine a racoon 
on a bender and you’ve got Marcus. 

Even humanoids get lonely after awhile, and so over¬ 
coming his fear of rejection, Marcus begins to lavishly 
spend his money on local call girls. On his initial en¬ 
counters, Marcus tapes his conversations, but when the 
novelty of that wears off, he sets up a video camera in his 
bedroom completely unconcerned that his "dates" may not 
take so kindly to being surreptitiously recorded for 
posterity. When a paranoid prostitute discovers his shabby 
set-up, the hapless Marcus finds himself staring down the 
barrel of a gun. 

Boasting a surprisingly witty and mordant screenplay, 
Hitler cleverly utilizes voice over narration to disguise its 
modest production values. The acting is a little amateurish 
at times but, Andren Scott is quite convincing in the part 
of the pathetic Marcus. Shambling through the hallways 
of his house in his underwear and socks, speaking to us in 
an exhausted, childishly peevish tone, Scott turns the neat 
trick of making Marcus something of a paradox: irritating 
yet sympathetic; frightening yet soothingly banal. He’s an 
obese manchild walking a fine line between catatonic 
withdrawal and spirited assertiveness. Cramer, who also 
directed the crime drama Back Street Jane , has done a nice 
job of editing and pacing and has assembled a gorgeous cast 
of cuties to appear in various states of dishabille. So 
luscious are the women that I seriously doubt most men will 
notice the film’s moodily playful score which comes cour¬ 
tesy of Alarming Trends, a rock group which Cramer 
founded and for whom he plays lead guitar. (Available 
from Scorched Earth). 

Even Hitler Had A Girlfriend 

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Brutarian - Vol. 1 No. 4 


The Violent Years 

(d) ed wood, jr. (1956) 

This girl-gang potboiler is a relatively obscure opus 
in the canon of a man generally acknowledged as the 
world’s worst director. Although Wood is only credited 
with the screenplay, the film’s delirious mixture of 
banality, pomposity and sententiousness makes it highly 
suspect that anybody but Wood was at the helm of this 

Wood’s laughable script is ostensibly a morality play 
concerning four adolescent female delinquents who, as 
described by one of the cops assigned to their case, 
"aren’t just kids but. . .MORONS!" And judging from 
the way these girl’s operate you’d be forced to concur 
with this opinion. Led by a busty blonde named Paula, 
these pubescent punks openly assault people on the 
highway, knock over gas stations while using Paula’s 
parent’s car and - for a change of pace - battle with the 
cops at the local high school. The most memorable 
moment in the gang’s reign of error occurs when a 
"pretty boy" is abducted from his car and gang-raped 
(which is really a lucky break for him since the girl with 

whom he was parked was buttoned up tighter than 
a whore on payday). 

Inasmuch as this is a cautionary tale, these 
renegade retards are eventually hunted down and 
killed. Two members of the gang are killed in the 
aforementioned shoot out with the cops, one dies 
in a car crash while fleeing from the police, and 
Paula, the leader, has to suffer the ultimate indig¬ 
nity: shucking off the mortal coil while giving 
birth in prison to a bastard child. (A brazen bitch 
to the end, Paula’s last words are: "So what?"). 
Society has secured retribution but the question 
remains: What led these beautiful bimbos to a life 
of crime? Wood has a profound answer to this 
question, an answer he feels is the explanation for 
any youngster dawdling on the road of delinquen¬ 
cy: "uncontrolled passions" ignored by parents 
who place the needs of the community above the 
interests of their children. Right. 

This is a preposterous notion, but like all 
Wood’s films, the premise has little to do with what 
we actually see on screen. Adolescents whose 
parents are stable and loving do not run off to kill 
policemen as soon as mom and dad leave for work; 
they do not invite small time criminals home for 
parties when left alone for a few hours, and they 
do not don prostitute’s attire once school lets out. 
Or do they? 

Wood would like us to believe that these gals 
are just ordinary disaffected teenagers desperately 
pleading for attention. His solution to this agonized 
adolescent angst? No, not increased parental super¬ 
vision or professional counseling (in a Wood film always 
expect the implausible) but a return to "religion . . . and 
other moral laws laid down by the great religions." 
Uhhh . . . right Ed, and Jews, Christians and Muslims 
have never had any problem seeing eye to eye. 

Ed Wood Jr.’s films are often dismissed by faux 
intellectuals as unworthy or unwatchable. These philis- 
tines want "intelligence," what Tristan Tzara called "the 
triumph of sound education and pragmatism.” "For¬ 
tunately," continues Tzara, "life is something else and 
its pleasures innumerable." So too is the cinematic 
netherworld of Wood; it is truly "something else," a 
realm full of "innumerable pleasures" wherein the 
plausible is constantly jeopardized by the improbable, 
logic is forced to do battle with absurdity and the sublime 
is consistently routed by the ridiculous. 


Brutarian - VoL 1 No. 4 

Naked Lunch 

(d) david Cronenberg (1991) 

Like Dead Ringers , David Cronenberg’s 
"adaptation" of William S. Burroughs’ 
Naked Lunch is dry and dusty. The moist¬ 
ness of The Fly and Scanners takes a back 
seat here. 

Not that that’s a bad thing. Splashy 
effects worked well in those previous 
Cronenberg efforts, especially Videodrome , 
but what the director is trying to do with 
Naked Lunch almost necessitates a willing¬ 
ness to subdue the obvious. When Bill Lee 
(Burroughs’ "alter ego," portrayed by Peter 
Weller) shoots a little too much dope and 
visualizes the writing process as head-to- 
head combat with a talking typewriter that’s 
also part insect, we aren’t smacked in the 
face with a seltzer-bottle spray of goo and 
hemoglobin, as one might expect from 
Cronenberg. We see it "dry." Exactly like 
the writing process. 

No one who’s read Naked Lunch is going to 

believe that anyone could bring it to the movie 
screen without reinventing cinema itself. Cronenberg 
knew that and didn’t try, because his Naked Lunch takes 
a peek at Burroughs’ life while he’s planning to write 
the book. Yes, there are some "bits" from the book, 
some presented only verbally via Weller’s lines, and 
yes, there is plenty of outrageousness (which is, after 
all, the spirit of the book). But no, it isn’t what you 
thought you were going to get to see. 

When pest-exterminator Lee discovers his wife’s 
hooked on "bug powder," he decides to try some 
himself. Pretty soon the pair are diverting the powder 
from the manufacturer to supply their own habits, Bill 
begins experiencing some pretty vivid hallucinations, 
and before long the line between reality and unreality 
dissolves completely. In that sense, Naked Lunch 
treads Videodrome territory but audiences seem to have 
no problem with it here. (Many Videodrome viewers 
felt stymied by that film’s purely subjective point of 

Lee finds himself in a territory called "Interzone" 
after a domestic mishap triggers a run from authorities. 
It’s in Interzone that Lee begins to unravel a Big- 
Brother-like plot involving agents and double-agents and 
the lunatic fringe. But really, it’s not exactly a plot. It’s 
more of a mind game. Soon, poor Bill Lee doesn’t know 
what to believe. So he takes the easy way out. .. and 

When all is said and done, Naked Lunch is typical 
Cronenberg. Using events in Burroughs’ life as jumping 
off points, the director ushers the character of Bill Lee 
through a complicated series of interludes with bizarre 
characters (everyone, it seems, has some major 
problems in their lives, like getting hooked on shooting 
up powdered insect poison), jumping from one set piece 
to another and back again. Yet the film flows smoothly. 
It’s not difficult to follow. It’s funny. It’s sad. And 
it’s horrific. 

The images Cronenberg has wrought for Naked 
Lunch linger long after the fade out: the typewriter- 
beetle scurrying across a desk top, speaking to Bill Lee 
from an anal-like orifice located just beneath its 
wingspread; a homosexual union that ends with the 
dominant male metamorphosing into a half-human/half¬ 
centipede as it ravishes its agonized partner; the narcotic 
manufacturing Mugwump that drips intoxicating goo 
from hollow, finger-like extensions that sprout from its 
head. Yet the image that lasts longest is the one that 
involves the least amount of visual trickery: Lee and 
his wife Joan doing their "William Tell Routine" a tragic 
truth from Burroughs’ life that finds its way into the film 
not just once, but twice. 

But hey, in Naked Lunch , overkill is the name of 
the game. 

shoots up more bug powder. 

Brutarian - Vol. 1 No. 4 


Help Wanted Female 

(d) harold perkins (1964) 

Body Parts 

(d) eric red (1991) 

A story within a story within a story without a point and one 
of the wildest sixties nudies you’ll ever see. An aging playboy 
hires hookers to strip for him while he regales them with tales of 
a sordid past involving torture, murder and mayhem. When one 
of his hirelings becomes frightened, she konks the ripening roue 
on the head and runs to her lesbian lover, a karate teacher, for 
protection. The middle aged masher proves to be more than a 
match for the lethal lesbian however, and takes her out in short 
order. The titanic battle between the two has the curious effect of 
turning them both on, and so, the seemingly mismatched duo return 
to the senior swinger’s pad where the mannish girl does a Salome 
type dance and then stabs our ravished Romeo when he allows his 
guard to drop. Our lascivious libertine awakes to fmd it has all 
been a bad dream, but when he picks up a knife and goes after his 
virago of a wife, we realize that for this poor pot-bellied profligate 
his nightmares are actually preferable to the "reality" that is his 
lot. A hateful, misogynistic film, filled with seemingly unending 
scenes of undulating buttocks, heaving breasts and surprisingly 
disturbing violence. (Available from Something Weird Video). 

Body Parts 

So what would you do if you were told that 
your spouse had just had an arm severed in a 
horrendous traffic accident and that unless you 
gave permission for the hospital to attach the 
arm of a recently executed killer your mate 
would never be doing any two-fisted drinking 
again? Of course . . . you’d say no and not 
because the proffered arm looked like some¬ 
thing you’d pull out of a barrel at a pig-pick¬ 
ing. No, you’d refuse to give your assent 
because the surgeon (Lindsey Duncan) head¬ 
ing the team on this "experimental" operation 
has that severe and fastidious look you always 
see on mad doctors in horror movies. But of 
course there wouldn’t be a movie if the okay 
wasn’t given and so, no sooner is the arm 
attached than we fmd our star Bill (Jeff 
Fahey), a sociologist at a local university, 
returning home to his wife and kids only 
slightly the worse wear (well his arm still 
looks something like a dead tree limb but 
everyone is too polite to tell him so). Bill 
quickly comes to realize however, that he is 
much the worse for wear what with these 
terribly violent dreams he begins having and 
with his newly attached limb seeming to take 
on a life of it’s own. When the arm viciously 
backhands one of his kids and then tries to 
strangle his wife, Bill moves into a downtown 
motel and attempts to find some answers. 
What he finds, is a deranged surgeon who 
doesn’t give a damn about his problems and 
two other men experiencing similar difficul¬ 
ties with limbs grafted from the same killer. 
Bill forms an impromptu support group with 
these guys, but after a few sessions, the group 
has to be dissolved inasmuch as Bill is its only 
living member. Yes, Bill’s newfound friends 
have been murdered, their donated ap¬ 
pendages hacked and pulled off, and unless he 
can come up with some answers pretty quick, 
he’s likely to join his compatriots on a slab at 
the city morgue. Body Parts suffers from a 
trite and rather unoriginal script and languid 
pacing, especially in the first half, but the 
patient viewer will be rewarded for going the 
distance with some fine performances - notab¬ 
ly Brad Douriff s loopy turn as a good natured 
but slightly demented painter - scenes of 
gruesome violence and frenzied action that are 
nicely shot and staged and a denouement, that 
while totally expected, will nevertheless elicit 
the harsh croak of jaded laughter from even 
the most cynical of horror enthusiasts. 


Brutarian - Vol. 1 No. 4 

Moonshine Mountain 

(d) h. g. lewis (1964) 

Inner Sanctum 
(d) fred olen ray (1991) 

Mr. Lewis is something of an 
anomaly among exploitation direc¬ 
tors inasmuch as he never attempts 
to tart up his impoverished produc¬ 
tions to make them look like anything 
other than the shoddy piece of non¬ 
sense they are. Protestations to the 
contrary, Lewis’ notions of filmmak¬ 
ing eschew such concepts as dis¬ 
cipline and craft and allow him to 
claim that his limitations are rules, 
his banal observations dexterities, 
his timidities vision and his im¬ 
poverished imagination a kind of 
purity. In films such as Moonshine 
Mountain t these fraudulent asser¬ 
tions are made with such con¬ 
temptuous brio that only a boor could 
take exception to them. 

Moonshine is the story of weal¬ 
thy folk singer and guitar picker 
Doug Martin and his adventures with 
a family of bootleggers in a primitive 
southern backwater. Doug has 
deliberately sought out the rural and 
hidebound town of Stewartsville 
hoping that it might serve as inspira¬ 
tion for his attenuated muse. What 
Doug finds is an atavistic community 
populated by cretins, blackguards 
and thieves, but because the 
aforementioned bootlegging family 
takes a liking to Doug - thanks to his 
"purty singin’" - he comes through 
his harrowing ordeals intact and with 
new found inspiration in the form of 
a "lovely" hillbilly wife. 

Lewis claims he made this film 
because he loved the music. Don’t 
you believe him; Lewis made Moon¬ 
shine for money and as a slap in the 
face to the very audience that sup¬ 
ported his pictures: frequenters of 
southern drive-ins. The musical as 
well as the dramatic performances 
are awful, the dialogue puerile 
enough to make Ed Wood Jr. wince, 
the cast, with almost no exception, 
one of the most unattractive in recent 
memory. In sum, Moonshine is one 
of Lewis’ most remarkable 
audacities and that, it almost goes 
without saying, makes the film sub¬ 

Sleazy, stupid and senseless, Inner Sanctum finds Fred Olen Ray, 
producer and director of scores of forgetable low budget potboilers (Beverly 
Hills Vampire , Hollywood Chainsaw Hookers) in possession of a film that 
has even the most jaded exploitation aficionados buzzing. And Fred’s done 
it the old fashioned way, not with gore, but with soft-core sex and nudity. 

Forget the silly plot about a husband who may or may not be plotting 
with a nurse he has hired to kill his psychosomatically paralyzed wife; it’s 
just a framing device for a number of incredibly lubricous love making 
scenes involving a fully nude Joseph Bottoms and some moron named Bret 
Clark coupling with either Tanya Roberts or Margaux Hemingway (looking 
like a badly aging Joan Crawford in a blonde fright wig). And for those 
not interested in seeing fading thespians, there are the "performances" of 
Roberts and Hemingway. These gals have obviously long ago come to 
grips with the fact that they have little talent (Margaux’s overbite makes it 
almost impossible for her to enunciate and Tanya doesn’t even attempt to) 
and that everyone with even a modicum of intelligence knows this, so they 
don’t even try to emote; instead they celebrate the fact that they are still 
relatively young and relatively attractive by humping and gyrating in wild 
abandon. After awhile you’ll feel like a peeper at a casting party, but isn’t 
that what movies like this are all about? So don’t feel guilty, get a couple 
of six packs, ajar of vaseline, take off your clothes, pop in the film (the 
unrated version of course) and get ready to work that body. 

Moonshine Mountain 

Brutarian - Vol. 1 No, 4 


A Bucket of Blood 
(d) roger corman (1959) 

The Little Shop of Horrors 

(d) roger corman (1960) 

Think of a Roger Corman horror- 
comedy and chances are good that the 
title Little Shop of Horrors will spring to 
mind. While that film has a lot to offer 
- including that marvelous cameo by Jack 
Nicholson - its revitalized success 
eclipsed a couple of other minor Corman 

A Bucket of Blood went out with 
Attack of the Giant Leeches as part of a 
1959 double feature from American In¬ 
ternational and was one of the first AIP 
combos that failed to make much of an 
impact at the bucks office. In answer to 
the modest returns from this investment, 
within a year AIP began producing big- 
ger-budgeted color pictures like House of 
Usher , re-establishing their dominance 
of the horror market throughout the six¬ 

But before Corman married Poe in the AIP 
chapel, the director managed to squeeze out a 
total of three black comedies between 1959 and 
1960. A Bucket of Blood was the first - and 
possibly the best. 

Taking a cue from Mystery of the Wax 
Museum and its remake, House of Wax , 
scriptwriter Chuck Griffith provides all the trap¬ 
pings of horror within a comedic framework. 
Actor Dick Miller - in the quintessential Dick 
Miller role - has a fiendish field day as Walter 
Paisley, the schmucky busboy of a beatnik coffee 
house called The Yellow Door (the original title 
of Griffith’s screenplay). In his attempt to emu¬ 
late the Door’s pretentiously artistic clientele 
whom he idolizes, Paisley covers a dead cat with 
modeling clay and successfully passes it off as 
an original sculpture. With his newly acquired 
popularity as the catalyst, Paisley is soon mur¬ 
dering/sculpting a variety of "pieces." There’s 
a marvelous sequence where Paisley gleefully 
presents a smaller work to his boss, Leonard De 
Santis (Anthony Carbone), the owner of the 
Door. "You . . . you made a bust?" moans De 
Santis, who knows the secret behind Paisley’s 

Much of the film’s humor - as well as a 
surprising amount of pathos - stems from 
Miller’s standout portrayal of a lonely and tor¬ 
tured man whose desperate desire to be accepted 
by society turns him against those very persons 
whose friendship he purportedly cherishes. But 
don’t misunderstand me, A Bucket of Blood is 
first and foremost a black comedy. A cheap one, 
admittedly - but a damn good one! 


Little more than a year after making A Bucket 
of Blood, Roger Corman directed his second 
horror-comedy. Legend has it that Corman made 
this picture as a bet. The wager being that he 
could pull something together in two and a half 
days and actually have the film make sense. 

^ Actually, Corman lucked into acquiring a 

standing film set for free, and he asked 
screenwriter Chuck Griffith to come up with some 
kind of story to fit it. Using the stage set, Corman 
filmed for two days while a number of exteriors 
y were shot by Griffith and the second unit over the 
or course of several nights. When it was all pieced 
together, we got The Little Shop of Horrors. 

yj Whereas A Bucket of Blood balanced its titters 
with terror fairly evenly, Little Shop goes for the 
guffaws in nearly every scene, relegating the fear 
factor to a minimum. Consequently, without the 
need for generating suspense, mood or scares, Corman’s 
film benefits from a relaxed atmosphere where the usual 
limitations of low budget filmmaking actually aid the 
zaniness of the goings-on! 


Jonathan Haze is memorable as Seymour Krelboing, 
another "schmucky" role that seems tailored for Dick 
Miller (Walter Paisley in Bucket). Seymour, who works 
for a skid row florist, crossbreeds a buttercup with a 
Venus Fly-Trap and produces the man-eating "Audrey, 
Jr.," named after his best girl (Jackie Joseph). Using the 
peculiar looking plant as a public relations attraction is 
Gravis Mushnik (Mel Welles), who - like Leonard De 
Santis in Bucket of Blood - discovers the evil truth behind 
his employee’s botanical triumph but does nothing to stop 
the bloodshed. Following the earlier film’s lead, Mushnik 
survives the proceedings with only his conscience left to 
deal with at the conclusion, while Seymour becomes the 
final victim of his own creation. 

Obviously the framework of both pictures are nearly 
identical, but there is certainly no confusing the two. 
Little Shop is wacky, wild and wily. Jack Nicholson’s 
brief bit as a pain-junkie who loves to get drilled by his 
dentist is probably the film’s best moment (repeated in the 
1988 remake with Bill Murray in the role), but there’s 
other humorous highlights as well, including a sequence 
where an armed robber is disarmed by Audrey, Jr. (The 
robber is played by scripter Chuck Griffith). 

For years The Little Shop of Horrors remained an 
obscure, rarely-televised movie title that only horror 
movie and Roger Corman fans seemed to know about. 
But the early eighties off-Broadway musical adaptation, 
followed by a colorful, big-budget remake, rescued 
Corman’s original from the video wasteland. The film 
can be found in virtually any video rental outlet in both 
black and white and colorized versions. Or you can buy 
your own copy for about ten dollars - a significant portion 
of the film’s budget! 


Brutarian - Vol. 1 No. 4 

Less memorable than either of the preceding 
films is Corman’s third horror "spoof," Crea - 
ture From The Haunted Sea. Made in 1959 
but unreleased until 1961, the film rapidly faded 
into obscurity, rarely surfacing on local TV 
■jU stations running the mid-sixties Chiller Theatre 
Q) package. It’s available on videotape but run- 
ning it down is often difficult. 

^ Anthony Carbone plays Renzo Capeto, a 
small time underworld mafia type who, for the 
^ right price, agrees to help a band of 
revolutionists escape from their Caribbean is- 
aV land with the National Treasury. However, 
5* once they’re seaborne, Capeto decides to do 
N away with the revolutionists and steal the loot. 

He conspires with his girlfriend, Mary-Belle 
Ct> (Betsy Jones Moreland), and her brother Jack 
^ (Robert Bean) to systematically kill off the men 
and blame their deaths on a sea monster which 
purportedly lurks below the depths. Capeto is more 
than a little surprised when he learns that there is a 

real monster nearby and the deaths don’t have to be 
faked after all! 

Creature from the Haunted Sea suffers from 
murky photography and poor location sound, making 
the film difficult to sit through. Its scant sixty-three 
minute running time seems too long anyway, mainly 
because this Corman film lacks the luster of even the 
very illustrious Bucket of Blood}. 

But the major problem with Creature is Chuck 
Griffith’s screenplay: it just isn’t very funny. Perhaps 
Griffith felt he was running low on horror-comedy 
routines, or maybe, because Corman reportedly gave 
him just one week to write the script, Griffith was too 
rushed to develop anything really worthwhile. 

Whatever the reason, Creature is notable only 
because it concluded a trilogy of black comedies begun 
by Corman in 1959 with the aforementioned Bucket of 
Blood. A rental will nab you a few chuckles, but not 
much else. It’s really for Corman completests only. 

Watch it and weep. 

Brutarian - Vol. 1 No. 4 


'eiuie we Med 'em to tepe over* « 




V mo -FO'S.Y 

The Freakmaker aka The Mutations 

(d) jack Cardiff (1974) 

When Donald Pleasance 
is starring in a horror film, 
you can be fairly certain the 
pic is gonna be worth your 
while. Maybe it won’t be a 
classic, but it sure as shit ain’t 
gonna be no bow-wow, 

The Freakmaker is an un¬ 
usual little picture hampered 
by restrictive production 
values that make the finished 
product appear cheap and 
more than a bit rushed, but 
the film is captivating in spite 
of this, due in large part to the 
script co-authored by Robert 
D. Weinbach and Edward 
Mann. These guys may not 
be able to write dialogue, but their 
ability to take a potentially objec¬ 
tionable idea and turn it into some¬ 
thing palatable augers well for future 

Pleasance plays Dr. Nater, the 
"ghetto doctor," a scientific sort 
preoccupied with the idea of combin¬ 
ing plant and animal cells to trigger 
biological mutations, accelerating 
evolution in the process. Of course, 
nothing works out as planned, and 

Pleasance ends up surrounded by a 
monstrous menagerie of mutated mis¬ 
fits who harbor hatred deep in their 
malformed little hearts. Then again, 
how could it, with Nater believing his 
crowning "achievement" to be a com¬ 
bination of a human being and a giant 
Venus fly trap? 

The late Michael Dunn, veteran 
of numerous celluloid chillers that 
called for the services of a (usually 
malevolent) dwarf, has a memorable 
role here as the manager of a travel¬ 
ing carnival of freaks. (The freaks are 
real, playing themselves, as many 
other special show-biz people did in 
Tod Browning’s classic, Freaks.) 
With his cohort Lynch (Tom Baker), 
a horribly disfigured giant of a man, 
the pair supply experimental subjects 
to Nater in the hope that he will 
eventually uncover a means of restor¬ 
ing them to normalcy. 

The Freakmaker owes more to its predecessor than just the idea of employing 
real fife freaks to propel the story forward. In one particular scene, cribbed from 
Browning, a posse of freaks, their switchblades clicking, their eyes glaring, pursue 
their victim on a rain swept night. Whether intended by director ( Naked Under 
Leather) Cardiff and his screenwriters as a tribute or a rip-off, it doesn’t really 
matter. What counts is effectiveness: that’s the bottom line. And in that respect, 
The Freakmaker has tied up all loose ends nicely. 

The Art Of Dying 

(d) wings hauser (1991) 

Wings Hauser finally getting tired of headlining 
laughably inconsequential grade zero action adventure 
flicks takes over the directing chores for ... a laughable 
and inconsequential action adventure flick. Except in this 
case, the picture is sicker, far sicker than anything Wings 
and maybe anyone else working the back lots of American 
cinema has made in quite some time. 

Wings stars as a sociopathic cop on the trail of a gay 
male couple who are making an underground movie that 
appears to consist entirely of reenactments of some of the 
more shocking scenes in classic American films. We are 
shown beautiful recreations of the shower scene from 
Psycho , the Russian roulette bit from Deer Hunter , the 
chain saw carvings from Scarface and much more. Our 
gay blades have thrown the actors they have recruited 

something of a curve however: real chainsaws, bullets and 
knives are being used. 

Wings being a stand-up kind of guy simply won’t 
tolerate these kind of hi-jinx on his beat, so he takes it upon 
himself to track down these homeopathic homos. Unfor¬ 
tunately, Wings has a few problems of his own - primarily 
the penchant for murdering every possible informant - and 
a number of promising thespians are offed before Wings 
wraps up all loose ends. Before he does, males, females, 
she-males and who knows what else are gutted in all manner 
of gruesome ways. For those cineastes who ask nothing 
more from an evening’s entertainment than homophobia, 
hateful dialogue and innovative evisceration, The Art Of 
Dying will come as something of a revelation. 

Brutarian - Vol. 1 No. 4 



(d) ken russell (1991) 

Tetsuo: The Iron Man 

(d) shinya tsukamoto (1991) 

Our policy at this magazine is not to bother with dreadful films 
unless they have: (a) something redeeming in their awfulness, some 
purity of essence or vision a la Ed Wood, Jr; (b) generated a lot of 
controversy or outraged some segment of society; or (c) no reason for 
existing other than as fodder for cheap jokes. The intellectually feeble 
and aesthetically bankrupt Whore clearly falls into category (c) since 
there is nothing of worth to be found in its 100 or so odd minutes of 
running time and as it was seen by almost no one and therefore never 
had the chance to arouse much debate in any quarter. And because I 
love cheap jokes, I am going to attempt to amuse you by listing some 
of the spurious reasons for renting this execrable work: 

1) As the titular heroine, Theresa Russell gives one of the worst 
performances in recent memory. Running the gamut of emotion from 
A to B, the marginally talented Theresa is so awful that she makes 
Tanya Roberts look like Jessica Tandy by comparison. 

2) The film boasts the most laughable pimp in recent memory, a 
skinny, red-headed white guy who must be all of 105 pounds soaking 
wet. Why the hefty Theresa is afraid of this guy is a mystery to me. 
She’s got him by at least thirty pounds. 

3) It’s at least two hours shorter than the only other film with 
"whore” in its title, Jean Eustache’s legendary talkathon The Mother 
And The Whore. 

4) Ken Russell actually seems to think gang rape and forcible 
sodomy is the stuff that provokes laughter. Rumor has it that Ken’s 
next assignment will be directing snuff films for the mob. 

5) You get to see Theresa wear ridiculous outfits with zippers in 
all manner of outrageous places and a few shots of her oddly shaped 
breasts and her wide, flat, impossibly white ass. 

6) Antonio Fargas plays a Rastafarian street person who smokes 
massive quantities of dope in public places and never gets busted. 
Functioning as something of a Father-confessor to the addle-pated 
Theresa, he advises her from somewhere beneath the ever present 
cloud of ganja smoke that there is nothing wrong with being a whore, 
it is the pimps that are giving the profession a bum rap. 

7) Russell asks you to believe that a high class pimp, knowing 
Theresa is a prostitute, would wine and dine her for over a year then 
put her out on the streets to turn fifty dollar tricks. 

8) Theresa is consistently allowed to step out of the narrative and 
philosophize about subjects such as blow jobs, penis size and talking 
dirty. This is known in the theater as the Brechtian alienation effect. 

9) It is not Russell’s worst film, the stupifyingly boring Gothic is 
far more difficult to sit through. Whore is never boring. Callous, 
misogynistic and calculatingly inane yes, but never boring. 

10) At the very least, Whore is educational. Watching it you learn 
things like, well, like classy ladies of the evening don’t wear panties 
when they’re on the night shift and they never flash a potential 
customer and they never, ever work the same side of the street on 
which a wino is vomiting. I bet you didn’t know any of this, did you? 
I bet you also never really cared about it (me way or the other. 

I could probably come up with half a dozen more reasons for 
watching this disaster, but I think the trick to Whore is paying for it 
yourself and then trying to come up with your own excuses. 

Tetsuo opens with a slobbering man 
in rags cutting deeply into his thigh and 
inserting an iron rod. Then the film gets 
gruesome. There is no story really, no 
narrative, no plot; Tsukamoto has 
fashioned a horrifying industrial 
delirium, a phantasmagoria with the city 
as abandoned factory where citizens 
slowly transmogrify into metallic 
monstrosities leaking oil and radiator 
fluid. To attempt to describe the film as 
anything other than a continuous series 
of hallucinations would be to do it a 
disservice; Tetsuo has been purposefully 
designed to provoke and to bewilder, to 
arouse and to anger. There’s no rhyme 
or reason to any of it. Call it I Gobot. 
Call it anything you want; these dreadful 
images will continue to haunt you: a 
woman’s hand mutating into a deadly 
chromium claw, a face rotting away to 
reveal a mass of twisted wires and mis¬ 
shapen metal, a penis metamorphosing 
into a huge power drill which skewers a 
beautiful woman who attempts to make 
love to it. And on and on until your 
virtually screaming for release. 

That Tetsuo works as well (or as 
insidiously) as it does is largely a testa¬ 
ment to brilliant editing which effective¬ 
ly employs multiple exposures, stop ac¬ 
tion and accelerated motion photography 
and mind numbingly swift intercutting. 
Effective too are the nauseatingly realis¬ 
tic mutant apocalyptic metal and rubber 
costumes and the gloppy claymation se¬ 
quences. Shot on 16 mm in black and 
white, the film also benefits from a light¬ 
ing scheme that seems to bathe every¬ 
thing in a crepuscular and sooty light. 

Some critics contend that with Tet¬ 
suo, Tsukamoto is making some sort of 
statement concerning post modem day 
industrial society’s dehumanizing effect 
on individual consciousness, but there is 
really nothing in this disturbing 
dreamscape to support this. If the film 
is "about” anything, it’s about dreams 
and consciousness and how each infuses 
and informs the other. Sometimes a 
meditation on this interrelationship can 
give rise to works of great beauty; in the 
case of Tetsuo, it has resulted in a sordid 
and disturbing nightmare. 


Brutarian - VoL 1 No. 4 

One of David Friedman’s favorite films, this 
roughie - a nudie flick with snatches of sadism 
and violence - was written for curvaceous star 
Stacey Walker whom Friedman met while film¬ 
ing Fanny Hill . An overheated tale of a 
psychopathic femme fatale who likes to get men 
and women all hot and bothered and then scream 
rape at the moment of crisis, Honey is sure to 
please both masturbators and hardened sadists. 
The aforementioned Stacey Walker, while not a 
classic beauty, has an indefinable je ne sais quoi 
that gives Friedman’s outrageous screenplay a 
needed air of believability. Direction, acting and 

cinematography are little more than mediocre, 
but the ubiquitous nudity and the film’s overall 
air of idiot depravity are more than adequate 
recompense. And what of the climax, in which 
Walker receives her poetic comeuppance at the 
hands of a cool teenbeat singer? Are we to say 
that for a sociopathic female it is just a matter of 
time until she realizes her destiny, until she finds 
a firm hand to push her onto the path of prostitu¬ 
tion? The beauty of Honey is that concerns such 
as this are irrelevant, if thou goest to meet woman 
one brings not questions but a whip. (Available 
from Something Weird Video). 


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Adept admixture of death and speed metal spat out by 
a bunch of hoary veterans possessing a marvelously 
morbid lyrical sensibility and a heady sense of melody 
that makes bits of business like Blood Hunter and Birds 
of Prey almost (heaven forbid) catchy. Kudos to lead 
singer and guitarist Clint Bower for his kinesthetic 
depictions of death by nuclear bomb (Fire Mush¬ 
rooms), death by drowning (Watery Graves ), death by 
suicidal leap (The Last Step) and death by chemical 
bombardment (Persecution Experience). Available on 
Century Media Records, naturally. 

Joe Clay - Duck tail 

Way back in 1955, a Louisiana teenage rockabilly 
singer was poised on the edge of stardom. There were 
turns as opening act for Carl Perkins and Fats 
Domino, an appearance on The Ed Sullivan Show and 
finally a record contract with RCA. And . . . nothing 
happened. When Joe Clay is finally run down by a 
European concert promoter thirty years later, he’s 
working as a school bus driver. Well, just like in the 
movies, Joe is flown overseas and finds himself 
playing to packed houses on the continent, and when 
he returns to the good ole U S of A, the advance word 
from the British press has him set up as a cult hero. 
Now, hard on the heels of Clay’s new found success 
comes this CD release of the original Bear family LP: 
eleven of the greasiest, red-hot, white-trash rockabilly 
ravings ever committed to acetate. While clearly 
influenced by Presley, Clay’s performances possess a 
rawer, more primitive quality. Listen to the aban¬ 
doned stylings of Get On The Right Track or You Look 
That Good To Me and you’ll see what I’m talking 
about, but like me you’ll be hard pressed to explain 
why this guy never made it big. I’d like to have seen 
Elvis take a novelty tune like Did You Mean Jelly Bean 
(What You Said Cabbage Head) and put this much 
spontaneity and idiot passion into it. (Bear Family 

Various Artists - Time Will Show The Wiser 

Interesting collection of obscurities from bands you’ve 
never heard of compiled by the editors of Bucketful of 
Brains , a magazine you’ve never read. I know, I 
know, you don’t give a shit about any of this, you just 
want to know if I’ve discovered any bands worth 
checking out. Yeah, there are two: The Chills for 
their energetically tuneful thrash and The Bevis Frond 
for his/its demented neo-psychedelic guitar work. 
And, come to think of it, Thin White Rope and The 
Chemistry Set are starting to grow on me. (Triad 

Gang of Four - Mall 

I’ve got this friend named Jerry and it seems that 
whatever I ask him about these days, whether it’s a 
book he’s just read, a record he’s just purchased or a 
movie he’s just seen, his response is almost invariab¬ 
ly: "It wasn’t bad." Which loosely translated means: 
"Dom, the damned thing just wasn’t clever or inter¬ 
esting enough to engage my gargantuan intellect on 
any level." Now Jerry has always been a big fan of 
the Gang, even when they turned into a neo-disco 
band near the end of their first incarnation, so when 
he asks me whether I liked this thing I’m gonna say, 
"Jerry, it wasn’t bad." Which from me means: 
"They’ve run out of ideas, just like you, you mar- 
maluke." (Wamer Bros.) 

James Carr - Take Me To The Limit 

At last report this guy was a catatonic or non-am¬ 
bulatory schizophrenic and here he is standing tall in 
a picture on the CD cover. If you don’t know who 
Mr. Carr is, you should. He was, and if Limit isn’t 
merely a result of some studio wizardry, still is, one 
of the world’s great soul singers. Not all of the 
material is first rate, and some of the arrangements 
are rather hokey, but Carr sings his heart out and for 
those of us who thought he’d never record again given 
his medical record, that is enough. (Ace Records). 

Alice In Chains - Facelift 

Jesus, these guys sound great when you’re fucked up 
on Glenfarclas (104 proof). I know a lot of this stuff 
will sound silly when I’m sober tomorrow, but I know 
even now, as I’m getting ready to run to the john, that 
cuts like Man In The Box and Put You Down are as 
good as grunge rock gets. Hell, as good as anything 
gets. And Layne Staley is one of the best frontmen 
I’ve heard in ages. (CBS Records). 



Meathooks - Cambodia Soul Music 
Winningly insane amalgamation of dada, grunge and 
industrial clamor. Well, I shouldn’t say "winning" 
inasmuch as this Soul Music has absolutely NO 
commercial potential. But Meathooks know this and 
they know that the big time record companies know 
this and they know that you know this and they hate 
themselves, the industry and you for knowing this. 
Out of such malice ... a terrible beauty appears to 
have been bom. (Disastro Mix, Box 423, Madison 
Square Station, NY, NY 10159). 


Brutorian - Vol. 1 No. 4 

Various Artists - Atlantic Rhythm & Blues 1947- 

Who would have thought that a record company started by 
the son of the Turkish ambassador (Ahmet Ertegun) and a 
Jewish dental student (Herb Abramson) would some twenty 
years later be the largest seller of soul music surpassing even 
Motown? Well, it didn't happen overnight. The initial 
releases, a number of jazz and jump band things, went 
nowhere (see Vol I) but with the label's first hit, Stick 
Mcghee’s Drinkin' Wine Spo-Dee-O-Dee , Atlantic estab¬ 
lished its signature sound, what Peter Guralnick in his 
epochal Sweet Soul Music described as "downhome [music] 
with a sophisticated twist." Often this involved taking 
sophisticated performers like Ruth Brown, whom the label 
signed in 1949, and turning them funky or doing the reverse. 
Quality and authenticity soon became the bywords for the 
label especially with the addition of writer-promoter Jerry 
Wexler in 1953 (Vol 2). In 1954, a relatively unknown 
singer named Ray Charles put together this "blues and gospel 
combination" otherwise known as I've Got A Woman. One 
of the most profoundly influential singles in the history of 
pop, it firmly established Atlantic as the premier independent 
label in the country, a status that enabled Ertegun and 
company to sign talent like the Coasters, Joe Turner and the 
Drifters (Vols 2-4). In the early sixties, with the addition 
of Solomon Burke, Wilson Pickett, Sam and Dave, and Joe 
Tex and their distribution deal with Stax Records, the label 

became the base for southern soul "Making music for black 
adults" (Vols 5 - 7). Sold in 1967 to Warner Brothers (a 
company more interested in big name rock acts), by the early 
seventies, Atlantic was no longer actively seeking out Black 
acts. (Which is why Vol 8 with its Spinners and Roberta 
Flack songs is the worst of the lot). The contents of this 
eight CD set can also be purchased separately, but these 
single discs omit many of the cuts found in the box set. And 
while the set itself costs an arm and a leg, it is essential 
listening for anyone with even a cursory interest in rhythm 
and blues. 

Various Artists - Surf Legends (And Rumors) 1961- 

Hey all you hotdoggers and hodaddies, here’s a heapin' 
helpin’ of twenty-six, count ’em, twenty-six monsters from 
the surf. Totally tubular twangy trebly tunes sans vocals 
(which make them instrumentals), with some swank sax 
surfacing every now and then. No Ventures, Surfaris or 
Trashmen, but what’s here is choice: The Rumblers, The 
Ramblers, The Revels and . . . and . . . and what the hell 
difference does it make? All these guys were just a bunch 
of obnoxious teenagers making a crazy, glorious, wigged- 
out racket just for the hell of it and if you take this stuff 
seriously you’re probably missing the point. (Del Rack, 
8300 Tampa Ave, Northridge, CA 91324). 


Doug Allen and Gary Leib’s 

"Book of ldiots"#2 

A compendium of collaborative, 
decorative doodlings chosen 
from sketchbooks and cocktail 
napkins. 54 pages, cardboard 
cover. Limited edition. 

Send $20 to Studio Twelve 
952 N. Hoyne Ave. 
Chicago, IL 60622 

Brutarian - Vol. 1 No. 4 


Lou Reed - Magic and Loss 

There’s little magic here but it’s certainly your loss if you 
shell out the green for this pretentious, melodically under¬ 
nourished, ponderously paced "meditation” on life and 
death. Some words of advice for you Lou, from a poet far 
greater than your mentor Delmore Schwartz: "Do not go 
gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave 
at the close of day ." (Sire Records). Far more entertaining, 
albeit in a pathetic way, is Lou Reed’s Walk On The 
Wildside Workout (actually it’s entitled Live At The Ritz and 
it’s a bootleg). Yes, that’s really Mr. Reed with a hot four 
piece aerobiocized show band backed by a horn section and 
synthesizers in what sounds like an audition for some third 
rate Vegas lounge. The only thing missing from these 
nauseatingly buoyant arrangements is Up With People sing¬ 
ing background vocals (although that might have been them 
on Vicious ). VU *69, another boot, suffers from shoddy 
sound but the band (sans John Cale) does a fine job in setting 
up that inimitable drone and decorating it with some tasteful 
psychedelicized guitar work. Songs from the third LP 
predominate and if you buy this thing hoping to hear a live 
version of Sister Ray , forget it, that’s / Can*t Stand It they’re 
playing on that second mislabeled track. 

Morgoth - Cursed 

Brutal, numbing, relentless death metal: no melodies, just 
dire, skull-rattling riffs that shift, with little rhyme or reason, 
from warp speed to grinding martial tempos. And over this 
hellish spew rides the chilliastic, atavistic yowlps of a 
vocalist named, appropriately enough, Grewe, singing 
cheery ditties about Darkness and Sold Baptism. Not for the 
faint of heart nor those feign to be hurt nor those . . . Jesus, 
Sandy take this thing off, I can’t hardly think no more, it’s 
too burning! (Century Media). 

Deadhorse - Peaceful Death and Pretty Flowers 

Death heavy metal machine fueled by a blazing Texas guitar 
duo who, along with the rest of these horses, have clearly 
had their blood sugar raised to alarming levels as a result of 
massive ingestion of Taco Bell burritos and Colt 45 malt 
liquor. How else to explain sentiments like: The feel is in 
my hand/like cancer it *s growing/There *s no solution so 
choke the shit out of something; or, I want to bathe in the 
blood/that gave life to your corpse/no longer prisoner of 
time/I caress your remains. I wonder what the hell these 
guys do to relax, embalm cadavers? In fact, I wonder if it’s 
at all possible for them to relax? Maybe they don’t want to 
relax. Yeah, that’s it, they can’t relax because they are 
haunted by the fact that they, like all humans, are little more 
than an insidious heap of torment/resting hideous strips of 
flesh. I don’t know if I can continue to go on knowing this. 
Life suddenly seems ... a pathetic, meaningless farce 
created by a savage and malignant God for His own idiot 
amusement. (Metal Blade). 

Joe Coleman - Infernal Machine 
Prankster/performance artist/painter’s first piece of vinyl 
since his mid-seventies work with those notorious nattering 
nabobs of negativism, The Steel Tips. The first side, a 
tribute to mass murderers, cleverly pairs monologues from 
real (Manson, Kemper and Lucas), as well as fictional (The 
Sadist, Night of the Hunter) killers with twisted songs like 
Eddie Noack’s Psycho and Tex Ritter’s Samuel Hall. The 
second side opens by introducing us to a geek - dialogue 
courtesy of Nightmare Alley - which turns out either to be 
Coleman or Bob Barker depending on how you look at 
things. From here we are taken on a harrowing journey into 
fear, loathing, madness and failure featuring crazed songs 
from the aforementioned Tips, a demented Kirk Douglas 
monologue from Detective Story , the Gooba-Gabba chorus 
from Freaks , car crashes, pig snorting, backwards dialogue, 
African chants and Prohibition era ballads slowed down and 
speeded up: a portrait of the artist as a burgeoning psychotic 
as it were. Infernal Machine is kind of pricey, yet inasmuch 
as the whole shebang comes with a platter tastefully 
decorated with a picture of Coleman as a kind of deranged 
Christ and an LP-sized booklet containing many of Joe’s 
demented naif paintings in suitable for framing full color, 
it’s worth the few extra bucks. (Blast First, 262 Mott St, 
Room 324, NY, NY 10012). 

Nick Drake - Fruit Tree 

Nick Drake, an English folksinger, killed himself and after 
listening to these songs it won’t surprise you that he did. 
Drake cast himself as a knight errant, a foolish romantic, 
hopelessly and incessantly searching for beauty and truth. 
Even when solace was found - in love, a sunset or an autumn 
landscape - Drake’s balm was tinged with the knowledge of 
their transience. The lyrics are wistful to the point of 
morbidity, the music - especially the early coffee house folk 
jazz - so sweetly languorous that it borders on the precious, 
Drake’s hushed voice so filled with brooding melancholy as 
to be almost unbearable, but somehow, someway, the lines 
are never crossed. By the time of his third LP, 1973’s Pink 
Moon , Nick had pared his music to the bone, playing and 
recording totally unaccompanied. Shortly thereafter, after 
a brief stay in a psychiatric rest home, he was dead. Fruit 
Tree is a four CD collection that contains the three LPs and 
adds a bonus disc of fourteen tracks including seven cuts 
that have never seen the light of day. (Hannibal Records). 

Various Artists - Psychedelic Microdots Vol. / 

Lovely lysergic lunacy lifted from lost labels and longer lost 
bands (Jesus I’m beginning to sound like Andrew Loog 
Oldham). It’s a little heavy on We The People cuts - seven 
out of eighteen - but the fuzz guitar and farfisa fueled Miracle 
Worker (Brogues) and the garage grunge masterpiece Good 
Times (Nobody’s Children) alone make it worth the price of 
admission. If that isn’t enough of an inducement, the folks 
at Sundazed have added the surrealy sappy Smell Of Incense, 
the deranged psych pop of Mindrocker with its pulsating 
moog tape loop and half a dozen others that possess the 
requisite oddball touches and loopy lyrics. (Sundazed 
Records, Box 85, 27 Church Street, Coxsackie, NY 12051). 

Brutarian - Vol. I No. 4 


No Man - How The West Was Won 

For those of you wondering whatever happened to Mission 
Of Burma frontman Roger Miller since he split from the 
band in 1983, the answer is plenty but we don’t have the 
time or the space to go into that here. Since 1989, he’s been 
touring and recording as part of this titular power duo (now 
a trio). And if you’re looking for a resurrected Burma, 
forget it, Roger and No Man seem to be committed to 
fashioning a kind of idiosyncratic hard pop (or you can call 
it avant-garde pop, or you can call it post-punk pop, or you 
can call it alternative power pop, but ya doesn’t has to call 
it pop). Most of this stuff is fairly effective with Call On 
Me and Reach For The Sky with their rock sound dr umming 
and smoldering guitar work, real standouts. (SST, Box 1, 
Lawndale, CA 90260). 

Date Bait - / Split On Your Grave 

Master Baiter B. Horrorwitz is telling everyone who will 
listen that they should avoid this platter at all costs. Well, 
since you gave my wife this thing as the first prize in that 
Halloween costume contest rather than the trip to Hawaii 
(cheap bastards) we expected, I had little choice but to give 
it a spin. And I don’t know what all the boo-hooing is about 
because Split is a terrific party record, a delirious mix of 
trashy pop, garage rock and ghoulish rave-ups. Hell, even 
the Iggy and Dictators covers get a B+ for effort. Send 
these guys your money, they’re starving to death for their 
art. (Brian Horrorwitz, 2101 Hildarose Drive, #203, Silver 
Spring, MD 20902). 

Lost - Stumble 

Neurotic, neurasthenic, noisy grunge that bears a passing 
resemblance to Husker Du on side one and a lot of those 
SubPop noisemeisters on the flip. I never really dug the Du 
(well there were a few Grant Hart songs I have a soft spot 
for) and most of those Seattle bands leave me cold, but I find 
myself listening to this platter incessantly. Maybe it’s 
because Lost keep things simple, and maybe it’s because 
they sing about getting drunk and passing out and waking 
up feeling empty and useless or about getting drunk and 
feeling confused because you don’t understand how you can 
miss a girl and at the same time want to beat the crap out of 
her or about feeling confused in general and not knowing 
what to do with all this inchoate anger. Stumble makes me 
wish I was twenty-one again, and still believed there was an 
answer to any of these dilemmas. (77 Nagle Road, Erie, 
PA 16511). 

John Cale - Even Cowgirls Get The Blues 

I don’t get it, why all the superlative reviews for this dreadful 
cassette release of two live CBGB performances from ’78 
and ’79? The sound is tinny, the performances with the 
exception of guitarist Ritchie Flieger, mediocre, and the 
songs, most of which are no longer performed by Cale, 
uninteresting. Admittedly, Cale was at the top of his game 
during this time (which I can attest to having seen him twice 
during this two year period) but you’d never know it from 
this wretched effort. A much better document of this period 
is contained within the grooves of the intermittently incen¬ 
diary Sabotage Live which even at its worst is more lis- 
tenable than anything on Cowgirls. (Roir Cassettes). 

Chicken Scratch - Giant and Invisible 
"Thrashy, grungy, full of political foment..." No, no, 
no, "foment" is a transitive verb guys; the word you were 
looking for is "fomentation." Moreover, "thrashy" and 
"grungy" are definitely not the words to use when attempting 
to peg this combo’s sound. "Eclectic" is the word you gotta 
employ inasmuch as The Scratches assay everything (rather 
effectively I might add) from heavy metal mamba on the one 
hand to deranged country vaudeville on the other and almost 
every other pop variation in between, including some 
hybrids for which words are pitifully inadequate. I mean 
what do you call Meet Me In My Monkeysuift Thrash- 
fusion? And what about Alaska! Quasi-metal pop? In any 
case, what I’m trying to say, is that stylistic consistency is 
not this group’s bag, which is fine with me. If you want 
numbing sameness, buy an REM or Nirvana record. (Com¬ 
munity 3, 48 Bedford Ave, Brooklyn, NY 11211). 

Love Camp Seven - King Sex /Sour Old Men (7inch) 
For a group that takes their name from a repulsive film about 
a brothel in a Nazi concentration camp, it’s rather surprising 
how light-hearted and good natured the music on this platter 
is. King Sex is a hilarious mix of curdled jazz, mellow pop, 
music hall campiness and droll lyrics. Sour Old Men is 
garagabilly stomp in a dissonant vein. (Community 3, 438 
Bedford Ave, Brooklyn, NY 11211). 

Legendary Stardust Cowboy - Retrorocket Back to 

This guy is out there and in spite of the title I doubt he’s 
touched terra firma at all in the last twenty-five years or so. 
So hey man what’s his style? How does he get his kicks for 
a living? Well. . . it’s not rockabilly really . . . and it’s not 
that Cramps ghoulabilly thing either . . .it’s more like . . . 
h’mmm . . . dementabilly and clowntry and western, but 
it’s all so whacked that it makes the wigged-out Hasil Adkins 
sound like George Jones by comparison. Why? Well, for 
several reasons: the Cowboy can’t sing, he blurts and brays; 
he writes simplistic songs about things like the Jersey 
Turnpike, Egyptian maidens and meeting Alex Trebec. His 
arrangements are eccentric enough to make Wild Man 
Fischer blush in embarrassment; and that bugle playing of 
his, trust me, it gives new meaning to the word abandoned. 
When you add it all up it spells: ESSENTIAL. And 
just in case you had any doubts, the good folks at New Rose 
Records add, as a bonus, all thirteen cuts from Rides Again , 
the Cowboy’s previous release. 

Rudy Grayzell - Texas Kool Kat 
Four song 45 featuring three raucous, resoundingly rebar- 
bative rockabilly roundelays and one sordidly sentimental 
serenade by a Sun label vet backed by the fantabulous 
A-Bones (sans lead singer Billy Miller) one of the hottest 
garage bands on the planet. Can’t wait for the feature length 
version. (Norton Records). 

Brutarian - Vol. 1 No. 4 


Various Artists - Chrome, Smoke and Fire 
There are a few things you should know before you purchase 
this double LP which bills itself as a "compilation of hot rod 
music." First of all the price, the package goes for over 
thirty dollars. Secondly, the music inside isn’t really "hot 
rod" music for the most part. "Hot rod" music was that 
sixties chrome wheeled, fiiel injected, reved-up instrumental 
nonsense with all manner of automotive sounds in the 
background. Chrome has about an LP’s worth of fifties 
country boogie and "billy" slanted rockabilly much of which 
you wouldn’t stock your vintage Wurtlitzer with. Thirdly, 
a few of these selections have been slapped on these platters 
without permission of the rightful owners of Norton and 
Ripsaw Records. On the positive side are the liner notes, 
the terrific Robert Williams’ illustrations which adorn both 
the cardboard and vinyl and the dozen or so rare and 
marvelous songs. So the whole thing works out to less than 
three dollars per boss cut. That ain’t too damn bad. (Blast 

Crungehouse - New Society/Chocolate Love 

The "groove" side is a deeliteful psychedelicized funky 
metalloid rap, a Willy Wonka fantasy except that here Willy 
is a black man with long straight blonde hair and a nose ring. 
The flip is a noisy little sucker filled with stinging, keening 
guitar runs, monstrous rifling and bludgeoning rhythms all 
laid over a loop of a chillingly emotionless lecture on the 
dangers of "the crazy acid" LSD. (1504 Faragut, Hyat- 
tsville, Md 20781). 

Where No Life Dwells - Unleashed 

Yaaaaaargh . . . Graaaaalspch . . . DIE! Self-styled 
Berserkers send forth brutal riffs to do battle with stop on a 
dime time shifts, furious rhythms and hellish cacophony. 
Jesus and Allah are dead, you are a God and all who will 
not admit to this must be struck through the eye with a 
broadsword. A disturbing effort by a band obviously too 
wise for its generation. (Century Media). 

Buddy Guy - Damn Right I've Got The Blues 

And he certainly has the right to say so, this being Guy’s 
first domestic release in ten years. An injustice that borders 
on the criminal given the fact that many in the biz (Eric God 
Clapton included) feel Buddy to be a guitarist without p)eer. 
The song selection is a little weak here, but even such old 
warhorses like Mustang Sally are redeemed by Guy’s sweet 
reverberating wail. And when it all comes together on cuts 
like Where's The Next One Coming From with its fat-bot¬ 
tomed bass and soulful and laconic string stretching, its as 
good as the blues gets. Guy is aided and abetted by the 
aforementioned Clapton as well as Jeff Beck and Mark 
Knopfler, but if you buy this thing for any of the Brits, you’ll 
be disappointed, this is Buddy’s show. (Silvertone). 

Johnny Winters - Let Me In 

A more interesting release by a blues veteran by virtue of 
its eclecticism and song selection is this platter, Johnny’s 
first release since leaving Chicago’s Alligator records. 

There’s some boogie, rock and roll and R&B thrown 
alongside some fine blues tunes - which run the gamut from 
down-home acoustic to electric south side. All of it p>ep>- 
pered with Johnny’s gruff, gravely growls and his trademark 
lightning quick guitar runs as well as some hard drivin’ and 
grindin’ slide work. Dr. John adds some nice fills on the 
piano on a few cuts. (Point Blank). 

Various Artists - / Was A Teenage Caveman 

Fuzz, farfisa and a fulsome fuck- you attitude. Also in¬ 
genuous primitivism, unbridled p)assion and paleolithic per¬ 
formances punctuated by p>eevish philippics masquerading 
as vocals. Unless you’re currently laboring in a soi disant 
garage band or are the kind of anal retentive who keep>s old 
45s in plastic, you’re unlikely to have run across any of this 
stuff. But what the fuck does that matter? If you’ve never 
heard the Emperors’ 1 Want My Woman , die Haunted’s Eight 
O'Clock This Morning or the Beechnuts My Iconoclastic 
Life , your existence thus far has been a travesty of a mockery 
of a sham. So trust me: YOU NEED THIS! (TC 1966). 

Various Artists - Teen Age Riot 

A comp of hilarious jd and hot rod songs made by p>eople 
who haven’t been within two hundred yards of a fight in 
their life and who wouldn’t know a shiv from a Chevy. You 
think juvenile delinquents actually listened to stuff like High 
School Caesar (good flick) and Shanty Tramp (even better 
flick)? I think not, these songs stink of Eisenhower era 
suburbia not of leather and beer. But pay me no mind, you’ll 
have a great time laughing at all these faux-tough songs and 
the ludicrous radio spot s for troubled-teen pics that follow 
them . (Atomic Records). 

Pixies - Trompe Le Monde 
Memo From The Desk of Black Francis: 

Dear college students, Listen, I’m really sorry about that last 
LP with its persnickety melodies, fey lyrics and retro surf 
guitar stylings. This thing is a horse of a different color. 
Hey, I mean it. We had Ozzy Osbourne and Ratt working 
in the adjoining studios while recording so we had to drop 
the cutesy-pxx) stuff out of sheer embarrassment and I had 
to scream on most of these cuts like my testicles were being 
slowly pulled off with pliers out of fear that the guys next 
door would kick my ass. Even the slower, moodier things 
will probably strike you as more weird than effeminately 
quirky. Plus, I let the producer fuck around with the textures 
as well as splatter Joey’s muscularly frantic guitar work all 
over this thing. Yeah, I know, the lyrics are still a bit art 
school oblique but hey, some of them like this one: Oh kbs 
me cunt and kiss me cock/Oh kbs my ass oh let it rock t are 
kind of cool and besides who cares about the words when 
we’re making such a glorious (yes glorious) racket. So 
whaddya say, give us a break, tell us all is forgiven, better 
still don’t tell us anything, just buy our record. Okay? 
Okay? C’mon, I’m serious, from now on it’s strictly 
Blackie’s House of Beef, serving up prime sirloin without 
an ounce of fat. (Elektra). 

Brutarian - Vol. 1 No. 4 


Curioddity - Screaming Popeyes 

Thank God these guys have cut the running time of their 
releases to about thirty minutes. Normally, the Popeyes’ 
tapes contain such a wealth of weirdness that you could listen 
to the things for about forty years and not even begin to 
scratch the surface. So here we’ve got about fifteen less 
minutes to deal with which means I’ve got twenty pages of 
notes rather than the usual fifty. I’ll be glad to send copies 
to you upon request, but I’ll end this disjointed review by 
advising you simply to send $5 to Jeff Olson, 210 S. Alto, 
#D, Branson, MO 65616, inasmuch as no one I’ve heard is 
making experimental music and sound collages as intriguing 
and as accessible. 

The 13th Floor Elevators - The Magic Of The- 
Pyramids (Collectibles) 

Roky Erickson - You're Gonna Miss Me: The Best Of 
Roky Erickson (Restless Records) 

by Rick Cazadores 

With the appearance of the previously unreleased The Magic 
Of The Pyramids , a 1965 live performance by The 13th 
Floor Elevators, and of You 9 re Gonna Miss Me, a compila¬ 
tion of independently produced singles and rarities from 
Elevators’ guiding light Roky Erickson, the superficial 
pantomime of neo-psychedelia is shamefully exposed. For¬ 
get those new Syds on the block who contentedly imitate the 
lysergic spewings of their sixties forebears. Roky and the 
Elevators virtually founded the concept of psychedelic music 
with hard-edged, window-rattling blasts of sheer sonic 
skronk. And while those loveable Liverpool lads, The 
Beatles were bursting charts everywhere with silly little love 
songs, Roky and crew were contemplating the universe 
beyond their navels and WRITING LYRICS about their 
rocky ride. 

The Fag Four eventually struck paydirt with this same 
concept because panty-waist pop mavens would rather hear 
about Henry the fucking Horse than be challenged by the 
genuinely scary navigations of Roky and the Elevators. In 
fact, the band’s prerequisite acid trips (and a three-year stint 
in a hospital for the criminally insane) ultimately shattered 
Roky’s tenuous grasp on what most of us prefer to call 
"sanity" sending him tumbling into a psychedelic hell in¬ 
habited by holy devils and demons of darkness. Incredibly, 
these neurological nightmares inspired Roky to write ghostly 
tributes that both acknowledged and sanctified his divine 

You 9 re Gonna Miss Me chronicles Roky Erickson’s fall into 
madness following the Elevators’ break-up through his indy 
singles and abortive live performances. Included are Erick¬ 
son classics Bermuda, Starry Eyes, Red Temple Prayer and 
Two Headed Dog , as well as the lesser-known White Faces 
and the haunting If You Have Ghosts. This compilation 
argues for a critical evaluation of Erickson’s vastly under- 
appreciated talents as a singer and lyricist. It’s also a perfect 
introduction for neophytes who know of Roky only through 
the fawning imitators featured on college radio playlists. 

Even better is The Magic Of The Pyramids , a bone-rattling 
live performance by the Elevators. Recorded a year before 
the band signed with Leland Rogers’ International Artists 
label, Magic presents the Elevators at the height of their 
artistic power. Captured in a pre-show practice session 
before a small group of fans, the band - fronted by 17 
year-old Roky - churns out definitive versions of Fire In My 
Bones, You're Gonna Miss Me, and eleven other Elevators’ 

With its LSD-derived lyrical imagery and massive waves of 
feedback, The Magic Of The Pyramids is nothing less than 
a major revelation in the history of rock music. Devotees 
of psychedelia will especially lap it up, but anyone seriously 
interested in modem music should also investigate. Kudos 
to Collectibles, a budget-priced "oldies" label, for unearth¬ 
ing and releasing this lost gem. 

Mudhoney - Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge 
by Rick Cazadores 

Seattle grunge rockers Mudhoney, whose disappointing 
debut album led rockcrits to write ’em off as lame Iggy 
wanna-bes, are back from the dead with Fudge, a metalloid 
blast that buries their previous output, including their highly 
collectable Sub Pop singles. Unlike ex-Sub Pop-sters 
Soundgarden and Nirvana, now megastars with major label 
backing, the Honeys ride their numero deux back to indy- 
land where the air is cleaner but the jack is oh-so-leaner. 
Nevermind, ’cause in my dictionary "art" appears way 
before "commerce," and they’re both pages ahead of "sell 

From the opening organ chords of Generation Genocide, a 
Titanic Overture for the noxious nineties, to the moribund 
metallic bite of Check-Out Time, the album closer, Every 
Good Boy Deserves Fudge rises above the usual Sub Pop 
Strum und Drang. Critics who lauded Nirvana for mixing 
metal with melody should check out the brushed intro for 
Good Enough or the lurching pulse and harmonica wail of 
Move Out. Throughout, Fudge resounds with the clanging 
metal crunch of a garage door slammed in the face of an 
uncomprehending record industry. (Sub Pop). 

Brutarian - Vol. 1 No. 4 



You remember second grade, right? 
You get home from school and you’ve 
got nothing to do, right? So you turn 
on the T. V. ... all tiny and black and 
white. And good. And then it hap¬ 
pens. First comes the deafening roar 
of huge monster-charged engines wind¬ 
ing out over the insane scream of 
cheater-slicked tires incinerating the 
tarmac, back to back with the hysteri¬ 
cal, hyper-ventilating M.C. shrieking, 
BROOOOM! The maniac-high RPM 
barrage of super-charged drag-strip 
hyper-patter, infernal combustion and 
tantalizing snatches of song pound 
relentlessly over a continuum of AC¬ 
TION visuals - solid smoke, spinning 
mags, checkered flags, parachutes pop¬ 
ping ... 60 seconds of 100% pure 
adrenalin wipe-out! By the time the 
obscure record company P.O. Box 
rolls across the grainy screen you’re a 
neurotic sweaty ball of boy-macho ten¬ 
sion . . . cuz you’ve tasted it: The big 
BOSS world of ’60s hot rod record 

I don’t mean the Jan and Dean/Beach 
Boys type shit here. I have no time for 
the prosaic plus I hate that drivel. My 
genuine ’60s hot rod spectacular entries 
QUALIFICATIONS! First, they gotta 
be mainly instrumental! That’s right. 

no simpering adolescent vocal syrup. 
This strict rule automatically eliminates 
at least 50% of all would be BOSS 
genre competitors. And the proper in- 
stro sound is, of course, vastly impor¬ 
tant. Not unsimilar to surf instrumen¬ 
tal but more, like, swingin’, with 
dominant four-barreled sax riffing, 
wide open base lines, heavy twangin’ 
guitars and, most importantly, TONS 
AND TONS of overbearingly LOUD 
drag engine sound effects that should 
occasionally drown out the tune itself 
entirely! The album jackets are impor¬ 
tant BOSS genre qualifiers too, ideally 
falling into (me or more of two or three 
categories which I will now dictate: (1) 
the ultimate BOSS covers featuring 
super-stocker T-Buckets or ’32 Ford 

Deuce Coupes, preferably painted 
high-gloss black and loaded out with 
cool red/orange and yellow go-faster 
flames (extra-beastly exposed engine 
with chromed organ pipe velocity 
stacks optional), (2) record sleeves 
featuring lowered early ’50s Ford and 
Chevy lead sleds, often indicating fine 
early vintage (’62) BOSS genre musi¬ 
cal material and, (3) jackets sporting 
extra-huge Drag-Rite tires or bur¬ 
nished chrome mag wheels ... a 
high-profile customized look for the 
’63-’65 nationwide hot rodding ex¬ 
plosion crowd. Non-boss warning 
light: covers featuring insanely 
blown/multi-engine rail dragsters, 
contrary to NHRA class approved ap¬ 
pearances, often serve merely to dis¬ 
guise dangerously high levels of loath¬ 
some studio slicked vocal puke con¬ 
tained within. Strictly look but don’t 
OF EVIL. Third and final BOSS 
genre requirement is the song titles 
should incorporate lotsa’ real gassy 
ho-daddy speak . . . something like 
Mr. Eliminator or Ho-Dad Machine. 
Maybe something to do with nitro fuel 
or big stick shifts or whatever. Oh 
yeah, and the song titles should be 
listed on the front of the record sleeve, 
preferably in some insipid sequence 
that bears absolutely no relationship 
whatsoever to the order in which the 
pieces appear on the album. Anyway, 
the following selections have been ad¬ 
judged by me to qualify in ALL BOSS 

The Shut Downs: The Deuce 
Coupes (mysterious Crown Records, 
probably 1962-’63) - Cover drags with 
a pair of heavy duty chopped and chan¬ 
neled lead sleds (a ’51 Chevy and ’48 
Ford respectively) which, if you’ve 
been paying attention to the RULES, 
should clue you in to The Shut Downs’ 
really big rollicking bass and sax heavy 
sound. I mean this thing swings, 
daddy! Hey, even the vocal cuts are 
BOSS. Toss in a monster heap of 
hemi-powered engine rumble and 
you’ve got one of my favorite V-8s! 
Contending titles include: '36 Three 
Window Coupe , Turn Her On, Buddy , 
The Deuce Coupes and Body By 


Brutarian - VoL 1 No. 4 


Welcome everybody, welcome to the New York music scene 
and my gut reactions to a few of the more germane, if not 
necessarily popular bands, man, plying their trade around 
Manhattan island and environs. In later issues of this rag 
I plan to take a look at many more musical combos, so if 
you ’re interested in seeing your group grace these pages, 
send your demo tapes, vinyl and CDs to Matt Verta-Ray c/o 
Brutarian, PO Box 25222, Arlington, Va 22202-9998. And 
yes, the Brutes will forward all your stuff to me, so don’t 
worry about getting lost in the mail. 


Self-professed "Rock Daddy" and desperate man, Dixon is 
one of the New York rockabillies. He’s a crowd pleaser 
and everything he does smacks of professionalism as he 
swings through sometimes endless sets of fairly authentic 
sounding rockabilly and rock and roll. He plays a 50’s strat 
or a silvertone hybrid through a very old tube echoplex and 
a tiny Fender amp. He gets a great, although too-soft-to- 
knock-you-out sound, and plays melodic ’billy leads that 
lean to country. His band, which seems to vary from show 
to show, is usually semi-lame: a bunch of jaded pros who 
either don’t know the idiom or don’t care. Clue - last time 
I saw him play, the drummer had a mohawk. The main 
attraction is his singing which is classic Gene Vincent style 
rockabilly crooning, and of course the ladies love his lanky 
physique, John Waters moustache and greasy straight hair. 
The Dixonettes (Tish and Snooky) are two hot chick singers 
who have worked out harmonies, dance steps and matching 
leather skirts with dice on them, very showbiz very charm¬ 

Apart from the usual choice of covers, Dixon writes some 
decent originals such as Desperate Man , Brand New Baby 
and Undivided Attention , all of which have good melodic 
hooks in ’em. His most memorable original is Relentless , 
one he wrote for the soundtrack of the biker movie Loveless 

and intentionally made sound like Stray Cat Strut at the 
request of the movie’s producers. The song is one of the 
spooky greats, a classic of old style menace and echo-mood 
and Dixon must know it because he had it tattooed on his 

You have to keep your eyes open for Eddie Dixon because 
he seldom plays and when he does it’s at weird places like 
Fanny’s Oyster Bar. But seeing him live is fun and well 
worth it, especially if you are an obsessed student of this 
kind of music, as most 50’s-heads seem to be. 


Now you know who wrote half of the good Heartbreaker’s 
songs: It was Walter Lure. His new band, The Waldos, 
which was formed sometime before Johnny Thunders died, 
is so close in spirit to what the Dolls and the Heartbreakers 
were about that you’ll hardly notice that Thunders is miss¬ 
ing. They play beautifully trashy sets with a novel twist: 
they attempt to emulate the Shirelles or the Searchers and 
however ludicrous such a concept may seem to anyone who 
hasn’t seen their underrehearsed dollar-per-note sets, it is 
the essence of their greatness. They really don’t know how 
sloppy it all is, or if they know, they are powerless to change 
it. I think William Burroughs once said something like, 
"real artists don’t want to be artists, they just want to be left 
alone" (i.e. rich). This implies that only rich kids want to 
be artists. Well Burroughs ought to know, he’s both. I’m 
sure The Waldos would rather be Bon Jovi rich than 
Heartbreakers poor, but I guess someone was watching out 
for the rest of us and kept the Waldos gorgeously un¬ 
marketable. Bom to lose, right? 

To see the Waldos is a wonderful thing, like watching your 
own daughter in her first ballet recital, your eyes blind to 
the missteps. Old school NY rock fans can’t help but get 
high in the magic of their throwaway style and transparent 
showmanship. But stage energy is one thing, knowing good 
songs when you hear them is another. Everything The 
Waldos play has some perfect major key hook in it that the 
lovely ladies can hum on the way home even if it’s played 
too loud to pick up any of the words. True, a lot of the 
songs were written around twelve or fifteen years ago, but 
pick up their single Crazy Little Baby/Cry Baby (Baylor 
Records) and there’s proof that they are still writin’ ’em and 
writin’ ’em good. One of my favorite New York bands. 


It’s too bad about these guys because they were doing 
jangle-pop when it was the thing to be doing. Now of 
course, everybody is pretending their REM records were 
left in the apartment by the previous tenant and, well, they 
just can’t bear to throw ’em out. But Spelvins’ songwriter 
John Keeney keeps writing these hooky college radio clas¬ 
sics like it was 1983. The songs are like a cross between 
The La’s and The Lovin’ Spoonful. "Bird," the singer, has 
an unusually fine and disciplined voice and on a good night 
can sound really soulful although all the time spent languish- 

Brutarian - Vol. 1 No. 4 


ing in obscurity has hurt a band that is so obviously made 
for mass appeal. It’s similar to the DB’s and their song 
Amplifier. The band refused to believe that this tune hadn’t 
made it, so they kept releasing it over and over on every 
album they put out, but bad timing or bad luck kept the song 
an obscure classic even though it wound up on about four 
different records. The Spelvins are supposed to have a hill 
length on the market soon and for their sake I hope it gets 
released because they’re just about to bust apart from 
frustration. Their drummer, Dessau, owns a recording 
studio and the band often plays at parties the studio is 
constantly throwing, so if you want info on their next gig 
call Harold Dessau Recording in NYC. 


They’re not exactly youngsters but they play fast. This is 
a band that hooked me after just one viewing. I happened 
to be at CBGB’s seeing some other group and when these 
guys came on they just knocked me out. Imagine a faster 
version of the Ramones. So far as I know they have two 
singles out, the most memorable song being a cover of the 
Real Kids’ All Kinds of Girls. I put a copy of the original 
on 78 speed and damn if it didn’t sound just like The 
Vacants. The lead singer is Pete Ciccone, that’s right, the 



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brother Madonna couldn’t get along with in Truth or Dare 
. . . NOT! He sings and plays guitar and writes most of the 
songs. They just lost their wicked cool drummer Paul Corio 
who is pursuing his cartooning career. (You might have seen 
some of his drawings in The Voice.) Actually, losing Corio 
may be a problem for these guys because not many drum¬ 
mers could maintain Vacant Lot’s speed and intensity for 
an entire set. It’s one thing playing cut-time hardcore songs 
fast, it kind of comes off like polka. But try playing a Chuck 
Berry song at three times the normal speed. They also count 
off the next song, sticks a-clickin’, punk style, while the 
guitars are ringing from the last one, which adds to their 
momentum. I’ve heard their set lists even have "sip of beer" 
written where they take one of their rare between song 
breaks, then it’s click, click, click, Dah-na-na-na etc. 

Once again, though, it comes down to songs and these guys 
have them. Big, obvious hooks that are made to withstand 
bad PAs and too-loud guitars. I wouldn’t exactly say these 
guys are natural rock animals, but they’re smart and they 
distill their influences just enough to get away with it. This 
is a band made up of music fans, but then I guess you could 
say that about The Beatles. The All Kinds of Girls single is 
backed with She Gotta Leave , another strong song you could 
sing perfectly without knowing any of the words. The other 
45 is Almost Summer , a major key melodic romp with a 
beautiful harmony hook in the chorus. (Ciccone wrote it.) 
The flip is the weakest, most obviously "in-the-style-of" 
song called Cyclone. (Mitro, the other guitar guy wrote it.) 
These guys play loud, hard and fast and they have good 
songs. What else do you want? See ’em live, buy the 


I used to be in a band with Brian, and I’m telling you, it’s 
not an act. I would go over to his house and he’d be 
"playing" the accordion, just sitting in a chair, his eyes 
intently focused on the edge of a table or something. That 
fuckin’ thing sounded like a donkey. Brian would be zoning 
into some repetitive two note (usually atonal) pattern and 
he would devilishly play the same thing non-stop for - I’m 
serious about this - maybe forty minutes, or until you 
stopped him. This kind of thing is just one aspect of him 
but it adds to his general mad genius aura. I guess if anyone 
is one - a genius - Brian certainly qualifies, if only for the 
intensity and single mindedness of his vision. He’s 
remarkably faithful to his aesthetic, to the point of being 
stubborn. You can see him play some quirky, irregular 
thing exactly the same way if you catch his "act" a year 

Brian’s talents are myriad but I’ll stick to music for now. 
When he performs, he usually plays with a standard 
autoharp (like your 3rd grade teacher would stroke if she 
didn’t know piano) or a huge electric zither that he made 
himself. The zither is about the size of a picnic blanket 
folded over once to make a triangle. It’s got eight DiMarzio 
humbuckers in it and piano wire for the bass strings. He 


Brutarian - Vol. 1 i\’o. 4 

plays it through a tube screamer distortion box and sometimes 
through a real revolving Leslie speaker. It sounds pretty 
awesome and it’s not for folkies although in a strange way, 
what he plays is what folk music ought to be. The songs, 
which he sings in a strange old-feshionedey tenor voice, are 
reminiscent of Irish sea shanties or some queer kind of 
chanted Puritan music that no one’s ever heard before. His 
tunes are about the kind of details that only a very obsessed 
and observant person would think of. For instance, the 
unforgettable Wastepaper Basket Fire is a droning cautionary 
tale about someone who "professes to have failed" to extin¬ 
guish his cigarette before throwing it in the trash. Or the 
song about Tuck Box Charlie: "Don’t you know? He lives 
in here and the hardware store’s his home!" 

It’s hard to describe the music because it’s such a specific 
trip this guy is on: smarter and less babyish than Daniel 
Johnson and way cooler and tougher than, say, Pete Seeger. 
All I can say is see this guy play. (I don’t think there are any 
records, although Bar None was interested in him for a 
while.) He plays out infrequently, sometimes at Knitting 
Factory, sometimes opening for They Might Be Giants who 
are obviously in awe of him. (Dewan is to TMBG as Dinosaur 
was to Sonic Youth or Daniel Johnson was to Yo La Tengo). 
Anyway, catch Dewan, you’re in for a treat. 

In coming weeks 77/ be talking about some other NY bands, 
man, and 77/ even try reviewing some I don *t like . Keep your 
eyes open for: Yuppicide, A-Bones, Radicts, Action 
Swingers, The Rogues, Yo La Tengo, Liquor Giants, Madder 
Rose, Devil Dogs, Deviators, Karen Black and many more 
or possibly many less . Until then, I say to you: Wake me up 
when you’ve quite finished with your BORING 



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(703) 525-1313 

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Brutarian - Vol. 1 No. 4 


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Plausible Denial 

Mark Lane 

Thunder’s Mouth Press (1991) 

In case you were wondering where the 
evidence linking the CIA to the Kennedy assas¬ 
sination is, look no further, it’s right here. And 
it comes to you courtesy of convicted Water¬ 
gate burglar E. Howard Hunt. Rumors had 
circulated in Washington for years about this 
crazy fool in connection with all sorts of 
skullduggery, some of it, like the ludicrous plan 
to "eliminate" muck-raking columnist Jack 
Anderson, even making its way into the 
papers, but it wasn’t until a right wing rag 
named Spotlight published a story in 1981 
linking the ex-CIA operative with the 
President’s murder that Hunt determined that 
even deranged reprobates had their limits and 
so sued for defamation. 

At the initial trial, The Liberty Lobby, the 
publisher of Spotlight was represented by an 
inept shyster who actually asked the plaintiff 
not to contest the fact that Hunt was not in 
Dallas on November 22, 1963, the day Ken¬ 
nedy was shot, effectively gutting the case for 
the defense. Fortunately, for The Liberty 
Lobby, Hunt’s legal team was just as poorly 
schooled in legal niceties, pressing the judge 
to give erroneous instructions to the jury. This 
effectively resulted in an appeals court order¬ 
ing a new trial some four years later. In the 
interim, The Liberty Lobby had wised up and 
retained legal scholar and noted author Mark 
Lane to represent them. 

During the second Hunt vs. Liberty Lobby 
trial, a curious thing happened; Hunt, the first 
witness to testify, impeached himself on cross- 
examination inadvertently using his own family 
to do it. Hunt had stated in his complaint that 
one of the reasons he had brought the suit was 
because of the pain and anguish the story had 
caused his family who, after reading the Spot¬ 
light piece, had never ceased questioning him 
about his whereabouts on that fateful Novem¬ 
ber day. Yet when being deposed before the 
trial, he swore that he spent that day and the 
entire weekend inside his house with his wife, 
his fourteen and thirteen year old daughters 
and his ten year old son "glued" to the 
television set watching events unfold in the 

aftermath of the tragic shooting. When con¬ 
fronted with these mutually exclusive explana¬ 
tions - if the children were present that day why 
did they feel the need to ask him where he was 
- Hunt explained that 'these were unformed 
minds..." that needed to be reminded of the 
"circumstances." None of Hunt’s children were 
called as alibi witnesses. 

Having shown Hunt to be the liar, knave and 
fool everyone thought he was and in addition, 
having won his case without having to call a 
single witness, Lane was presented with a 
unique opportunity. He could abandon his 
defense of the defamation suit and instead 
focus exclusively upon the links between Hunt, 
the CIA and the assassination of the President. 

Lane’s client, aware that history was in the 
making, gave the go ahead. 

Hunt eventually was forced to slink out the 
back door of the courtroom like a whipped 
dog, but by the end of the trial he had long 
ceased to become the center of interest. As 
the press rushed by the disgraced operative to 
interview the forewoman of the jury, Ms. Leslie 
Armstrong, they heard this: 

The evidence was clear. The CIA had 
killed President Kennedy, Hunt had 
been part of it, and the evidence should 
now be examined by relevant institu¬ 
tions of the United States government 
so that those responsible for the assas¬ 
sination might be brought to justice. 

That night in Miami, the city where the trial 
was held, a television station owned by The 
Washington Post reported only that Hunt had 
lost his case. In Washington, The Post, which 
had printed a lengthy story concerning Hunt's 
initial victory, published nary a word concern¬ 
ing the jury’s verdict at the second trial. And it 
wasn’t just The Post that had a hidden agenda; 
almost all the national news media refused to 
touch the story. 

This book, the product of Lane’s exhaustive 
research in connection with the trial, remained 
untouched by every major book publisher in 
the country until picked up by Thunder’s 
Mouth Press (who might be commended more 
for their business acumen for hitching a ride 
on Oliver Stone’s coattails then for their fear¬ 
less integrity). 

Brutarian - Vol. 1 No. 4 


The Grand Guignol: 
Theatre of Fear And Terror 

Mel Gordon 
Amok Press (1988) 

By Greg Goodsell 

The arrival of this scholarly 
volume will be a godsend to those 
who have attempted to trace the rise 
of graphic horror as an art form and 
until now have only encountered 
grand guignol as a relatively mean¬ 
ingless catch phrase. The Grand 
Guignol was, of course, the name of 
a legendary Parisian theater that 
specialized and reveled in plays of 
the macabre. Extant between the 
years of 1897 and 1962, the theatre 
defined, if not exactly legitimized, 
on-stage depictions of dismember¬ 
ment, murder and sanguinary ven¬ 
dettas. The small-town boy who 
slaps latex together in his basement 
in emulation of Tom Savini and Fan- 
goria magazine owes everything to 
this sui generis French stagecraft. 
'There is something embarrassing 
about The Grand Guignol," says 
Gordon in his introduction. "Like a 
renegade sect or invented religion 
from another century, it touches 
upon our secret longings and fears. 
A product of fin de siecle France, 
The Grand Guignol managed to 
transgress theatrical conventions 
and outrage its public as it explored 
the back-alleys of unfettered desire, 
aesthetic impropriety, and nascent 
psychological trends in criminology 
and the study of abnormal be¬ 

We learn that The Guignol 
originally had its origins in the re¬ 
enactment of true life crime 
episodes, the fait divers, and the 
trend towards greater stage realism 
in the form of the "crass" play 
(stories about Paris street thugs and 
prostitutes). The resulting depiction 
of violence led to plays of horror 
freely adapted from the works of 
Poe, Kipling and Conan Doyle. So 
shocking were some of these 
productions that the theatre was 
forced to keep doctors in their 
employ in order to treat the many 
swooning and hysterical members 
of the audience. Still, gore was far 

from the only thing on this theatre’s 
bill of fare. An evening at The Guig¬ 
nol would include one or two bawdy 
sex farces as well as a realistic 
drama. The shows were often at¬ 
tended by European nobility and 
towards the end of WW II, General 
George S. Patton himself stopped 
by to see what all the fuss was about. 
Newspapers played up the story 
with headlines like "Old Blood and 
Guts at the Theatre." Excited 
citizens flocked to The Guignol 
under the impression that a new play 
had opened! 

Profusely illustrated with old 
handbills and photo documentation 
of produced plays, Grand Guignol is 
rich in detail and anecdote. In an 
effort to make his work as complete 
a reference as possible, Gordon has 
reprinted many synopses as well as 
provided two complete horror plays. 

In his conclusion, Gordon 
answers the question we all might 
ask in approaching this work: Why 
study The Grand Guignol? For the 
author the answer is quite simple: 
"The connections between what 
people see and what they do is 
rooted firmly in individual cultures. 
Sometimes, barbaric stage activity 
only produces health-giving chills 
and laughter. Such was the case of 
The Grand Guignol." 

The Famous Monsters 

ed Dennis Daniel 
Fantaco Enterprises (1991) 

by Randy Palmer 

It’s difficult to write a purely objec¬ 
tive review when the subject is 
something near and dear the 
reviewer’s heart. 

Still, I don’t think I’ll be accused of 
prejudice when I say that The 
Famous Monsters Chronicles is an 
excellent tome just because of my 
own connection with it. Anyone can 
see that this book is a true labor of 
love, exhaustively researched and 
well written, with nary a bone left 

unturned in its quest to chronicle the 
history of horror’s first (and most 
influential) periodical, Famous 
Monsters of Filmland magazine. 

Greg Theakston’s introductory 
chapter, 'The Warren Report," is a 
fascinating account of the birth of 
FM, shock-full of little known facts 
and figures about publisher James 
Warren and editor Forrest J. Acker¬ 
man. From pre-conceptualization 
to post-realization, Theakston 
covers it all - and then some! 

Gahan Wilson offers a nice 
preface which touches on the intrin¬ 
sic value of genre films, but being 
the least "light-hearted" piece in the 
book, it seems slightly off-kilter from 
the rest of Chronicles' content. 

There’s a "typical" Forry-word 
from FJ A and the numerous reminis- 
cences of FM readers-turned- 
professionals provide a kaleido¬ 
scopic view of what it was like grow¬ 
ing up with Famous Monsters and 
Warren Publishing Company. 
Editor Dennis Daniel has done a 
remarkable job amassing contribu¬ 
tions from just about "everyone who 
was anyone" connected with the 
mag during its twenty-five years of 
existence, but the real "backbone" of 
The Chronicles is its monstrously 
massive index. 

All one-hundred-and-ninety-one 
issues of FM have been painstaking¬ 
ly autopsied, their innards laid bare 
for everyone to see... right down to 
identifications of the Mystery 

Cover artists are listed, bylines 
are cited, even the reprints are 
noted, making the book an indispen¬ 
sable reference guide for anyone in¬ 
terested in seeking out the choicest 
issues and proving, as The 
Chronicles subtly states and as FJA 
might’ve put it, that "FM SHALL NOT 

Brutarian - Vol. 1 No. 4 


The Devil Thumbs A Ride 

Barry Gifford 
Grove Press (1988) 

Some of the most mordant and 
meaningful film criticism around is 
currently being churned out in vir¬ 
tual obscurity by poet and novelist 
Barry Gifford. I say in obscurity be¬ 
cause these short reviews of a 
hundred or so crime and noir films 
first appeared in Mystery Scene 
magazine and who, aside from a few 
hard core aficionados of the genre, 
has ever heard of Mystery Scene 
magazine? Anyway, the publishers 
describe this slim tome as essential 
to those of us weaned on the 
"moody, ominous, violent underbel¬ 
ly of American movie making," and 
they’re right. Gifford not only has a 
wonderful eye and ear but he can 
write; his hardboiled maudit style 
perfectly matches the look and tone 
of the movies he writes about. Just 
listen to him, for instance, describe 
how Joseph H. Lewis makes dark¬ 
ness work for him in The Big 

... it takes a visual artist to 
make the black work, to in¬ 
fect it with just enough light 
so that anything other than 
dark seems wrong, uncom¬ 
fortable, unnatural. Noctur¬ 
nal contact is different from 
that of daylight: sex and 
danger come to the surface 
much more readily, they in¬ 
form the frame, the back¬ 
ground fills up and comes 
closer, threatening to over¬ 
whelm, to overcome any 
puny attempt to hold it back. 
Lewis managed to drain any¬ 
thing unnecessary from this 
image, to hold it up in dim 
match light for an instant, 
then snuff it out. 

This one passage tells more 
about why so many noir films work 
than any ten books I’ve read on the 
subject. What’s more, Gifford isn’t 
afraid to go out on a limb. He’ll tell 
you that a certified masterpiece like 
Blue Velvet is the work of a man that 
may "never make a completely satis¬ 
fying film," but that the hilariously 

inept Shack Out On 101 is a "dead- 
on minimalist portrait of America at 
Its most paranoid." None of this 
really matters, of course. What mat¬ 
ters is that Gifford makes you want 
to see the films you haven’t seen and 
return to the films you’ve already 
seen. Can you ask any more of a 

Serial Slaughter: What’s 
Behind America’s Murder 

Michael Newton 
Loompanics (1992) 

His mother was an alcoholic pros¬ 
titute who would perform with mem¬ 
bers of either sex totally uncon¬ 
cerned that her little boy was watch¬ 
ing. Mom was jailed for robbery 
soon after her son’s fifth birthday. 
Following her release she began to 
leave him with relatives for weeks at 
a time, once trading him to a cocktail 
waitress for a pitcher of beer. One 
of the relatives to whom the boy was 
delivered sent him to elementary 
school in dresses explaining that it 
would teach him "how to fight and 
be a man." At nine, the diminutive 
child was finally taken from mother 
and "relatives" and placed in the first 
of many juvenile facilities where he 
would be repeatedly raped and tor¬ 
tured throughout his adolescence. 

Is it any wonder then, that little 
Charlie Manson turned out like he 

But Charlie isn’t the only one of his 
kind. As Ted Bundy succinctly put 
it: "We serial killers are your sons, 
we are everywhere. And there will 
be more of your children dead 
tomorrow." A lot more. Federal 
agents estimate that before the 
dawn of the twenty-first century 
some forty thousand men, women 
and children will be butchered for no 
real reason, an average of eleven 
victims per day. 

There are many kinds of serial or 
"recreational" killers but they all, 
without exception, share the plight 
of little Charlie: Each and every one 

of these monsters was "socially as¬ 
sassinated," literally gunned down in 
their formative years, victims of fac¬ 
tors they had no way of controlling. 
Michael Newton, author of the semi¬ 
nal Hunting Humans: An En¬ 
cyclopedia of Modern Serial Killers, 
has penned another brilliant and 
penetrating work, a survival guide 
for the millennium if you will. And 
given the aforementioned statistics, 
one can only look at this tome as a 
survivalist manual: the U S of A with 
barely a fourth of the world’s popula¬ 
tion produces more than three 
fourths of all known serial killers. 
Newton, who has spent more than 
ten years researching this subject, 
gets into more than just the how and 
why of this "epidemic." He crawls 
into the belly and head of the beast 
with the laudable goal of "detecting 
some patterns" and "arriving] at 
some prescriptions." 

Newton offers some interesting 
solutions but the serial killer simply 
comes in too many stripes and 
colors - resisting ready charac¬ 
terization. Many who are caught 
and "cured" return to their old habits 
upon release. In fact, the system 
"fails so frequently," Newton informs 
us, "at such a cost in human lives, 
that failure almost seems to be the 

Consider a couple of recent 
cases. Ed Kemper, incarcerated for 
butchering his grandparents at fif¬ 
teen, was released over his own 
heartfelt objections. He went on to 
murder six college coeds and 
sexually violate the corpses, finally 
cutting off his mother’s head and 
turning it into a dartboard. And what 
about Jeffrey Dahmer who was al¬ 
lowed by the police to remain in his 
apartment with a bruised and bleed¬ 
ing fourteen year old Laotian even 
though the naked boy had just been 
espied by hysterical neighbors flee¬ 
ing Dahmer on the street. Dahmer 
assured the cops that it was just a 
lovers’ quarrel even though there 
were photos of victims in plain sight 
and a corpse in the bedroom. 

How well do you know your 
neighbor? Better get a gun, it’s your 
only hope. 


Brutarian - Vol. 1 No. 4 

Raw Talent 

Jerry Butler as told to Robert Rim- 
mer and Catherine Tavel 
Prometheus Books (1990) 

by Greg Goodsell 

Paul Siederman, also known as 
porno star Jerry Butler, entered the 
show biz world as a working class 
kid from Brooklyn with a passion for 
hockey. Blonde and good looking, 
with an innocent boy-next-door per¬ 
sona, Butler tried his hand at per¬ 
forming in off-Broadway plays. 
Naive and inexperienced, he fell into 
roles in quasi-pornographic 
homosexual productions such as 
The Gay Dracula and Orpheus Des¬ 
cending, usually cast as a virginal 
young stud corrupted by decadent 
aesthetes. Defiantly heterosexual, 
Butler wanted to prove his virility 
while still exploiting his pretty boy 
looks. His salvation came in porno 

In the countless skin star 
biographies appearing regularly in 
glossy stroke standard magazines, 
the background bio for the male 
porn performers usually begins: "I 
was an orphan." This is shorthand 
to the interviewer for: "Leave my 
family out of this." Such is not the 
case with Raw Talent. Here, Butler 
recounts his most painful childhood 
traumas for the inquisitive reader: 
his loss of virginity to prostitutes at 
the age of sixteen, his crushing 
defeats in hockey, his father’s own 
porno collection, etc. This is all well 
and good, but readers com¬ 
ing to Raw Talent will more 
than likely skip this section to 
get to the "good stuff," that is, 
the dirt Butler has on his fel¬ 
low studs and sex kittens. 

Raw Talent is the kind of 
book that will have the reader 
skipping from chapter to 
chapter. Loosely con¬ 
structed, it is not unlike a bat¬ 
tered skin flick cassette with 
drop-outs at all the "hot 
spots." Strangely, Butler is 
reticent and respectful of his 
co-stars. Constructed from 
tape-recorded conversa¬ 
tions, one wonders If Butler’s 

observations were "helped along" 
by editors Rimmer and Tavel. In 
traversing this memoir, the reader’s 
opinion of adult film stars is im¬ 
proved somewhat - many are highly 
professional, sincere individuals 
who make no pretense about what 
they do for a living. It becomes pain¬ 
fully obvious however that Butler 
himself is no rocket scientist. 

Those looking for further sleaze 
and muck in an already ques¬ 
tionable profession will be sorely 
disappointed. When Butler sizes up 
a fellow performer he doesn’t par¬ 
ticularly care for, his profile is usually 
curt and brief, sometimes it is far 
more charitable than his subject 
deserves. The nastiest Butler will 
get is in revealing that New Age dip- 
shit sex star Hyapatia Lee’s husband 
Bud enjoys performing anilingus on 
the male during their frequent three- 
way sessions. 

Raw Talent was originally 
released when Butler loudly 
declared his retirement from the 
adult film industry. Of course, he 
returned to pneumatic antics shortly 
thereafter stating: "Male stars have 
a longer shelf life than females do, 
although we don’t make that much 
money." Butler’s latest shot-on- 
video feature is the highly timely 
Wee Wee’s Big Misadventure, con¬ 

cerning guess what porno-related 
real life incident. 

Written by authors with toes in the 
porn industry (Rimmer is a self- 
proclaimed adult video expert and 
so the last name is more than ap¬ 
propriate), Raw Talent will frustrate 
and disappoint those looking for yet 
another shock-fest along the lines of 
Linda Lovelace’s Ordeal, to date the 
only other widely published book 
with a purported insider’s view of the 
porn industry. Raw Talent contains 
no stories involving forced dog sex, 
celebrities’ aberrant sexual 
proclivities, beatings or the like. 
Rimmer, Tavel and Butler know full 
well upon which side their bread is 
buttered, making this project all the 
poorer for it. Talent's unrealistically 
happy denouement, which has But¬ 
ler finding true romance and fulfill¬ 
ment after a lifetime of cinematic 
cum shots, is undercut by a revela¬ 
tion that occurred shortly after this 
revised edition appeared. Reported 
in all the supermarket tabloids was 
the news that Butler’s live-in love, 
the girl who played Wednesday in 
the original TV version of The Ad- 
dams Family had attempted suicide 
after a botched return to acting 
which yielded her only two non- 
sexual roles in adult videos. 


A 16-page illustrated catalog with listings for HUNDREDS of 


POSTERS and PRESSBOOKS. To reserve your copy, send $3.00 
(refundable with order) to 
P.O. Box 65742, Washington, DC 20035. 

Brutarian - Vol 1 No. 4 

The New Poverty Row 

Fred Olen Ray 
McFarland (1991) 

This book is subtitled Inde¬ 
pendent Filmmakers as Dis¬ 
tributors, and Mr. Ray knows 
whereof he speaks having run his 
own independent film company, 
American Independent Produc¬ 
tions, since 1985. He has bestowed 
upon the world such unusual low 
budgeters as Hollywood Chainsaw 
Hookers and Evil Toons. Like the 
other later day independents 
saluted in his book, Ray formed AIP 
(hmmm, wasn’t there an organiza¬ 
tion in the fifties...) because he was 
tired of being ripped off by dis¬ 
tributors and because he was 
frustrated over his inability to make 
the kind of pictures he wanted when 
toiling for others. Ray is an anomaly 
in the independent field: he has sur¬ 
vived. But before him, several 
mavericks made a go of it - at least 
for a few years - and Poverty Row is 
an examination of six men who 
thumbed their noses at the major 

movie made on outdated film stock 
for $298 in which the alien invaders 
were rubber ants purchased at a 
dime store for nineteen cents. Since 
then, Ray has had his share of hits 
and misses but even his worst ef¬ 
forts pale in comparison to Jerry 
Warren, a man who "had absolutely 
no regard for the quality of his films 
or the satisfaction of his audiences." 
And if you've ever had the dis¬ 
pleasure of viewing Terror of the 
Blood Hunters or Man Beast, you’ll 
no doubt agree. 

Most of the subjects of this study 
made fairly undistinguished pic¬ 
tures. For every Spider Baby or 
Night Tide there were half a dozen 
Mermaids of Tiburon. Ray recog¬ 
nizes this; he doesn’t try to make a 
case for hopelessly muddled and 
misguided efforts, and in the final 
analysis, that is what lifts Poverty 
Row above most of the so called 
"critical" studies in the exploitation 
field (Box611, Jefferson, NC 28640). 

But then, along comes Border¬ 
lands 2, courtesy of editor Mon- 
teleone and Avon and my spirits are 
brightened and my hopes renewed. 
By golly, here’s an anthology that’s 
really worth its five dollar price tag. 
Here’s proof that there are good 
short stories being written today. 
You just gotta know where to dig to 
unearth 'em. Monteleone obviously 

Of the twenty-one tales included 
here, there are zero - count ’em - 
ZERO literary lemons. Certainly 
some of the tales don’t measure up 
to others, but every single story in 
Borderlands 2 has something to 
recommend it and at least half say 
something that you won't forget a 
half-hour after you put down the 
book. In one of the creepiest of the 
lot, Breeding Ground by Francis J. 
Matozzo, a surgeon must come to 
terms with something inside his own 
head - an idea, an emotion ... and 
something else that’s more than a 
little unsettling. Down the Valley 
Wild by Paul F. Olson (who was one 
of the founders of the much-missed 
Horrorstruck magazine) is one of 
those (relatively) quiet tales of un¬ 
ease that Charles L. Grant likes so 
much, the kind of story that kind of 
lulls you along until it bites you in the 
end. And in The Potato by Bentley 
Little there’s a slowly crawling horror 
that impacts on the reader almost as 
well as it does the story’s 

Editor Monteleone's secret for 
putting together such a wonderful 
anthology is his willingness to leave 
no stone unturned in his search for 
the "year’s best." Most of the Bor¬ 
derlands stories have come from 
authors who’ve yet to taste the "big 
time." There are tales by such 
names as Rex "Slob" Miller, Joe R. 
Landsdaleand (surprise!) Charles L. 
Grant, but it’s pretty obvious that 
future editors of anthologies of dark 
fantasy - if they are going to per¬ 
petuate the genre and not merely 
sustain it haphazardly - are going to 
have to follow Monteleone's ex¬ 
ample and look to new horizons and 
new names with fresh ideas dripping 
from their poison pens. 

Informative, concise and written 
in a punchy, no-nonsense style, 
Poverty Row is more entertaining 
than most of the films Ray writes 
about. Some of this ground has al¬ 
ready been trod before e.g. Roger 
Corman, Sam Sherman, but for 
those unfamiliar with their work, 
these chapters will serve as an ex¬ 
cellent introduction. Ray’s own 
bemused reflections on his strug¬ 
gles to establish himself make for 
some of the most beguiling reading 
in the book. He's certainly come a 
long way from The Brain Leeches, a 

Borderlands 2 

ed. Thomas F. Monteleone 
Avon Books (1991) 

by Randy Palmer 

Every year there are a number of 
horror fiction anthologies released 
by publishers big and small and 
every year I’m disappointed. Be¬ 
cause no matter who publishes the 
damn things - or for that matter, who 
edits ’em - I still end up reading 

Weil, here is a qualifier: not every 
story in every anthology is drek. But 
many of them are, and I can’t figure 
why. When DAW Books releases 
their annual Year’s Best Horror 
Stories, you’d think there would be 
three or four clunkers at most. After 
all, "Year’s Best" means cream of the 
crop, dunnit? 

Yet I sit here nonplussed, think¬ 
ing, is this really the best ? What a 
sorry state the tale of terror is in, if 
this truly represents the BEST. 


Bmtarian - Vol. 1 No. 4 

Between Thought And Ex¬ 
pression: Selected Lyrics 
of Lou Reed 

Hyperion (1991) 

The late, great Lester Bangs 
once, in one of his insane en¬ 
comiums to Reed, wrote that Lou 
would be remembered, if at all, as 
'the guy that gave dignity and poetry 
and rock ’n’ roll to smack, speed, 
homosexuality, etc." Well, maybe, 
but I was under the impression that 
it was Rimbaud who did that. Lou 
was however, one of the first rock 
and rollers to caress such subjects 
with cool detachment. This tome 
though is not about rock and roll, it 
is about poetry, lyrics Lou feels "can 
stand alone from the music for 
which they were originally written." 

So the question becomes, can 
the verse stand alone, is it effective 
poetry - work of heightened lan¬ 
guage full of mystery, metaphor and 
profundity? Well, there is a com¬ 
position called Murder Mystery 
which on record contained two sets 
of lyrics such as the following both 
spoken at the same time: 


for screeching and yelling 
and various offenses, lower 
the queen and bend her over 
the tub, against the state, the 
country, the committee, hold 
her head under the water 
please for an hour... 


relent and obverse and in¬ 
verse and perverse and 
reverse the inverse of per¬ 
verse and reverse and 
reverse and reverse and 
reverse and reverse 

Having fun yet? Learned any¬ 
thing? Has your life been enriched 
or ennobled in any way? Perhaps 
I’m being unfair let’s sample a sec¬ 
tion from Reed’s favorite lyric, The 

When he fell down on his 
knees after soaring through 
the air with nothing to hold 
him there It was really not 

cute to play without a 

This is doggerel and it matters not 
a whit that some of it has been pub¬ 
lished in The New York Times and 
The Paris Review or that some of it, 
like The Slide has even won awards: 

I've got nothing about gay guys 
But, faggots, just like a cunt. 

Years ago, wherever we would 
spot them, 

Handles down, Alabama, small 

We’d take the ha, ha, so ha, I, he'd 
Do the slide 
Do the slide 
Baby, you’d better slide. 

What’s missing is the confluence 
of music and verse which con¬ 
stitutes Reed’s genius. Either ele¬ 
ment extracted from the mix is like a 
truncated limb preserved in formal¬ 
dehyde, perhaps interesting as a 
museum piece but nowhere near as 
potent. Compelling when ex¬ 
perienced in viivo, it’s ironic that a 
rock and roller who has such 
resentment for the encyclopediac 
approach to the idiom is so willing to 
aid in his own mummification. 

Wiretap: Listening In On 
America’s Mafia 

ed James Goode 
Fireside Books (1988) 

How do these garbage-eating 
guineas stay in business? If these 
FBI taped conversations are to be 
believed, it’s a wonder these guys 
can run a lemonade stand much less 
a criminal empire. Because what we 
are shown is that our almost legen¬ 
dary Cosa Nostra is little more than 
a motley collection of vicious, semi¬ 
literate, pug-ugly thugs. Cretins who 
whack off brother, father, long-time 
family friends and then go out for 

And we’re not talking about lower- 
level minions like Benny Eggs or 
Baldy Dorn. We’re talking big shots, 

wise guys, made men like John 'The 
Dapper Don" Gotti, Fat Tony Salerno 
and Tony "Ducks" Corallo. Wiretap 
profiles twenty-five major players 
from the five New York Mafia families 
- the Commission which controls or¬ 
ganized crime in the U.S. - and the 
families from Boston, Philadelphia 
and Providence, each conversation 
prefaced with introductions identify¬ 
ing setting and characters. 

Perhaps the most interesting 
thing about Wiretap is the remark¬ 
able amount of hubris displayed by 
its players. Paul Castellano never 
suspected his Doberman patrolled, 
elaborately fenced and electronical¬ 
ly rigged estate was bugged when 
he bragged to a compardre that: 
"No one comes into Staten Island 
unless I say so." The two most 
powerful men in crime, Tonys Saler¬ 
no and Ducks, cut up in their social 
club, blithely unaware that the club’s 
phone, walls and front doorway 
were bugged, an incredible feat con¬ 
sidering the constant traffic in an 
extremely hostile neighborhood. 
Don’t they get it? The FBI has more 
muscle and intelligence working for 

So what it all boils down to is this: 
Don’t do business with the Mob be¬ 
cause eventually you’ll do some¬ 
thing to piss them off and then they’ll 
blow your head off and even if you 
somehow manage to stay on the 
good side of these deranged dagos 
the FBI will bug your car or your 
toilet and get the goods on you. In 
which case the Mob will have to 
whack you inasmuch as you have 
inside info and most likely will squeal 
to keep yourself from getting turned 
inside out in the slammer. Capice? 

Brutarian - Vol. 1 No. 4 

Trouser Press Record 
Guide (Fourth Edition) 

ed Ira Robbins 
Collier Books (1991) 

I know you think you’re pretty 
cool and with it but if you’re like me 
and have a day job you’ve probably 
thrown up your hands in despair by 
now after trying unsuccessfully for 
the last couple of years to keep up 
with the alternative music scene. 
Sure you subscribe to hip music 
magazines like B-Time, and Option 
and Maximum Rock and Roll, et al., 
yet inasmuch as the reviews in 
these zines always end up either 
describing a band you’ve never 
heard of as an insidious combina¬ 
tion of three of four other bands 
you’ve never heard of or in slang that 
is little more than code known only 
to the reviewer and his tiny coterie 
of friends, these assessments really 
are not much help. Occasionally, 
these hip publications will rave in 
such a mad dog style about a band 
that you’ll go out and buy the platter 
anyway even though the writer has 
left you completely baffled as to 

what The Hungry Muffdivers sound 
like. Oh c’mon, admit it, you’ve 
been suckered like this. You’re no 
different from anybody else you’re 
so hungry to hear something new, 
something different, something 
wonderfully wild and abandoned 
that you’ve bought something on 
the basis of having read something 
like this: "An hysterically solipsistic 
discombobulation by pixilated 
sesquepedalians." So you go to 
Tower, or H.R. Puffenstuff or 
wherever the hell it is you shop for 
music and you end up with . . . 

So where else can you go? To 
TV? Oh, to MTV and its Cutting 
Edge 120 Minutes? Don’t make me 
laugh. All those bands have already 
been signed to major label deals 
and even if they hadn’t, who wants 
to listen to a group that wastes its 
time making pretty movies employ¬ 
ing fog machines, empty 
warehouses and dancers of dubious 
gender? No, the place to go is The 
Trouser Press Record Guide with its 
1600 entries covering 2,500 artists 
and over 9,500 records. Yes there 
are performers like Madonna and 



collaborative works 
and more 

opening tuesday march 10 

6 to 9 pm 


4532 MAIN 

(816) 561-3311 

Frankie Goes to Hollywood who 
clearly do not belong here but 
you’ve made up your mind about 
frauds like these a long time ago 
and besides you’re going to buy 
this tome to discover bands like 
Sleep Chamber (. . . ritualistic in¬ 
dustrial music that works on both a 
shock imagery level and on a more 
intellectual erotic/occult plateau) 
and Ritual Tension (... a band that 
was somewhat overlooked in the 
rush to gush over such New York 
noise scene contemporaries as 
Sonic Youth, Live Skull and Swans) 
and to learn which rap albums 
belong in your audio library (let’s 
not be hidebound in our definitions 
of music there are some wonderful 
rap and hip-hop things out there). 
Whether you agree with Trouser 
Press' critical assessments is be¬ 
side the point. For Ira Robbins and 
his staff’s primary concern is in ac¬ 
curately describing the sounds and 
textures of this music in plain, un¬ 
adorned language (no rock speak 
for these guys and gals). Thus any 
conclusions as to the worth of a 
particular record or a band’s 
recorded oeuvre is really beside the 
point. So don’t get angry or upset 
if one of your musical favorites is 
cavalierly dismissed, this is a con¬ 
sumer guide bonehead not a critical 
treatise and don’t complain about 
being hoodwinked after purchasing 
a platter on the basis of a TP recom¬ 
mendation. If an LP is said to be 
filled with "speedy rave-ups burst¬ 
ing with frenetic drumming and 
sing-songy choruses" and you run 
out and buy it and end up hating it, 
blame yourself for being an il¬ 

There are some notable omis¬ 
sions - Frank Zappa, Marc Bolan, 
and if Hawkwind’s in here why not 
Black Sabbath, they’ve influenced a 
whole spate of young noisemakers 
- but you really can’t find fault with 
an alternative music guide with 
entries and career bios on 
hundreds of obscurities like The 
Pagans, The Electric Eels, ESG and 
Snivelling Shits. Well, maybe you 
can but then you probably sub¬ 
scribe to Rolling Stone and think 
Spin magazine is cutting edge read¬ 
ing material. 


Brutarian - Vol. 1 No. 4 

The Drug User: Documents 

eds John Strausbaugh and 
Donald Blaise 
Blastbooks (1991) 

by Glenn Sheldon 

I can guess what you’re thinking: 
Either this book is a propaganda 
tool for the War On Drugs, or this is 
a how-to manual for ingesting 
peyote and regressing to the sixties 
when the sky looked tie-dyed and 
brownies held all the ingredients that 
Alice B. Toklas prescribed. 

I was strolling the straight and 
narrow path when I stumbled across 
this book. Through my clean and 
sober haze, I glanced at the book’s 
list of contributors and my mind was 
blown, man! Two of my personal 
gods were included here; indeed, 
two individuals who haunt the first 
half of this century with their drug-in¬ 
spired genius. The first of these, 
Jean Cocteau, displayed his ba¬ 
lance during both periods of addic- 
tin and recovery. My second demi¬ 
god, Antonin Artaud, realized that 
for him recovery was impossible but 
manifest his genius throughout the 
course of his inevitible decline. Oh 
yes, for those of you who’d prefer to 
avoid these unsavory characters be¬ 
cause of their heavy duty aesthetic 
theorizing, there is also fine work by 
William S. Burroughs (couldn’t you 
have guessed?), Anais Nin, Mark 
Twain and Sigmund Freud. 

Burrough’s foreword is a wicked¬ 
ly funny and satiric poke at the politi¬ 
cal morality of the U.S.’s War On 
Drugs; a classic, not-to-be-missed 
work, a delicious appetizer for your 
head. Next, I turned to the work by 
Cocteau. Wouldn’t you do the 
same? Well if not, you must already 
be high! Anyway, Cocteau’s chap¬ 
ter is an excerpt from one of the 
most powerful works in literature - 
Opium: Diary Of A Cure. Out of his 
personal hell, Cocteau keeps as¬ 
cending with gems of such profun¬ 
dity that we end up believing him to 
be bewitched. In our best moments, 
most of us sound like Hallmark 
cards compared with exhalations 
such as: 

It seems to me that on an 
earth so old, so wrinkled, so 
painted where so many com¬ 
promises and laughable 
conventions are so rife, 
opium (if its harmful effects 
could be eliminated) would 
soften people’s manners 
and would cause more good 
than the fever of activity 
causes harm. 

In almost every respect, The Drug 
User is a unique collection of essays 
on enlightenment, chemical or 
otherwise, and discussions on 
opium, hashish, peyote, mescaline, 
LSD and marijuana. The sacred trip 
of the peyote as transcribed by John 
(Fire) Lame Deer is included and an 
invaluable piece by Dr. Albert Hof¬ 
fman who in 1943 accidentally took 
the first LSD trip while experimenting 
with lysergic acid derivatives in his 
search for a respiratory stimulant. 
Surprisingly, Mark Twain expounds 
upon the uses of the coca plant. 
Less surprisingly, Artaud discusses 
society's need for a population 
whose consciousness can - if not 
must - be altered for art’s sake be¬ 
cause everything is... shit!: 

You won’t be able to stop 
souls from being predes¬ 
tined for poison, whatever 
kind it might be: poison of 
isolation, poison of reading, 
poison of onanism, poison of 
repeated coitus, poison of 
the rooted weakness of the 
soul, poison of alcohol, 
poison of tobacco, of anti¬ 

That Antonin, what a party animal! 
Yet his Theatre of Cruelty seemingly 
pervades all of today’s art, with MTV 
just one exemplar of his concept of 
art as spectacle. 

In these times, it seems apparent 
that the fear of "otherness" pervades 
American culture and inspires 
hatred, violence, racism and clas- 
sism. If this book has one message, 
it must be that the "other" dwells in 
each of us and that mind-expanding 
(and mind-altering) drugs in releas¬ 
ing this "other" may result in a better 
understanding of ourselves. In 

other words, the beast you lash out 
at is a part of you too. 

Yet rather than promoting 
thoughtful intercourse about drugs 
and their possible uses in culture, 
society cowers beneath the mask of 
cautious morality with its attendant 
"Just Say No" campaigns. If, as 
Jean Cocteau says, the euphoria 
opium induces is superior to that of 
health, shouldn’t medicine and 
science abandon their development 
of curative technology to focus on 
rendering the drug potent yet 
benign? Case in point: It’s a very 
American morality that removes the 
B-vitamins (the protein complex) 
from beers, so that alcoholics - par¬ 
ticularly homeless ones - can more 
successfully suffer from malnutrition 
(Yes, real beer can and should be 

Defy the perverse cliches of our 
culture; just say YES to this book 
and start to think about what drugs 
could mean to and for society. And 
let’s hold out hope that The Drug 
User will provoke as much thought 
as the individual documents col¬ 
lected therein once did. 

Conjure Wife 

Fritz Leiber 
Ace Books (1981) 

What would you do if you sudden¬ 
ly discovered that your wife believed 
that you owed your success and 
well being to her abilities as a witch: 
to charms she had made, spells she 
had cast, potions she had mixed. 
Even more importantly, she main¬ 
tained that you would have been 
long dead by now, murdered by one 
of the many other witches who envy 
your marriage and begrudge you 
your happiness. Well, if you’re Nor¬ 
man Saylor (clever name for one 
about to take a fantastic journey into 
the unknown), tenured professor of 
sociology at a prestigious north¬ 
eastern university, you have a long 
talk with your wife, Tansy (from the 
Greek for immortality because the 
flowers of the plant do not speedily 
wither), the underlying implication of 

Brutarian - Vol. 1 No. 4 


which is that divorce or institutionalization is imminent 
unless every last gewgaw, withered parchment and 
voodoo doll is thrown into the fireplace. 

Tansy acquiesces but late that night as the last eye of 
newt and wing of bat smolders on the fire, a chill suddenly 
shoots through Norman, the room darkens, there is a 
"faint, mighty roaring in his ears" and suddenly he has the 
sense of standing "naked before something menacingly 

At that point, you’d most likely wake Tansy, tell her 
you’d been a misguided fool, humbly beg herforgiveness 
and even more abjectly beg her to start making with the 
hands and mumbling those strange incantations while 
throwing graveyard dirt on you. Norman, however, is a 
rational man, a brilliant professor and so he refuses to let 
his emotions or intuitions run away with him. 

Norman stands fast, even after getting a phone call a 
little later from a student who threatens to kill him and 
another call after that from a strange woman who begs 
Norman to ravage her body and then abruptly begins 
screaming curses and imprecations. 

No, to Norman this is all coincidence and so despite 
the fact that gargoyles start to move up and down the 
wall on the building opposite his office, that he is 
plagued by visions of mad truck drivers trying to run him 
down, and that his academic career begins to fall apart 
for no apparent reason, he refuses to believe dark forces 
are at work. When he finally comes to his senses, it is 
too late, for both Tansy and for himself. 

Conjure Wife, which was first published in 1953, is a 
suspenseful and well written story peopled with amusing 
stock figures. Leiber skillfully interweaves the hoary 
themes of conflict between reality and the imagination, 
sanity and insanity and logic and irrationality while rais¬ 
ing disturbing questions about what it means to be fully 
"human" and whether comfort and security in relation¬ 
ships is possible given the fact that we can never truly 
know or fully understand someone other than ourselves. 
This is the true stuff of nightmares and possibly the 
reason that for most fantasy fiction aficionados, Conjure 
Wife remains the most beguiling novel ever written on 
the subject of witchcraft. 


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Brutarian - Vol. 1 No. 4 

Brutarian Contributors 

JARRETT HUDDLESTON: This impoverished artist is believed 
by those behind the scenes to be the master puppeteer maliciously 
pulling the strings of . . . dom salemi in an insidious attempt to 
degrade and destroy him. Eaten up by the green-eyed monster, 

SANDRA SMIROLDO: Beloved of . . . dom salemi but believed 
by those same people behind the scenes to wear the pants in her 
unholy union with the man whose name must forever appear in lower 

STEVE JEFFRIES: Professes to be a friend of . . . dom salemi’s 
but doesn’t really give a fuck about anyone else’s problems. 
Earnestly desires all who recognize his genius to write to him and 
tell him so. 

CONRAD WIDENER: Mr. Widener wears the pants in all his 
relationships and consequently has little sympathy for . . . dom 
salemi. If Conrad was paid just a few pennies every time his work 
appeared in an underground publication he’d be a rich man by now. 

CRAIG LEDBETTER: The nicest man in the world and as such 
would deserve your money, but if you don’t want to make him feel 
guilty, send along with your cash a request for a subscription to one 
of his twin peaks of depravity, Asian or European Trash Cinema . 
Reportedly sent a pair of pants to . . . dom salemi with instructions 
on how to put them on. 

SALLY ECKHOFF: Once kissed . . . dom salemi, but when she 
discovered that he wasn’t wearing any pants that’s as far as it went. 
When she’s not writing highly professional pieces for The Village 
Voice she drops a few scraps Brut’s way. 

STATELY WAYNE MANOR: "The Literature Boy” who, in 
addition to being the Next Big Thing among wrestling managers, 
has been hailed as the Most Conceited Man In The World by 
supermarket tabloids on three occasions. A fine role model for . . . 
dom salemi. 

RICK CAZADORES: Edits the quarterly zine REVERBERA¬ 
TION. He recently interviewed K. Gordon Spector, the originator 
of the Mexican "girl group” sound. Purported to publish a fine 
fanzine under another name which briefly featured the work of. . . 
dom salemi. 

DOUG ALLEN: Has pissed away what little money he’s made on 
Steven as the result of a disastrous doll project (no, not girls, dolls 
- as in toys). Rumor has it that Doug is living in a refrigerator box 
in upstate New York with a character that looks suspiciously unlike 
. . . dom salemi. 

SCOTT CUNNINGHAM: Co-founder and editor of the politically 
correct but nevertheless entertaining World War 3 comic magazine 
has just taken on the position of house surrealist for Heavy Metal , 
a magazine subscribed to by . . . dom salemi. 

VIC STANLEY: Has been cited by no less an authority than Joe 
Bob Briggs as "a writer just beginning to realize what he can do.” 
Which means, of course, that Brut will eventually be unable to pay 
him the dollar per word he’ll be demanding from the perpetually 
exhausted bank account of . . . dom salemi. 

RANDY PALMER: Former associate editor for the long defunct 
Famous Monsters for which he still mourns. Wake up and smell 
the coffee, Randy; Forry Ackerman is about one hundred and 
twenty-seven years old and it’s all he can do just to get up in the 
morning. He’s through with the publishing business Randy, 
through, finis, RIP, vaya con Dios, hasta la vista . . . unlike your 
current meal ticket . . . dom salemi. 

CLAIRE RICHARDS: Angry young poetess who got even angrier 
when she didn’t receive the promised copies of an earlier Brut issue 
which featured her work. Just more fuel for that raging fire that’s 
burning in your shapely little belly, eh Claire? A fire which could 
never be extinguished by the likes of . . . dom salemi. 

FLICK FORD: Seems to have a little problem keeping jobs drawing 
strips for pornographic magazines. Which is surprising considering 
he limns the best trim in the business, often personified by "Lusty 
Tailspin," a character inspired by the pulchritudinous CID D. 
SCANTLEBURY, a sometime collaborator in Flick’s comic 
oeuvre. Cid would never ever entertain the thought of even the 
briefest of trysts with . . . dom salemi. 

GREG GOODSELL: Is preparing an interview with The Cramps 
which will appear in a future issue, and unlike other publications 
we will refrain from mentioning, the interview will be credited to 
Greg. Look for his work in the new Deep Red magazine and The 
Famous Monster Chronicles both of which will go largely unread 
by . . . dom salemi. 

JERRY JASINSKI: Was bom and raised in Detroit. Big fucking 
deal. His primary concern seems to be the discovery of the most 
efficacious means of extracting the price of a twelve-pack from . . . 
dom salemi. 

P. REEVES: Is, as evidenced by his work, a borderline 
schizophrenic, a condition which renders him thoroughly uncon¬ 
cerned with the ongoing plight of . . . dom salemi. 

TOM CORLETTE: Perpetrator of the Brutarian centerfold (not the 
idiotic background which engulfs it) is a friend of an acquaintance 
of . . . dom salemi. 

MIKE SCHAFER: A manic dissembler and creator of 
claustrophobic graphic gems who is curator of an upcoming small 
press show at Minor Injury Gallery, Brooklyn, an invitation to which 
will not be extended to . . . dom salemi. Mr. Schafer will be most 
upset to receive a $60 invoice for the half page ad we ran for him - 
minus the $7.50 payment we owe him for his half page comic. 


What? You think we'd PAY for 
the execrable drek we review in 
this MAJESTIC tome? THINK 
AGAIN! We expect to see our 
PO box stuffed with videos, 
tapes, CDs, demos, books, zines 
and soiled panties - and we mean 
PRONTO. Christ, the fucking 
Estonians are reading this shit! 
What are you? A bunch of burnt- 
out wackos from the joint? 
Don't you get it? We're already 


dom salemi: Is a modest, unassuming little man who would be 
shocked to learn that he bears more than a passing resemblance to 
. . . dom salemi. 


Betty Tage 

jj Killer Klown 

Terrific double issue of Exploitation Retrospect primarily 
devoted to the Kennedy assassination and concomitant issues. 
Ridiculously cheap at one dollar per. Don’t write a check, 
send cash or money orders to Dan Taylor, Box 1155, Had- 
donfield, NJ 08033-0708 . . . Eric Caidin of Hollywood 
Book and Poster and the legendary Johnny Legend are 
singlehandedly trying to bring back grind house viewing in 
LA with special double and triple features devoted to the likes 
of H.G. Lewis and Doris Wishman . . . Evangelist Robert 
Tilton is rapidly becoming a cult figure due to his insidiously 
insincere monetary solicitations and his blatantly phony glos- 
solalia act. This guy is such a fraud he makes Ernest Angley 
look like Sister Theresa by comparison. To keep abreast of 
happenings of this show business giant, it is suggested that 
you tithe one greenback for a sample copy of the always 
amusing unofficial Tilton Fan Club Newsletter. Ad¬ 
ministered by Brother Randall , 6102 B. Mockingbird, #374, 
Dallas, TX 75214 . . . Normally, self-styled punk music zines 
drive me to distraction, but Foster Child has a self-deprecating 
style and some street smarts which give their reviews the 
smack of authenticity. And it will only cost you one dollar to 
learn about promising bands, books, underground mags and 
trash film if you act immediately and write to 7635 March 
Court, Glen Burnie, MD 21060 . . . Craig Ledbetter has 
decided to take on the world of Asian exploitation film and 
toward that end has just published the first issue of ATC (Asian 
Trash Cinema). Nicely laid out and adroitly written, it is 
essential reading for anyone with even a passing interest in 
Oriental sleaze and bad film. For a single copy send $4.50 
(believe me it’s well worth it) to PO Box 5367, Kingwood, 
TX 77325 . . . Hard on the heels of its lubricous, full color, 
36 card, eleven dollar and ninety-five cent Betty Page set 
comes Shel-Tone’s Bloody Visions , a 48 card, black and blood 
red Mass Murderer collection. Sanguinarily written and dis- 
quietingly drawn by noted author {Forgotten Horrors , Car¬ 
nival of Souls graphic novel) and film critic Mark H. Price, 
the set is a must for those wishing to wean their young-uns 
from baseball cards (and all childish pursuits for that matter). 
That’s Shel-Tone that’s asking $11.95 at PO Box 45, Irvington, 
NJ 07111) .. . Fuck, National Lampoon. The funniest rag 
in America is the Rev. Ivan Stang 9 s Stark Fist of Removal. 
The Rev. is the founder of the Church of the SubGenius and 
Fist is the Church’s house organ. Published "para-annually," 
the Rev. and his followers produce for your edification and 
amusement over one hundred pages of rabid rants, deranged 
discourses, salacious short stories, crazed comics and in¬ 
vidious illustrations. There is absolutely NOTHING LIKE 
THIS ON THE PLANET and for that reason alone you should 
get Fisted. The Church thinks we here at Brut have a bad 
attitude, wait ’til you get a load of theirs. If you want to 
change your life, rush $3.95 to: SubGenius Foundation Inc., 
PO Box 140306, Dallas, Texas 75214. 


Brutarian - Vol. 1 No. 4 








tSt * 1 




155 = 


Thanx a lot for the mag. It was a surprise 
to get it and I enjoyed reading it, especially 
the movie and book reviews and "Steven." 
But unfortunately I can’t subscribe, I don’t 
have money for it. We still have Russian 
rubles here and therefore my monthly in¬ 
come is [little] more than $2. So $15 is a 
fortune for me [that] I do not possess yet. 

Evelin Mikenberg 
Tartu, Estonia 


you’ve touched our heart. We’ve made you 
a lifetime subscriber and are sending you 
two American dollars. Take the whole 
town of Tartu out for dinner, it’s on us. 

Mr. Big 

Brutarian Magazine ffe 



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