Tagline:

Reanimated. Rearmed. The Ultimate Rematch.

Entire Story in Fewer Words than Are in this Sentence:

Dolph and Jean-Claude convalesce, reunite with clothes on

Homoeroticsim:

Universally absent. With Andrei Arlovski on board I thought for sure we would witness a sweaty kimura or shirtless takedown at the very least but no, nothing substantial to report. Dolph and Van Damme exchange an uncomfortable moment before they man-wrangle that should be understood within the context of how poorly the Belgian has aged compared to his Swedish contemporary. In JC’s defense, he can still lob a pretty vicious pacemaker, er, haymaker when provoked. The pre-fight silence is awkward and Dolph, further deranged by his recent cloning, begins mumbling about how he wants to say something to his old private but can’t remember what. Perhaps, “Should we finally fuck now?” He never really spits it out but a “g00k traitor” also comes to mind. And what the hell was Dolph doing in this movie other than to be handed one of the greatest novelty deaths in the history of cinema? More on that later.

Corpse Count:

Elevated. At least 73 bloodied bodies flew across the screen in such relentless heaps I could hardly stay focused. As meticulous as I tried to keep my notes, the final count could very well be as high as 80. This movie is fucking violent. Aside from a bodyguard who gets rearranged by a car, virtually everyone else is shot, stabbed, blown up, or punched to death.

UniSol Corpse Count:

Six, including Dolph, who was onscreen for about ten minutes. The roughhousing between the 4th nameless UniSol and Arlovski (an NGU: New Generation UniSol) makes for a better MMA fight than I’ve seen in recent memory. Also, Andrei is 6’4″which is admirable, but he is totally wearing platforms because he lumbers around like a Belarusian Yao Ming.

How Bad Is It Really?

Compared to, say, The Return, it’s actually quite good despite taking itself a little serious. Wall-to-wall carnage coupled with fairly inoffensive acting and backed by an adequate budget makes for one hell of an entertaining straight-to-video. Much of the film is shot in a gritty, muted grayscale indicative of the fallout that permeates the setting and there’s some pretty competent fight choreography to boot. The score is unusually creepy for an action flick. It’s like Alien meets The Thing, but given the state of JC’s visage and the fact that the UniSols are repeatedly referred to as “freaks” it’s not entirely out of place. Sure, the plot is thin and predictable. A grungy rabble of Russian freedom fighters have abducted the prime minister’s children and taken them to the ruins surrounding the Chernobyl power plant, threatening to blow up reactor #3 if their comrades aren’t released from prison. Not exactly the safest place to sit around drinking vodka and waiting for demands to be met but we are talking about the Ukraine. For no legitimate reason the rebels are joined by a rogue American scientist and his pet Andrei “The Pitbull” Arlovsky.

Over in Switzerland, another scientist is helping JC attempt to live a normal life as part of a Universal Soldier rehabilitation program that clearly isn’t going well because he’s still spending most of his time moping around, assaulting people, and casting his trademark empty stare. We hear him grind through a few lines here and there but he is largely uninvolved until the end. A third really smart scientist has kept some random Gen-1 Soldiers on ice over the years so we confidently send them in to pacify the Chernobyl insurrection. They are all quickly dispatched by the former UFC champ– two gutted, one impaled, and one triangled into UniSol heaven. Fearing the worst, and because Eastern Europe has fallen into a state of limp-wristed compliance, the prime minister collapses and agrees to release some prisoners. Enter Van Damage.

While the splitting of his legs redefined the 80s action genre, I always thought JC was robbed of his Cobra moment, his Commando moment, that golden moment where he could abandon the flexing, training, tanning, and apply it to a greater purpose. Well, my friends, that moment has finally arrived. JC is abducted by the military and forced onto a treadmill, pumped full of horse semen®, and turned loose. All told he slices, dices, lacerates and emasculates his way through no less than 30 rebels before confronting Dolph and Arlovski. It’s an absolute joy to watch. In fact, I’m convinced that the Muscles from Brussels passed up a spot in The Expendables because he finally silenced the nagging little specter that’s haunted him since the heyday with this career-defining killing spree. At last we have our lobotomized butcher!

Novelty Death:

I guess it makes sense that JC would be lumpy and haggard at this point but I seem to remember Dolph being fed through a giant bale shredder in the first movie. Point is, our two legends rumble through the radiated ghost town in a clash that rivals any of the old classics, and without the banter. They punch and throw each other down dusty hallways and over crumbling walls for several minutes before crashing out of a window. At this point JC grabs a burr-encrusted pipe and slams it through the front of Dolph’s skull. Then he slides the barrel of a shotgun into said pipe and makes his own little Lundgrenobyl.

Stupid Political Content:

Holed up in the twisted industrial wreckage of the Soviet Union’s greatest technological folly, the Ruskies are portrayed as nothing more than disheveled drunks. One unfortunate stooge is so caked in soot he appears to have been spat out of a muffler. In America, however, if it ain’t broke don’t fix it because we get better with age. Not only did we win the Cold War but 20 years later we will rub it in by demonstrating that a reasonably fit 50-year-old can take down an army of hapless Dimitrovs and Pishtolovs with little effort. Not to be overlooked are the obvious benefits that will come with the advancement of biomedical gerontology.

Was There An Atomic Blast At The End?

No, but there would’ve been had JC not wrenched the detonator from reactor #3 and driven it into Arlovski’s back. The subsequent explosion is satisfying enough but the biggest blast is the one you’ll have watching this murder picnic.

What You Learned:

Got a couple of bullets lodged in your torso? Been toppled from several high places lately? Stabbed a few times? A light jog and some fresh air should clear it right up.

Tagline:

His battle to save the Alaskan wilderness and protect its people can only be won… On Deadly Ground.

Entire Story In Fewer Words Than Are In This Sentence:

Fringe-clad Eskimo sympathizer embraces clean energy, beatdowns ensue.

Homoeroticism:

It takes a genuine moment of scrutiny to unravel Seagal’s latent and complicated homosexuality. Erich and I have been at slight odds over the years on the subject, yet I think we can both agree that On Deadly Ground is Steven’s directorial tribute to 80s action. The film was released in 1994 but make no mistake, despite its renegade reformist agenda, this is 80s action through and through, the final languid gasp of an all but dead genre. Seagal’s obsession with testicles has never been more fervid; he kicks, punches, prods, and shoots no less than five pair throughout the movie. After the requisite bar fight, Seagal challenges a mouthy oil worker to a depraved game of hand-slap during which he belittles the poor guy, questions the legitimacy of his “big balls,” and then sadistically punches them. Let’s face it, the dude prefers to be physical with other men rather than shoot them outright. Furthermore, not once does he show any interest in the Eskimo chief’s daughter who is more than fuckable.

The gayest scene, possibly the gayest of Seagal’s career, occurs when he is sent on a sacred journey courtesy of the Eskimo elders. After wrestling a grizzly bear, he finds himself in some kind of candlelit caribou skin enclosure. On one side is a bejeweled and beautiful native woman writhing naked on a bed, heaving her sweaty breasts in his direction. On the other side is a leathery shaman hag holding a rawhide shaker. Seagal takes a long look at the exotic seductress beckoning him to join her, then turns back to the pruned old woman. He shoots a final glance at the come-hither vixen and then we witness something remarkable. We see Seagal put his hands together and literally begin to pray. Not to pray the gay away, mind you, but to pray that the bewitching little harlot disappear and leave him alone forever. And so she does!! He opts to speak with the ancient broad to complete his spiritual transformation and be reborn. That, my friends, is fucking gay.

Corpse Count:

27 bodies stack up pretty quickly in the latter half of the movie, putting it right up there with Marked for Death as one of the bloodiest Seagal flicks in the archive. We see people shot, tortured, stabbed, burned alive, and one unfortunate bodyguard is cudgeled with a whale bone. Moreover, there are plenty of trademark ass-drubbings to be found amid the carnage. Arms are snapped, wrists are reconfigured, and fingers are shaped into various letters of the alphabet.

How Bad Is It Really?

With Michael Caine, John C. McGinley, and R. Lee Ermey on board, it can’t exactly be bad, can it? It’s absolutely ludicrous, yeah, but not bad. Kill Switch is bad. This is actually one of my favorite early Seagal films because the preposterousness is taken to unexplored dimensions. During the first half of the movie you have Seagal shoveling his anti-corporate, anti-oil, pro-environment propaganda down your throat and in the second half you have twenty or so murders, several of them novelty deaths, accompanied by a half-dozen large explosions. It’s all very confusing. The directing and acting aren’t completely unbearable but there are several sluggish and unnecessary scenes that drag the running time to an hour and forty minutes. The dialogue is typically heinous, even laughably self-righteous at times, and Seagal’s acting is, well, rheumatic at best. Sadly, a majority of the action takes place toward the end of the movie so we must first listen to Seagal’s theories about manhood and all the fucking Eskimo platitudes concerning eagles and bears that amount to nothing more than slant-eyed sorcery.

The hilarity revolves around Jennings (Michael Caine), an unscrupulous oil baron who is set to launch Aegis-1, the biggest refinery in the world that happens to look like the control tower of an Imperial Star Destroyer. The problem is that he is using faulty preventers because he is shady and because the land rights will revert back to the Eskimos if he can’t get the refinery running on time. Forrest Taft (Seagal) works for Jennings as some kind of supervisor but when he discovers the truth about the preventers, Jennings has him killed. Or so he thinks. Forrest is saved by the Eskimos who nurse him back to health, teach him to be one with the animals, send him on a mystical pilgrimage, and give him a snowmobile. After collecting all the irrefutable evidence he needs to topple the oil company, Forrest ruthlessly and efficiently butchers Jennings and all of his cohorts before blowing up the refinery. Why take it to court, right?

Pre-mortem One-liner:

Forrest lassos, yes, lassos Jennings at the end and strings him up for a final face-to-face.

Jennings: “Shoot me, you son of a bitch!”

Forrest: “I wouldn’t dirty my bullets.”

Chief’s daughter: “Dirty one for me, Forrest!”

Also, this chilling exchange:

Chief’s daughter: “Who are you calling?”

Forrest: “I just gotta reach out and touch someone.”

Stupid Political Content:

Christ, where to begin? It’s almost too asinine to contextualize. We’re bombarded with the tired notion of the noble savage at every turn. The harmonious, peace-loving Eskimos are at the sinister whim of a diabolical oil company with no concern for the environment. Realizing the error of his ways, Forrest is taken into their tranquil world and reinvented as the man-bear, a spirit warrior, he who will bring peace to the natives. Seagal not only plays the hero but also the role of philosopher, a sort of logician of the last frontier. He’s constantly asking profound questions like, “what does one say to a man with no conscience?” and, “what does it take to change the essence of a man?” These are questions with which I still grapple. Oddly enough, after returning from his enlightening journey to the spirit world, he promptly denounces all the “hocus pocus” Eskimo wizardry in favor of a calculated, murderous rampage.

There’s loads of anti-oil petitioning to be found. The natives suffer because the land is being raped and the water steadily polluted. The wildlife of Alaska is being driven from its natural habitat and Eskimo babies are arriving to mother earth with strange anomalies. Various cancers have stricken the tribe. Hell, even the chief himself is gunned down by one of Jennings’ goons in a supposed act of self-defense when obviously the chief is the oldest living human being on the planet. Steven just completely hurdled off the deep end with this one, which brings us full circle to the preeminent speech. Originally eleven(!!!) minutes in length, the studio demanded that it be condensed to just under four presumably because members of the screening audience had burst into insuppressible laughter, then clawed their own eyes out. We see a clichéd montage of oil-slathered birds, crop dusters, gasses spewing from corroded pipes, decomposed animals— all while Seagal speaks to us wearing a breathtaking fringe jacket flecked with turquoise beads and other hallowed trinkets. “How many oil spills can we endure?” he asks. “The plankton is dying!” On and on we go before Seagal finally breaks down into a meandering tirade about how our children are being genetically damaged. Did I mention Billy Bob Thornton is in this movie?

Novelty Death:

There are several worthy candidates but I’m going with the death of Hugh (Richard Hamilton) for two reasons: first, the absolute hilariousness of the whole ordeal and second, its stupid political content. So John C. McGinley and Thorgrim from Conan break into Hugh’s house to retrieve some EPA files for Jennings. Hugh won’t budge so they flatten his fingers with a whale bone and sever his leg with an industrial pipe cutter. He moans and rolls his eyes in what is possibly the most unintentionally funny bit of acting I’ve ever seen. As this is all happening we’re treated to a slow pan away from Hugh’s face, up and out of his cabin window toward the pristine snow-capped mountains in the distance. This is what courageous people will endure to protect the environment.

Was There An Atomic Blast At The End?

No, but there were a fuckton of big explosions, the biggest of which occurred in my pants.

What You Learned:

Never pass up an opportunity to bang the chief’s daughter. Spotted Eagle, the earth is our grandma.

Mary, Cyborg

Not worthy of a last name, but certainly worthy of
recognition among the elite 80s action one-hit wonderfuls is Mary (Terrie
Batson), pictured here cradling her treacherous little sister in the 1989 Van
Damme classic, Cyborg. We see her
gardening. We see her sleeping. We see her fumble through what few lines she utters
and then we see her die. Though overshadowed by Debbie Richter through most of
the film, it’s our wide-eyed Mary who remains the driving force behind Van
Damme’s blank stares, his murderous intent, and above all, his absolutely
blazing, wildfire gayness. To put Mary’s importance in perspective we must
recall what is arguably the most homoerotic scene in 80s action history. During
an intimate moment by the campfire, Richter reaches into her shirt and presents
JC with one of her tits— a lopsided, leathery thing assuredly, but a tit
nonetheless. Without blinking, as if he were offended by the gesture, JC
reaches over and covers up the cleavage with more conviction than anything he
displays in his fight scenes. After denying Richter (and the viewer) the
pleasure of his taut Belgian ass, he quickly flashes back to none other than
Mary, the woman who persuaded him to give up the life, put away the knives, and
forever put away his cock.

Mary hires JC to escort her and her siblings out of the
plague-riddled wasteland, chock full of bandits, lowlifes, mercenaries, and
some of the meanest mullets this side of the Double Deuce. After finding a quaint cottage in the countryside,
she asks JC in the sweetest of voices to “stay awhile,” and so he does. Time
passes, they get to know each other, settle down, and presumably have sex,
though we don’t actually see any sex
as this is a Cannon enterprise.
Awkward sex is definitely implied though. So of course JC retires his weapons, trims
the roadkill on his head and relaxes his guard. Things appear tranquil for a
time; days, possibly even weeks pass until the “flesh pirates” show up and reduce
JC to a bloody mound of whimpering pulp. Shortly thereafter they tie him to
Mary and one of the children before hurling the trio to their muddy deaths at
the bottom of an abandoned well. JC survives the fall through sheer cast iron
will, emerging from the squalid pit with retribution on his mind, the kind of
retribution that demands swiftness, savagery, and many ounces of baby oil.

Mary’s death, while tragic and gruesome, is necessary to bring
our hero full circle and preserve his rippled abs. As a dutiful woman of the
80s action age she must die or be maimed, because to settle with a female is to
toil in emasculation. Mary pays with her life for her seductive transgression,
thus giving JC the option, the only
option, to reinvent himself in the combative arms of another sweaty, grunting
man. Be it her petite frame, her quiet desperation, or her ability to somehow
slip in and out of a southern accent, Mary must be given credit because, after
all, it is her memory that allows JC to kick through a boat mast and survive
his crucifixion. Mary indeed. From what I gather Terrie Batson has, sadly,
appeared in only three other movies outside of Cyborg as an “infected woman,” a “photo double,” and the all
important “street person.” It is also possible she may have been a background
dancer in Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles II.
Likely saddled now with a throng of ungrateful children, a demeaning job, and a
flabby husband, she can always return to her brief moment as our beloved Mary
in a time of true purpose and sacrifice—a time before the darkened, bottomless,
and boob-filled well of the 90s and beyond.

Released: 1991

Tagline:

He’s a cop. It’s a dirty job… but somebody’s got to take out the garbage.

Entire Story In Fewer Words Than Are In This Sentence:

Wop cop chops wops.

Homoeroticism:

Unlike, say, Hard to Kill, where Seagal seeks revenge for the murder of his wife, Out for Justice adopts the traditional 80s action premise where men fight and die for other men. After all, Gino Felino (Seagal) seems far more concerned with finding the man who killed his buddy than he is with saving his crumbling marriage. He also has a proclivity for punching men’s testicles. Generally speaking, it’s not above Seagal to attack the groin of another man in an effort to subdue him; this is a reoccurring theme in all of his films, like bar fights and tight jeans. In Out for Justice, however, we see Gino’s hands and feet dive into so many crotches that one can’t help but wonder if perhaps he’s doing it for other reasons. If you’re not convinced, his sleeveless, button-up v-neck vest will surely have you swinging both ways within the first fifteen minutes, particularly when it’s coupled with an impeccably stiff beret. At one point a prostitute asks Gino if he wants to fuck and he responds with an embarrassed, blushful chuckle. Also, the only boobies we get to see belong to a woman in the sprawl of rigor mortis.

Ultimately it’s the fight between Gino and Richie Madano (William Forsythe) that presents undeniable proof that this is indeed Seagal’s gayest film. In fact, they don’t even attempt to disguise the kinky role-play that’s about to unfold. Prior to the showdown, Richie emerges from a bathroom holding a gun to his own head.

Richie: “What are you gonna do? You gonna arrest me? Huh? I’m out of bullets!”

Gino (dropping his own gun, which may as well have been his pants): “That’s a shame, because those bullets could’ve saved you a lot of pain.”

Richie (smiling): “I like pain.”

What happens next should surely be considered among the most homoerotic fight scenes in 80s action history. We’re treated to a raunchy, five minute man-on-man S&M game that achieves a level of bloody perversion that would leave even Van Damme cringing. An array of toys are used throughout the “session,” including a butcher knife, a frying pan, a giant pepper grinder, and a corkscrew, all of which are applied to various parts of Richie’s body. Holy shit, you simply have to see it to believe it.

Corpse Count:

I notched off 22 gratifying corpses, which puts the movie on par with the three that came before it in terms of murder. What really makes Out for Justice shine above the others is the sheer number of savage ass-thrashings that Seagal distributes to various guinea slime. Clavicles are snapped like twigs, wrists are contorted, heads are bludgeoned, arms are reduced to puzzles of bone, and Seagal kicks a man so hard into a brick wall that he very well could’ve died. Wait, of course he died, so let’s put the final tally at 23.

How Bad Is It Really?

If by bad you mean badass, then it’s pretty bad. Next to Under Siege, this has to be considered the best Seagal flick in the catalogue. The action is top-notch and the beatdowns are of the highest caliber, especially the butcher shop brawl. My main problem is that while the film is only 91 minutes long, Seagal’s frightfully unbelievable Italian accent and cadaverous acting make it seem well over two hours. It doesn’t help that much of the violence is saved for the last half so we’re forced to listen to Gino’s long tirades about “da neighbwahood” and how he’s “fookin’ oopset becwause his bess frund Bobby Lupo diedah.” It’s fucking dreadful— funny for ten minutes, yes, but don’t insult me. Most of the dialogue is understandably atrocious, the deliveries are shocking throughout, and every possible Guido cliché is thoroughly exhausted. While it provides several unintentionally hilarious moments, the whole Brooklyn wiseguy sentiment shifts from amusing to unbearable so quickly because Seagal and director, John Flynn, somehow thought they were remaking The Godfather rather than a mindless action romp. As a result, Seagal is forced to act for long periods without hurting anyone. Not a good idea.

It’s not possible to convey how bad Out for Justice is without mentioning William Forsythe, who is so greasy his mustache looks like a giant, glistening leech. While Seagal probes us with the wooden end of the acting stick, Forsythe rants and raves to the point where they probably should’ve just gone ahead and cast Jack Palance for the role. At the center of the movie is Forsythe’s character, Richie, a mid-level mobster who drives around in a humongous white Lincoln smoking crack and yelling at his posse. After murdering Bobby Lupo (Gino’s buddy), Richie hits the road to settle various scores, buy deli meat, shoot John Leguizamo, and find more crack. Gino sets out for revenge by asking the Captain for an unmarked car and a shotgun, then proceeds to drive around looking for Richie. The mob, realizing that Richie has become somewhat of a loose cannon, sends out their own goons to drive around and join the hunt. Literally the first fucking half of the movie is spent showing people driving around!! There’s so much driving, in fact, that not one, but two montages are employed to speed things up. In the end, though, any grievances should rightfully be cast to the wind when Gino pins a man’s arm to the wall with a meat cleaver.

One-Liner:

Richie’s sister, Patti (Gina Gershon) manages the Madano family’s nightclub. Naturally, Gino comes around looking for answers and sits Patti down for a heart-to-heart.

Gino: “How you doin,’ Patti?”

Patti: “I can still get it wet. How ‘bout you, Gino?”

Gino: “Me? I can’t believe you can still eat with that mouth.”

Stupid Political Content:

This might be the most left-wing of the pre-On Deadly Ground Seagal films. He shows his animal rights activist side in a scene where a man driving in front of him suddenly throws a puppy from the window. Gino locks the brakes, picks up the puppy, and names it “Coraggio.” I know, right? Despite his alleged real life bigamy, Seagal also shows a soft spot for the womenfolk when he clobbers the shit out of the film’s only black guy— an abusive pimp. But make no mistake, our beloved Gino is no racist, he speaks three languages and cares about his multicultural community. On that note, there’s plenty of predictable and stereotypical neighborhood mob politics to go around. Gino always wanted to be a gangster but because his father was a hard-working Italian immigrant, he wound up on the force, etc. His fellow cops can’t be trusted because they’re obviously in cahoots with the mob, etc. Other than that it’s pretty standard 80s action-style rogue cop gets bad guy because the Captain is old and stupid.

Novelty Death:

Gino plunges a corkscrew into Richie’s forehead, killing him instantly. Then he shoots Richie’s corpse three times, killing it instantly. Also worth noting is the final shootout where he shotguns a man’s leg in half and it looks fairly realistic.

Was There An Atomic Blast At The End?

No, but Gino confronts the puppy-dumper, grabs him, turns him around, bends him over, and kicks him in the nuts from behind.

What You Learned:

To hell with your family— just be nice to animals, hookers, and the Bobby Lupos of the world.

Released: 1989

Taglines:

A team is not a team if you don’t give a damn about each other.

There’s a kind of inner strength you never know you have…until it’s ALL you have.

Entire Story In Fewer Words Than Are In This Sentence:

Enough pull-ups can, and do, conquer centuries of tradition.

Homoeroticism:

Because the film came out in 1989 rather than 1985, there isn’t as much blatant gayness as there are subtle intimations of it. Alex Grady (Eric Roberts) is 40 years old and lives with his mother so he’s likely a closet homo. We rarely see Sonny, the Italian, wearing a shirt and the training montage has as much sweat and grunting as anything you’d find in Rocky III. The core of the homoeroticism is best defined by the unusual tension between Tommy and Alex that develops throughout the movie— a fruity tension. Always coming to each others’ emotional and physical aide during the months of training prior to the tournament, their relationship culminates in a rather steamy incident during Grady’s fight. After dislocating his shoulder, Grady ignores the pleas of his coach (James Earl Jones) and urges Tommy to pop it back in so he can continue the match. He screams, “Pop it, Tommy! Pop it, Tommy! Pop it! Pop iiiieeeeeeaaaaaaaaah!!!” as Tommy straddles the flaccid appendage and thrusts it into place with a passionate groan. Unfortunately there was no time for them to cuddle afterward, not with the tournament still on the line. Hell, I didn’t even realize I had a boner until I stood up to make another drink.

Corpse Count:

Absolutely nobody dies during the film but it’s revealed to us, via several flashbacks, that Tommy’s older brother was killed by the feared captain of the Korean National Tae Kwon Doe Team in a previous tournament. The appalling lack of murder was partially assuaged with a bar fight that would make Patrick Swayze grow his mullet back.

How Bad Is It Really?

Not so much bad as it is downright silly. Ok, it’s pretty god damn dreadful even without Eric Roberts shamelessly overacting at every turn. Basically, the U.S. National Karate Federation picks five of its top fighters to face off against five of Korea’s finest Tae Kwon Doe masters in a full-contact tournament. Why? To prove that with a little grit and determination, America can rectify the catastrophe of the Korean War by beating the filthy little slopes at their most sacred and enduring practice. Before I go further, apparently we’re supposed to just bend over and accept that James Earl Fucking Jones is qualified to coach the national karate team. The guy is pushing 300 pounds for god’s sake! He’d sooner explode his femur than execute anything resembling a roundhouse kick. Anyway, the Americans have three months to prepare themselves during which they take grueling jogs around the track and do dozens of crunches in between long periods of laying around complaining.

The team consists of a single father and part-time mechanic (Alex), a dumb Italian from
Detroit (Sonny), a Buddhist who meditates in orange sweats and a poncho (Virgil), a bigoted redneck (Travis), and a Korean-American kid from
Fresno (Tommy). Their opponents are five identical men who have done nothing but study Tae Kwon Doe together their entire lives. The most important thing to mention here is that Travis is played by Chris Penn. Yes, flabby-assed droopy-lipped Chris Penn (R.I.P.) who is somehow more unbelievable in his role than James Earl Jones. Although he pisses away any credibility the movie might’ve had in terms of realistic martial artistry, Travis happens to be the most entertaining character because he embodies what real Americanism is all about— laziness, cultural insensitivity, arrogance, and a red-hot love for country music.

Realizing that they have no chance against the Koreans, the Federation hires a white woman (Wade) with a degree in Eastern Philosophy to strengthen the minds of the Americans while James Earl Jones sees that their muscles are well-oiled when they jump rope. Conversely, we see the Koreans train by breaking shit, doing butterfly kicks, smashing bats across their shins, and ridge-handing tree trunks in the snow. In one of the more preposterous scenes, and there are many, Wade tells the team that in the event of a tie, the fighters will have to break a stack of concrete plates to determine a winner. This way of deciding things is referred to as, “Eastern Rules.” The team looks on in disbelief, utterly perplexed as if they’ve never broken so much as a coffee mug in their lives. Are you kidding?! These are
America’s best fighters?? I had to break wooden boards to get my fucking green belt when I was nine! This movie is retarded. On that note I should mention there is a brief training segment where Tommy is demolishing a punching bag while wearing a red leather jacket that’s virtually identical to the one Michael Jackson wears in Beat It.

One-Liner:

Travis insults Asian cuisine, or white rice, one day while the team is eating lunch, then proceeds to mock Tommy’s beveled eyes and his small penis. Later, he gets in Tommy’s face and asks if he’s afraid.

Travis: “I think you’re scared…. So what about it? You yellow?”

Tommy: “Obviously.”

Another one-liner worth mentioning occurs just before the massive bar brawl where Travis steals the local tough guy’s ladyfriend for a dance. Tough guy wants some action but Tommy steps in to prevent a fight.

Tommy: “We don’t want to fight. We’re out of here.”

Tough guy (referring to Travis): “I want his balls!”

Travis: “Yeah I thought you were missin’ a pair, asshole!”

Stupid Political Content:

Barring the whole Korean War angle, the training sequences and final tournament amount to nothing more than clumsy propaganda. The Koreans are portrayed as ruthless, inexorable machines that will stop at nothing to ensure America’s dishonor while our boys are shown as real men with real feelings who, despite their differences and concealed lust for one another, pull through to become team players. In the climactic tournament, which is hosted by Ahmad Rashad of all people, both Virgil and Sonny get their asses handed to them while Travis manages to squeeze out a draw. Take a moment and imagine Chris Penn throwing labored karate chops and back kicks and you’ll sleep better at night. Sadly, he comes up short in the brick-breaking contest because obviously he’d never had any practice in his complete martial arts career or ever in his life.

Alex, despite his gimpy shoulder, comes back triumphantly to win the fight because that’s what Americans do. We win. But the real politics unfold during Tommy’s battle with Dae Han, the renowned and eye-patched Tae Kwon Doe guru who killed his brother, i.e.
America. After a long and bloody slugfest Tommy predictably reduces Dae Han to a helpless, staggering pulp. He flashes back to his brother’s death, looks Dae Han in the eye, clenches his fists, readies the vengeful deathblow, and doesn’t deliver. Time expires and he loses the match, effectively losing the tournament by one point. After the Koreans are crowned champions and given their medals, Dae Han quietly limps over to Tommy, strings the medal over his neck, apologizes, and offers himself to be Tommy’s brother. Everybody hugs, Eric Roberts cries, and roll credits. What the fuck?

What You Learned:

America can kill anyone and anything on this planet but we choose not to because we are merciful.

Well it’s about darned time the Finns hoisted their flag of
shame here in the States. And what better way to do it than in the form of a
belligerent Paganfest? The Euro version of the festival was clearly a huge success
and not only did it prove that Finland is a metal powerhouse, but it allowed a
ton of local acts like Heol Telwen and Bornholm to join the fun in Paris and
Budapest. But European enthusiasm is to be expected and I honestly didn’t bank
on a huge reaction here in Los Angeles.
I mean, Suffocation and Immolation pulled a pretty meager crowd at the HOB last
year and Ensiferum, as big as they are in Mulletsville, Scandinavia, aren’t
exactly a household name in the U.S. So obviously I was pleasantly surprised
that the show was virtually sold out. Eluveitie must’ve brought a small Swiss
village with them because the crowd definitely had a Euro vibe, i.e. lots of shirtless,
bearded fat guys. On the other hand, we’re talking about an all-ages gig at a
place in Hollywood that rubs up
against the slippery rear end of the West Side,
otherwise known as Boy’s Town, so there were plenty of requisite scenesters and
rabbles of uppity children roaming around the venue as if they had somewhere
else to be.

There was also a large black man in attendance, which was totally
cool but, frankly, he might as well have been a fucking cave troll. In yellow
spandex. Hell, I was less conspicuous
when I sat down for ribs and grits at Beans
& Cornbread in Detroit a
few years ago. I suppose it didn’t help that he was a punk rocker wearing a plaid
jacket over tourniquet-tight jeans at a Paganfest. Of course we all know that
Ensiferum, Turisas, and the rest of the ticket are not racist bands by any
means, but let’s be realistic here. This tour is a celebration of pre-Christian
Germanic/Scando culture and heritage that doesn’t include any bible-thumpers as
surely as it doesn’t include any blacks. Because it’s a lot like Larping, though,
as in it’s all a simulated event, the sole black dude and the three
well-dressed, and possibly homosexual, Latinos hanging out in the back provided
an interesting sort of post-historical humor to the whole ordeal. Sadly, there are followers and practitioners of this
type of music who remain deluded racists. Apparently one of the Paganfest shows
in Germany was
almost cancelled due to fears that Ensiferum were Nazis. These unfortunate
people come with the territory and only represent an insignificant and ugly
portion of metalheads. Other than, you know, the literal ugliness of metalheads
in general.

We got there just in time to catch Eluveitie from Switzerland.
I hadn’t heard anything from their latest album prior to seeing them live but
these guys seriously owned the show. Their immense stage presence is due mainly
to the fact that they’ve got eight
people jumping around, including two reasonably attractive females (a shocking
rarity in the metal world, I know), a gargantuan front man sporting a
dreadlock/male-pattern baldness combo who plays six different instruments, and
a pair of tattooed twin Viking brothers! They’ve got bagpipes, hurdy-gurdies,
fiddles, flutes, you name it, and they still manage to keep it totally metal. Even
with everything happening it sounded clear and concise, probably because these
people actually know how to competently play the array of instruments. Let me
talk about the beer-fueled Kirder twins, though, because they are simply
out-of-control awesome. Hopefully somebody in the movie industry was at the
show because they’d be a huge hit as Rexor and Thorgrim in the eventual remake
of Conan the Barbarian. How often do
you get to see a pair of kickass twins in the same band anyway?

Next up were Tyr, the sword-swinging quartet from the Faeroe
Islands charged with the difficult task of following Eluveitie’s impassioned
performance. They failed to achieve. Not because they are bums, weaklings, or
cowards, but because their primitive Viking hymns inspired few to rally in
heroic battle cries and many to retreat to the bathroom or bar. They also don’t
have any twins in the band. It’s not that they didn’t put on a decent show or
chant a few catchy choruses, they just lacked the liveliness that your average
barbarian horde needs to display in Hollywood.
But they are island dwellers after all, and therefore unable to achieve
on a level field of play.

If anything good emerged from Tyr’s performance it was Turisas, swathed in red
warpaint and assorted pelts, vigorously sweating through the set like proper
Vikings. You’d think it would get uncomfortable wearing all that shit on stage
but Turisas are unrelenting in the historical accuracy of their cause,
including a firm belief in slaying traitors. They also played a triumphant
chain of material from The Varangian Way and readied the crowd for
Ensiferum’s arrival. As far as I recall, the bands were using the same
equipment (Peavy 5150 heads through Randall cabinets, which sounds hard as
nails) so all Ensiferum had to do was string up their banner and go to war. I’m
a pretty big fan of Victory Songs and Iron which they covered
fairly well, but no “Slayer of Light?!!” It was a huge disappointment as it’s a
trademark track and I’d somehow convinced myself they would close with it. Battle
axes across the room were lowered in defeat. Swords were sheathed, arrows were
quivered, the blood ran dry and the women went unmolested. On that note, I
don’t think anyone would’ve minded if Ensiferum played a longer set seeing as
how they were the headliners of the
festival and all. They’re clearly the most aggressive and pillage-inducing band
in the lineup and it would have been nice to revel in the drunken chaos for a
bit longer. Aside from that I’ve got no real complaints. Turisas and Ensiferum
rip it up live and will apparently be back next year for Paganfest part 2!! Hopefully
Korpiklaani can stop herding reindeer long enough to come with them. Overall it
was a great show despite the merch booth charging $30 for shirts and $20 for
CDs. Thank Odin’s beard for eBay.

Darkest Hate Warfront
– The Aftermath

Violent, blasting, and thrashy black metal from the Amazon. Who knew the Yanomamö were so necro? This is a good follow-up to SAK, better in fact, and delivers a healthy dose of unrestrained, screaming ferocity in the vein of Marduk, Gorgoroth, etc. Now don’t get it into your thick head that this is anything like Panzer Division because it’s far
more raw, revealing, and riffy, even bordering on crusty at times. If the speedier, angrier side of black metal is your preference, this is worth checking out. Pretty savage vocals, too.

Panychida –
Paganized

Czech black metal with the sincerest of popeye vocals and the cheesiest of folky melodies. The sad part is that some of the riffing is actually pretty groovy and cool, complemented by a sweet guitar sound and musicianship that you wouldn’t expect from such an underground outfit. Inevitably, all is ruined by the sudden tooting of some of the more ridiculous synth flutes and hokey piping I’ve ever come across. The folk elements just don’t fit here— they’re corny, and coupled with vocals that would make Abbath jealous, the whole album becomes more of a merry black metal comedy than anything resembling sinister. Somehow, though, I’m still finding it hard not to frolic along to this.

Vreid – I Krig

The reanimated corpse of Windir is a band any black metal
fan should be aware of. While I’m not sure I like it more than Pitch Black Brigade, Vreid mix it up a bit more this time around, particularly with the pummeling Vaepna Lengsil. On that note, they’re starting to remind me a bit of Tulus, which is generally a good thing. There’s really not much else to say. If you like simple, no-nonsense, mid-tempo black metal, this pretty much fucking rocks.

Impaled Nazarene
– Manifest

Soaring above the semi-flop that was Pro Patria Finlandia, Manifest is a return to the proper ass-raping, amp-blowing, urethra-shredding sado metal that we’ve all come to expect from Impaled Nazarene. This is easily their sickest and most punk-infused release to date. Relentlessly punishing from start to finish, each song cuts a fat rail of meth-addled mania for the brain to fry in. Hell, I’ll go as far as to say it’s their best because we all know Imp Naz suck when they’re on the comedown.

Demiurg – Breath
of the Demiurg

Chunky, Lovecraft-inspired death metal from Sweden.
How many bands will Dan Swanö be in before he kicks? The good part about Danny being involved is that you can expect the production to be good, if not great most of the time. Unlike, say, Bloodbath, Demiurg weave a more old school vibe through the music. And unlike, say, Evocation, Demiurg doesn’t completely suck shit-collared cock. But unlike, say, Comecon, Demiurg didn’t employ the services of Martin van Drunen, which is a shame because Rogge sounds like Åkerfeldt with a cold. The guitar certainly bears remnants of the classic Swedish style but there’s no direct and shameless Entombed or early Grave buttgobbling here, just solid death metal with a Scando twist.

Master – Slaves
to Society

I can’t believe these fogies are still around. Wait, yes I can. I’ve never been a big fan of Master due mainly to Speckmann’s vocals. Let’s face it, they’re sort of constipated and lame, and I suppose they’ve just never really sat well with me. The lyrics have always been awful to boot. For some reason I’m not minding the vox as much on Slaves to Society, which is a terribly unimaginative album title by the way. The cover art is atrocious as well. This is the same old Master but Slaves feels like a throwback, which is probably why I sort of like it. Then again, it’s faster and more fluid than Four More Years. Ok, nevermind, get rid of Speckmann and you’ve got a pretty cool death/thrash album. Whatever. It’s fucking Master, dude. Who cares?

Rotten Sound –
Cycles

I’ve been disappointed with Rotten Sound ever since Under Pressure, which remains in my top 5 crust/grind albums of all time. Exit was mediocre and Murderworks, apart from the rad drumming, was fairly standard death metal in the end. With Cycles we hear plenty of insanely fast blasting with a good mix of UP-style crust riffing sprinkled in. This is still a grindcore album, by all means, as most of the songs don’t eclipse the two minute mark. With 18 of them, though, I don’t really feel short changed. The good thing about Cycles is that it should appeal to fans across the grind spectrum, from Nasum worshipers to Regurgitate fanatics. This kicks a lot of ass.

Arch Enemy – Rise
of the Tyrant

Arch Enemy has put out something like seven albums in seven
years and I’ve not been a fan of one of them. Sure, guitar work, uh huh, Angela sucks unless she is topless. Now then, who’s excited about the Wacken 08 Carcass reunion? Yeah, me
too.

Devil Driver – The Last Kind Words

Christ, these guys suck. I don’t blame the band; they’re only riding Dezzie’s coattails, but this is unspeakably, unforgivably horrid shit. A reason for Dez to expunge his inner demons? You guys should be ashamed of yourselves, selling your souls to tour with the likes of Dimmu? I wish nothing but annual Rocklahoma gigs for you in the next twenty years.

Disfear – Live The Storm

Tomas Lindberg’s old fashioned down home punk hillbilly
death n’ roll brainchild rules. It’s not as crusty as Misanthropic Generation but the production is crystal clear, the vocals are way sicker, and every song is headbangingly catchy. We’ve got sing-along choruses, twangy solos, bludgeoning Uffe Cederland groove riffs, skull-splitting drums, furious vocals, and, well basically the soundtrack to a good, drunken street brawl. Come December, this will surely go down as one of the best metal albums of 2008. I wish I lived in Finland because they’re playing some gigs with Rotten Sound in February. Mandatory listening.

American Gladiators 2008 is the greatest and most necessary remake in the history of television. Not only because it allows Laila Ali to pretend she’s a woman, but because it gives us common American folk a second chance to root for the everyman, the weekend warrior, the true American heroes like shark fisherman, Adam Levin. In order to fully comprehend the spectacle that is American Gladiators 2008, one must be familiar with the original version that aired twenty years ago. The show was more or less a culmination, no, wait, an explosion of the Reagan-inspired misogyny, racism, violence, and sweaty homoerotic fervency that saturated the movie and television industry throughout the 1980s.

Let’s be realistic, nobody watched the show to see the women compete and nine times out of ten, a black contestant was pitted against a white contestant. Hell, the only original black gladiator was portrayed as an untrustworthy two-face named Gemini who happened to suffer from Dissociative Identity Disorder. And remember Malibu? Kip Winger’s gay surfer brother from California? At its heart, the original American Gladiators was truly a shameless celebration of stereotyping, homosexuality and mullets, rather than a competition of any real substance or prestige. Reruns air every weeknight on ESPN Classic.

American Gladiators 2008 borrows many of the “events” from the original version but provides us with bigger sets, brighter lights, better looking contestants, better looking gladiators, and the opportunity to masturbate to Hulk Hogan’s mammoth biceps. Not surprisingly, as this is American Gladiators we’re talking about, all the sexism and stereotyping from the original version has carried over into 2008. Now, because Hulk Hogan is not at liberty to call the black contestants ‘lazy niggers,’ the viewer is forced to pick up on more subtle discriminatory cues. For instance, just after the women’s Gauntlet event, Hogan said “Okay, now we’re gettin’ serious because the men are up next.” What, the women’s events aren’t to be taken seriously? Is that what you’re saying, Hulk?? Agreed. In another segment, Crush says the Joust is her favorite event because it’s fun. Immediately afterward, the announcer seductively says “I wonder what else Crush does for fun.” Like, what?! This show is amazing.

The gladiators this time around share all the inflated stereotypical characteristics as the original batch, only somehow they’re less gay. Crush, for example, is totally hot, which you simply can’t say about any of the original female gladiators, who were all roaring, roid-addled berserker dykes. And what’s going on with Toa? Must he have the bone necklace and lavalava over his spandex? Apparently he’s The Rock’s cousin but he’s certainly one of the worst gladiators on the show. Also, his eyeliner is super duper gay. Fury is the one I’m iffy about. Is she a lesbian? She certainly looks like she hates men. How many tortured cocks have bled under the callous tip of her pugil stick? Hang Tough is apparently her favorite event— the only event, mind you, where she has an opportunity to wrap her legs around another woman. Justice and Mayhem are clearly the token, ugly black guys and don’t even get me started on Hellga. The only solid, undeniably intimidating gladiator is Wolf, who whips his mane around and howls every time his name is mentioned.

Let me take a moment to talk about the contestants. If anything can be said about the original American Gladiators, it’s that the contestants— mainly rednecks, lesbians, and poor blacks— were, for the most part, serious competitors. AG 2008 offers up lazy, heartless dregs of the lowest quality. What a sorry bunch of fucking pussy-footed amateurs. Chad Knight, the professional skateboarder, might have put on the most dismal performance of the opening night, scoring, what, two points? And Jessie Foster, the toilet paper saleswoman , injuring herself?? Pure comedy. Still, the contestants can’t be blamed entirely as two crucial things have changed since the original. One, it’s not the 1980s anymore; Paul Kersey is dead and Rocky is washed up, people. Rambo, on the other hand, is not. Two, virtually all of the events are lesser knock-offs of their previous molds. The Pyramid is now half its original size and the Power Ball goals are wider than Sequoias. Don’t these people know that only serious challenges like, say, a black gladiator or a more attractive woman, bring out the real American spirit to compete and conquer?

All in all, with gratuitous flexing still very much a part of the show, AG 2008 is 100% entertainment. Hopefully, if it lasts, they’ll introduce different events or revamp some more of the archaic ones. I also wouldn’t mind if some of the female gladiators were, well, less feminine. Zap never confused me the way Fury does. They must promptly fire Laila Ali because her interviews with contestants are worse than some of the performances. Unless she’s absorbing punches, she has no right to be on television. Honestly, I’d rather have her father hosting the show.

Could Josh Homme’s ego possibly be more bloated at this
point? “This is a song about fuckin’,” he says with a satisfied chuckle, surely
attempting to rile up a crowd who’d no doubt been bored stiff by the
unintelligible mess Mastodon made of their set. Well yukety fucking yuk, Josh,
but the joke’s on you because you’re a white trash pile of dusty,
desert-mongering rattlesnake shit, you swollen-headed twat. For starters, the
Nokia Theater seats about 7,000 people. Sure, it was a Monday night and tickets
were forty fudge-packing dollars, but there must’ve been a good 5,000 heads
milling around by the time Queens came on. Now if they
gave two shits about their unfortunate fans, they would’ve charged half the
price, played the entirety of Songs for
the Deaf, closed with a cover of Alan’s
Wrench, and promptly hung themselves backstage. But because we know Josh is
a smug, self-indulgent rockstar, they labored through most of the new gibberish
which half a liter of whiskey can’t even make interesting. It also appears that
the band just doesn’t care about playing live anymore because they’ve got
absolutely no stage presence. They looked tired, and so did the crowd. My
brother actually fell asleep.

But who can blame Queens for sucking?
The acoustics at the Nokia make the Whisky a Go-Go sound like the fucking Walt
Disney Concert Hall. Don’t even get me started on the outdoor bar/Wolfgang Puck
pizza tent, where a plastic sippy-cup of Jack n’ Coke was going for eight
dollars. Inflated prices and underwhelming performances aside, the most
infuriating part of going to shows in Los Angeles
is the hipster factor. They stream down from the surrounding Los
Feliz/Hollywood hillsides with the fury of a Wendol fireworm, making obnoxious
everything in their path. Half of the people at the show were there to be seen
rather than to see the show. Many of them mingled in the lobby with cocktails
held at a precise tilt, pinky fingers extended to the most annoying degree.
Mastodon, bless them, brought in enough scum to partially combat the scenester
influx. Unfortunately, they pulled just as many lanky hardcore kooks in stupid
Halloween costumes who’d never heard of the band before Blood Mountain.

Speaking of Mastodon, they were sincerely dreadful. Their
set was a long, muddled string of racket; I could hardly decipher one song
from the other. They tend to put on pretty good shows so I can only come back
to blaming the Nokia—it might be comfortable, clean, spacious, and wonderfully
lit, but fuck me if I haven’t heard more clarity at a high school talent show.
Masters of molten metal my ass! Now that they’re flourishing with big-dollar
backing and Hommeian endorsement, it remains to be seen whether or not they’ll
turn to complete shit. I hope not. What surprised me the most was the
predominant lack of groupie sluts. No whores at a Queens
show?? I’m sure there were gaggles waiting back stage on all fours, lubed asses
at the ready for Josh and his posse of idle drones, but the only strumpets I
saw were the requisite Halloween nurses. Sadly, they were the only people worth
seeing that night because Queens blew. Josh once said, “we want sex to bleed into the
music.” That’s great, bud, especially when
you’re the president of a 5,000 man sausage union for the night. You should be stripped, bound, and mercilessly flogged with the limb
of a Joshua tree.

Winds –
Prominence and Demise

It’s important to mention right off the bat that Eik rules. He was instrumental in the creation of the second Top Ten Most Ridiculous BM Pics and it’s evident that Winds is a talented, unique band in possession of refined songwriting skills found in few places across the metal morass. Still, I can’t get over the vocals; they are simply not working here. Rather, they fit occasionally, but when the altos and layering kick in, I grind my teeth a little. I’m fine with piano, violins, or hell, fucking trombones if you want them in your metal but they’ve got to remain moderated because, let’s keep it real here folks, they suck a majority of the time and end up being more of a nuisance than anything. Winds manage to pull it off in bits and pieces but most of the tracks are indistinguishable from one another. There is dire need for a great vocalist in the rhapsodic Arcturusian metal scene, but you won’t find him on this recording.

Obituary –
Executioner’s Return

Drops the axe on just about everything they’ve done since World Demise. Obituary’s sound has remained virtually unchanged since the beginning and ER is no exception. The difference here is we get the feeling that the band actually cared about what they were recording rather than just sputtering out the same bland horseshit that we’ve all put up with for the last ten years. Tardy has always had one of the freshest, most original voices in death metal and he’s somehow back in top form despite being a gargantuan bore to interview.

Dimension Zero –
He Who Shall Not Bleed

After a few goes, and drinks, I’ve realized that this is my least favorite Dimension Zero album. Sure, it’s hard to botch a relentless death/thrash attack but some of this shit is starting to sound like melodic Arsis cheese. Jocke’s reliable blackened snarling now sounds like every squealing, tapered jean-wrapped hardcore fag in the business. Not quite enough blast fills this time around is an additional letdown. If anything, it’s worth the “Staying Alive” cover. Yes, the “Staying Alive” cover.

Job for a Cowboy
– Genesis

Wouldn’t it be nice if Davy just shut the fuck up for two seconds? Must he fill every moment on the album with his inane jabbering? More or less standard death metal sprinkled with a bit of hardcore— choppy riffs, endless changeups, etc. Worth checking out if you’re sixteen and your nose is peppered with blackheads.

Impending Doom –
Nailed. Dead. Risen.

Christian death metal from Corona? First of all, Corona is a complete fucking cesspool so I can’t altogether blame these kids for finding Jesus to make sense of their miserable lives. However, the fact that they kick a bit of ass doesn’t absolve this impermissible blunder. Sheepism aside, if you like it bonecrushingly brutal, this is for you. Monstrous vocals, pulverizing breakdowns, meaty sledgehammer drumming, ridiculous song titles— this has it all. Early Fleshgrind, Origin, Disgorge, Dying Fetus, and Suffocation fans would have a good wank to this. Fun stuff.

Nocturnal Breed –
Fields of Rot

The new album from S.A. Destroyer (ex Gehenna/Satyricon) and his posse of Norwegian black-thrash metal degenerates. Fast, screamy, chaotic, riffy, tolerably produced, and carefully massaged with an old school touch. Reminds me of bit of Impaled Nazarene in their thrashier moments. It might not have longest shelf life in your metal collection (which should have a fairly high turnover rate) but you might need to hear this.

Darkthrone –
F.O.A.D.

A decent encore to The Cult is Alive only not quite as generically cool. Is it surprising to anyone that the last two albums are the least offensive dung Darkthrone has dredged up in their shit-shoveling career? Everyone knows that Panzerfaust would’ve been good if Nocturno hadn’t sounded like a drunken black metal derelict with Asperger’s, but this new sound they’ve perfected should’ve happened fifteen years ago. What they need to do is re-record some early material with the current production and wicked echoed vocals. These Shores are Damned fucking rocks, then, sadly, or predictably rather, the album crashes steadfast through the seven gates of boredom.

Death Breath –
Let It Stink

Fucking awful. Stinking Up the Night might have been a refreshing exhumation of the old Swedish style but this is nothing short of insulting. I’ve heard better 4-track demos in my day. Nobody cares about your hammy Wrath of the Corpse video you bedraggled fucking geezers! Please stick with what works or just stop.

Evocation – Tales from the Tomb

This might be the most blatant Entombed clone ever. So flagrant, in fact, that they cover But Life Goes On and do nothing to make it their own. What’s the point? Dan Seagrave cover art doesn’t hide the fact that this throats black cock. Embarrassing.

Limbonic Art – A Legacy of Evil

Every black metal fan should have nothing but respect for these two. Sure, they’ve had a few flops over the last decade like everyone else, but now they are back with a savage slab of unadulterated black metal sickness. Less symphonic atmosphere + more riffing blast madness = good shit. Of course there are a couple moments of goofy diddling here and there, notably on Twilight Omen, but by and large this is a worthy and evil comeback.

Monstrosity –
Spiritual Apocalypse

While I’ve always considered Monstrosity to be the weakest Floridian death metal link, this is inarguably their best album. Morrisound provides the goods so you don’t have to worry about shit production and plenty of scenesters, young and old, make cameo appearances. My main issue is with the new vocalist; he’s lifeless and so obviously trying to be brutal it becomes a bit laughable. Seriously, samples of Terry Schiavo’s vegetable groaning would’ve made for better listening. As decrepit as Benton has become in recent years, Monstrosity might have been wise in convincing him to whore out and keep the Florida pride at optimum gayness. Worth illegally downloading at any rate.

Korpiklaani –
Tervaskanto

Korpiklaani are truly ridiculous. You either love the accordion-laced Finnish folk metal variety or you don’t. Somehow, for me anyway, it’s impossible to not revel in this complete nonsense. As always, take with alcohol.

Ensiferum –
Victory Songs

This is a pretty solid effort. Should appeal to black, death, and Viking metal fans alike. It’s got a good mix of everything— enough blasts and battle themes to erect the cocks of the Unleashed, Allegiance, Enslaved, whathaveyou camp, as well as enough folky rhythms for any Finntroll,
Turisas, or Korpiklaani fanboy to enjoy. Underneath the war cries and chainmail is some pretty good songwriting and guitar work worth mentioning. The production is a bit thinner than previous outings but in the end, like every Ensiferum album, it has a few standouts, a few fillers, and a few
forgettables.

Gorefest – Rise
to Ruin

I suppose I’ll end this drunken rant with Gorefest. Rise to Ruin entered the Dutch album charts at #61!! I’m amazed what with all the diverse musical brilliance exploding out of the Netherlands these days. My love for Gorefest was shattered with the monumentally heinous Erase before it was spat and shat upon by the unspeakable atrocity that was Soul Survivor. La Muerte was a return to proper form musically but JC’s semen-gurgling remained as unbearable as ever. Does anyone actually like his vocals at this point? So here we have more of the same; everything kicks ass except for JC’s silly bubble-blowing gab. My advice is to stop being a stubborn old coot and hire a new vocalist you selfish twat. You’re killing your bandmates! Cheers.