Drop Dead Rock (Adam Dubin, 1996)

Even though the music industry depicted in this movie doesn't exist anymore (believe or not, in 1996, bands the world over would submit their music to so-called "taste-makers" in the hope that they would bestow upon them something known as a "record deal"), that doesn't mean Drop Dead Rock is irrelevant. On the contrary, there are still millions of deluded souls out there who possess very little in the talent department who expect to become to rich and famous. Only difference being, the scumbags who used to be in charge weeding out the talentless have been replaced by washed up has-beens and shiftless sycophants. Oh, I don't mean to imply the people who preceded the washed up has-beens and the shiftless sycophants were saints (despite the fact I called them scumbags), I'm just saying... Wait, what am I saying? Oh, I remember, the music industry is a cesspool, and this mildly satirical enterprise, co-written and directed by Adam Dubin ("Fight For Your Right To Party" and "No Sleep Till Brooklyn"), lands a few well-placed punches on its greedy, scab-laden face.

Woo-hoo! I just did a whole paragraph without mentioning Shelly Mars' surprisingly sexy stems, Shoshana Ami's jet black, Long Island garage-quality pantyhose, Apollo Smile's shapely calves encased in radioactive fishnets, Chelsey Parks' robust ex-porn star thighs, or the tops of Deborah Harry's tan stockings. I deserve a treat.

Seriously, someone give me a treat. Actually, you know who should give me a treat? Adam Dubin and his writing partner Ric Menello (Tougher Than Leather), that's who. You see, by reviewing this film, I'm giving it my stamp of approval. And in turn, increasing its profile in the cult movie universe. You could say, I'm a taste-maker. Except, I'm not a scumbag, nor am I shiftless sycophant (the jury's still out on my status as a washed-up has-been).

Anyway, I can just picture Adam Dubin and Ric Menello patiently wondering when Yum-Yum is going to get off his butt watch their movie.

Think about, their movie contains a lesbian rock drummer with amazing legs, a Long Island floozy who wants to either replace Vanna White on Wheel of Fortune or Dian Parkison on The Price Is Right, a brain-dead VJ who lounges like a goddess, an ex-porn star who continues to practice her fake moaning despite being an ex-porn star, and a middle-aged new wave legend... who proves she's still got it.

In other words, they must be thinking to themselves: If our movie contains such a high degree of awesomeness, why hasn't he watched it yet? Um, hello, it might have took a little longer than you expected, but I finally got around to watching your movie. And I must say, it was totally worth it.

Following the ups and downs of a Long Island rock band called "Hindenburg," the film, which premiered at a film festival in Aberystwyth, Wales back in 1995, opens with the band failing to gain any traction using traditional methods. All but blacklisted from the lucrative L.I. battle of bands circuit, Hindenburg are in desperate need of a break.

When their drummer dies after a light falls on him, their clueless leader, Chick (Robert Occhipinti), decides (after a brief run as a power trio) to audition a new drummer. Only, Dino (Todd Anthony), their clueless bass player, and Scratch (Riz Fairchild), their clueless guitar player, weren't expecting Chick to hire a chick. That's right, it's time for the gorgeousness that is performance artist Shelly Mars to make her presence felt.

Playing Andie, a take no shit lesbian (the best kind) who knows her way around a drum-kit, Shelly Mars wipes the floor with the other actors, as their charisma-challenged personalities simply crumble before the majesty that is Miss Mars.

Though, I have to say, Chick's girlfriend, Bonnie (Shoshana Ami), does wear tight purple pants (with a purple top and a purple scrunchie) in her first scene. And that does manage to undermine some of Shelly Mars' innate sex appeal.

Which reminds me, she may be sexy, but Andie bristles when Chick implies that she needs a makeover. Telling him straight-up that she's not going to be, and I quote: "Some half-assed wet dream to a bunch of slobbering orangutans in Metallica t-shirts," Andie makes it clear that she ain't no bimbo.

Speaking of bristling and bimbos, Bonnie bristles when Andie mentions the word "bimbo," but the latter is able to placate the situation by saying "no offense" (while gesturing toward Bonnie) immediately after saying the b-word. This allows Bonnie to say, "none taken."

My favourite non-tight purple pants moment during this sequence is when Dino tries to hit on Andie after she officially becomes a member of Hindenburg. The look of surprise on Dino's face when he finds out Andie is a lesbian is adorable. Things get even more adorable when Dino (a.k.a. Sheldon) says, "You like girls?!?" To which Andie replies, "Don't you?" Realizing that they both dig the ladies, Andie and Dino are now best buds for life.

Even though the new line up is gelling, the members of Hindenburg are still depressed about the lack interest in their music. That all changes when the band see a music video on television by Spazz-O (Ian Maynard), a punk rock singer who seems modeled after the likes of Ian Dury and Sigue Sigue Sputnik. Watching him perform his classic early '80s song, "Inseminator" ("I'm your inseminator... your midnight infiltrator"), Chick, Scratch, Dino and Andie come up with the idea to kidnap Spazz-O and force him to listen to their music.

Actually, it's Andie who comes up with the idea to kidnap Spazz-O; on top of bringing some much needed sex appeal to the band, Andie is full of ideas. Only problem being, the plan is a tad on the flawed side. But more on that in a second, as Andie is about unleash the raw, erection-causing power that are her shapely gams on an unsuspecting Spazz-O.

If you're wondering why Bonnie wasn't used to lure Spazz-O. It's because Bonnie can't be trusted to perform even the simplest of tasks. Besides, have you seen Andie in a tight red dress? It's quite the sight to behold. Anyway, showing up at Spazz-O's hotel room in the aforementioned red dress, Andie seduces the aging rocker with a breathtaking ease.

Employing her legs like they were a pair of flesh-covered swords dipped in lukewarm molasses, Andie has Spazz-O eating out of the palm of her hand in no time. Grabbing him just as he was about to mount Andie, the band stuff Spazz-O into one of them wheeled music cases and take him to Dino's parents' garage out on Long Island.

If only the members of Hindenburg could have seen the way Spazz-O treated his fans in an earlier scene, they would have probably thought twice about kidnapping this colossal wanker.

Someone who knows first-hand what a colossal wanker Spazz-O is, is his manager, Dave Donovan (Adam Ant), who, along with Holly Everest (Chelsey Parks), Spazz-O's ex-porn star wife, conspires to have him killed. The only problem with that plan being, the members of Hindenburg kidnap Spazz-O just as the assassin (Glenn Rothenberger) they hired was about to do him in.

After hurling a wide array of insults at the members of Hindenburg while tied to a chair in Dino's parents' garage (my personal fave was "you pathetic, prattling, pinko, pimple-faced poofters"), Spazz-O eventually calms down when he realizes that they only want him to listen to their music.

You would think Hindenburg's music was the worst thing ever judging by the way people react when they listen to it. Nevertheless, the members of Hindenburg soon discover that having a washed up punk rocker locked in your garage is a lot of work. Enduring a barrage of verbal abuse, being given an unrealistic list of demands, and having to put up with multiple escape attempts, Hindenburg, like Adam Ant, begin to wish Spazz-O was dead, or at least wish they never kidnapped him.

Pretty soon, however, the kidnapping becomes nationwide news, as MVN (Music Video News), the police, a record exec named Thor Sturmundrang (Deborah Harry) and the Moldinian Front (Free Moldinia!!!) all take an interest in the Spazz-O saga. You could say, being kidnapped is the best thing to happen to Spazz-O's career in years.

A cross between, oh, let's say, Weekend at Bernie's, Breaking Glass, and Ladies and Gentlemen - The Fabulous Stains, Drop Dead Rock, despite having a super-small budget, is easy on the eyes (thanks to costume designer Laura Jean Shannon), is whimsical in places and even boasts several moments that are on the cusp of being funny.

Just as I was about to declare Deborah Harry's finest moment in Drop Dead Rock to be the part where she calls Chick, Dino and Scratch: "Prick, Dildo and Snatch," she inadvertently shows us the tops of stockings while sitting next to a Spazz-O-fied Shelly Mars on a hotel sofa. I was like, I can see the top of your stockings, Debbie Harry. Wait a minute, forget about "inadvertently," Debbie totally knew the tops of her stockings as she sat cross-legged next to Shelly Mars, as the Blondie front-woman is always aware or not if the tops of her stockings are showing.

Oh, and during the montage that featured various real rock musicians talking about Spazz-O, Rick Allen of Def Leppard is the only one who was genuinely funny.

Downtown 81 (Edo Bertoglio, 1981)

Simply stick your photographic device out the window of a slow moving automobile, instruct artist Jean Michel Basquiat to walk down the street like he would normally do (spray painting verbose doodles on the wall every other block), add a mildly profound narration (the voice of Saul Williams stands in as Basquiat's subconscious), and presto change-o, you've got yourself a movie. Of course, it helps greatly that the streets being wandered are located in New York City. I mean, who would want to watch a guy in a trench-coat walk around, oh, let's say, Burlington, Ontario for eighty-something minutes? Sure, it's a nice jaunt and all, but it doesn't have the same energy, the same vitality of a New York street circa 1981. Cobbled together with half-realized fragments, misshapen ideas and found footage, Downtown 81 (a.k.a. Glenn O'Brien's New York Beat Movie) is a gritty portrait of what life must have been like during the hectic club and art scenes of New York City's much ballyhooed Lower East Side.

Recently discharged from the hospital after a lengthy stay (his affliction is kept from us), the film is about artist Jean Michel Basquiat and his attempt to reestablish himself in the cities erratic art scene. Broke, and a tad disoriented, the nomadic painter-musician (he fronts a band called "Gray") seems lost at first. However, the deeper he gets into the city, the clearer it becomes that he is quite the mover and shaker.

Attractive models just back from Milano offer him rides in their fancy convertibles, all the drug pushers are on familiar terms, the prostitutes, while aggressive, appear to respect his space, and the his fellow graffiti artists are pleased to see him. In other words, things aren't as bleak as they seem.

Put in touch with a rich art connoisseur by a friend (Claudia Summers, sporting super-terrific hair) he meets in the park, Basquiat sells a painting he was able to snag just as he was being thrown out of his apartment. The sale seems to cheer the artist up, as there seems to be a spring in his step. The pep, however, dissipates somewhat when he notices that his band's gear is being ripped off.

While it may sound like a mindless journey through the self-indulgent morass of an offbeat wall scribbler, in actuality, it's an excellent showcase for the music and fashion that was peculating in the city at the time. We're talking hip hop, new wave, post-punk and no wave.

The first thing that struck me about the hip hop scene were the tight-fitting designer jeans of the rappers. The second was the use of the term "Sucka MC's." I had previously thought that expression was coined around 1986. Learning is fun.

Another in a long line bands I mistook for being an industrial group from Belgium, Tuxedomoon were definitely one the highlights as far as sounding all weird and sinister go. Their performance of "Desire" accompanies Basquiat as he tags a wall with a nonsensical verse in white spray paint.

Making an unstructured racket, DNA, lead by Arto Lindsay, show up next. While I've heard a shitload of disorderly bands in my day, there was something uneasy and beautifully unpleasant about their particular type of noise.

The inclusion of Japanese new wavers The Plastics was a wonderful surprise. In that, I thought all the bands were going to be from New York, or at least American. Anyway, giving an interview ("How do you say 'New Wave' in Japanese?") and performing "Copy," the band, best known in North America as "that group who appeared on SCTV that one time," delight us with their robotic dance moves and bubbly brand of pop.

Keep an eye out for Cookie Mueller as "2nd Go-Go Dancer" (Catherine Rebennack plays "First Go-Go Dancer") during a brief aside at a strip club. Which reminds me, keeping track of everyone who makes an appearance in Downtown 81 is almost impossible. I was only able to spot Cookie because I'm quite familiar with her work thanks to Female Trouble ("Just 'cause we're pretty everybody's jealous!") and Desperate Living ("You lazy bitch! I'm out working my tail off all day, and you're in there fucking Midgets!").

The enthusiasm of Kid Creole and the Coconuts and Coati Mundi (Who's That Girl) was downright infectious. Now, I normally shy away from bands that are named after tropical food and feature back up singers in leopard print outfits (just kidding, I love leopard print), yet there was something enticing about their funky groove. This is especially true when Coati hits the stage of the Rock Lounge (not to be confused with Jimbo's Rock Lounge); the guy's a maniac. (Kid Creole and the Coconuts' "Stool Pigeon" was a staple of Deadly Hedley's Saturday night radio show on Toronto's CFNY-FM back in the late '80s. Ha-cha-cha-cha.)

You'll also notice that the luminescent Lori Eastside (Get Crazy) is on the other side of the stage putting on a new wave clinic as a guest Coconut.

After the Rock Lounge, Basquiat, who is, by the way, searching for the attractive woman in the convertible, heads over to the Peppermint Lounge. There he witnesses the no wave jazz of James White and the Blacks. Again, like Kid Creole and the Coconuts, the band wow audience (which includes Debi Mazar) with their sheer exuberance.

Call me completely unaware of one's surroundings, but the erotic nature of the new wave fashion segment had me fumbling for my non-existent inhaler. Erotic, in that, I got to see a pre-Liquid Sky Anne Carlisle (credited as Anne Carlyle) posing and preening as a new wave fashion model.

Up until then, the Glenn O'Brien (the host of TV Party) penned, Edo Bertoglio directed film had very little go for it in terms of visual flair (New York City pretty much does all the heavy lifting when it comes to style and substance). Yet, they seem to have made an exception when it came time to shoot the fashion model sequence, as it is teaming with peachy colours and creative camera work.

The moment when Basquiat is sold drugs caused me to get a tad misty-eyed. Seriously, the fact that I'm never asked to purchase illegal drugs anymore when I walk down the streets is a sad state of affairs. It's true, in some circles this lack of hashish solicitation is seen as an improvement. Though, I must say, I do miss the unsavoury attention. They (the pushers) kept me on my toes. Unlike today, where I basically wander around in a crack-pipe-less funk, desperately hoping that the next person about to pass me on the street wants to alter my state of consciousness.

Exploring the city, drifting aimlessly, call it what you will, it's no secret that hitting the pavement of my city's streets is one of my favourite pastimes. And I think that's what lead me to being so tolerant of the directionless temperament of this film. His approach to city and its streets was very much like my own. The way Basquiat seemed to penetrate the sidewalk, instead of merely walking on it, was an eye-opening experience.

Oh, and meeting up with Deborah Harry in the dark alleyway behind the Mudd Club and hurdling through the night air to the eerie strains of Suicide's "Cheree" ("My black leather lady / I love you") was an almost too perfect way to end this wonderfully off-the-wall movie.

video uploaded by Recall Records

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Mr. Mike's Mondo Video (Michael O'Donoghue, 1979)

The perfect film to play on a blurry television set overlooking the bar of a garish, porno-friendly nightclub on the outskirts of a once vibrant neighbourhood, Mr. Mike's Mondo Video might not be the most educational of the so-called "mondo" movies I've seen over the past sixty or so years, but it's definitely the most randomly interesting one. A demented and slightly warped product of the mind of Michael O'Donoghue, the video is a disjointed mishmash of dreamlike ideas that go nowhere, yet everywhere at the same time. A heady feat for a film that dares you not to masturbate to Dan Aykroyd's partially webbed feet. Just a second. I can't believe Dan Aykroyd's feet were mentioned before the sight of a statuesque Wendie Malick in radioactive lingerie. I don't know about you, but I think that's pretty messed up. I wonder what compelled me to mention his stinky, misshapen feet as my opening salvo? Very bizarre, very Mondo. Anyway, hit and miss in terms of being tolerable, the film never once goes for the easy laugh. Of course, that could have been because it wasn't funny in the first place (most awesome things are). But the rapid fire nature of the film's overall structure kept things so unpredictable, that you couldn't really focus on what was delightfully stupid and what was insufferably stupid. Either way, the scattershot endeavour, that features everyone from Bill Murray and Deborah Harry to Margot Kidder and Klaus Nomi, is a fascinating document of what Saturday Night Live could have become had the lunatics been given free reign to do what their unhinged brains were designed to do – which is to produce weird comedy that is more unpleasant than it is whimsical.
  
Oh, and I liked the abundance of bunny rabbits that appear throughout the video, and I have come to the conclusion that Paul Anka's anus is sometimes full of an inordinate amount of poop.

Favourite Mondo Moments:

"American Gals Love Creepy Men"
(Every cool chick in New York City at the time is featured in this bit. Including the sexy Wendie Malick and the lovely Laraine Newman.)
("When I reach down and feel a firm colostomy bag, I know I'm with a real man.")

"Klaus Nomi performs 'Samson & Delia'" and "Looking up Cheryl Tieg's dress"
(I wonder if the crotch they used--I doubt Miss Tiegs allowed her own crotch to be used--is the same crotch Wendie Malick wears on a day-to-day basis?)

"The general hotness of Wendie Malick" and "The insane amount of Rinse Dreamian posturing"
(Uh-huh.)

"Christmas on Other Planets" and "Japanese girls bathing in dolphin blood"
(I couldn't help but notice that one of the light bulbs the Christmas celebrating alien was smashing got away from him/her/it.)

"The demonstration of the Laser Bra 2000" (Featuring the exquisite tallness of Wendie Malick.)
(My outer pervert kept thinking: "Get undressed slower. Slower! The military industrial complex ain't going nowhere." My inner pervert didn't think anything, as she was killed in a horrific blimp accident in the early 1480s. Wait a minute: a "horrific" blimp accident? Yeah, as supposed to a pleasant blimp accident. Prat.)

"Gig Young's groceries" and "Nazi oven mitts"
(Tasteless. In that, Gig will never taste those groceries.)

"Wendie Malick smoking a cigarette while wearing Radioactive Lingerie"
(Try Annie Sprinkle's special secretion sauce - Now banned in Bhutan!)


video uploaded by Shout! Factory

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