Black Shampoo (Greydon Clark, 1976)

What is it about the way Mr. Jonathan handles a hair dryer that has the women of Los Angeles falling over themselves to get an appointment at his windowless, nondescript beauty salon? I wish I could tell you, but we never actually see Mr. Jonathan use a hair dryer in Black Shampoo, a cautionary tale that shines a fair amount of light on the risks that could arise when you unwittingly hire an ex-gangster's moll to be your new beauty salon receptionist. Oh, sure, we occasionally see him carrying one around, but does he know how to even turn it on? Are you implying that the women who are dying to get their hair done by Mr. Jonathan have more than voluminous curls and straightened bangs on their minds when they enter his salon? When did I imply that? All I said was, I found it rather suspicious that we never see Mr. Jonathan use a hair dryer. However, now that you mention it. The only thing we actually see him do as far as hairdressing goes is wash a blonde woman's hair in the film's opening scene. And judging by his lathering technique, I don't see what all the fuss is about. Okay, enough of this coy act. You know exactly why the women keep flocking to his salon in droves. They're there to absorb the brunt of his well-timed pelvic thrusts. I don't know, do women like well-timed pelvic thrusts that much that they're willing to settle for a mediocre wash and set? I doubt it. Are you sure about that? I mean, if they really cared about the performance-based characteristics of the follicle components that litter their greasy little scalps, wouldn't they ask the beauty salon's two resident Friends of Dorothy to do their hair instead?

If you had mentioned earlier the fact that the beauty salon at the centre of this strange oddity from mid-1970s employed not one, but two Friends of Dorothy, I would have cut you off sooner. Why is that, you ask? Do I really have to explain why? Besides, don't you think the film, directed by Greydon Clark (Joysticks), perpetuates the stereotype that all women thirst exceptional cock and that all gay men are mincing, world class hairdressers? Not really. Lot's of women love cock, lot's of gay men love dressing hair. Actually, I was somewhat surprised, given the time period, how respectful the film was towards its two gay characters. It's true, they're the epitome of flaming. All the same, I thought Mr. Jonathan (John Daniels), the macho proprietor of Mr. Jonathan's on Sunset Blvd., treated them with kindness. And why wouldn't he? After all, they do most of the hairdressing in this joint.

Do you think The Baron, John Daniels' character from The Candy Tangerine Man, traded in his pimp cane for a hair dryer? I know, John Daniels is playing a totally different character this time around. But, I have to ask, are really that different? Think about it. Both live in L.A., they both do well with the ladies, and both are two of the most imperturbable motherfuckers the big screen has ever seen.

If you're wondering why Mr. Jonathan's beauty salon is so dark when we first enter its doors, that's because we're actually in the back of the joint. What goes on back there, you might ask? Well, the back is where Mr. Jonathan gives certain customers "special treatment." When you say, "special treatment, you're talking about his cock, right? I thought we already established that. Yes, I'm talking about his cock. Oh, if only the leopard-print adorned walls of his private salon area could speak, the erotic stories they could weave.

Who knew washing hair could be so titillating. As he's lathering the hair of a blonde customer, Mr. Jonathan starts to notice that she is beginning to convulse in a manner that could best be described as "amorous." After Mr. Jonathan finishes, he slowly removes her head from the shampoo bowl. Sitting upright, the blonde's eyes go crotchward almost immediately. Curious about the marvel of genital engineering lurking behind his white trousers, the blonde unzips his pants, let's out an inaudible gasp, and, I can only assume, begins to slather the bulge-like contents with everything her white lady mouth has to offer.

Suddenly, a limo pulls up outside the salon, and out steps a milf goddess of epic proportions. Boasting a massive slit in the front–that's right, I said, the front–of her long black skirt–one that goes all the way up to her mid-1970s era bikini zone–Mrs. Simpson (Heather Leigh) saunters towards the salon's entrance with a forceful, apple-booty compromising aplomb.

Again, judging by the way she talks to the receptionist, Brenda St. John (Tanya Boyd), I don't think she talking about wanting to get her hair done. Okay, this is the last time I'm going to say this. None of the women in this film want Mr. Jonathan to do their hair, they want his cock!

Unfortunately for Mrs. Simpson, Mr. Jonathan's cock is currently busy exploring the soft nooks and the hard to reach crannies attached to Sally Carruthers. Wait, Sally who? Sally Carruthers. Don't ask me who plays "Sally Carruthers," as she's not listed in any of the credits I've seen.

Looking fierce with her hands on her womanly hips, Mrs. Simpson, who, like, Sally Carruthers, is blonde, waits while Brenda tries to summon Mr. Jonathan. Hearing the sound of moaning over the salon's hi-tech intercom, Mrs. Simpson says, "I guess she's enjoying her wash and rinse." You go, girl!

Realizing that she won't be getting "serviced" any time soon, Mrs. Simpson asks Brenda to ask Mr. Jonathan if he does house calls. And, after much begging and pleading, Mr. Jonathan agrees to pop by later on to do her "hair."

I'll admit, I was somewhat relieved when Mrs. Simpson was finally able to convince Mr. Jonathan to come over to her house, as my nonexistent pussy was beginning to throb like you wouldn't believe. However, I'm sad to say that Mrs. Phillips (Anne Gaybis) won't be getting any "special treatment," as she shows up at the salon just as Mr. Jonathan was about to leave. Sitting in the salon's waiting area for only a few seconds, Mrs. Phillips stands up and declares, "If he won't do me, nobody will." I wonder if the other hairdressers, Artie (Skip E. Lowe) and Richard (Gary Allen), were hurt by what Mrs. Phillips said? Nah, they probably know, just as I do, that she wasn't talking about her hair. Besides, if I was serious about getting my hair done, I would want it done by Artie and Richard, as they seem to genuinely care about aesthetics.

Meanwhile, over at the receptionist desk, Brenda is confronted by Maddox (William Bonner), Jackson (Bruce Kerley), and a character known only as "Chauffeur" (Sheldon Lee),  three thugs who work for a lowlife named Mr. Wilson (Joseph Carlo), a white collar criminal of some sort. Apparently, Brenda used to work for this Mr. Wilson fella, and it would seem that he isn't happy with the way things ended. Anyway, when Brenda refuses to come with them, Maddox, the Judd Apatow-lookin' motherfucker, instructs Jackson, the Questlove-via Mean Joe Greene-lookin' motherfucker, to rough up Artie. In order to placate the trio of hoodlums in her midst, Brenda agrees to give Mr. Wilson a call.

Imagine if Mr. Jonathan was there when all that shit with Judd Apatow went down, I bet things would have turned out differently. But he wasn't. No, Mr. Jonathan was too busy driving around the suburbs. Armed only with his trusty hair dryer, Mr. Jonathan is no match for Meg (Kelly Beau) and Peg (Marl Pero), Mrs. Simpson's teenage daughters. Wielding their low centres of gravity like bazookas, Meg and Peg overwhelm the macho hairdresser. Dressed in pinkish peach-coloured bikinis, Meg and Peg inundate Mr. Jonathan with their no-nonsense curves.

Now, I don't know which one was Peg or Meg (they're never actually called by these names), but the short one with the long, dark hair tied in a ponytail has it going on. Hot damn.

You just know that the short one is fully aware of how foxy she is by the way she puts her hands on her hips and thrusts out her shapely buttocks in a booty enhancing manner. And it's obvious that the short one picked up the whole hands on hips thing from her mother.

Unable to prevent these "pushy little chicks" from coming on to him, Mr. Jonathan simply gives in after a while and let's them have their way with him. You can tell Mr. Jonathan has been in this type of situation before. Either way, it must be tough–you know, having attractive women of all ages throwing themselves at you on a regular basis.

After Brenda tells Mr. Jonathan about her run-in with Mr. Wilson's thugs, we're treated to a romantic montage set to the strains of "Can You Feel The Love" by Gerald Lee. Hold up, so, are Mr. Jonathan and Brenda St. John a couple? And if so, how does Mr. Jonathan get away with some of the shit he pulls in this movie? I mean, judging by the depth and the circumference of her afro, she doesn't look like the kind of woman who would tolerate such behaviour. Never mind that, since no one is minding the salon (it's difficult to engage in a romantic montage and run a successful business at the same time), Judd Apatow and the boys ransack the place, breaking mirrors and tossing bottles of conditioner all over the place.

If you thought Mr. Jonathan was pissed before, wait until he sees the mess they made. Will Mr. Jonathan be able save his "beloved" Brenda from the evil clutches of Mr. Wilson? What are the chances that the western-style barbecue thrown by Artie and Richard will cheer Mr. Jonathan up? Is a chainsaw an effective melee weapon? Did Mr. Wilson just shove a curling iron up that guy's butt? Speaking of which, did Mr. Wilson just cup Brenda's purposefully pronounced booty? Even though  I know the answers to most of these questions, I can't wait to re-watch the film. You don't care about the answers to those question, you just want to watch the film again so you can awkwardly salivate over Mrs. Simpson's teenage daughters. Guilty as charged.

video uploaded by DigThatBoxHOLLYWOOD

The Candy Tangerine Man (Matt Cimber, 1975)

Every pimp, no matter how successful they are, will, at some point in their life, think about turning in their hat and cane and moving to the suburbs to start a family. And the same can be said for all the non-pimps out there who are supposedly living the American dream out in those very same suburbs. Don't believe me? Well, check out this statistic: While, let's say, mowing the lawn on a Sunday afternoon, the average male thinks about chucking it all and becoming a flamboyant street pimp at least sixty times before he's finished cutting the grass. Of course, the amount of times varies given the size of the lawn they're mowing. But if there's one thing I know, it's that suburban lawns and pimp-related woolgathering go hand in hand. One of the main reasons lawns are cut in the first place is to replicate the environment of your typical pimp, as the flattened, freshly shorn grass reminds the suburban dweller of the concrete jungle he longs to hustle on. What if I told you there is a man out there who is trying to do both simultaneously? A pimp who lives in the suburbs? Impossible. It can't be done. Well, my skeptical friend, in the too awesome for words The Candy Tangerine Man, we follow a man who is attempting to do just that. Now, I'm not quite sure what his schedule looks like. I mean, is he a straight-laced businessman by day, take no shit pimp by night? Or does he only pimp on weekends? If it's the former, when does his sleep? Logistical questions aside, the pimp smack-dab in the middle of this Matt Cimber (Nevada Heat) production is my personal hero. Whoa, hold on there, little buddy. You're one of them Canadians, right? I guess; I don't like labels, man. Whatever. What kind of Canadian openly declares a violent street pimp to be their hero? I don't know what you're getting at, but I'm sticking to my mukluks... I mean, guns. I'm sticking to my guns.

Speaking of guns, you do realize that your "personal hero" shoots an unarmed female bar patron in the back at one point. I don't remember him shooting anyone in the back. Oh, he totally does. And it totally occurs during the Thriller - A Cruel Picture-style slow motion shoot out that takes place at that dive bar. Oh, yeah. First of all, it wasn't a shoot out, as none of the saps were able to get a shot off. And secondly, the unarmed woman he shot was hit in the chest first, and my "personal hero" merely shot her again as she fell off her bar stool. What you're saying is, he shot her in the back? Well, yeah, I suppose he did, but like I said... Don't you think that was somewhat harsh?

Look, it's obvious that my "personal hero," a.k.a. The Baron (John Daniels), the baddest pimp the city of Los Angeles has ever seen, decided ahead of time that he was going to kill every last fatherless mommy fornicator in that particular juke joint. How else can you explain the fact that he was packing two fully-loaded pistols? No, in his mind, everyone–even the unarmed gangster's moll sucking on a daiquiri–was fair game, as they chose to socialize with an unorganized assortment of titty-cutting scumbags.

I thought you said Ramrod from Vice Squad was the baddest pimp to ever work the mean streets of Los Angeles? I did? Okay, I'm sorry. What I should have said was: The Baron, the baaad'est pimp to ever to work the mean streets of Los Angeles. If I have to tell you what the difference between "baddest" and "baaad'est" is, then I'm afraid you don't know jack shit about pimping. You can tell right away that The Baron is pimping on a whole 'nother level when we see him cruising L.A. in his candy tangerine Rolls Royce (a car that comes with its own built-in telephone and a nasty surprise lurking underneath the hood) to the funky sounds of Smoke.

Briefly forgetting which side the steering wheel is located on a Rolls Royce, I actually started to question The Baron's pimp credibility almost immediately when I noticed that he was talking to one of his "bitches" while she sat in the driver's seat and he sat in the passenger seat. I thought to myself: What kind of pimp would allow one of his "bitches" to sit behind of the wheel of his–let's call it what it really is–pimp-mobile? I can't believe I'm saying this, but a sense of relief washed over me when I realized The Baron was sitting behind the wheel.

Telling her to "watch her money" and to "get it together," The Baron sends his "bitch" back out onto the streets. As he's doing this, we learn that The Baron is being watched by two vile vice cops, Dempsey (Richard Kennedy) and Gordon (George "Buck" Flower), from a nearby parked car. Sending in a cop, Carl, I think his name was, who is dressed in drag, to entrap The Baron, Dempsey and Gordon patiently wait for the pimp to incriminate himself. Of course, being a professional street pimp, The Baron can spot a man in drag a mile away.

Realizing that Carl, or should I say, Carla? is not who she says she is, The Baron decides to have a little fun at the expense of Dempsey and Gordon (who are listening in via a wire). Giving her the once over, The Baron tells Carla that she has nice legs. He even says, "My God they're beautiful," at one point. Not content with merely looking at her gams, The Baron begins to caress her thighs ever so gently. When the moments right, The Baron grabs her cock and squeezes it in a non-loving manner. After Carla bolts from the car in a fit of crotch-based agony, The Baron speeds off, leaving Dempsey and Gordon without a collar; which is police lingo that means "an arrest."

If you think Dempsey and Gordon are going to let a couple of swollen testicles deter them from nailing The Baron, think again. However, The Baron's got other problems on his plate. Get this, man, not only is the money not rolling in like it used to, a rival pimp named Dusty Compton has "acquired" a Native American woman named Heather (Feng Lan Linn)–a Chinese woman dressed in buckskins–and plans on turning her out. In case you're wondering where The Baron gets his information from. He relies on Bella, his secretary, and Maurice, his go-to source for street knowledge.

Determined to stop Dusty from turning Heather out, The Baron heads down to the Coach and Horses bar to take care of business. Actually, before he does that, he goes to an apartment complex to help out one of his ladies. When he arrives, he's ambushed by three men wielding switchblades. After calling him a "motherfucker" not once, but twice, the men rush The Baron. Do I even need to tell you what happens next? I will say that I loved how The Baron's hat managed to stay atop his head during the melee that ensues.

If there's one reason to get The Candy Tangerine Man digitally remastered, it's so that we can fully appreciate the eye-searing gaudiness of Dusty's powder blue pimp suit.

The sight of two flamboyantly dressed black men fighting over the ownership of a Chinese woman dressed as an "Indian" as a bunch of Italian gangsters watch is one of the more bizarre moments in this film. My favourite line during the discussion relating to the future of Heather's soon to be worn out "slot" (their word, not mine), was when The Baron says, "What do I have to do to get that thing"? Well, to get that "thing," all The Baron has to do is watch Dusty scratch the 8-ball in a game of 9-ball. As Dusty is cursing the cue ball that did him in ("white, honky motherfucker!"), The Baron is walking out with his ten grand and Heather on his arm; she is, "too fine, not to be mine." You don't think those Italian gangsters are going to let The Baron leave with such pristine piece of tail? But don't worry, The Baron blasts them with the machine guns located underneath the hood of his car.

After blowing off Dempsey and Gordon's second attempt to shake him down, The Baron drives to an undisclosed location, changes his clothes and gets into another, less conspicuous looking automobile. It's during these next couple of scenes that we learn about The Baron's other life as a married businessman/father of two named Ron Lewis who lives in the suburbs. Now, I've read some reviews that describe Loretta Terrence, The Baron/Ron's nosy next-door neighbour, as an "old lady." This is far from the truth, as I found Loretta to be a sexy slice of milfy goodness. Either way, the sight of The Baron mowing the lawn (with one of them old fashion cylinder-style mowers) in a football jersey while Loretta annoys him about trivial, suburban nonsense was quite the eye-opener.

If it looks like The Baron/Ron Lewis is doing a pretty good job at balancing his two lives, he's not. You see, while The Baron/Ron is living in the suburbs, his pimping life suffers. And the same can be said for when The Baron/Ron is doing the pimp thing, as his suburban life seems to suffer. Though, it should be stated that having your wife give your grief about yard work is nothing compared to having to deal with a bunch of sadistic gangsters who want to straight up kill your black ass.

Since The Baron is not around, the aforementioned gangsters decide to target his bread and butter instead. That's right, they go after his "bitches." Bearing the brunt of their particular brand of mid-70s-style sadism is a leggy brunette. Removing one of her breasts with a knife, the gangsters have basically put The Baron out of commission, since his "bitches" are now too scared to work for him. On a positive note, Maurice manages to score an envelope filled with non-negotiable bearer bonds. Only problem is, The Baron can't cash them, since the bank doesn't consider pimping to be a legitimate business. Not to fear, Sugar (Meri McDonald) is here. She knows a banker, and all she has to do is pee on him (he's a piss freak), and they should be good to go.

You'll notice as The Baron is putting the hand attached to Big Floyd (Patrick Wright) in the trash compactor that Brenda Fogarty is sitting on the couch. Who's she, you ask? Why, she's Brenda Fogarty–you know, Mrs. Tenny from Trip with the Teacher. It was weird seeing Miss Fogarty as a prostitute, or, as she's listed in the credits "Hooker on Couch." In that, she displays none of the headstrong qualities of her feisty teacher character; I guess that's why it's called "acting."

Is there anything sadder than watching a pimp walk in L.A.? I don't know, but I sure am glad John Daniels is the one doing the walking, as his ice cold performance is what makes this tale of a pimp living a double life so darn irresistible. Culminating in a slow motion barroom massacre and a car chase, The Candy Tangerine Man might be one of my first forays into the realm of blaxploitation, but it's got to be one of the best. And by "best," I mean that it's just the kind of sleazy, violent, misogynistic, racist trash I was hoping it would be.