HAPPY HALLOWEEN 2017!!!

THE FRIGHTFUL DR. SHOCK!: JOHN SKERCHOCK'S HEARTFELT HOMAGE TO PHILLY'S PREMIER HORROR HOST

Joseph (Joe) Zawislak made a strong impression on me as a kid, even though I didn't know him by that name. To me, and most children and adults who tuned into Philadelphia's Channel (PHL) 17, he was (and still is) Dr. Shock. 

He was our John Zacherle/Roland inspired horror host for a hardy decade, his reign halted by his untimely death in 1979 (the result of a heart attack at age 42). While he lived, he earned widespread fame in the tri-state area with his atmospheric and comical lead-ins, tipped by his signature "Let There Be Fright!" Those who knew him, admired and respected his jubilant nature and still miss him.

John Skerchock's biography, "The Frightful Dr. Shock!" (published by Dark Dungeon Enterprises), captures that precious period when Zawislak haunted our living rooms, capturing our imaginations with his magic tricks, goofy humor and of course, horror and science-fiction films, which ranged from Universal classics to a slew of heart-in-the-right-place, B products. 

Dr. Shock was accompanied by his wee daughter, Bubbles (Doreen), who became as popular a celebrity as Zawislak's alter ego, assisting with his joyful "experiments". She added cuteness to the show as she grew up before our eyes and was someone with whom kids could identify between the jolts, not that any of Dr. Shock's viewers were ever truly scared. In the '70s, kids were tough and appreciative of any form of clever, dark fantasy. 

Zawislak, as Sherchock points out, was first and foremost a magician. In fact, that's how he got his UHF hosting gig, giving an impromptu performance while at a barber shop. He also reputedly doubled for Zacherle on several occasions in his teens. For the record, Zacherle gave Zawislak permission to emulate his macabre semblance, being content to dominate the NY area, leaving Dr. Shock to rule Philly and its various, linking locations. 

Zawislak was a funny, full-of-life man, which shined through his performances. Dr. Shock would never dare freak out his viewers, though sometimes his exuberant stunts, which often utilized a rubber chicken, put off some parents, as well as PHL 17 execs. Then again, one needed a childlike giddiness to appreciate such wry spunk: something that PHL's management seems to have lacked. 

Much to the chagrin of his fans, Dr. Shock's schedule was juggled about, even to the point of being relegated to Sunday nights for a spell: a pain for kids who wished to stay up beyond their bedtimes, but couldn't 'cause of school the next day. Saturdays, however, were the traditional slot for Dr. Shock, initially during the evenings with "Scream In" and then later during the afternoons with the double feature, "Horror and Mad Theater". 

Still, when it came to local sports, Channel 17 had no qualms about postponing its most popular personality. For example, it was hard to catch Dr. Shock in the summers since he was generally preempted by Phillies games, which would have been fine and dandy if only he had been awarded back-up intervals. The station would have benefited from such and yet...

Though Skerchock acknowledges these perplexing obstacles, he also counters them, listing each movie that aired, along with its specific date. Looking over the lengthy list, I found myself going down memory lane, recalling that wondrous, December afternoon when the doubleheader of "The Frozen Ghost" and "The Saga of the Viking Women and Their Voyage to the Waters of the Great Sea Serpent" bewitched me.

Thanks to Skerchock's research, I also recalled when Dr. Shock interviewed John Carradine and when George "Goober" Lyndsey and Harry Blackstone Jr. paid congenial visits. Skerchock also reminded me that Dr. Shock was consistently visible at any number of charity events, rubbing elbows with such entertainment giants as Bob Hope and Jerry Lewis. 

The author complements these prized interludes with insightful chats with Zawislak's children, Doreen and Joe Jr.  Getting their perspectives on Zawislak is most moving: their love for their father as strong as ever. They can only now lament why no reliable source has yet stepped forth to revive their dad's footage (along with its related films) for a new generation to watch and enjoy.  

In this regard, Skerchock speculates how far Dr. Shock's popularity would have gone if Zawislak had lived into the cable era. (Consider, for example, how popular "WWF Wrestling" became in the '80s: a program that usually followed Dr. Shock on Saturday afternoons.) For what it's worth, there's no telling how far Dr. Shock would yet go if his programs were rerun on nostalgic channels or general Internet sources. 

We are, after all, in a new, blossoming phase of horror hosts, with personalities like Svengoolie and Mr. Lobo leading the charge. Keep in mind also that such popular performers as actor Daniel Roebuck and '80s sensation Stella (Karen Scioli) of "Saturday Night Dead" have credited Dr. Shock's influence to their success. Zawislak's cultural impact was more expansive, therefore, than many may have realized, and as the decades pass, it doesn't seem inclined (thank goodness) to fade, but a sincere push toward further exposure could only ensure it.

For those who remember Zawislak and wish to unearth some of those old, sweet memories, "The Frightful Dr. Shock!" (now in a beautiful, revised, 194-page edition) is a lovely way to indulge. For those unfamiliar with Zawislak's character, but who hold an interest in the horror-host scene, this adoring labor of love is still a must-have, if only to demonstrate how one generous, affable man made Halloween a year-round celebration for so many. 

"The Frightful Shock!" can be purchased through oldies.com (where I obtained an author-autographed copy), Amazon and Barnes & Noble. For the price (about $25), the expanded edition is a ghoulish gem one will cherish for years to come. 

Netflix Unleashes More Stranger Things...

Netflix/the Duffer Brother's "Stranger Things" won over folks with its Stephen King/Steven Spielberg/Tobe Hooper/Joe Dante/Richard Donner formula. Heck, that's why we've gotten a sequel. Of course, many of us have a natural hankering for the weird and wonderful, especially if the content is blessed with quality characterizations. Without question, in this age of sometimes overbearing bang-bang thrills, something small yet enchanting is most appreciated and despite a sequel overflow, worthy of continuation.

To clinch the pot's peculiar sweetness, Netflix has reinstated a terrific cast: Winona Ryder as Joyce Byers; Noah Schnapp as Will Byers; Charlie Heaton as Jonathan Byers; David Harbour as Chief Jim Hopper; Millie Bobby Brown as Eleven (yeah, like any of us thought she'd remain absent); Finn Wolfhard as Mike Wheeler; Natalia Dyer as Nancy Wheeler; Caleb McLaughlin as Lucas; Gaten Matarazzo as Dustin; and leaping into the action, Sean "Lord of the Rings/The Goonies" Astin as RadioShack manager Bobby Newby and Paul Reiser as Dr. Owens. (Many are wondering if Owens will be a more-or-less congenial equivalent of Mathew Modine's Cronenberg-ish Dr. Brenner. Time will tell, but Reiser's link to "Aliens" alone justifies his enigmatic inclusion.)

The new serial kicks off on Halloween '84, with our Hawkins, Indiana-based, boy heroes masquerading as the Ghostbusters. How apt! It doesn't take long before they're mimicking (at least to a subtle extent) their cinematic counterparts. Indeed, more other-dimensional interference has struck and to spice it up, more '80s ambiance saturates it. 

The latter is another reason why "Stranger Thing" hit a chord with viewers. The time frame is presented realistically and never once spoofed. Therefore, the characters' participation in it, particularly the kids, stays identifiable, whether one experienced the '80s or not. (For the record, the show's approach distinguishes it from something like Donner's "The Goonies", which though an '80s product, presented its cast with garrulous oafishness. I do realize some fans would argue that the Neflix series contains more than a few nods to that excitable youth fest; but in my estimation, Season 1 leans more toward Joe Dante's "Explorers", with sprinklings of Fred Dekker's "Monster Squad", than Donner's hit.) 

In addition, where Season 1 exudes a Richard Matheson "Little Girl Lost", Hooper/Spielberg "Poltergeist" atmosphere (with its ghostly permeation and resulting entrapment), advance publicity implies an "E.T." influence for the follow-up. Yep, it appears we'll befriend a little, otherworldly entity in this new undertaking. From that, we can also infer there will be as much a continuation of "Twilight Zone" and "Outer Limits" in the revived plot as Stephen King. (Personally, I'd love to see "Stranger Things" explore at length the Upside Down realm, and I also believe a similar tactic would work for a "Poltergeist" sequel/prequel.)

Right now we can only guess if this Duffer Brother extension will match the original, but the odds favor success; however, I also hope its probable success doesn't make the phenomenon so huge as to overshadow its fictional content. Season 1 commenced with little fanfare, but built a faithful, grassroots following. Once that was achieved, "Stranger Things" then became an award-winning, mainstream sensation, with political tangents and grandstanding attached. 

For some, that might be cool, but for me, such baggage becomes a distraction. I hope Season 2 strives to please its original audience, instead of appeasing any hollow clique that latched on later. Awards and peer acknowledgement are swell (and in this case, deserved), but those fringe benefits don't guarantee viewership from start to finish. 

"Stranger Things 2" begins Oct 27, where all episodes can be binge-digested. Thank you, Netflix. 

I saw Leatherface Reborn...

Tobe Hooper and Kim Henkel inspired a slew of "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" sequels, retellings and prequels. The latest falls into the latter category, and like director John Luessenhop's parallel-universe follow-up, "Texas Chainsaw 3D", this one has its sentimental moments, but that doesn't make it sappy. Really, there's no way to make a Leatherface tale Rockwellian, but to weave such an aura into such a story is the ironic key to keeping it creepy and even more so, memorable.

With this in mind, directors Alexandre Bustillo and Julien Maury have bestowed us with "Leatherface" (not to be confused with Jeff Burr's subtitled sequel, "Texas Chainsaw Massacre III"). Produced by the Hooper and Henkel and written by Seth M. Sherwood, this origin insert takes place within the '50s and '60s, before the classic original and links not only to that legendary shockfest, but also Luessenhop's offbeat extension. We now see Leatherface as a youngster named Jedidiah Sawyer, who gradually acquires the ways of Ed Gein: the real-life killer who inspired Hooper/Henkel and Gunnar Hansen's character and of course, Robert Bloch's Norman Bates. 

Like Norman, little Jed (Boris Kabakchiev) is fond of his mom (or is she his aunt?), Verna (Lili "The Conjuring" Taylor), who hopes to teach him their clan's cannibalistic ways, but at first Jed is reluctant to indulge in the bloodshed and endures derision for of it. 

When Betty (Lorina Kamburova), the daughter of Sheriff Hal Hartman (Stephen "Blade" Dorff), goes missing and the family falls under suspicion, Jed is dispatched to a mental institution, where he adapts the name, Jackson, and remains under the harsh care of Dr. Lang (Christopher "Pirates of the Caribbean" Adamson). During this adolescent period, the slender lad's potential to do harm appears nonexistent, making him temporarily unrecognizable from the burly, mythological beast we've come to know and fear. 

In young adulthood, Jed is played with meritorious nuance by Sam Strike, who initially presents an awkward facade, which has nonetheless earned him a few demented friends within the institution (played with disconcerting effect by Sam Coleman; Jessica Madsen; and capturing the aura of a young Sid Haig, James Bloor), but when Verna pays an ill-fated visit, the group impulsively escapes, dragging  pretty Nurse Lizzy White (Vanessa "Roboshark" Grasse) along for the ride. This brash move prompts Sheriff Hartman and the secret-harboring Deputy Sorrel (Finn "Iron Fist" Jones) to hunt them down. That the gang paves a murderous trail in their wake doesn't make it hard. 

The nomadic (though ultimately full-circle) events turn "Leatherface" into a nightmarish Jack Kerouac (or perhaps more so, a variant on Rob Zombie's "Devil's Rejects"), where the worst aspects of self-discovery surface. Jed's unwitting need to conceal his identity (i.e., the reprehensible acts he's destined to perform) establishes a historic metamorphosis. What we witness is the veritable, though otherwise unsuspecting making of a monster, but not one without sympathy. We realize that if the variables had only swerved another way, Jed may not have become this saga's titular terror. 

Jed's mental and physical transformation is enhanced by, and yet in opposition to, the film's idyllic '50s/'60s backdrops: clean on the outside, but as one might find in any David Lynch venture, grimy beneath. "Leatherface" becomes, as a result, a story of eroding innocence, both on a cultural and emotional level. (Traces of this are detectable in the opening birthday scene and prevail throughout the hospital sequences.) As Jed plunges into madness, losing his humanity along the way, we witness the end of a pretentiously perfect world. All that's good becomes bad; all that's light becomes dark: ideal for Leatherface's genesis. 

This ground-floor angle makes the film as interesting as Luessenhop's, but instead of depicting Leatherface in later years, tottering between impish and brutish impulses, Sherwood's script gives us a well conceived, psychological springboard for that sorrowful culmination. 

Leatherface's woeful condition doesn't make him or his story any less unnerving. For one thing, gorehounds will get more than their money's worth. At the same time, the film never becomes just another throwaway, slasher rehash. Though we face the expected, traditional trimmings of previous chapters, we're also exposed to what festers between their sadistic cracks. 

It's too soon to say where this entry will rank in "Chainsaw'"s carnage queue. Some installments are favored more than others, after all. Nevertheless, Leatherface is too significant a character to be thrown to the wayside, no matter what the incarnation. A film that probes his deepest hows and whys is bound to be revisited and on that basis alone, guaranteed remembrance.

("Leatherface" is currently in limited, theatrical release and can be viewed through various pay-per-view venues.) 

NERATERRAE PRESENTS THE NHART DEMO(N)S: A PROJECT AND RESULTING CREATION BY ALESSIO ANTONI

Alessio Antoni is an artist of a most peculiar nature and therefore, my kind of creator. Those who've read my reviews on the compositions of Raffaele Pezzella and Michael Ferentino know how much I appreciate the experimental and offbeat. That's precisely what Antoni serves his audience, and for my sake, listening to his new release struck an autumnal chord. It's the Halloween season, after all, and Antoni's work fits its crisp, crusty, and enchanting mood to an atmospheric tee.

Incidentally, Antoni's experimental-music project is named Neraterrae, which signifies something dark...lofty. The project's initial offering is The Nhart Demo(n)s (Nhart being the name of Antoni's previous project), and per that title (and its clever structure, as well as Federico Gusso's moody cover artwork), I felt compelled to imagine something formidable and demonic. Of course, such things needn't always be hellspawned; and as Antoni's creation seized my senses, it wasn't long before a series of bizarre variations inundated me. 

Trust me when I say, it's Antoni's heavy, eclectic ambiance that does the trick here, and man alive, Nhart Demo(n)s is ever drenched in it. To me, the album is as dark as night and as orangy bright as a jack-o'-lantern; even more so, as forlorn and delicate as a fallen leaf, sprinkled with slimy dew. I suspect that Antoni's experiment would prove gratifying to those who flip over rocks to admire all those pretty, creepy crawlies. 

The introductory track, represented by a slashed circle (an implication of an "empty set"), defines the album's open-for-interpretation, idiosyncratic mode. However, this prelude isn't too open and far from empty, for it spurts a wall of sound that reveals...what? Maybe it's something akin to Kong, Gojira, Vermithrax...maybe something extra-terrestrial, culled and complied from the celluloid clips of Ridley Scott, though charged by metaphysical wit. Whatever the case, the introduction behaves as a gargantuan host, demanding one's undivided attention, then requests one to pave a personal pathway through which the other tracks (and their accompany landscapes) can uninhibitedly roll; and they do as follows...

"Core" (merely based on my imaginative bias) extends the prelude's mood, invoking Edgar Rice Burroughs' Pellucidar: a place into which one may have steampunked to reach reckless fun. On the other hand, "End" dictates more of an absolute beginning in its harsh, sardonic stream; with "The Gift of Blindness" becoming its terrifying, losing-one's-way aftermath. To counter "Gift'"s stinging glare, "Night Visit" presents hope through coarseness, in defiance of that spiteful thing that dared to block one's view. The "Untitled" tracks then bounce from out "Night'"s desperate delights, morphing into the most complex of Antoni's musical progression, for they work as Rorschach hymns upon which any meandering pursuits might populate (endless, intersecting visions, if one will); while "Deeper Down" and "New Faith" symbolize and parenthesize the crazed ascents and descents of being damned and yet ecstatically blessed, cradled in a time designed for death, rebirth, struggle and above all, well deserved rest. 

It's important to acknowledge that Antoni is a drummer; therefore, his build-ups are percussive, even if devoid of the expected, associated beats. Some tracks are colored by panic-propelled bursts, crunching crashes and tingling industrialization. No matter what the twist or pull, each produces a recognizable, mounting draw: steadfast roads that lead to something unknown, perhaps forbidden and/or dangerous, but once the disquieting dust clears, fulfilling.

As one may infer, Antoni's creation grants a fantastic, full-range voyage. One's imagination will be stretched, plundered and restored all in one magnificent sitting. Such dark, euphoric experiences don't come often, no matter what the season, so be wise to take advantage. 

Tune in at... https://soundcloud.com/neraterrae; and ... https://neraterrae.bandcamp.com/releases. Thereafter, encourage others to visit Antoni's audio accomplishment. He's one of those special artists whose musical demo(n)s deserve a legion of fans. 

Walking Dead Season 8 Rises Up!!!

With the recent, anguished state of AMC's "Walking Dead", I can't help but think of little Anthony Fremont from Rod Serling's adaptation of Jerome Bixby's "It's a Good Life". That's the classic "Twilight Zone" where Billy Mumy plays a wee fiend who can turn a world upside down by simply wishing it (and wishing, of course, his "enemies" into some mysterious cornfield). For appearance sake, Anthony is an all-powerful adversary and yet there's a scene where one of the desperate oppressed pleads with the others to do the lad in. No one obliges, since Anthony might sense 'em comin', and so...

Anthony, however, is a supernatural freak; "Walking Dead'"s Negan (Jeffrey Dean Morgan) is just a guy: weirdly influential and as damn sadistic as they come (David Morrissey's Governor looks like compassion personified by comparison), but still just a guy. So, why hasn't anyone among the various factions done him in?

Perhaps it's because Negan is flanked by his massive, twisted flock. That doesn't make the bat-battering bastard an easy kill, if his mind-warped disciples are stationed in the shadows with rifles aimed. Also, would killing Negan truly stop the range of his villainy: i.e., would his minions break from their stupor upon his death, as those did at the demise of James Earl Jones' Thulsa Doom in "Conan the Barbarian"? Probably not and yet, what does one have to lose by trying? Life under Negan ain't much of a life, anymore than under rotten, little Anthony. 

No matter if shackled or strained, Rick Grimes (Andrew Lincoln) has the potential to defeat Negan, if only due to his gusty constitution, but right now our hero seems to be taking a steady, strategic approach, sort of like Flash Gordon or Buck Rogers rounding up the troops against Ming or Kane. Thing is, Flash and Buck could count on their recruits. Can Rick? 

I do have faith in Ezekiel (Khary Peyton). I liked him (and his tiger, Shiva) from the start. Ezekiel entered Season 7 just at the right phase, delivering much needed tenderness in the wake of two grisly deaths. I can't imagine this stately character turning fickle, but then "Walking Dead" has never been predictable. 

Indeed, Season 8 will be packed with surprises and I'm suspecting unsuspecting betrayals. That's a plus and minus all rolled up into one, but despite its ambivalence, there's no doubt the show will be as tension-fraught as ever. We'll bite our nails, squirm in our seats and with eyes tearing and/or bulging, watch as we hope and pray for Rick and the good guys to rise up and (somehow, some damn way) strike Negan down. Sure, Anthony may have lived on, but Negan...well, like I said, he's just a guy, and so...

"Walking Dead" recommences (with its historic 100th episode) this Sunday, October 23 at 9 pm. 

Spidey's Headstrong Homecoming: A Second Look...

In July I reviewed “Spider-man: Homecoming” and said (more or less) that it would be swell to see Tom Holland grow into the role: in essence, that an adult Spidey would be a welcome and logical evolution. I still stand by that statement, and yet I must confess, I’ve come to find Holland’s youthful portrayal significant in a time when (pardon the generalization) adolescents too often take the easy, cry-baby way out. 

My appreciation for the present Peter Parker rose higher when I overheard a trio of women at a supermarket check-out lane discussing recent movies and how, in particular, they wouldn't allow their teens to watch the latest Spider-man movie. This, per their collective perspective, was because the film presents Parker as "too headstrong" for his own good.

Mind you, these ladies also admitted that they hadn't yet seen the film, only (from what I could discern) trailers. How they came to dismiss the movie from such fleeting samples is beyond me. I can only presume that similar world-of-mouth denouncements reinforced their skewed views.

For the record, Parker is traditionally diligent and therefore, arguably headstrong, whether in "Homecoming" or any number of previous undertakings: comic, animated or live-action.

In "Homecoming'"s instance, one could say that our hero has taken his industrious zeal to an even higher level. I'd agree wholeheartedly with that. The kid, after all, realizes his potential and puts it to outstanding use. Mind you, he could otherwise waste his time playing video games or sobbing over why his favorite football team lost the big game, but admirably chooses a more purposeful path. 

Parker's passion is to prove to Tony Stark that he's true-blue Avengers material, and with the opportunity at hand, he stays loyal to that cause, even if he has to dance around dear Aunt Mae’s watchful, maternal concerns. All the same, Parker recognizes injustice when it surfaces: understands why it's wrong to turn a blind eye to it. If he can help in any given situation, he'll do so, and when he granted the frivolous chance to impress the girl of his dreams, he abandons it, web-slinging forth to expose the Vulture’s insidious business operation. Now that’s my kind of hero. That’s my kind of kid.

Please pardon me if I sound like some cliched, old fogy (and yep, here comes my editorial within an editorial), but youngsters today are just too damn coddled. They’re told they’re flawless and wonderful, even when they've done nothing to deserve it. It’s predominately the parents’ fault for not exposing and discussing reality's snags with their offspring. Per parental guidance, an adolescent should come to distinguish good from bad, and from there make some positive impact on the world. A teen needn’t have radioactive blood or go up against corporate crooks to make his/her mark. It just takes a little diligence and well, a headstrong vantage to reach one's goals. As the Sinatra song goes, that's life...

I sure wish I had been more cognitive of Parker's intensified stance when I initially watched "Homecoming". I guess I’m just used to him not sitting on his duff and took his heroism for granted. Now that I know better, I take strong issue with those who'd question his character. I've come to realize that those women who jumped the gun in their criticism of Spidey are the J. Jonah Jamesons of the world. Their shared assessment is silly, insolent and above all, out of touch. There's a good chance that their children (and consequently, society) will suffer to some extent or another for that.

“Homecoming” is the type of modern fable youngsters should watch; and if you, a parent, haven’t yet seen it, I urge you to do so and throughout the experience, pay heed to what develops; then share the film with your kids...with the entire family...discuss what you've absorbed. I guarantee you'll be all the better for it.

"Spider-man: Homecoming" is currently available through pay-per-view; the disc release hits shelves Oct 17.

BEDTIME FOR ROBOTS RETURNS: FILTHY GODS IN THE AGE OF EXQUISITE MACHINES!!!

"I have decided upon a combination of Greek and Roman mythology along with Paganism, the teachings of the Christ figure prior to being watered down and reinterpreted by charlatans, George Carlin's brain droppings, Buddhism, the music of Pink Floyd, the films of David Lynch and Stanley Kubrick, and the peaceful vision of MLK, Gandhi, and John Lennon as the basis of my new religion..." Michael Ferentino

Michael Ferentino, whether via eloquent statement or his haunting, musical compositions, doesn't fancy extremes: political or religious. In fact, the artist has always struck me as a pragmatist, based on his reported observations, though he's still a man with a strong, mystical bent. His latest concoction under the Bedtime for Robots heading, Filthy Gods in the Age of Exquisite Machines, reflects his shrewd perspective. 

Because of its sheer scope, Filthy Gods may be the ultimate Bedtime for Robots, which is saying a lot, since there’s never been a minor presentation among Ferentino’s electronic excursions. This new endeavor, however, stands as an epic rebuttal against all those holier-than-thou, phony-baloney, know-it-all bastards who tell us how to think and live; and even more so, those who choose to follow such mainstream gurus, never daring to think or dream for themselves.

The album also implies a fabricated, hollow world that humans have created to imprison themselves (shades of Patrick McGoohan, perhaps?), but through his creation's terse and spacey chords, Ferentino acknowledges a spiteful rejection of the tension and emptiness that such foolhardy existences bring. Hope, therefore, can rise from out despair, or so his music seems to say. 

Filthy's “tension” tracks set forth this notion in an organic and emotional way. One of the most invigorating is "Manchester", which bleeds a snappy, cool atmosphere, but with a underlying tide of creepy menace that warns one that self-imposed slavery is never an ideal thing. Then there's "Serpents", which culls its sweeping vigor from Ferentino's legendary band, Love In Reverse, churning a rich rigidity that counters "Manchester'"s bounce by morphing into an ominous march. In fact, the structure invokes images of Snake Plissken heading once more into dangerous turf to rescue some hapless jerk--hey, maybe me! (Oh, yeah, I'm certain that John Carpenter would give this entry an eager thumbs-up.)

The other "tension" tracks are as darkly influential in their own, specialized fashions, transmitting sounds that are austere, but as hypnotic as any devilish Pied Piper could toot. They include Torquemada the First; Filthy Gods; Sundowning; Magnolia Song; Isotonic World; Forest of Knives; and Poison Garden. 

Coinciding with (and often punctuating) the latter, we're offered the categorized Exquisite Machines selections, which smack of Fritz Lang's "Metropolis", Jean-Luc Godard's "Alphaville", George Orwell's "1984" and Aldous Huxley's "Brave New World", at times all rolled into one. The tracks' mechanical magnetism is simultaneously uneasy, soothing and defiant if one listens to the series in whole. They include Cranesong; Exquisite Machines; Goody Powder; Black Sleep Revisited; Music Thing; Marikoriko; Torquemada the Second; Shattered Isles; and Anatomy 7. 

I believe that some (maybe even most) of us are exquisite machines (artists and dreamers) in our own frustrated ways, striving to exist under the rule of all those filthy pillars of judgment. We possess the flip side of our own ideology, if wise enough not to embrace any one ideology. At the very most and least, we must establish our positions with individualized reason, instead of misguided alignment. Filthy Gods reminds us to forge our own concepts--political and/or religious--by never being political and/or religious in the predictable sense of such terms.

Of course, don't take my word for it. Judge for yourself what Ferentino's compelling compositions convey. No matter what your interpretation, you'll be pleased to have played a part in the revolutionary cause. 

Filthy Gods in the Age of Exquisite Machines can be accessed at ..https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tEi3qb7j2BY&feature=youtu.be. In fact, you'll be able to experience Ferentino's visual wonderment, in addition to his audio grandeur, in movie-length form. Man, oh, man, are you ever in for a big-time, psychedelic sneak treat!!! Pure genius all the way!!! Hooray!!!