I’m making a post on Christmas day, which if nothing else should indicate the degree of reverence I have for the holiday season.
Christmas, and the train-wreck of bad taste that ensues, is not entirely without its benefits, particularly the unquestionably awful effect it has on rock music. Artists struggling to maintain their hair-flicking, could-give-a-fuck bad-assery through a three-and-a-half minute ditty about magic always makes for priceless entertainment. So without further ado….To the YouTube!
Today we are going to play a game! It’s called “Gothic Outfit or Halloween Costume?” There are eight gothic ensembles in this post; some of them are actual outfits designed by alternative clothing labels to be worn out and about in the scene, others are Halloween costumes intended for adults who want to play-pretend to be goths one day out of the year. Can you guess which is which? Test yourself after the jump!
Pierrot was my first crush, and I mean the very first one, the one before real life boys, girls, etc. It all began with a life size doll [the size of a 6 year old anyhow] of a crying jester. More of a fusion of Pierrot and Harlequin, he had long noodly limbs, painted fingernails and a white made up moon-face with permanent blue teardrops slightly raised on the plastic surface. I assigned him a variety of appropriately tragic personalities in accordance with whatever game I was playing that day.
The name “Pierrot” didn’t hold any meaning until I read Buratino - Tolstoy’s version of Pinnochio. He was Buratino’s dismal friend, eternally pining for Malvina the blue-haired doll. I was smitten by his dapper costume in the 1975 film version of the book. The magnificent ruff and floor-length sleeves on the squeaky pallid boy left a permanent impression.
Korean scientists reached a new milestone by cloning several Turkish Angora cats that glow under UV light. Intended for genetic research, these felines had fluorescent genes added to their donor’s cells during the cloning process. Provided this doesn’t somehow result in a black market for glowcat fur stoles, it’s pretty great for both research and glow-stuff enthusiasts worldwide.
You may also remember the green glow-pigs of recent science history.
“They can say that I couldn’t sing, but they can never say that I didn’t sing!” - One of Florence Foster Jenkins’ releases
Ah, the glory days before computer software, when only the very talented, or wealthy eccentrics such as Florence Foster Jenkins could have access to recording facilities.
At sixty years of age, and a lifetime of fantasizing about becoming a singer, Miss Jenkins struck gold when her mother croaked and left her a free woman with a small fortune. In 1930 she set about making her mark in history, albeit inadvertently, as one of the worst recording artists in history.
She was almost an instant comedy sensation. Sporting a sensationally flamboyant wardrobe of her own design and accompanied by a hapless pianist who hilariously compensated for her tone-deaf-ness, her live performances were so coveted that scalpers would sometimes fetch ten times the price for a ticket. For what she absolutely lacked in pitch, rhythm, tone, or what is otherwise known in this dimension as ’singing talent’, she made up for in stubborn confidence, insisting until the very end that she was a master. That end came a month after a sell-out show at Carnegie Hall in 1944, topping off a paradoxical career.
Behold, the genius of Florence Foster Jenkins in the form of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart’s ‘Queen of the Night’ aria from The Magic Flute:
Florence Foster Jenkins, beyond being the subject of popular ridicule, actually leaves us with a unique legacy. She set out to do the very difficult, with very little ability, very late in life and wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. There’s also a nod to be given to the concept of contentment, a state of zen rejected by most true artists, regardless of their achievements. Her bewildering success lies as much in primitive hilarity as it does her balls to look inevitable failure in the face and say ‘I don’t give a fuck, I’m having this’.
When they’re not busy getting butthurt by cartoons or teddy bears, radical Muslim-types rather like spending their time suing employers into compliance with their totally voluntary dress-code. Case in point:
Left: Bushra Noah. Right: Sarah Des Rosiers and Wedge staff.
Sarah Des Rosiers, owner of alternative hair salon Wedge, has been ambushed with a frivolous lawsuit by one Bushra Noah on grounds of religious discrimination, after dismissing Noah from a trial position at her hair salon. You see, Noah, a self-described ‘devout’ Muslim, didn’t think it was important to mention in her telephone interview that she wore a headscarf, even though she admits that this is the reason she believes she had been turned down for hair-styling jobs in the past. Needless to say, when she rocked up to work she was requested to uncover her hair while at the salon, but she refused on grounds that it was ‘immodest’.
That’s right. A hairdresser who finds uncovered hair immoral.
Having been turned down by no less than twenty-five other salons, presumably for the same reason, Noah decided she’s had enough and set about destroying the business that Des Rosiers had poured her soul into.
Internet addict Barbie. Neglected children sold separately.
Okay, who didn’t make their Barbies do obscene things at some point? But The Subversive 11½ Inch Fashion Doll takes it to all new levels of wrong.
The author of the site, alt model Theda B, describes the effort as “awful things I did to my old toys in a fit of boredom” and presents the Mattell-made dolls, dubbed “Bobbie” and “Ben,” in some hilarious, completely un-PC scenarios that draw on politics, illness, subculture, deviant sexuality and criminal behavior. And a good time is had by all! My personal favorites are Pretentious Performance Artist Barbie, Bobbie Christ (or the “I’m Going Straight to Hell” doll) and Trench Coat Mafia Ben. Collect them all!
The site hasn’t been updated in 3 years, which is a shame. It would be interesting to see what kind of new dolls people would submit to the site today. My own contributions would be Internet-Famous Bobbie and Sadistic TSA Agent Ben.
I’m not sure how to explain what makes Death Bed: The Bed That Eats so special, or if I should even try. I certainly didn’t know anything about the film when it was first recommended to me (by some hairy-palmed weirdo lurking near the Jess Rollin section of Kim’s in NYC a few years back). Completed in 1977, this “forgotten horror classic” was never officially released. Legend has it that director George Barry had no idea anyone had even seen the picture until he Googled himself and found a bunch of websites raving about it. After 25 years, Cult Epics finally put it out on DVD.
Death Bed is definitely rave-worthy, but again, I’m at a loss to explain why without taking away some of the mystique. Here’s the overview from Cult Epics:
“At the edge of a grand estate, near a crumbling old mansion lies a strange stone building with just a single room. In the room, a four-poster bed waits to absorb the flesh, blood and life essence of unwary travelers…”
It’s Monday morning again. Drag yourself up from that Ambien fog with some wholesome, manly arena rock:
Fuck a bunch of Flashdance. 1984 belongs to Billy Squier and his no-holds-barred performance in the “Rock Me Tonight” video.
In all seriousness, I give this man infinite kudos for venturing waaay out of his comfort zone. Shame on all the repressed homosexuals who renounced him at the time. Take into account the concupiscent gender confusion of those hazy days. Times were a’ changing for classic stadium rockers. Let no one cast a stone at Budokan Billy for trying to scramble aboard big hair metal’s bandwagon, for who among us has not been seduced by some unfortunate 80s trend, either in their unquestioning past, or the ironic now? (Not I, says the girl clad in fluffy mohair legwarmers.)
Billy, I love you, man. Your dance is a good dance. A dance of reckless abandon. Vulnerable and radiant. On this dour Monday morning while the coffee is brewing and the sun beats down upon my satin sheets, I will do your dance, Billy Squier, and do it right.
(Wearing elbow pads, of course. With the shades drawn.)
But take heart, all ye heathens, Scrooges and secular humanists. There are so many delightful reasons to rejoice in the season besides the miraculous birth of Baby Jesus or being given a luxury SUV wrapped in a giant @#$!*& bow. Explore the wonderment beyond the cut.
