Feeding the hungry eye: of horror, sentimentality, ownership, and collecting

Why do I care about owning things? 

I went through a phase where it seemed very important to gather towards me the things that I had loved at a kid. There was, for instance, a book of Robert Bloch short stories, a couple of which I remembered vividly, that I had, I think, when I was around 10 years old. The book, in the edition I owned, had a singular and memorable cover:

That's not even the first printing; there's a more common, probably more valuable edition of the book, maybe more than one if it came out in hardcover, but that cover was the one on the book that I had as a kid, and was a big part of the appeal -- because I used to have horrible nightmares involving the Grim Reaper. They were very realistic, set in the actual condo where I lived with my parents -- maybe when I was aged six or seven, not much older. The mood of the dream would be happy at first: I would be playing outside with my friends, then would go to open the door to go inside, and AAAUUUGH: the Grim Reaper was waiting just inside the door! The whole mood of the dream shifted from playful to terrifying and I would wake up in a panic, heart pounding. At that point I didn't even know who the Grim Reaper was, didn't understand he was the Angel of Death -- it was just some sort of supernatural figure, in dark robes, with a skull for a face, who I'd been terrified by in images in the back of Famous Monsters of Filmland. 

The dream recurred a few times, with a couple of variants, and so I grew to mistrust the landscape of my dreams. If I was walking towards a door in my dream, I would stop before opening it, knowing that this skull-faced entity could be waiting inside. I knew that my dreams might be trying to trick me. One time I even dreamed I was upstairs, and that my mother was calling me to come downstairs, and I decided that it was actually this nightmare figure PRETENDING to be my mother, waiting just downstairs, trying to lure me. I wouldn't come downstairs, in that dream; instead, I fought it, tried to wake myself up, slapping myself in the face. You aren't going to get ME! 

My dreams grew increasingly lucid and interactive, so that, if I thought ol' skullface was going to suddenly appear, was waiting around the corner in a dream that was poised to turn bad, I'd ram myself into the walls of the room I was in, hit myself, etc. Not sure if I actually was hitting myself in real life, lying there in bed, but there was little I had experienced that terrified me more than those nightmares. It seemed imperative I get out of them however I could. 

Which brings us back to this paperback. I loved Bloch -- he wrote gruesome little short stories, which I enjoyed much more than his novels. I read a few of those too: Firebug, The Scarf, and Psycho II, the story for which had utterly no relationship to that of the Psycho II film: it's about a police detective so obsessed with catching Norman Bates that he doesn't realize that Bates is dead and that, in his obsessive need to catch him, his own personality has fragmented -- that the killer he's pursuing is actually himself. It sounds like a fun premise, but I don't remember being very impressed with the book at the time. Bloch's stories, however -- I had several anthologies -- were really fun, almost shaggy dog stories, each one ending on gross-out punchlines that are just the sort of thing to delight a horror-minded kid. There was one I even adapted into a sort of play for drama class, as a young teenager, where an honest cop, a good man, is killed by a corrupt colleague, chopped up, and served as meat to the guests at a barbeque, as a novel way of getting rid of the body.  His partner confronts the killer at said barbeque, not realizing that he's actually helping dispose of the evidence in the form of the steak on his plate. When he figures it out, there's a punchline where Bloch reminds us that this cop had been a good man, and "you can't keep a good man down." 

That's your typical Bloch move, there: ending on a one-liner that is equal parts corny groaner and gruesome nightmare. He's the guy who said, famously, that despite his reputation, he actually had the heart of a small child... which he kept in a jar on his desk. 

Anyhow.

The paperback with that cover actually terrified me, when I saw it on the shelf at a used bookstore of my childhood (Haney Books, RIP). It might have been the reason why I needed to own it, the thing that drew me in BECAUSE it repelled me; it may even have been the first Bloch I picked up, drawn by that cover alone. It's the same logic by which I figure that my utter terror at the flying monkeys in The Wizard of Oz, mentioned in my previous post, were essential in getting me into horror cinema -- the desire to control, understand, and come to terms with that which terrified me, affected me, made me vulnerable. Bloch is for writing what Oz was for cinema, for me, for getting me into reading actual prose, not just Warren Magazines and House of Mystery comics and such. His stories were memorable and delightful to my young mind, if sometimes very dark, and a few of them remained wedged in my brain, like the last sentence of the story "The Hungry Eye," from the very collection under discussion: the tale describes someone possessed by a dark force, killing someone, which he describes in terms of "feeding;" it's not as corny as the usual Bloch punchline, but it really got under the skin (it's something like, "I picked up the knife, walked towards her, and fed the Hungry Eye"). Some of the other stories were more SF than horror, even bordering on Swiftian social satire -- like "Sales of a Deathman," which I still think could be adapted into a memorable movie, a blackly comic trifle about an advertising executive who, to help solve the world's overpopulation problem, creates an advertising campaign for suicide that is so successful that everyone in the world dies, except for a few old executives from the same company, a beautiful young (female) secretary, and the adman himself, whom everyone is counting on to help repopulate the world (the punchline is something like, "I haven't got the heart to tell them I'm sterile"). 

I spent quite a bit of time and effort trying to re-acquire that paperback a few years ago. And like I say, it wasn't just about reading the stories again, or owning the book, it was about owning the book in the edition that I had had as a kid. I went through the same thing with Robert Silverberg's Dying Inside: why would I want a book with this cover:

When I could have the one that appealed to me as a kid, that had made me want to read the book in the first place:

...that also being a book I took pains a few years ago to re-acquire in the same edition that mattered to me when I first owned it. I still have it. That one, I actually can justify re-owning, because I think I'd like to read it again; beside its including the first description of an LSD trip I ever encountered, it has a resonant theme -- a man who grew up psychic, trying to come to terms with the waning of his gifts as he ages -- which I think would be more meaningful to me as an adult than as a teenager. 

The Bloch, on the other hand, when I finally got it... I realized I had no desire to re-read it at all. It sat on my shelf for a few months, un-opened, before I figured this out. Like Aurora monster models, the stories of Harlan Ellison, the art of Richard Corben, and vintage episodes of Star Trek and The Night Stalker, it was something I had lasting fondness for from my childhood that really didn't translate into the world of my adult interests. Just like I had wanted to own it as a child so I could control the thing that frightened me, I had wanted to re-own it as an adult because it had meant something to me as a child. The difference was, back then, owning it actually included a desire to read it, the ability to take pleasure from Bloch's (ultimately kind of immature and silly) short stories. Why would I want to re-read them, though?

When I realized that in fact, owning it was all I had wanted, that the book was just sitting there, unread, and would continue to do so... I brought it back to the used bookstore where I'd acquired it, Carson Books. 

At least the brief owning-it-again-and-discovering-I-did-not-care served to satiate the need, scratch the itch. It also helped me realize that there is a ton of stuff I have gathered towards me specifically because I want to own it, not use it. 

It's not always easy to know what's driving the desire, though. Is it JUST about ownership, or is there active interest in the use of the thing? I still think about re-acquiring a comic book that fascinated me as a teenager: 

...but why? Why do I need this? Do I actually want to read the stories in it? No; it's just an artifact, the contents of which I barely remember, something that, if I acquired it again, I would PROBABLY just put in a box with the other comic books that I remember from my youth (there are a couple of Slow Deaths in there, but not this one). Again, it might  mean something more to me now than it did then, given my own dance with cancer in recent years, and it might interest me if, in re-reading it, it sparked a memory of a formative attitude or such, given that it was probably the first time in my life I really thought about cancer; still, I have paused in the re-acquiring it, because I no longer trust the impulse. 

I'm writing this for a specific reason, related to my New Year's Resolution, y'see. It's still January, and I'm already struggling. I had decided, on one of my trips to Main Street, that I wanted to flip a couple of records -- because I could surely still trade records for new ones, even if I was vowing not to buy any new ones this year. The problem is that in the process of flipping a couple of things, I realized, holy cow, how can I quit buying records when I don't even have a single Tom Waits LP in my collection? (not on vinyl, anyhow). I had enjoyed a few weeks of feeling like I'd gotten OFF the acquisition-of-stuff merry go round, and have in fact been a bit burned out on Tom Waits for awhile, but I don't deny his genius, and he once meant a great deal to me, so suddenly that peaceful non-acquisatory vibe I had been trying to cultivate was gone. Plus by re-acquiring one of his records (which actually did require a small cash outlay, since I didn't get as much as I'd hoped for the records I'd sold), I'd come close to filling up my Red Cat stamp card... how can I quit when I just have two stamps left to go...?

This posed a further problem: how can I buy just one Tom Waits record, when there are four of five that I actually really loved, back in the day? I would have to get Rain Dogs, first, because that was the album that hooked me on him, that I bought when it came out...

...but what about Frank's Wild Years, The Black Rider, and Bone Machine? I could probably make do without Swordfishtrombones, or his early work... except maybe Heartattack and Vine... Hmm...

And speaking of Bone Machine, how can I stop collecting without having a single Pixies LP in my collection? 

I should never have gone back into Red Cat that day. I went in feeling fairly safe in my resolution, thinking I'd just flip a couple things for one other record, and emerged twitching with the need for at least six or seven more records, which continued to haunt me for days...

It almost becomes like smoking cigarettes as a way of quitting smoking cigarettes: you can justify smoking that next cigarette because it's YOUR LAST ONE, right? Because it's better to smoke a cigarette if it's your final one than if it's just one more cigarette in an endless series of cigarettes. So if it's in fact your last cigarette, that's okay! One last one and then you're done! 

And then the satiation passes and the cravings hit and suddenly you're thinking about lighting just one more... THAT can be your last cigarette, right? If it's really the last, then that's okay!

Right?

How many "last cigarettes" are you allowed to smoke before you have to call bullshit on yourself?

Anyhow, I'm all twisted up now, because I figured, having gone into Red Cat, and realized that, okay, I'm going to have to feed the hungry eye one more time, I went one more step and sold a record that I had two of, a kind of nice item that I enjoyed owning, because it would allow me to get a couple Tom Waits and Pixies records, which would be the fastest way to stop myself from continuing to think about wanting them... a memorable purchase that I could END things on, you know? And  I was still just trading things in, which I was allowed to do. 

...only now I have an offer on the second of the two copies of said nice item, which I hadn't intended to sell at all. It might mean getting a couple of other Waits and Pixies records, and it would compensate a bit for the fact that I indeed spent a little MORE money than I'd gotten for the record I had sold... and it would kind of teach me a lesson that by opening the door to buying more stuff -- well, it wouldn't be the Grim Reaper, exactly, waiting on the other side, but I would LOSE something in the process, and maybe that would help me to stop? 

How do I stop? Can I credibly use a final-cigarette/ one-last-heist-and-then-I'll-retire narrative to justify continuing to do exactly the thing I am trying (allegedly) to quit doing?  It's almost like some perverse variant on Zeno's Paradox... How do I break this habit, of wanting to draw things towards me, of wanting to own them, control them? What drives it? Why can't I just be happy with what I AM, without needing to connect it to what I HAVE? 

Anyhow, I don't actually really want to sell this other record at all, except the guy who wants to buy it wants it for a reason that kind of moves me (as a gift for someone), which actually seems more inherently meaningful than my mere (meaningless?) continued ownership of it. I just like the idea of continuing to own it... like my OWN pleasure in ownership, even as I am tempted towards facilitating his pleasure (he actually wants it as a gift for someone, so it would be TWO people getting pleasure from it, one form of pleasure -- pleasure in giving -- is actually superior, innit, to pleasure in owning. But why should that seem more valid to me? Why should my own continued ownership seem less meaningful than the act of facilitating someone else's ownership? (Is it the changing-hands-of-things that I'm addicted to, even more than the owning of them?). I'm all snarled up about it, and completely unconvinced that (maybe) by letting go of this object, it will make it a memorable lesson in NOT GETTING SO INVESTED IN THE OWNERSHIP OF STUFF.

Of course, the guy I'm thinking of selling it to is plenty invested in the ownership of stuff, himself. I wonder if he ever second-guesses that, if he ever thinks maybe he needs help? 

Maybe I do? Maybe there are actually MORE IMPORTANT THINGS IN LIFE THAT I COULD BE THINKING ABOUT? Maybe all of this is just drama, and poor self control, and ultimately unworthy of the time I am devoting to thinking on it?

It did not seem this way this morning. 

***

Post-script. I sold that other record, too. And bought all the Pixies and Tom Waits I really "needed." And now I'm gonna try to go back on the wagon... real soon...

King Kong (1933) on screen (plus the return of Horrorshow!)

I can't give it fair credit as #1, but the second-most important film screening I ever attended, in terms of shaping me as a movie lover, was  King Kong, at the gym at my old elementary school in Maple Ridge, circa 1977, when I was about nine years old. #1, as I've written about somewhere back there, was a theatrical presentation of The Wizard of Oz that I'd gone to, some years previous, also in Maple Ridge, where I was so terrified by the flying monkeys (and so in fear for Dorothy) that I had to be removed from the theatre, shrieking and crying. Film has never since had such a powerful impact upon me; I figure the sheer trauma of the experience was what compelled me, as a child, to want to understand cinema more deeply, and set me on the road to horror film fandom. But I'm not a huge fan of The Wizard of Oz, or anything. It's a fun enough film but it resonates with me today nowhere near as much as that first experience of the original version of King Kong, when our teacher - a youthful, cheerful hippie named Mr. Hansen, who also played a formative role in getting me into song lyrics -- led the class into the gymnasium to see a film print being projected of King Kong. 

I was a huge fan of dinosaurs, but somehow was unaware of the film. We were, as I remember,  brought in late, so that we arrived shortly before the raft scene on Skull Island, which may have actually helped me get into the film: within a few minutes of getting comfortably cross-legged on the floor, there was a dinosaur on screen! I was rapt, and soon to be even more awestruck by the allosaurus (but usually identified as a T-Rex)-vs-Kong fight scene. I loved the movie, and much later, even liked Peter Jackson's remake of it sufficiently that I went back to the theatre to see it half a dozen times...

...but somewhat unbelievably, I have only seen 1933 King Kong projected one other time, in the 40-odd-years since that day in the gymnasium at my old school, at an outdoor screening in Stanley Park some ten years ago. Fitting, then, that I'll be seeing it again in Maple Ridge -- or, well, technically Pitt Meadows -- this Friday, for the (technically second) film to mark the return of Horrorshow, the Jonny-Bones-hosted late-night film series, which only recently recovered from its COVID-imposed lockdown. It's screening a bit earlier than the Horrorshows of yore, so it's possible for Vancouver residents to commute out to catch the film, which Bones will introduce. Bones is the frontman for two of Maple Ridge's best punk exports, the ska-inflected Bone Daddies and the more oldtimey-influenced Still Spirits. He took the time to answer a few questions about King Kong and his history with it. 

(And for the record, I had no idea that The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms predated Godzilla. I fact checked Bones, and the former is from 1953, while the latter 1954. I'm seriously impressed; Bones knows his stuff).

Jonny Bones by Kav Ronin

A: How did you first encounter King Kong? 

J: I first was shown King Kong by my mother as a very young age. Exactly what age, I don't recall, but likely between 1st & 3rd grade. I came from a very religious household; we also lived out in the sticks of the Stave Falls area, in a little trailer on a hill and had no cable TV, just a VCR and whatever came in through our 2.5 over the air TV channels, so what I had access to/ was allowed to watch was very limited. However, my mother was a big fan of classic black and white and early adventure films, many of which featured the exceptional creature effects work of Ray Harryhausen. Anyways, one day she put on King Kong, either as a TV broadcast or as a VHS rental, I cannot recall. Seeing that film however, I vividly recall. I was awestruck by the images in screen. My mind at that time couldn't comprehend how it all worked, it just looked real... Well, maybe not REAL, perhaps surreal is a better term. But the mastery of effects being blended and layered on that screen made a deep and lasting impression on me that set me forever on a course to keep seeking that feeling of excitement and awe, that surreal feeling of realistic unreality that only monster movies and horror can present. My very Christian and lovely mother had no clue what kind of creature she herself was creating that day in our living room. Without her realizing it, she was forming a lifelong Movie Monster fan. 

A: There was an interesting later-day interpretation of the film by which it is encoding a fear of miscegenation, with Kong as a stand-in for people of colour, from whom our white women must be protected! I think that anxiety might actually be relevant -- but it makes me love the film no less.

J: Yes, I'm very aware of the reading of the film in a racial allegory, and it's an extremely valid reading. From watching the film, you can't help but see the trappings of race and misogyny that are simply inherent in it as a product of the time. Women are the lesser sex, that need to only be rescued or desired, and people of color are only presented as uncivilized savages to serve as small antagonistic plot points. For a film from 1933, I don't really expect much less. I think the theory of reading Kong himself as an allegory for the struggle of the black man in America was likely popularized by the scene from Inglourious Basterds by Tarantino, and again, I think it's a very interesting and apt reading of the film. But, to me, I think viewing the movie only through that modern socio-political lens, robs the film of its pure marvel of original storytelling and industry changing special effects. 

What people don't often understand about Kong is that nothing had ever existed like it before. It's a completely original concept and story. It was not based on a book or a play or any other pre-existing piece of art. It was created, whole cloth, for the screen (a concept which was rare then and almost non-existent today, especially from any major studio), and the effects work that Willis O'Brien did are nothing short of groundbreaking. This film incorporated, invented and remixed every single form of special effects known at the time, from stop motion, jump cuts, matte painting, rear projection, glass paint overlays and more, all mixed together and combined, sometimes mixing all of them at once in ways that had never been seen or done before (refer to the snake fight scene inside of the mountain lair to see what I mean) and through the combination of all of these things, the film achieved the rare occurrence of puncturing the general pop culture zeitgeist and created the first giant movie monster ever. That even now, 91 years later, still looms large in our minds. Hell Godzilla x King: The New Empire comes out in theaters later this year! And without this film, none of the giant movie monsters we know and love, from Godzilla to Cloverfield, or any variety of Japanese Kaiju would exist. 

So, while I think the modern viewing of King Kong is an important reading of the themes on screen, I think it is a short sighted view of just what exactly this film is and what it has done for cinema as a whole. One certainly should watch it, and they would be remiss to write it off due to any sense of social "insensitivity", as they would be losing far more for modern culture than they would gain for moral stature. However, that's the beautiful thing about art. You can enjoy it, consume it, discuss it, dissect it, criticize it, and more. The only thing you should never do it ban or dismiss it. If you don't like it. Simply don't engage with it.

A: Do you have other favourite stop-motion films?

Yes, I'm a huge stop motion fan. To me O'Brien will always be the king, as I think Kong looms largest over all of the art form. However, Harryhausen is another favourite (himself a student of O'Brien, they even worked together on Mighty Joe Young, itself a direct descendant of Kong). So films like The 7th Voyage of Sinbad, Clash Of The Titans, Jason and The Argonauts, Beast From 20,000 Fathoms (itself the precursor to Godzilla), It Came From Beneath The Sea and many, MANY more are all very near and dear to my heart. Luckily for us the artform is still alive and well, with such modern offerings as Henry Selick's: The Nightmare Before Christmas, James and the Giant Peach, and of course Coraline, which marked the birth of what I think is the greatest stop motion animation studio currently working today: Laika Animation Studios. If you haven't seen their incredible outpouring of work: ParaNorman, Kubo and The Two Strings, Boxtrolls, The Missing Link, and of course the aforementioned Coraline, you should stop reading this and just go watch one of their films. It's breathtaking work and how they are advancing the medium is truly stunning.

A: Yeah, it's great stuff -- I'm particularly fond of ParaNorman. Any comments on the return of Horrorshow? I'm very glad it's back. 

J: Horrorshow is back as a regular monthly event for the foreseeable future. It was shutdown due to the pandemic and I'm glad that I was finally able to get them back on board with the events. I highly encourage everyone to go and support the Hollywood 3 Cinema at all times, not only for Horrorshow. We need independent cinemas in our community. They are vitally important, and are our last bastion against only having mega corporations such as Cineplex, and to a lesser extent, Landmark, as our sole rulers of all cinema screens. I cherish going to the theater to see films the way they were intended to be seen, but the mass takeover of cinema screens by Cineplex and the like is a serious problem. Media and our access to the art held within shouldn't be a monopoly, but it's what we're seeing more and more these days, from our food stores to our movie houses to our film studios and of course our online connection. Independent companies are important. Independent cinemas are important. So, yes, I'm very proud to be back at the Hollywood 3 Cinema, I'm proud to be able to do these nights to share the films I love while also being able to highlight a unique and independent theater in my local area. Please, go support them, they truly need the help and we truly need them in our community!

A: Any gigs to plug? Will the Still Spirits be playing anytime soon? Are the Bone Daddies still active?

J: Currently no gigs. The Still Spirits are on hiatus until our lead singer/banjo player, Skiff, gets back from his deployment on Kuwait. In the meantime, I'm still playing solo shows, which I do whenever I don't have other gigs. You can follow me on instagram: @BonesJonny, I post there about what I'm up to. Follow The Still Spirits on all socials or music platforms of choice, we'll be back this spring/summer. The Bone Daddies are the same group of guys in the Spirits. We just didn't have time for both bands anymore, Spirits was getting more gigs and we were writing more songs in that style currently, but who knows, we may rise from the grave again sometime. We'll see. 

A: Ever write a song inspired by King Kong? You'd figure there would be a few of them, but I only know the Tom Waits cover of the Daniel Johnston song...

J: No, I have never written a song about King Kong. I did write one about Lovecraft's short story, "The Call Of Cthulhu," though. So that's fun. Come see me play a solo gig and maybe I'll play it sometime if you want to hear a sea shanty about monsters and madness! I think that's it mate. Cheers! Hope to see you tomorrow for the show! It's truly a marvelous film and if you've never had a change to see it on the big screen, I hope we can change that for ya. 

Follow Horrorshow on Facebook here; check out other listings for the Hollywood 3 Pitt Meadows here. See you in Pitt Meadows (film screens at 9:30).

Sidelined

Had COVID. Have recovered, but it took a week out of me -- more, really; I was completely unproductive. So I have a backup of writing projects. Might not blog for a bit. 

The Bowie Ball Pit: David M. and David Bowie (again)

Despite having a fine suite of Bowie songs in his repertoire (see here and here), to date, David M. has participated in the Bowie Ball only outside the Rickshaw, busking the street, some of which was entertainingly captured on video here. We've talked about his Small Salute to David Bowie before, some seven years ago, but this year's Bowie Ball marks a new development: M. has been enlisted to perform at the "Bowie Ball Pit" event, an ancillary, all-ages gig, the day after the Bowie Ball, at LanaLou's (kids under 16 will be admitted free with an accompanying adult!). I asked if there was any news to report (besides whispers of a 4K director's cut restoration of The Linguini Incident, that is; more on that here). M writes: 

The "small David Bowie salute" I do hasn't changed much since I first did it in 2016 at my place to cheer myself and a few friends up. It certainly did that, as did the viewing of The Linguini Incident and the good company and conversation afterward. The passing of Bowie was a nasty jolt, casting gloom even on people who might have lost interest in his latter-day music, and my putting together a little set of his songs, almost all of which I was already playing in shows, was my attempt to be more grateful than sad. The idea I had of doing "Peace On Earth", his isolated half of the Bing & Bowie Christmas duet, as an ending felt appropriate. Running through the programme now with this all-ages show in mind, most of the songs strangely seem to have been intended for younger people, even children, as opposed to us painfully hip and knowing older folks. Bowie was a magnet for innocents and misfits because he was innocent and a misfit, and he appealed to young people not just because he was beautiful but because his creativity was childlike. I'm happy to have been asked to do this, even at Lanalou's. I like David Bowie and I like the cause.

The Bowie Ball is tonight; I won't be there, as I have COVID, and have not fully recovered. David will be leading the Bowie Ball Pit event, performing first at LanaLou's on Sunday, taking the stage at 5:30, followed by the bands WTF, Shag, and Fallen Stars, all also presumably covering Bowie songs. Odds are I won't be at that either, given this virus, but people are heartily encouraged to check it out. In some cases (especially "The Laughing Gnome"), M's covers of these songs best Bowie's!

More information on the Bowie Ball Pit here. 

Code of the Freaks, Lon Chaney, and screen disability

There's a fascinating documentary called Code of the Freaks which interviews disability activists -- including people with various disabilities -- about their reactions to depictions of disability in cinema, and the underlying sociocultural attitudes these reveal. It does for disability what another favourite film-centric documentary, Reel Injun, does for representations of Indigenous peoples, using cinema as an entry point for a wider discussion, and contains some very intriguing surprises, like Mat Fraser -- who acts in American Horror Story: Freak Show and Loudermilk, and who I gather has collaborated with Steve Ignorant at some point (!) -- praising, apparently, Tod Browning's Freaks; it's a film I have great fondness for, but it's weirdly liberating to discover that it is also admired by people with congenital birth defects (Mat has defects caused by Thalidomide; hear his song "Thalidomide Ninja" here; who knew that "Krip Hop" was a thing? A more recent project of Mat's here. Perfect touring partner for Blind Marc, eh?).

Much as I enjoy it, Freaks is only incidental to the initial impetus for this post, which was my newfound appreciation for Lon Chaney. Chaney is not in Freaks -- though if I recall, recently deceased horror film historian David J. Skal talks in a commentary on the recent Criterion set about how Chaney was meant to be in the film, but died before it could be made. A Lon Chaney film does appear in Code of the Freaks, but with less love: The Penalty. This film can be viewed for free via Kanopy, and is a gripping silent thriller about a man who, injured in a car accident as a boy and subjected to a wrongful double amputation of his legs, grows up to be a criminal mastermind, with a scheme to force the doctor who mutilated him to graft another man's legs onto his, so he can lead a series of bank robberies. There's also something about a sweatshop of women that Chaney (or the character he plays, who has taken the name Blizzard) is forcing to make hats. I may have nodded off when they explained what the hats were about (but give me a break, I've got COVID).

Chaney is remarkable in the film. His villainy is so motivated, his character so compelling, charismatic and rich, that you fall under his spell, want him to succeed on some level (and the guy whose legs he wants to steal is a bit of a prick, anyhow). And the physical dimensions of the role are quite something. Against the advice of doctors, Chaney wore contraptions on his knees that allowed him to run on his "stumps," with his actual legs tied back, which could not have been comfortable. He sells his leglessness, so much so that there are fantasy scenes included in the film that show him be-legged, post-surgery, so that audiences would not make the mistake that he was an actual amputee. It gives you a sense of his commitment to his craft: moments where he does things like leap from a height and land on his knees look like they would have been extraordinarily painful, but he doesn't wince, doesn't flinch. I cannot imagine, no matter what prosthetic was on my legs, jumping from a height and landing on my knees, with my legs tied back. 

The film is not given much love in Code of the Freaks, being grouped in passing with films like Dr. No, where disability is connected to a desire for revenge on society. These films are a bit less offensive to the various commenters than movies where disabled characters serve to uplift or transform "normally abled" characters, sometimes ultimately dying so that the true hero can be redeemed. Gattaca is the most offensive example, the suicide scene in which is interestingly compared to that in The Elephant Man; sadly, an old favourite film of mine, Cutter's Way, probably also fits the pattern, in that Alex Cutter (John Heard, giving Chaney a run for his money in terms of screen disfigurements) ultimately dies so that his friend can be redeemed (Cutter has his share of a desire for revenge on society, too, but differs from the disabled characters in Dr. No and The Penalty in that you're meant to root for him, much less ambivalently than in the case of the Chaney film). 

A Lon Chaney film that is not mentioned in Code of the Freaks, but could have been, is The Unknown, which does have an element of disability in it, though it's not without a degree of complication. Regarded as the best of his collaborations with Browning, it's a silent film, featuring a very young Joan Crawford, with Chaney as an armless circus knife-thrower, Alonso the Armless. Chaney again sells his armlessness, though was not himself actually able to throw knives with his feet; the scenes where he is shown doing this are faked with the help of an actual armless knife-thrower, Paul Desmuke. 

The reason the film is not included in Code of the Freaks may well be that Alonso the Armless (spoiler alert) is not actually armless; he's a criminal who is disguising himself as armless to evade capture, in part because he has a unique deformity which will allow him to be easily identified: he has double-thumbs on both hands (a birth defect, sure, but not a particularly severe one). Presumably the bindings you see Alonso wearing in the film are, in fact, the actual bindings that Chaney wore to give the impression of his armlessness, which, again, he sells quite well. I'm guessing that for scenes where he is shown sipping tea with his feet, Paul Desmuke is hiding offscreen, extending a foot up? 

The story of the film is quite something -- a circus thriller in which Chaney vies for the love of Crawford, who has a phobia of having men's hands on her, which her strongman suitor (another performer in the circus) does not realize, setting him at a disadvantage. Chaney would seem her ideal partner, except his armlessness is just a front (oh, and he murdered her father, too, but that's another matter). Like The Penalty, Chaney hatches a plot to possibly deprive his rival of his limbs, in a rather stunning climax in which his arms are bound to two horses, running in opposite directions; also like The Penalty, though he is a villain, he is the film's central character and primary identification, which is kind of interesting in and of itself. 

There are only three Lon Chaney Sr. movies I've seen now, the third being Outside the Law, another Tod Browning film wherein Chaney plays a villain, though a bit unlike The Unknown in that you're not meant to root for him. Chaney actually plays a second role in the film, too -- a virtuous Chinese coolie who spies on the villain and helps our protagonists. It's interesting that the film has a positive attitude towards its Chinese characters, while making of Chaney a rather repugnant yellowface caricature. At least he's a good guy!

So I've become quite a Lon Chaney fan -- eventually, I'll get to The Hunchback of Notre Dame (also mentioned in Code of the Freaks) and The Phantom of the Opera (that might be in there, too, I forget). I feel like I've been remiss as a horror fan in not taking in more of his work! 

More pressingly, though, I've got to see American Horror Story: Freak Show. (And maybe buy a couple of Mat Fraser CDs!).

7am and reading

There's stuff I have not been writing about much -- that just kinda fills me with despair and grief and confusion. I don't know what to say about it or do about it, so I do and say nothing. I try not to think about it, because thinking about it just makes my head hurt. 

That may not change anytime soon. But here's what I've been reading this morning, as the CBC is warning of an escalation in the situation between Israel and Lebanon, as Hezbollah launches rockets in retaliation for Israel's killing a Hamas leader...:  https://www.cbc.ca/news/world/israel-hezbollah-threats-1.7075816 

...while people are saying the damage wrought by Israel in Gaza is the most devastating anywhere in the 21st century, comparable to the results of the Dresden firebombing... https://www.cbc.ca/news/politics/israel-gaza-bombing-hamas-civilian-casualties-1.7068647

This was where I started: "What Palestinians Really Think of Hamas" from Foreign Affairs:

https://www.foreignaffairs.com/israel/what-palestinians-really-think-hamas

...the head-pounder in there is that Hamas, by attacking Israel, increases popularity for itself -- but Israel still proceeds with attacks. I remember similar comments (maybe by Chomsky?) after the 9/11 attacks, that such actions benefit hardliners everywhere.

A friend thinks my focus on Hamas, at a time when Israel is flagrantly violating international law and decimating one of the most fucked-over populations on earth -- is perverse and wrong and saddening. She may be right. 

What Israel is doing deserves condemnation. As I write this, upwards of 22,000 Palestinians have been killed by Israel actions. 

But I can't get over that they are PROBABLY doing exactly as Hamas intended and wanted. 

It's like - a person owns a pit bull. You don't want them to own a pit bull. So you walk up to that pit bull and hit it with a stick, so everyone can see the pit bull attacking you. Sure, you may have reasons for thinking people shouldn't own pit bulls. But I'm not going to join in the resulting protests against pit bull ownership when I SAW YOU WITH THAT STICK. 

I want to see people condemn Hamas. I do not feel like the people I've seen marching up Commercial Drive chanting "from the river to the sea" necessarily do that. I don't want to be complicit in the October 7th attacks. I've marched with pro-Palestinian groups before (when protesting US invasions of Afghanistan and Iraq), and been comfortable with it, but this time, no. 

An interesting side note: I "learned" about the October 7th attacks not on the news. I was coming out of an Italian restaurant in Victoria with my wife. A small car drove by with a woman in a hijab sticking her head out of the passenger window giving what I can only describe as a "war cry" -- one of those ululating, vaguely terrifying things involving tongue motions beyond the scope of my physiology (even pre-surgery). My thought was, "Oh no, what happened." And so I looked at my phone. 

Do many people who are marching, now, by and large support what Hamas did on October 7th? When people calling for a ceasefire are also chanting "from the river to the sea," it muddies the waters for me beyond what I'm comfortable with. 

It heartens me to see Jews protesting Israel's retaliation. I recently made a small gesture to see if I had Jewish blood -- something I've suspected but been unable to confirm. (My maternal grandparents left the Ukraine around the time of pogroms against Jews; my maternal grandmother's last name was Kozel or Kozell, which certainly has a Jewish ring to it). I haven't pursued it, however. I might be more comfortable joining a Jewish group condemning Israel's actions. 

This is an interesting read, about the need to condemn Hamas: https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/why-wont-you-condemn-hamas-your-allies-silent-what-do-malhotra-ormge

This is also an interesting read, though -- about the perversity of insisting that Palestinians condemn Hamas, when Israel is committing war crimes:

https://www.declassifieduk.org/why-do-uk-media-insist-palestinians-condemn-hamas-but-not-that-israelis-condemn-israel/ 

...and yet I've got nothing. The more I read, the more I feel despair. I'm going to stop now and think about other things. 

Black Flag at Fortune Sound Club, January 1st, 2024: No Dead Dogs to Kick

Sorry, Ron. I went! 

I have friends who would not go see Black Flag tonight because of the way the band treated Ron Reyes on their 2013 tour, ejecting him from the band not long after they played Vancouver. If that alone wasn't enough -- given how nice a person Ron Reyes is -- they had a host of other reasons to add to the arguments for not going, too: child abuse allegations against founder and guitarist Greg Ginn, multiple weird lawsuits in their history ranging from the Negativland foibles to the attempts to cut FLAG off at the pole, which latter predictably backfired and made Ginn look like a weird, controlling dork (almost as if he somehow didn't see that coming!). Then there is the long list of albums released on SST that have gone out of print, with Ginn showing no interest in reissuing them, and -- well, one gathers there are other grievances against him out there. Probably a few people were put off at the threat of interminable Theremin improvisations! But however many reasons one could give, I could think of no way I wanted to ring out 2023 and ring in 2024 than to see Black Flag do a complete performance of their 1984 album My War, followed by a second set of various other hits. Almost as soon as I realized I would be alone this evening, that my wife had other plans, I bought a ticket, even though I like Ron a great deal. For all I knew, I rationalized, the show would suck, and I'd be able to say fairly in a review that not only did they treat Ron really badly, they actually aren't worth seeing! 

That is NOT what I have come here to say, but it coulda worked out that way, y'know? I could not bear witness unless I was there; sometimes you read enough about what a shmuck some guy is, you gotta see him for yourself. I mean, he might be a shmuck, but then again, how does that proverb go, "No one kicks a dead dog?" 

Not a dead dog in sight at the Fortune Sound Club last night. 

Before you judge me, y'all should understand how deep My War goes with me. True confession: in 1984 (or possibly 1985), when I was 16 (or possibly 17), when my parents were in bed upstairs, in the condo we were in in Maple Ridge, I would clear a space on the living room carpet and lip synch to My War, either in its entirety, or occasionally just focusing on side 2. I had to play it quietly enough as to not wake my parents overhead, making the most of what volume I could dare. There I was, quietly rolling around on the floor or performing other such theatricalities -- gesticulating, leaping, thrashing about, whatever I could do as long as it didn't thump too loudly, with a pencil clutched in my hand as a microphone, pretending to roar things like, "My life's a piece of shit that caught in my shoe" or "I think you stuck my friend with knives/ dragged them out so he could die/ one in his heart and three in each side... knives" (both from the sludgy side 2 epic, "Three Nights," which was probably my favourite song on the album after the amazing title track) 

I mean, the music was very fun, too, but lyrics like those tapped deep into all the hatred, negativity, fear, paranoia, mistrust, and alienation coursing through me at the time, given so little adequate voice otherwise -- because as Henry sings, "I conceal my feelings so I won't have to explain/ what I can't explain anyway." The spirit of sullen, uncommunicative, angry adolescence was never so potently screamed... or lip synched to. With the help of Black Flag, once a week or so, for a few months at least, I made no attempt to conceal those feelings. I gave them the most expressive, cathartic "voicing" as I could without actually using my voice. Alone on the carpet, I BECAME Rollins. Or what I imagined Rollins would be like (but pudgier). I tried to get behind every emotion on the album, to embody every song. Some of it was frighteningly dark (as with the murderific "I Love You" ), but the fear and discomfort such expressions provoked were part of the appeal. Like any teen male, I was fascinated with my darker emotions back then. There were a fair number of them expressed in my record collection, and for sheer cathartic/ emotive force, My War is second only, for me, to Zen Arcade (which seems a little less antisocial, a little less thuggish, if equally emotionally fierce. But I never lip synched to Zen Arcade, y'know? Or any other albums besides My War). 

At that point, I had never seen Black Flag. I had read descriptions about how intense they were live; and I'd even seen -- though I did not know what it was at the time -- a TV spot on a Vancouver station about how an American hardcore band was being hassled about crossing the border into Canada because their music was antisocial. I didn't get their name at that point, but was impressed to hear a youngish, head-shorn Rollins, before I knew his name, singing a line or two from "Rise Above" ("It IS kind of antisocial, though," I remember thinking, while loving it for just that reason). A year or two later, when I finally got Damaged, I was happy to have kept that moment filed in my memory: "Aha, THAT's who that band was!"

But seeing them never lined up. I had at least two chances to see Black Flag in Vancouver between 1984 and 1986, when I was at my peak fandom, but I lived in the suburbs, had no car, was underage, and had no friend to drive me to and fro. I was well-practiced at missing gigs. There was no bus that could be caught -- Maple Ridge only had a private coach line back then, and it stopped running before punk gigs finished. They would put extra Pacific Coach Lines on if Iron Maiden played, so I could (and did) see them, or other bigger concerts at the Pacific Coliseum (Judas Priest, the Kinks, Van Halen with David Lee, Black Sabbath, etc, catching the special late bus home on Hastings at 11:30 at night). But a punk show in some small club in Vancouver? Much as I wanted to, I had no way of making it happen.

I did see Greg Ginn take the stage with Ron Reyes the first time Reyes and Ginn reconciled, at the Rio Theatre, doing a birthday bash for Ron that also featured the Little Guitar Army, I, Braineater, the Modernettes, and the Jolts, back in 2010, I think it was. Ron has a fearsome voice, and it was really fun to hear him singing songs like "Jealous Again" and "Revenge." Black Flag was mostly really about Rollins for me, so I never spent that much time on the pre-Henry material, but of what I heard, I liked Jealous Again better than any of the other early stuff, and it was a treat to hear those songs being sung by the original singer... though for whatever reason - bad sound, bad seat, vituperative soundman, I don't know -- I could barely hear Greg Ginn's guitar that night...

That was not a problem tonight. Having gone, here are some observations and photographs (only one of which, when it comes to the band, is half-good, seen above; the light was NOT friendly to photographers). 

1. There should be a live album to document the extended guitar solos that Ginn offered for songs like "Can't Decide." I was right up front for what seemed a fifteen minute version of the song,with moshers colliding into my back and driving my thighs into the low-ish stage, but it was a treat not just to be able to dance to the song between collisions, with the help of particularly hooky basswork being offered by a bassist whose name I cannot confirm, but which seemed might be Cedar Austin -- but to see Ginn, head working in circles, eyes closed, generating these intense clusters of notes, lost in his inner space, playing his guitar like no other human being I can think of. I don't know that I've seen punk guitar solos delivered in a meditative way before; these almost were. Gone, y'know? For a change, like the man says. 

I wonder if Greg Ginn is a pothead? I would be unsurprised. The tie-dye version of the My War t-shirt is kind of hilarious. 

The thing about Ginn -- whatever else one might say about him -- there are few truly singular guitarists out there. Even Neil Young, as passionate and unique as he is, has tons of followers and imitators, but while I've said of a few people, "Hm, he's playing like he's Neil Young," never have I said of anyone, "Hm, he's playing like he's Greg Ginn." I doubt that anyone else really could. Eugene Chadbourne is another truly stand-alone figure whose work I love, and which bears some features of Ginn's, in fact -- intense outbursts of notes that form cloud-clusters together and interact, becoming their own strange shimmering things -- except you can tell that Eugene is grounded in a deep knowledge of technique and composition and CHOOSING to be weird, following *a* rule book of some sort, however generously interpreted or subverted (or perverted) it may be, while Ginn seems more like he's an autodidact, who (for all I know) might technically not be able to play any other way (which Eugene can, if he wants), but who plays HIS way like a master -- a guitarist who has apparently invented himself from whole cloth, doing it exactly his way from the outset. Without meaning it as an insult, I would be unsurprised to find that he couldn't read music; he seems almost too iconoclastic for that, too unprecedented, too sui generis. I might be wrong but he plays like a man who has no grasp of the rules that must be transcended, like they never, ever got to him, y'know? I want to make it seem a compliment; I mean it as one. Freest guitarist in punk? Often he enters his solos by way of lines of notes that, if I picked them out on my guitar, I would dismiss as "wrong" or "weird," but Ginn commits to them and uses them as a springboard into these sonic attacks like no-one else's, that abandon conventions of how notes should be timed or melodically linked, generating these crazy fields of sound that, crude and weird as they can be, also remind me of another virtuosic guitarist, Between Eternity and Nothingness-era John McLaughlin (!). There, I said it; who would expect to think of John McLaughlin at a punk show. Ginn is one of the most idiosyncratic guitarists out there, one of the only truly INTERESTING guitarists in punk.

If you're nodding along, here, you have good reason to see Black Flag on this tour. Be assured that there was no Theremin, nothing off The Process of Weeding Out -- no wholly instrumental stuff, nothing dismissible as "self-indulgent." Those sorts of words got thrown about a lot during the 2012-2013 tour with Ron, where all the critics I read praised Ron and shat on Ginn, but I always wondered if the critics doing this actually were fans of Ginn's way of doing things on guitar. Calling him self-indulgent, musically, kind of misses the point, that these are essentially free jazz solos in a punk context. Did they ENJOY his solos on In My Head, for example? Did they ever even listen to The Process of Weeding Out? I have done so, more than once, and while I don't spend a lot of time with that music now, I have enjoyed it a-plenty at points in my past. If that describes you, too, this tour is going to be right up your alley, as there were vast, expansive solos brought to several songs which seemed at least two or three times as long as the studio versions. This included the final tune, a ten minute, obscenitized version of "Louie Louie" that had my favourite lyrical misunderstanding of the night: when Mike sang "She's got the rag on," I thought, thinking of my absent wife and our floofy cat, that he was singing, "She's got the ragdoll." Which confused me for a couple of verses, actually. And besides, I've got the ragdoll while she's away... why is Mike singing about a cat? 

Anyhow, if you like Greg Ginn's guitar -- if you WANT to hear a fifteen minute "Can't Decide," twelve minutes of which are Ginn soloing over frenetic, tight bass-clusters... you really, really should go see Black Flag. If you just want tight, fast punk, there's plenty of that, too, especially in the second set, but the expanded explorations should really be the draw here (they were for me, so I was very satisfied; a very close approximation to what we saw is online, from Tokyo in November, but it was much more exciting to see this live than it is on Youtube...).

2. If you are contemplating catching them, you should also be aware that Ginn seemed very comfortable hanging out at the merch table, where he signed several records for people, using both his name and that of the other "member" of Black Flag on that record, Dale Nixon, which was actually a pseudonym for Ginn himself on bass. I overheard someone observe to Ginn, "I've had five copies of this record over the years," to which Ginn replied, "But now you've got a signed one." So he knows his market well; I haven't seen too many musicians do this sort of thing since COVID -- signing -- but he probably generated a couple extra hundred dollars by doing it. "He's signing/ I'm buying!" One wonders just how much merch was sold... the lineup for merch was bonkers at the night's start, but supplies seemed to be holding out when I visited the table at the mid-set break... (no one seemed to be showing interest in Ginn's OTHER project with Vallely, Good For You, though. I would have considered it but shot my wad on Black Flag merch instead).

Not only was Ginn obliging with signatures, he was actually kind of friendly-seeming, which I didn't expect, exactly. Since he was standing right fucking next to me at one point, I asked him briefly if he could name guitarists who influenced him (he said something about how there were too many to mention). I babbled at him about how unique he was -- "no one plays like you!" (he said something about how he was glad, because it wouldn't be worth doing otherwise) and when I just sort of sputtered about how beautiful it was to be hearing him, he came in for a fucking HUG!

So I hugged him. I did not think THAT would be happening... you don't figure Greg Ginn for a hugger. So there's that. 

3. The audience wasn't quite what I expected, either. Usually you go to punk shows and you see familiar faces, but I only recognized two people in the venue tonight, and only one from show-going (another was a European guy in a studded leather punk jacket who I ran into at a bookstore once and fell to chatting with).  You also expect that a band from the early 80s would draw an older crowd. Maybe it's just that the OG's of Vancouver are better friends to Ron Reyes than I was tonight -- maybe all the old punks who COULD have come to the show stayed home -- the usual suspects who came out in numbers for Dead Bob the other week. Instead, there was a huge contingent of weirdly good-looking, youthful kids, mostly no older than 25, of varied genders, who enthusiastically stage dived and crowd surfed and moshed through the set. There was a bit of a weird "lookit me" angle to some of their expressions, a self-aware vibe to what they were doing, but I should imagine that, with the number of cameras about, some of their hijinks got well-photographed. The kid with the backwards baseball cap giving two thumbs up and grinning... the dark haired smiling girl... the guy doing backflip rolls overhead into the audience... Maybe some of them had followed the band up from Seattle? I'd say the overall demographic was 20 years younger, on average, than what I witnessed at the Dead Bob show (where no one moshed at all, that I saw, unless you count Byron launching himself into the audience with his guitar). It was hard for me to fit my head around the idea of someone actually born in the 21st century nonetheless still wanting to stage dive to Black Flag -- kids who grew up seeing mosh pits on Youtube, you know? -- but by damn, they sure looked like they were having fun. 

I was not even tempted. 

4. Finally, I have to give credit to Mike V. His stardom as a skateboarder was apparently very significant to some of the audience, and indeed, I saw Black Flag skateboards in the room, which I presume were being sold as merch. But he's a fine vocalist for this band. He's somewhat Rollins-like in his delivery and has a kind of snarly, glowery way about him that perfectly suits the lyrics he's spitting out. He has charisma and a strong voice, though he moved the mic away from his mouth for what seemed the evening's loudest screams. He has a way of staring intensely at the audience that is scary and intimidating, but when some weird kid joined him onstage to sing "Louie Louie" and said something about (I think) dedicating the song to Jesus Christ (!?), Vallely didn't knock him back into the crowd or punch him out or such, but -- after taking the mic back -- ultimately laughed and hugged him and tried to get him to actually sing the chorus with him.  

The kid didn't, but he seemed happy enough to be up there, then dived back into the pit after a few minutes. 

The first set was entirely My War, as noted. The second set involved a lot of the early singles and Damaged-era material -- "Depression," "No Values," "Six Pack," "Revenge," and an updated version of "TV Party" with lyrics about people staring into their phones. "Wasted" and "Police Story" were notable in their absence. There were only a few digressions into later (post-My War) Black Flag, my favourite of which was probably "Black Coffee." There was an extended "Slip It In," as well, but it's one of the band's most disturbing songs, seeming quite misogynist; my favourite song off that album was "The Bars," but sadly, it did not get played. Loose Nut, Family Man, The Process of Weeding Out, and What The... all also went completely un-represented. In My Head popped up only once, in the form of "I Can See You," which is probably the weirdest song off that album. But even if many of the songs in the second set weren't favourites of mine, and I left wishing I'd heard "The Bars" or "Annihilate This Week" or the "In My Head" title track in their place, Ginn's guitar work was ALWAYS enjoyable, and Vallely fun to watch, stalking around, growling. A bit one-note in his performance, but, like, so was Rollins, kinda. I had never seen Black Flag in any format before last night. I left feeling totally satiated (and a bit sore).  

If you get a chance, you should go. Real good show. Sorry again, Ron. 

Black Flag tour dates, here.