Americarnage: A Satirical Serial Killer Triple Bill

Not to want to sound gloomy, but there are some brilliant films about murderers and psychos. From Fritz Lang's M, Hitchcock's Psycho, through to David Fincher's Se7en and Zodiac cinema has a tradition of exploring the depths of human behaviour for entertainment. While some are just about lunatics, today's selection are films about people pushed too far, passing breaking point and doing terrible things, and how it's not always a case of simply good vs. bad.

In chronological order, Falling Down (Joel Schumacher, 1993), Natural Born Killers (Oliver Stone, 1994), God Bless America (Bobcat Goldthwait, 2011) share common DNA and would make a fine afternoon's viewing (probably edging into the evening, too). These are films about people who are driven to their bloody actions by elements of society, culture and modern life, rebelling against them in destructive ways. We as an audience are asked to make moral choices about what they do and how much or little we approve.

The protagonists have different motivations but each is ultimately pushed: Falling Down's D-FENS (Michael Douglas) and God Bless America's Frank (Joel Murray) experience job losses, rejection and the maddening effect of popular culture. There is no joy or particular rage behind their decisions to go goof the map (or get out of the car...), they've just had enough and decide that something has to change. Natural Born Killers' Mallory Knox is driven to her spree by an abusive family life (little is revealed about Mickey Knox's motivations: I like to think his line “I'm a natural born killer”, delivered to Robert Downey Jr.'s vacuous media whore Wayne Gale, is more part of the media satire aspect of the film than a confession). Oliver Stone brilliantly films Mallory's family as a dark sitcom complete with canned laughter; a nod to the numbing effect of television, also seen in God Bless America. The connective (scar) tissue here is the failing American dream; these films all function as dark comedies; satires on what happens when America fails at its own game and the Dream becomes a nightmare.

There is a perverse morality to each film, despite the blood on the hands of each character. Looking at some of the victims, the films present these characters almost as avenging angels, exerting vigilante justice on the various ills of society. Granted, Mickey Knox is genuinely psychopathic and at one point rapes a kidnap victim but, disturbingly, we are still encouraged to sympathise with him and see him as the hero throughout the film, mainly because the majority of the other characters are so repellent. Out of the three films, only Robert Duvall's Prendergast (whose name is a nod to the detective Arbogast from Psycho, as close to a 'good guy' as the film has) represents a traditional moral compass but Michael Douglas is unquestionably the protagonist.

This of course leaves 'good' and 'bad' as an entirely subjective notion, with the director acting as judge. Take some of the on-screen victims in Killers: a misogynist redneck, Mallory's abusive father and enabler mother, violent and psychotic policeman Jack Scagnetti (Tom Sizemore) and media exploiter extraordinaire, Wayne Gale. Granted, there are many others whose characters are not even sketched out, but those are the main victims. Falling Down deliberately targets subjects of disdain in popular culture: gangs (something which was likely to be in popular consciousness in early 1990s Los Angeles), the standards in fast food restaurants, white supremacists (Frederic Forrest's brilliantly loathsome surplus store owner) and unnecessary roadworks among others. Most poignant, though is the fact that D-Fens himself is worth more to his family dead than alive.

There are too many of these to list when it comes to God Bless America. If a major criticism can be levelled the film (other than the often shoddy acting from Tara Lynne Barr) it's that it sometimes comes off as List Of Things Bobcat Goldthwait Doesn't Like rather than a narrative. Granted these things include vacuous and spoilt My Super Sweet 16 realist TV stars, fear-mongering Fox News bullies, American Idol and the Westboro Baptist Church. As I happen to dislike those things as well, I took a perverse pleasure in watching their fictionalised punishment.

And that is exactly the intention of these films: we are forced into sharing the perspective of the killer, encouraged to think that their victims are not innocent at all, and more harmful to society than the killers themselves. So much so that after Mickey Knox kills a wholly good character in Red Cloud, the Navajo Indian trying to exorcise his 'demon' in Killers, Mallory is furious with him for having “killed life,” and in doing so crossing a line.

Tonally, there is an ocean of variety between the three films and depending on your attitudes to violence and satire (some folks just can't see it even when it's pointing a gun at them) you will find these films either hilarious or sadistic. For me they are important and darkly funny shots in the direction of the things that are both wrong with culture but also pervasive and accepted. It's worth noting there is a preoccupation with celebrity and the exploitation that comes with it in both Natural Born Killers and God Bless America. Mickey and Mallory are made famous and lauded for what are terrible crimes, while Frank and sidekick Roxy aim their guns squarely at what they see as the worst examples of celebrity exploitation. That Falling Down's D-Fens slips largely under the radar is kind of the point to his sorry story; he's “not economically viable” enough to be famous.

But the point to all three is this (and this is not exclusive to America): popular culture makes us stupid and lazy, complacent and homogenised; it makes heroes out of killers and makes popular the mediocre. These films present you with visions of popular culture gone wrong and ask you to side with the villains who are holding a gun to its head.

Three films very much worth a watch (and an argument could be made for the inclusion of Terence Malick's Badlands which if you didn't know already is one of the best films ever made), that will hopefully prompt you to think about whose side you are on.

Gig Review: The Fall of Troy

The Fall of Troy w/ Rolo Tomassi and Chon

Newcastle Academy 2, 17^th August 2015

Truly, one of those times where anybody I told about the gig responded with a puzzled “Who?” The Fall of Troy were a band that I loved from the second I heard them and was gutted when they first split back in 2010. Buying their wonderfully unique Doppelgänger album on the strength of good reviews, I was taken with their idiosyncratic sound, nutty song titles and sheer talent. I also kind of liked that nobody really knew who they were; they were my little secret, although I'm pretty sure that wasn't their main goal for a career in music.

A virtuoso three-piece, The Fall of Troy are hard to pigeonhole. For every savage riff they churn out, there's a gorgeous melody; for every schizophrenic tempo shift there's an almost emo singalong chorus. In terms of sheer talent, they're Muse without the operatics, played much faster.  They share some math-metal/screamo elements with Norma Jean or The Dillinger Escape Plan but also the wilful weirdness of mid-period Biffy Clyro. Imagine Biffy on speed instead of weed and you're almost there. They're a band with the talent of a jazz ensemble but the chaotic delivery of hardcore punk. And they're back. And I'm excited.

A brief sojourn to one of the less depressing Wetherspoons outlets in Newcastle gave way to me wandering in mid way through opening band Chon. I'd never heard of them before and decided on an extortionate Academy pint while I took in their instrumental jazzy stylings. With a distinctive clean guitar sound, they play complex tunes with incredible skill. To say their were simply good would do them a disservice, but its also fair to say they're more impressive than enjoyable. Like a less dynamic Animals As Leaders, Chon seem to have learned all the chords the guitar has to offer and seem intent on fitting them into one song. They also have a shyness to them, seeming oddly disengaged from the audience with only bass player Drew Pelisek looking like he enjoys his job or ever interacting with the crowd, who in fairness seemed to be enjoying them. They have talent to burn but a strange attitude tonight, and I can't help but think that The Mars Volta did this sort of thing as an interlude and made it look like more fun.

For some reason a Lisa Simpson moment sprung to mind: wandering into an experimental jazz show, she hears a disgruntled punter complain. Lisa says “You have to listen to the notes she isn't playing.” The punter replies “I could have done that at home.”

Rolo Tomassi are next. I like Rolo Tomassi; a unique band with what I can only describe as a really cool name (it's a James Ellroy reference, trivia fans). Easily one of the more interesting UK bands around and touring their 4^th studio album Grievances, I had seen them before and knew what to expect. An endearing mix of disparate styles, the black metal blast beats of opener 'Funereal' give way to ambient soundscapes and gentle keyboards. Singer Eva Spence is a brilliant performer; standing hand-on-hips and dancing like one would at a salsa club, she lulls you into a false sense of security, staring into middle distance before unleashing a terrifying scream. The band are brilliant too, particularly new drummer Tom Pitts, who nails the black metal and math-core elements of their sound as well as the gentle ambient moments. Ending with the wonderful 'Stage Knives' they do what any good support band should do: leave us wanting more.

No fanfare greets The Fall of Troy as they take to the stage; they don't need one. Singer Thomas Erak, looking like Joey Ramone but playing the guitar like Frank Zappa, is nothing short of an absolute rock star. From the second they kick into 'Wacko Jacko Steals The Elephant Man's Bones' (yes, that's really what the song is called) he is a blur of energy. Most impressive is how he manages to play their complex, jazz-infused, hyperactive mathcore without standing still and concentrating the whole time.

The sound is muddy at times and the vocals are a little hard to pick out but it doesn't spoil the show. Erak's impressive repertoire of guitar techniques coupled with a frenzied delivery is entertainment enough and an energetic moshpit kicks off right beside me, populated by probably the most stoned people I have ever seen in a moshpit. At one point, Erak is playing the guitar one-handed, standing foot-on-monitor and using his free hand to help somebody in the front row headbang. He rarely looks down at his guitar to see what he's doing and he doesn't often miss a note. Performance-wise, it's perfect; an impeccable mix of passion and precision.

Their songs are catchier than I had remembered, too. Such complex, almost prog-y music doesn't often lend itself to hooks or memorable phrases (and I had been hammering their albums on my ipod in preparation) but I found myself singing along to the batshit crazy likes of 'We'd Better Learn To Hotwire A Uterus' (introduced, helpfully, as “a song about vaginas.”) and the stunning 'F.P.C.R.E.M.I.X'. They play a new song, one with no title and apparently no final set of lyrics, but it's good and gives hope for Fall Of Troy to come.

So impressed and lost in the moment am I, that at one point I find my mind drifting to other times where a band hasn't just been good, but has moved me. I'm talking about the likes of Nine Inch Nails, Pearl Jam and a set from a little known stoner band called Solace, who I saw achieve heavy metal perfection one sweaty night in Trillians. This was one of those nights and as they tore into epic closer 'Macauley McCulkin' (a song about a serial killer, apparently) I was disappointed that it was over. And that, my friends, is as good as you can hope for from a gig. The song ends with Erak alone onstage, teasing out the last few chords before thanking us warmly and buggering off to be brilliant at the guitar backstage.

I feel sorry for those of you who haven't heard of these guys (most of you, I know) but they're well and truly back and well and truly brilliant. One last thing: I bought two pints of uber-priced lager in the Academy so can anyone lend me a few quid to help out with the rent?

A Brief History of Heavy Things: how rock music changed my life and who is to blame

A Brief History of Heavy Things:

how rock music changed my life and who is to blame

It all started with Bon Jovi.

Yeah, that's right, Bon freakin' Jovi. At some point in my teenage years (October 1994, accuracy fans. I was 13.) I found myself with £10 in my pocket, walking into a CD shop in the Metro Centre, having heard what in hindsight turned out to be a terrible power ballad called 'Always'. I walked out with my first ever 'rock' CD, Bon Jovi's Crossroads compilation. Before this, my musical tastes were, shall we say, undefined. I was into odd musicians like Kate Bush and whatever was popular at the time. Somebody once asked me what I thought of Pearl Jam and I just kind of shrugged. Bon Jovi, I am slightly ashamed to say, changed my life.

I loved the 'heavier' songs. To this day, I still skip ballads but songs like 'Livin' On A Prayer' and 'You Give Love A Bad Name' were, at the time, the heaviest things I had ever heard. And then... A friend of mine at school, equally bored in a Food Tech class, started telling me about something called Megadeth. Just the name had my 14 year-old head swimming. He graciously allowed me to borrow their Youthanasia album (the pun probably going right over the same 14- year-old head).

Having previously only heard Richie Sambora's voicebox-infused riffs and identikit solos, the effect of hearing 'Train Of Consequences' was nothing short of staggering. I had no idea a guitar could be played so fast, be so heavy. Sorry, poodle-hair, but my tastes were turning darker and nastier by the day.

A chance encounter with Nirvana on a school bus and a channel hop stop on Red Hot Chilli Peppers broadened my horizons a bit but the real clincher was when I read three names in a magazine: Metallica, Pearl Jam and Therapy?. There was no going back for me. Metallica's Black Album was purchased in HMV and despite having not heard much of them, a Pearl Jam's Ten was picked up in Music Zone. One of my more vivid memories, however, was picking up a copy of Therapy?'s Troublegum (I understood the pun this time) in Gosforth library, copying it onto both sides of a 90-minute tape and listening to it in my room. Over and over and over. To this day it remains my favourite album and a more accurate document of my frustrated teenage years than I could possibly write myself. And yes, I have since bought a copy.

I found a copy of Kerrang! The Album, on sale in the Virgin Megastore. It was a double-tape compilation of new and classic rock tunes: Soundgarden, Pantera, Slayer, all in the bag. Some bizarre Christmas present requests saw me enter the world of death metal (and you have to appreciate the irony of being given a Deicide album on Christmas day. Thanks Mam), and stoner rock with Kyuss' Blues For The Red Sun. On separate whims, I bought Nine Inch Nails' Downward Spiral album, Strapping Young Lad's City and Monster Magnet's Dopes To Infinity. I fell in love with all three and explored the genres more and more, much to the detriment of my bank account but the benefit of my frankly exquisite CD collection. I bought early release import versions of Clutch's Elephant Riders and the debut album from some little band called Korn. I was gutted when everyone else caught on with that one; I saw them first! I'm still into Cutch; Korn, not so much...

I don't know how well I'm getting this across, but the reason I remember these things so well is that by now it's in the blood. I have vivid memories of the times and places where I bought the CDs that changed my life and there's a reason for that; this music affected me, changed me and once it's in your blood there's no going back.

So there's a reason my head is mostly filled with song lyrics rather than important life skills, why I get excited about something as trivial as a new release and why I could probably represent England in the noble art of the air guitar. And if anyone is wondering why I'm canny weird, why I don't like the crap on the radio, or why I don't 'Grow out of that shit', you can blame Jon Bon Jovi, his frankly ridiculous hair, 100-watt smile and huge, overwrought love songs. I know I do.

The Great rock and Roll Cliche

The Great Rock and Roll Cliche

A Selection of my favourites

I'm into rock music. Like, really into it. I'm not in the least bit ashamed. I've tried to like other types of music, I really have. I'm pretty sure that at my age (34, thanks for asking) I should have outgrown some of my CD collection by now but much to the embarrassment of anyone who knows me, I haven't and don't intend to any time soon. Anything from Aerosmith to Zyklon; if it rocks, I'm there. My wife has my permission to kill me if I ever fall out of love with Slayer, such is my dedication.

I've sometimes wondered why, though. Much like any genre, rock/metal is littered with cliché, and just as pronounced. Hip hop, for example, is cliché central: songs about attainment, gold, cars, sexual prowess and a distasteful misogynistic undertone. It reminds me of 80s hair metal but with defined pectorals instead of cocaine hangovers. Heavy metal is no exception so I've taken it upon myself to list some of my favourite rock cliches, in no particular order and with hopefully minimal references to Spinal Tap. Here's the first five.

1. Foot on the monitor

The rock pose of choice. When at a gig, there is little more pleasing to my eyes than seeing a rock god frontman stood in this pose while belting out your favourite anthem. Notable proponents are Bruce Dickinson of Iron Maiden and Slipknot's Corey Taylor. The monitors are those speakers that line the front of the stage. They're supposed to be for there so the musicians can hear how they sound, however for me, they're put to much better use as little footstools to allow better delivery of 'Run To The Hills'.

2. Introducing the guitar solo

I love this. Every once in a while you'll hear a song where the 2^nd chorus is coming to an end and you know there's a guitar solo on the way. To improve your listening pleasure, the singer helpfully calls for 'Guitar!' or commands 'Go!', almost as if giving permission for the lead guitar player to commence shredding. Particularly good examples are: Funeral For A Friend's 'She Drove Me To Daytime Television', which greets the final breakdown riff with a mighty “Go!”; Therapy?'s 'Bad Karma Follows You Around', which introduces the sloppy, sleazy guitar solo with a fine “Mercy!”; and finally a live version of 'Even Flow' by Pearl Jam where Eddie Vedder goes for the understatement of “Let me introduce you to Michael...” before Mick Mcready absolutely slays it.

3. The guitar solo

The cornerstone of any awesome rock song. Seldom adding anything to the song, often self indulgent and nothing more than a chance for the lead guitar player to show off, but utterly indispensable. Where would be 'Sweet Child O' Mine' be without Slash's two-for-the-price-of-one multi-tempo solo? 'Reach Down' by Temple Of The Dog lasts about 11 minutes; roughly 8 of them are guitar solo, and it's epic. 'Enter Sandman' is elevated from great to legendary by Kirk Hammett's wah-heavy widdling and don't get me started on Iron Maiden's twin leads because I'd be on all day. You say self-indulgent; I say art.

4. An obsession with the Dark Side

Slayer aren't Nazis, no more than David Bowie is an astronaut or R.Kelly can actually fly. Suicidal Tendencies weren't actually institutionalised. Black Sabbath are not Satanists and I doubt anyone in Metallica has ever been anywhere near a war. But these subjects that are tapped time and again in the pursuit of great rock songs. Were it not for Therapy?'s tendency to plumb the depths of human experience or Refused's socially conscious fury at the world around them their songs would not have the depth or longevity they carry. In rock, the dark side is your friend.

5. Big in Japan

The cliché of cliches is than whenever a rock band is down on their luck they can always head East, fill venues and charge whatever they like. I've never been to Japan so I don't know what causes this but a pre-breakup Wildhearts made the trip and did very well, famously the closing scene of the wonderful Anvil: The Story of Anvil sees the endearing 80s also-rans play to hundreds of screaming fans. And yes, Spinal Tap did the same.

There are dozens more. There's also no explanation for why I love the music I love, despite or maybe because of its inherent cliches. It gives me endless comfort, and the familiarity of cliché is part of that.

Do you have any favourites? Let me know.

Double Bill 3: Sex and the Sixties

Double Bill 3: Sex and the Sixties

There's really no better reason to watch today's suggestions than they're two of the best films from two of the greatest directors ever to shoot a scene. You shouldn't need more prompting than that, but since I'm the one making the suggestions I should probably give you some more to go on. As tenuous as the link may be, two examples of attitudes to sex, women and femininity in the early 1960s, seen through the lenses of two of masters of their craft, are The Apartment (Billy Wilder, 1960) and Psycho (Alfred Hitchcock, 1960). You would be hard pressed to find a better pair of films to watch together, tenuous link or not.

Alfred Hitchcock deserves his reputation as the master of suspense, earned and sustained over 6 decades of films, and there's not much I could say here that hasn't already been written abut him already, but important to this example is his tendency towards misogyny. Psycho offers an interesting example of this: Janet Leigh's heroine Marion Crane begins the film as a sexual, autonomous character. Practically unheard-of for a film produced in the late 1950s, we first see her post-coitus, partially dressed and discussing running away with her bland lover. She then steals from her boss to facilitate her escape before suffering a moral quandary. Considering the time in which it was made and the prevailing moral guidelines imposed on Hollywood by the Hays Code, this will have been shocking. She's acting of her own accord without any male persuasion.

Ultimately, however, she can't be allowed to get away with this by Hitchcock and famously meets a bloody end in the shower. While in a narrative sense her murder is a crime of “passion, not profit”, in a broader moral sense, she is punished for her sexuality. The attitudes of the time prevail, no matter how much we like or support Marian Crane.

Billy Wilder, after Hitchcock and John Ford, was arguably the third of the great Hollywood auteurs. His take on the established views of the time were sometimes (arguably) a little more cynical than Hitchcock's who, for example, would not have bitten the hand that fed with a film like Sunset Boulevard (1950). The Apartment is rightly regarded as one of the great Hollywood comedies but consider the set up: Jack Lemmon's ambitious, well meaning coward C.C Baxter allows his superiors to use his apartment for their illicit affairs; his home becomes tantamount to a brothel. Men do not come off well in this film; apart from his next door neighbour doctor, all men are all philanderers or in the case of Fred McMurray's Sheldrake, outright callous bastards. Only the wonderful Shirley McLaine's Fran Kubelik comes off as likeable. It takes until the last 5 minutes for Baxter to grow a spine but she is a rounded, emotional character throughout, and gets all the best lines. It would take a hard heart to watch the film and not love her.

Much like Psycho, however she is punished for adultery. Again, not in a narrative sense but her suicide attempt – a bold change of tone, pulled off expertly by Wilder and loveable schmuck Baxter – is a reminder that a woman in 1950s America, wasn't allowed to upset the social applecart with sex. The worst punishment that befalls any man in The Apartment is Sheldrake's final rejection by Baxter and repeated failures to get laid. Hardly lives at risk.

I would argue that the films, while bound by the time in which they were produced, are not entirely conservative in their attitudes. Which characters are you drawn to when watching these films? Marian and Fran. Yes, Fran relies on Baxter for large stretches but ultimately he ends up (quite literally) holding all the cards. Yes, Marian ends up in the swamp but to get there she makes her own decisions and is the only interesting, most human character in the film. These films are nothing without their likeable female characters.

Do yourself a favour and treat yourself to an afternoon in the company of these two masterpieces. If you want a happy ending, watch The Apartment second, if you want to see a cross dressing Oedipal complex writ large, finish with Psycho.