Ivar Zeile

Humor is, above all else, the most important thing in life, and I guess I thought I was pretty funny in my early 20’s. My biggest writing influence was John Pecorelli, a true writer whose unbridled wit and manic compositions were such bright spots in the Daily Utah Chronicle that I would cut out each essay and tuck away in a folder. I didn’t want my writing to be too dense or beyond the limits of the general population, and also longed to write about the music scene as well as other topics that struck my fancy. The mighty SLUG (Salt Lake Underground) emerged onto the market in Salt Lake City at the right time for me and my writing career. I became one of the first writers to be paid absolutely nothing to flesh out this new rag, which started extremely small but continues to this day as a robust, leading publication of its kind, with no real parallel. Of this I was very proud. It was the perfect outlet for my own satirical voice to infiltrate contemporary culture, and write about bands, topics, films, etc…whatever I wanted to really that was of interest to me at the time. It’s always fun going back to read this material. Though much of it is throwaway, some is quite gratifying in covering exciting periods in music history, like the advent of Sub Pop records, and other movements that hearken to a world far less evolved but infinitely more exciting than today’s. It was an outlet where I could be unconstrained, preceding current times where everyone's a critic and can fly off at the mouth on social media. The articles here aren’t necessarily in chronological order.

BANKING MACHINES / Socially Conscious Essay

"Live by the banking machine, die by the banking machine!" That's my motto in this day and age where convenience is next to godliness and plastic is gold.

Let's face it, people are a pain in the ass - always have been, always will be. I have no problem with the fact that humans are being replaced by machines in every sector of society. It's a good thing because we simply don't want to function all the time, yet are demanding of others to do so at our bidding. Pretty fucking hypocritical, so the sooner that technology wipes out employment the better. The day we become obsolete will be the day we can kick back, relax, and thoroughly enjoy ourselves.

The breakthrough of the box that wields dough is certainly at the fore of this dream. It simply wipes out a lot of embarrassing moments in life, like having to balance your account yourself, or trying to get a fiver from the lady at the counter only to find out you have but two bits in your account. You know that they're all laughing at you as you shag out of the lobby and wander into traffic. It's a shitty feeling.

But the machine don't laugh. It's very congenial, going so far as to write you a note with zero condescension. "Sorry, funds are not available for this transaction.' It would probably hug you if it could while extrapolating on the bitterness of being trapped in a box as you're free to roam, penniless yet alive. And just think of the times you slipped the stiff one in the slot, getting your just rewards. It's like playing the slots and winning the big one. No fuss, no mess, no shit!

I really do love these things, but as with any love interest, difficulties do arise. After a few years in this relationship you realize that you must pick and choose. Why not demand the best?

You see, there are good machines and bad machines, and lately I've been noticing a lot of bad machines. For instance, I used to frequent a little unit at the grocery store. It was always kind, snappy, and ready to give. But, one day it decided to charge me an extra buck for its time. The bitter greed showed right through and I had to sever the relationship immediately.

Then, there's machines that simply must test your patience. You know, the type that take at least five seconds to respond to your every query, then have the gall to tell you that they have no money in the belly! Why can't they just be upfront about it!

But these instances are minor compared to the ultimate bank machine atrocity. Maybe I just have shit karma, but two of the bastards actually ate my card! What a sense of betrayal I felt, suddenly standing two inches tall, alone in the rain, my world turned upside down for weeks.

Still, I have faith and an endless admiration for these things. Every now and then I'll come across a really snappy machine that hates to fuss around. That "Here you go, take your money and get out of my face" attitude is refreshing and perfectly suited to my tastes. No lollipop?! Hell, go buy one with your new found wealth!

These machines are here to stay and getting better, unlike the rest of humanity.

Beyond the Valley of the Dolls

There's nothing like a quick jaunt down to the toy store to hammer in that image of impending societal collapse. Let's face it. the subversive nature of toys is second only to that of pomographic material, and ultimately more damaging. While ad execs propagandize that growing up is a sham to be avoided at all costs, the greater forces at large fill the aisles with objects that incorporate paradigms of a siphilistic or glorified existence.

The new generation of toys breed a diseased reality that serves as a model for the worlds in-coming, and will certainly lead to their demise. Sure the television is slightly to blame, but kids will always be more influenced by something that requires hands-on experience; something they can either protect, manipulate, or break into at least a handful of pieces.

The sad reality is that a few good ideas from ages ago have now been bastardized to accommodate technology and greed. The great builders of history grew up with legos that required a little time, thought, and soul in their construction. Now the land of Lego comes pre-fab, like the rest of the world, no longer wasting all that possible creative energy. You'd be hard pressed to find an erector set anymore, let alone one with real metal parts, but that's okay, you can play with trolls instead.

There is no more abject, harmful toy in the world than the doll. While the current resurgence in Troll dolls cannot be a good thing, neither will it last. No, the root of this problem is found in the traditional doll and its many incarnations.

It used to be that dolls were simple, lifeless forms of natural beauty, which a young woman could inject with her own personality, giving the doll a form for being. Now, the roles are reversed and the doll serves as a matrix for becoming. And, what are these matrices but that of glamor and unabashed hedonism. Either the subject becomes the fashion model proposed by "Suzy Snapshot," or she forever walks the tightrope of insecurity, something the packaging fails to warn about. If the child does in fact become a model, a path to destruction is still guaranteed. It is just a little more prolonged than the other choice of suicide.

The Barbie doll has always been the quintessential marriage of beauty and form. Within the burgeoning electronic age Barbie can now tak and transmit messages like "I can't get enough clothes" or “let's have a pizza party." A few days of this subliminal persuasion, let alone a few years could turn your little darling into a possessive, base little trollop.

How strange it is that Barbie can eat all this pizza yet maintain such a lithe, fresh figure! And where does all the money for this pizza and shopping come from? No doubt, it'll come from a life of shoplifting, whining, drug dependency, and increasingly more complex eating disorders.

Even worse is the eventual fate wrought upon the male figure, who stumbles on the talking doll while rifling through a sister's possessions. What sort of behavior will be supplanted in a shy boy who presses the button directly over Barbie's crotch, to hear her coo "That feels good?' The suggestiveness of this temptress doll will stir a lad towards a lie of abuse, becoming twofold once he discovers her lack of panties or a bra.

Perhaps the most diabolical of those creations is the "cheerful, tearful” baby. Here we have a baby doll that actually pisses itself, and sets to crying at random. It's realistic functions keep the child guessing..that is until the child can't stop the doll. After various tries, just maybe the child will discover that the only way to silence this little bundle of joy is to beat its head with a rock. And, if it works on "L'il Cheerful," it should work on younger sis too! This doll is a veritable powder keg waiting to explode in the family's face. 

If you have to buy your child a toy in order to get the monkey off your back, at least stay away from this mind distorting trash and look into something with lasting value, like the commemorative Powell or Schwarzkopf statuettes, or a world soccer star action figure. Better yet just stay away from the toy stores all together and do your shopping at McDonalds.

SUB POP ROCK CITY

"I just want to know what the heck is going on.”

You see, there’s a place known as Sub Pop Rock City where something damn exciting has been brewing lately. It’s called a music scene which shits all over any other I’ve heard, ever! Music with balls, that crunches and kicks and demands to be heard. It’s all happening at this place you may have heard of, over yonder hills and valleys, called Seattle.

It rains a lot in Seattle, or so I've heard, and we all know that water is the source of life. It's in your body, it's in your beer, and it's apparently sopped the brains of a record company known as "Sub Pop, "causing them to sprout rifts like there's no tomorrow.

I got my first taste of “pop” from this band called Soundgarden. Their Screaming Life EP was a little reminiscent of Led Zeppelin, but not in the way that makes one scream, "COPY!" No, it has more to do with immense range and talent that makes all of the songs unique and listenable. Having soon become obsessed with the band, I wrote to their label to find out if any other products were close at hand. To my dismay, there were no other Soundgarden fruits to be had. But, the little pamphlet told about some other treasures that sounded quite delectable: Mudhoney (Superfuzz Big Muff - Six epic songs of sickness from the masters of disease and grunge), Swallow (hard, raunchy, rock stuff from four dudes who drink beer and fuck), TAD (God's balls - says it all), and many others. Such tasty descriptions set my mouth watering and my hand fidgeting around my ass, but when I found my wallet, I realized it hadn’t been raining much in Salt Lake City. Trying to make the most of what I had, I opted for the compilation album, Sub Pop 200.

It is this album that has been the source of my pleasure for the past few months. Twenty cuts by twenty different bands (well, one’s a rather biting poem), most of which originated on the Sub Pop label, the rest being compelled to add to this recording for some reason. The most amazing aspect of the whole collection is that all of the cuts seem to go together so well, even though the diversity among the sounds is amazing. It is the ultimate label resume that gives Sub Pop a distinct personality, not to mention the Seattle music scene.

The foundation of it all is the sheer power that emanates from every song – the kind of power that sounds far from tamed, owing more to roller coaster rides and rusty old chainsaws. But perhaps it is the content of the lyrics that is most refreshing. Yes, there is one song with “love” in the title (“Love or Confusion”), but the rest take earthly pleasures into more demented realms, such as “Sex god Missy,”  "Spank Thru," and “Pajama Party in a Haunted Hive." I don't know where the inspiration comes from because it certainly doesn't borrow from anything else I've heard.

It becomes evident to me that Sub Pop 200 is the greatest compilation of all time. But it's also the only compilation I own, which brings us to the eternal question: "So what? Even the most pathetic band can find it in themselves to write or play one good song (I think). The big answer is that every Sub Pop album I’ve heard since is quite devastating, no shit! From the brutal barkings of TAD to the twisted melee of Mudhoney, there is very little that does not please. Probably the most important thing to keep in mind is that these bands all come from a  town that one day started an underground scene, were probably shunned by the press, somehow got themselves together on the same local label, and are now gaining attention and acclaim worldwide.

It is the combination of sheet talent and general cohesiveness that makes Sub Pop and its bands-stand out from the rest Wouldn't it be nice to one day say the same of the Salt Lake music scene?

THE GOOD LIFE

It was a dark and stormy night last December that I chose to lay to rest my inhibitions and finally, after a mere seven years of life in this valley, fill out the PRIVATE EYE's “Best of Utah Readers Poll." My overriding desire to impart my wordly wisdom was matched only by the potential prizes awaiting my swift response. Unfortunately, the situation fell to irony, as my moment of truth came while on vacation in Ohio. After the bartender effortlessly delivered up a double stroke of Tequila, I felt my mind drift away from this land of grace and beauty.

I really had one bitch of a time filling this form out to any major degree of completion. This made me sad, and I had to wonder, “am l just a loser trapped inside my own home, or merely a guy that's hard to please?" Luckily the dominant side of my psyche took control and whipped my shit into perspective; It's not that I don't enjoy life in Salt Lake City, i just find satisfaction in different ways, which generally don't show up in a popularity contest.

In order to discover my source of inspiration, I have to first consider what I hate. For instance, I hate driving a car in this granny forsaken town where every day is a Sunday on the pavement. I just strings me out sometimes getting behind the wheel, so I have to be selective about where I drive. I've chosen to reduce my surroundings to the corridors of 9th East and 3rd South, because these are the only two streets where I can successfully dodge cars and make all the lights. This is a true challenge, but one that can frequently be met, and once it has been met, the other daily stresses just float away.

I hate to shop, maybe even more than I hate to drive. So when the occasion strikes, I shop at the D.l., which is readily accessible from 9th East. It may be Mormon-run and have the reputation as the 'third world of shopping," but my motto is, "if you can't find it at the D.I, then you don't need it." It's an intelligent place to shop because it takes a bit of strategy in doing so. Either that or it's just a mind numbing experience, like on those hung-over days when you can just wade through worthless shit for hours on end.

This being the competitive world that it is, there is no room for people with an attitude who might treat you like dirt. That's why convenience stores are very important to me; they are plentiful in this valley and within walking distance. There are even quite a few pleasant ones to frequent, but the choicest of all is the Chevron at the comer of 2nd South and 7th East. The career cashiers are on your side, bitching right along with you at every cigarette price increase or the inability to buy beer past 1:00 am. They are impeccably friendly, always noticing when I've gotten a haircut or taken a bath.  If anyone in this locale is deserving of a citizenship award, it is the fine crew at Chevron.

Of course, they are not the only folks that make daily contact a pleasant thing, particularly in view of the meager wages they earn. There is the Albertsons on 2nd South and 4th East which tends to cater to the lower class, making it all the more fine by me. The glorious staff here take everything in stride, and just because you have cash doesn't mean you're any better than our brothers and sisters with food stamps. The Kinkos Megacenter down the street also portrays vast service-oriented quality. If the whole world were as spotless and efficient as Kinkos, perhaps there would be lasting peace. All they need now is an espresso machine and they would rule the world.

I don't want to sound like I don't get out to eat and drink much; I really do! But why the hell would I want everyone to know what's at the top of my list? I hate waiting in lines, or actually waiting for anything, and the presence of lots of people is obviously detrimental to this effect. So, without naming any names, my favorite bar is one of the few remaining dinosaurs with a happy hour and the bestest bartender by the name of Barbara. It's also the only place that you can get a pool table on Friday night. My favorite place to eat is at a simple convenience store grill, and that's all I can say, other than I woke up from a dream one night screaming, having believed that said establishment got a new owner and took the onion rings off the menu. Talk about life coming to a screeching halt!

Thanks for letting me get that off my chest. I feel better now.

City of Lost Children

It's my last night of a two week stay in Amsterdam. I've done the hash bar thing, perused through every significant collection of the dutch masters, as well as the higher grade porn shops, (I got myself a nice full body massage), and even got caught in the throes of an attempted mugging. It wasn't until that last night, however, that I saw shit you wouldn't believe. Something so right it had to be wrong, so deliriously enjoyable that it nearly overshadowed all other experiences in the capital of sin. On that particular night I went to the movie theater to see Jeunet and Caro's latest film City of Lost Children. If you're unfamiliar with these French auteurs, I suggest you quit wasting your life away and go watch their first gem Delicatessen; only then will you understand the mandate behind spending two hours in an Amsterdam movie hut, not to mention tram time and foot travel. The arrival of Delicatessen onto the film scene marked the beginning of a new force in French as well as world film. It presented the masses with a fantasy vision that stretched the bounds of the genre, promoting the concept of film as a rollicking good time with little social agenda. The film aimed to please and was built to last, all for a fraction of the cost one would expect. The release of City of Lost Children comes with slightly less fanfare than its predecessor, yet promotes the same style and visual acuity in order to define the reliability factor of these deux French guys. What they have produced is exactly what you would expect and want them to, and hope they will create for the rest of their working lives. If they were Stephen King, the world would be a better place than it is for entertainment! If it's escapism and visual delight that bring most audiences to a theater, then City of Lost Children delivers in spades. Once again a world is crafted that heightens the base purity of our own while transcending its boundaries through the magic of detail and context. It wants to be classified as a futuristic fantasy, because many of the elements exude a sense of invention and wonder that are alien to our own, yet it occurs in a setting that's akin to the flavors and aesthetics of the turn of the 19th century. The only true comparison I can think of is Blade Runner, yet even that doesn't fully hit the mark. The worlds created by Jeunet and Caro are as singular as any developed on film and based upon this latest, are becoming more and more delightful. The City of Lost Children is a seaside town whose inhabitants live in fear of continual kidnappings that leave no trace. That's because the children are being whisked away to an oceanic outpost, where a sick old man appropriates their dreams in the hopes that he can experience his lost youth. His only problem is that he cannot find a specimen whose mind is so disengaged as to not fear the grotesqueness of his own body and demeanor. His endeavor is further complicated by his own creations, including a series of replicants and the brain floating in the fish tank. The children of the city are not exactly typical, however. Their level of maturity surpasses that of most of the adults, a result of their servitude to the Siamese twins who oblige them to steal everything of value within the town. This network of theft runs the gamut of simple pick pocketing to the most elaborate of heists. It's not until the circus strongman loses his brother that both chains of evil are snapped, and the closest thing to a normal life can continue for the city. Within this context the magic embodied in Delicatessen is elaborated upon by Jeunet and Caro in a purely visual sense. This time they are working with a much higher budget, though still paltry compared to their Hollywood peers, and they use the dollar to its maximum effect without compromising the ingenuity and cleverness that inadequate resources can often promote. They have managed to create a scenario that is highly convoluted, yet unabashed in its ability to delight with every turn. If this were an American venture, it would be the biggest grossing film of the year, but unfortunately it is in French and will have a limited appeal solely because the dialogue appears at the bottom of the screen. Oh, the burden of foreign cinema! No matter how good a movie might be, it never catches an audience quite the way mindless garbage does. How can I possibly persuade you to see this film when it's not even in a language you will audibly understand? Well, all I can do is relate my own first experience with the film. Amsterdam is not progressive enough to dub their movies like the Germans do, so I was fraught with the challenge of watching a French film subtitled in Dutch, complete with all the hoodee hodies and oglie daglies common to that insipid language. I tell you, it mattered nought, and even worked to my advantage in strange ways. Not only was it totally cool to see advertisements for cigarettes and booze before the movie, but the striking imagery throughout the film plugged into the visceral core of my imagination, with the text no longer a slave to structure alone. I was able to create the story according to motion and emotion portrayed through the inherent qualities of the tremendous cast. It was an odd experience, almost a revelation in film viewing! How else would I ever have thought that the strongman One (his name is One) would certainly rip the dainty little outfit off the little heroine Miette and pursue the willful corruption of a pre-minor? Not only did I have to call into question the purity of my own mind, but I also had to wonder how many times these Frenchman have been in a criminal lineup for incest cases in France. Whether you read the subtitles or not, I would hope that the experience of viewing City of Lost Children will be one of the best of the year, and will promise many more similar trips to come.

A short pointy beard

It's time to address this business of the goatee, the latest in male hipness. Is it fashion, rebellion, or boredom? Could it be a passing fad or will the president of our great country one day be sporting one? And should anybody really give a shit anyway? Well I certainly do.

I acquired my first goat just a couple of years into college, back in my hippie phase. At the time, it kind of seemed natural or at least exciting to experiment with the hair on my face. My mornings in front of the mirror revealed patchy outcroppings below the cheek bones, which I certainly thought was cool but realized it looked like shit. Down around the chin was another story, as I noticed a distinct, consistent little shrub begin to take form. I must have liked it because I went with it, patiently waiting until it blossomed in full.

I don't recall seeing many of my brethren with similar growth at that time. I do remember some of the looks that people gave me while in public, and acknowledge the fact that I didn't have a single date for the duration of my hipness. The only satisfaction I actually did achieve was in showing up at my mom's house totally out of the blue, freaking the shit out of her.

All of a sudden one day, a friend of mine pointed at my face and said "It looks like a golf ball HAHAHAHAHA!" Thus ended my days of the goat. Or so I thought.

After finally achieving what I believed to be a full beard, bearing just the slightest resemblance to Charlie Manson, I gave up on the whole hair thing, shearing both my locks and my face. It was quite pleasant to see a totally different, new me, all squeaky clean. I even discovered something. My hair is curly! It's wavy as all shit. My world opened up. People offered me jobs. Girls started talking to me and cooked my favorite dinners. Life was easy.

I won't kid you, life was still dull. My job was dull, the women who flirted were dull, and my mom lives a couple thousand miles away. I started to remember how much I hate to shave, how much I hate to pay for haircuts, and how much I loved to flap my locks around at punk rock gigs. I also remembered how greasy and hot long hair is. What was I to do?

Well, I hate to pander to the languor of fashion. The only time l truly got sucked into a major statement concerning fashion was when I stopped wearing underwear after watching Betty Blue, but that's hardly noticeable. When my goat came back, I again thought it was merely instinct. You see, my electric razor is plugged into the only socket in the bathroom, which is hooked up to the light switch. By the time I'm ready to shave in the morning, I only have enough juice in my razor to just get the sides of my face as well as the underside of my chin (and even that's a bitch). The rest of my facial hair spirals around from upper lip to chin, with just a patch hanging in the canter. I'm not even sure if it's considered a goatee, but I don't give a shit. I'm happy with it.

Content in my own little world, I one day noticed something fascinating. I was at Burt's Tiki-lounge one night. The place was rocking, and every single male in the bar had a wisp or more of hair sprouting from their chin. No shit! The bar was filled with pretty women and everyone was having a great time. I was pleased.

Soon after, everywhere I went was goat territory. There were goats all shapes and sizes, small runty things, beautiful full-bloom forms, as well as the occasional strokes of artistry that makes you step back and say "Jesus Christ!" Finally, it's a movement, and one that we can be proud of. It's wild and quite individual and it can't be purchased at Nordstroms! Now, when I walk down the streets I walk with pride and a big "Fuck You" to those with slanderous thoughts running in their heads. "Fuck You" I say, as I twirl and play with my little friend on my chin.

Tokyo Decadence

Ask yourself this question: *Would I go see a film called TOPAZ that concerns the accumulation of wealth without pride in today's Japanese society, as experienced by a confused young woman employed in the service industry?" Now pull back from the Intense debate raging In your head and ask yourself another question: would I go see a film called TOKYO DECADENCE that concams a beautiful young sex slave panderIng to the whims of horny Japanese tycoons who take drugs like candy and wipe their ass with thousands of yen." Now Isn't it funny how effortlessly the YES forms on your lips compared to the first query when in reality the questions are the same?

Well you're not the only ones so easily fooled. Apparently TOKYO DECADENCE, originally titled TOPAZ, broke attendance records during its run at San Francisco's Red Vic Movie House this summer. There was nary a left over seat to be had, hardly enough room to shake hands In the din of the Vic. Of course San Francisco is a pretty hip town with many curious, albeit deranged hinds. Will pseudo porn art wagging its wriggling head about in high style survive the market that is Salt Lake City?

There is more to life than sex, but there is more to sex than meets the eye, and TOKYO DECADENCE certainly isn't the Japanese answer to Mondo New York. Beneath the lush minimalism of the sets, beside the leather and sweat, and as pointed as the heroin needle lies a purpose as elusive as sex itself.

The film opens bluntly, brutally. A woman sits strapped in bondage gear, chestout, legs spread, her male client explaining to her that he's not into scaring. He urges that she trust him as he blindfolds her and applies a blow-hole mask over her mouth. The image is savage. The image is erotic. You think the sex will drip right off the screen, but the scene closes shortly after a needle plunges into the womans' thigh.

The woman is Ai, pronounced Ai. She is a prostitute trafficking amongst the upper class in Tokyo. She is not the kind of trash that hang with pimps on street corners; no, she's a splendid young thing, the kind of whore that you take home to introduce to your parents before doing the trick. But there's no silly fantasy such as mine in this tale. This is a portrait of women becoming business oriented in the only business they can readily grasp onto. They go about their business alone, accepting their bidding If the price is right. You almost feel as if they should be handing out menus to their clients, until it's understood that price isn't much of an Issue.

As the director Ryu Murakaml explains, traditions are very old and sacred in Japan, so even sex games or drugs are treated like tea ceremonies. I didn't quite get that Impression from the film, but it's a plausible explanation for the diluted atmosphere which hangs over most of the routines. The evolution of tradition may be as mysterious as the origin itself, and the negation of an answer seems to be at the core of this exercise.

Ai's admission that she possesses absolutely no talent can be regarded as the only characterization necessary to her portrait. Her gloss finish of timidity and servitude contradicts the profession she is in, but her age and beauty profess that she may become like the older dominatrix or experienced female client she confides in towards the end.

Her sense of uselessness contrasts heavily with the orientation of the typical Japanese businessman, depicted here as homy old bastards,necrophillacs, and slaves, among other deviations. The point is that money equals power and power equals sex, with sexual fantasies running the gamut of imagination. The wealthy may still treat everything with respect to tradition lapses into the grotesque.

The narrative hardly aspires to anything greater than a few vague mysteries in life. Most of us have other issues to contend with, like how to get out of bed before noon, so this whole thing may seem far removed from reality. Maybe that's the key, though, when you watch the movie. The people depicted in the film wouldn't be caught watching a movie like this, because it is their life. We, on the other hand, are the voyeurs and the poor who maybe can achieve our desires through other means, but nonetheless cannot have what's on screen. Eroticism is a turn on, and whores on screen make us happy. It's better than a triple hanky jerk film because those are a dime a dozen and run in 5 minute bursts. This is art.

TOKYO DECADENCE plays at the Tower Theatre October 8-14.

AELITA, QUEEN OF MARS

Welcome to Mars, a planet with pretty strict immigration policies and a third of its populace packed away on ice. A society that's no stranger to jealousy, where the citizens cavort through preposterously angled landscapes in their scintillating headdresses. A land where luscious Queen Aelita reigns, but doesn't rule!

If you've been brainwashed into thinking that martians are ugly balding pygmies with three arms, I'd suggest you get your ass over to the Tower and check this movie out. It is a visionary Russian epic, circa 1924, that for my money depicts martians as they ought to be.

These martians live in an ultrahip environment, something akin to a party in L.A. Aelita is the queen of the planet, a total knockout whose everyday attire puts today's fashion victims to shame. Her personal maid is no slouch either, and loyal enough to kill. The stately king is kind of a drag, but his right hand man Gor is a scientific super-stud, creator of the Tower of Radiant Energy. His only fault is in allowing the Queen to peek into the tower and observe humanity, showing particular interest in the custom of a kiss. With a woman like Aelita around, it's hard to believe the silly Martians couldn't devise this pleasure themselves.

When most conversations steer towards films that were ahead of their time, names like Metropolis or Wayne's World are dropped. Somehow, Aelita is not mentioned. As mentioned above, the Russian vision of Mars is pretty kick-ass. I wouldn't be surprised if the late Gene Roddenberry watched this a dozen times before madly obsessing his life with Star Trek. Of course, the Mars scenes are only a third of what would be billed as a largely pro-revolutionary melodrama. Even the rest of it has enough inspiring moments to make worthwhile.

One comrade, Loss, has dreams of building a spaceship and booking to Mars. He can't trust his wife and finds that only so many society reforms can be performed. So, one day he returns to Moscow, gets angry and shoots his wife ...or so we think. He dons disguise, builds a rocket, and flies to mars, where the Queen awaits and uses him to conduct her own revolution.

But, it's all just a dream! In the end the pot shots at his wife never really hit. He learns his lessons in love and politics, finally tossing his life's work into the fireplace.

This sci-fi epic is shrewdly clever and well structured. Serious at the core, yet still has the audacity to jump into slapstick realms, particularly with the wanna-be detective who's a dead-ringer for the late Benny Hill (who I'm sure saw this film at least a dozen times before stardom.) The little detective conducts a citizen's arrest as he flies off to Mars with Loss. Realizing his predicament, he waits patiently till they land before urging the martians to uphold universal law.

I was somewhat upset to find out that the whole thing was a dream, particularly in lieu of the manner it's revealed, but I'll be damned if this ain't the most cutting edge films of its time. Besides, if it wasn't a dream, then our own blessed country would bo doubt have jumped into a cold war with the martian union of Soviet Socialist Republics.

Editors Note: Aelita, Queen Of Mars, will be accompanied by a live musical score by Leonid Nemirovsky, an authentic Russian Emigre.

Man Bites Dog

Reservoir Dogs, Bad Lieutenant, Jurassic Park! Bah! For violence in cinema that's just little shit. The film that truly captures the mood of the nation is the recent gem MAN BITES DOG, and it's not even America!

This is a film from Belgium that has taken the entire world by storm, gathering a slew of top honors at the 1992 Cannes film festival as well as other important forums. And while the critical praise has been amazing, it has still managed to repulse the average filmgoer.

The subject is simple enough: a film crew takes on the ultimate documentary and attempts to chronicle the everyday life of a serial killer Benoit. Don't go away! This is no rehashing of Henry, this is high farce in its most tightly constructed form. The gist of the movie is that the film crew really doesn't have an agenda for the endeavor. Hell, they really don't even have enough money to make much of a feature, but that's okay because Benoit Is a high falutin playboy kind of guy who digs on the idea that his so-called profession is being documented. Killing is his business, and it's a business that doesn't necessarily conform to normal principles of economy.

Benny starts off by taking the crew on a few routine killings in order to set up “instructionals" for his profession. He explains how much ballast is required to sink various body structures, being so thorough as to cover the difference between children and midgets. He revels in pushing his intellect before the camera, showIng himself to be a problem solver as well as a seeker of truth. He also takes time to show his tender side, revealIng that he goes through life just like everyone else does!

As the plot develops, the filmmakers become drawn into their subject, to the point where they even spend their free time with Benny. Not only do they find themselves holding Ben upright while he pukes over a plate of mussels, compliments of granny snuff, they also find themselves helping him off his victims. And oddly enough, they lose a few crew members from the high risk dangers of the project. They eventually reach that uncanny position of dependence on their subject, and the only choice is to see it through and become "cinema.”

So what is it that ties this all together and screams "masterpiece?" Well, for starters, Benoit is an out and out natural for the big screen which so dominates our life. His whole sense of timing and gesture ls literally unreal for a debut effort, and the part fits him like a glove. If you disregard everything else about the film, you still come away with a nights entertainment on par with the best stand up comedians.

But wait, there's more. The genre of mock -documentary has been done before, but never has it been so real. The work is so obviously silly, yet it contains this ultra gritty, off the cuff look and fluidity, shot in black and white, that can literally make you question whether it's real or not. Can they get away with snuff films in Belgium? I don't know, but it's a hell of a query to make afterwards. There are all sorts of moral implications in watching and enjoying a film like this that it tends to make your head spin!

The actual directors of the film are three film school dropouts who pooled their talents to make what most people would not finance. As the story goes, they took three years to make it, shooting a little at a time, returning to the project whenever they could afford to. The result is not necessarily ultra low budget, but it's a scraper that has been finely tuned. They apparently initiated the concept around a salesman, and later switched to serial killer in order to push the limits. They were able to extract the talents of various friends, and even older family members who were oblivious to the concept of the film In general, they took an approach that is based on sheer determination, and pulled off a glorious, creative achievement.

After the film found a distributor there was talk about the American release being pared down, one extremely nasty scene in particular. Fortunately the distributor has some balls, and the film will show in its original form. This alone is a victory for artistic integrity, as the scene in question is sort of the climax point of the film, and extremely important in context. Oh my God is it sick too! But don't worry, you'll know when to close your eyes!

So go check out MAN BITES DOG, a true original for this day and age. And take a date. Make it a first date with that special someone you've had your eye on, because if you can watch this together, you'll be able to go to the ends of the earth.

CIGARETTE REVIEW / CAMEL WIDES

Camel Cigarettes have always represented established class to me. But, I've had trouble dealing with their marketing strategy as of late. I enjoy the classic logo on the package, in fact, I'll admit that the only reason I smoke 'em is because they're the one decent package on the market.

All of a sudden they come up with this asinine campaign withnthese highbrow, Joe-Slick guys. The subliminal message of the classic camel was not in the phallic representations but in the image of a man crawling through the desert, not in search of water, but looking for a damn good smoke. That was always in the back of my mind, not some loutish pricks in search of babes.

Luckily, Camel was smart enough to keep the established packaging, and conduct their media blitz with the stupid crew. Who cares since all cigarette advertising will be vanquished in about fifteen seconds anyway.

The men behind the camel are wiser than one might think, sucking the ingenuity from brother brew industry and changing the product itself. Thus the Camel Wide was created, showing the unsuspecting observer that all cigarettes are not equal.

Shit, what direction can a cigarette really go? We've already seen the wave of elongated cigarettes, produced by pansy-ass companies for pansy-ass fools. If anyone you know still smokes these oh so elegant thin Sticks, kick them in the ass! They are the truly stupid.

Even if you're trying to quit, the stress involved in smoking these derelict cigs is enough to make you break out the Marlboro Reds the second your pansy ass friends leave the room.

No, slim and long is not the answer; it makes a mockery of the smoker.

The Camel Wide, however, is the ultimate answer. It's the solution that brings smoking back to the people, aiming straight for the heart. It's broad and stubby like a cigar. It's got a dangerously small filter that exudes a cool draw as flame gets closer to finger. It burns bright and hard, allowing the natural smoke mystique to come to full fore. Yeah, it's bad because smoking is bad and only bad people smoke.

I almost quit smoking until the advent of the Wide, it's just so good, why stop? Sure it's still just a wad of dried leaves rolled in some paper, but if you can't taste the difference, you must be nuts!

TRAGIC MULATTO / HOT MAN PUSSY REVIEW

What can you say about a band who names their album "Hot Man Pussy,” complete with Adam (for those of shallow biblical knowledge-as in Adam & Eve) scratching his head on the cover? A band with songs like "She a Ho", "Hardcore Bigot Scum Get Stabbed", or "The Sherrif of Weed". What do you say about a band who mercilessly butcher Zeppelin's "Whole Lotta Love," throw in fleeting saxophone solos and epic scale tuba solos reminiscent of Opus from Billy and the Boingers? What do you say about a band that has as much logical structure to their songs as a butterfly in a hurricane? If you have heard their tape, or had the opportunity to see them play at Cinema In Your Face, like I have, then you would honestly say that Tragic Mulatto are an intense, creative, mind bending, (and many other such positive adjectives like that), type of band.If you are into truly weird, aggressive, multi-directional music, then you will love this band.  

After having seen them play at Cinema (May 27th) I couldn't wait to plug their tape in and see if those monster beats and rhythms lived on tape. I know that if they did, I could thrash about madly as I did on the small floor at the Cinema, anytime I pleased. If only they are there, I can drive down the street and contort my face just right so as to warn other cars not to fuck with me. Yes, it is that powerful. 

What I have found is the same heavy groove that you never want to end, side by side, layered and layered with the most obscure sound you are likely to ever hear. Female vocals that are often agonizing (though not always agonizing and not always female). Overall, the diversity is quite phenomenal. The big heavy sound is injected almost throughout, helped along by a double drum barrage.

Even the roost controlled stuff is unique. The song "Mr. Cheese" sounds like a circus of the perverse and deformed, the kind of music you would hear at a freak show. "The Sheriff of Weed", is the song that allows you to come off the weird high experienced by the rest of the record (or wake up the crowd without causing brain damage). And the mess that they make with "Whole Lotta Love' is something to behold. You know those soothing moans that Plant did so well, quite painfully screamed here. The original intent of the song becomes quite clear in the version (I want every greasy, dripping inch of your looooooooooovvvveeeee). All in all, a modern-day masterpiece. I doubt that people will ever be doing covers of Tragic Mulatto, but someday, masses of people will gather in the streets and sing in unison; 'I'M TO-TALLY SLEAZY

LIVING COLOUR

ORGASMIC DELIGHT! That was my state of mind when I found out that LIVING COLOUR were to come and "funk out" THE SPEEDWAY in February. I can't get enough of these guys. Their debut album is plain and simply blistering. They grind, they rock, they thrash, they dance, and if you have half a pulse, you will find your body gyrating like a hyena on acid. The overriding difference that distinguishes them from the rest of the biz might be the way they play with feeling. Then again, there's the guy on guitar, Vernon Reid, who gesticulates like a man possessed. Whatever it is, their appeal is great, their music is just begging to be heard live.

THE SPEEDWAY is a sellout. The night is to start rolling with two local hots, SHOT IN THE DARK, and BOXCAR KIDS. The beer was flowing thickly in the "waiting room" which meant I only caught the last few songs of SHOT IN THE DARK. Too bad, because they are a great live band, and even if you don't like what they're playing, their singer is quite captivating (as well as Lisa on bass, and the rest of the band for that matter). I did get to see the BOXCAR KIDS, embarrassingly enough for the first time (The BAR & GRILL was always jammed on previous opportunities). I would have been really disappointed if I had missed them because they came out and Kicked-Holy-Ass. Their talent really showed through, winding the crowd up with a taste of Salt Lake City funk that couldn't have complimented the headliners any better. I was hardly able to figure out what they were singing about, but shit, did I dance! Definitely loads O’talent here, it would be nice to see our populace waking up to them more.

Half-time entertainment was provided by Steroid, the on-stage bouncer and Ch-Ch-Charo the sound check lady, which left the crowd hyper anxious for LIVING COLOUR to hit the stage. I had the unfair advantage of seeing the band play last summer, so I knew what was coming. When they finally emerged, the place exploded with chords, soul, power and a frenzy of merriment. The first thing that you notice is Frontman Corey Glover, who starts out as a thrashing madman and turns out to be-GOD! I swear. He broke into these grooves like none you've ever seen, and certainly couldn't do yourself, although you will try. When he took his place at the edge of the stage and reached out, the mass thrived on touching any part of him. Besides his obvious mastery of the stage, Corey showed his excellent vocal talents with a voice that crunches and then soothes. Muzz Skullings, while keeping a low profile, played the funkiest of bass lines which provide the backbone for the music, along with Calhhouns drumming. The attraction of the evening came in Vernon's guitar work, a definite "Jekyll and Hyde" approach. He stands there perfectly composed playing with real grace, and then explodes into an array of speed induced lines along an incredible range. His face contorts and body jerks as Corey Hip-Hops madly across the stage. The band delivers a set as varied as any your ever likely to hear, draining you with the power of "Which Way In America", Caressing with the moving “Open Letter To A Landlord." The mix works.

Everything has such incredible feeling and energy. I was worried that their amount of original material would bring a short evening, but there were plenty of extras. Vernon and William' solos were rightly intense, as was a powerful version of The CLASH's "Should I Stay Or Should I Go" (quite an appropriate encore). We all wanted them to stay of course, and they returned with the biggest surprise of all, a tender rendition of Tracy Chapman's "Talking About A Revolution". I thought it was the perfect ending, bringing the song the energy it is capable of, while letting the crowd's heart rates slow down enough to be able to leave.

The Band seems to be attracting quite a College following, a reflection of their intelligent writing and stunning delivery. Be glad you saw them now because one day they will be huge. A hearty congrats to the Speedway and ASU for bringing in such great acts as they recently have. Their contribution to Salt Lake's social scene is immense. Watch out in March cause JANE'S ADDICTION is coming, and they are going to kill.

I MISSED JANE'S ADDICTION. AND LIVED TO TELL ABOUT IT (A REVIEW OF SORTS)

A major dilemma worked its way into my life recently. You see, I found out back in January that JANE'S ADDICTION was going to storm into town sometime in March, most likely during spring break. Upon hearing the news my head started spinning and I got the burning sensation, you know, down there.JANE'S ADDICTION is coming to Salt Lake?! To Salt Lake? Hot Shit, Hot Shit, Oh Boy, Hot Shit!!!

After a few tranquilizers I calmed down and continued whatever insignificant act I was doing at the time. After all, it was only a rumor. With time the rumor became reality and a date was set: March 19th. According to my books, that would be right smack in the middle of spring break. Something really didn't seem right; Let'see, spring break vacation, Los Angeles-surfing, partying, away from Salt Lake...heaven BUT I HAVE TO MISS JANE'S ADDICTION!

It is truly a cruel world, isn't it? Sure there is poverty, crime and drug laws, but for hell's sake I have to miss the one band I am most interested in seeing; the one band that produced the hottest debut album, maybe of all time. Well actually I found it isn't their debut album but that one is better anyway. The one band that you can count on putting on a kick ass show just because they are so unique and mysterious. The band that almost defines the words "hip" and "diverse"

Well, I go to LA, have a nice time relaxing, drinking beer and soaking sun. I go to a few clubs that have decent blues bands. While I was scouring the band listing in a local paper, I found out JA would be playing in LA, too. However, I didn't see any other bands that had the SOLD OUT message on their dates. I started to realize I just may have missed the event of the year. I didn't bother to call my roommates to find out how the show was; why spoil a good trip. 

On the way home I stopped in St. George to visit my roommate's sister. After a half an hour of good conversation with her it dawned on me that she had been in Salt Lake for the concert. I was amazed that she hadn't said anything about it. I finally asked her myself. "Oh, you really didn't miss anything, it sucked. We were barely late and they only played twenty minutes." This did not shock me after all, she wasn't a real fan and probably didn't know any of the songs. Besides, how can she complain if she shows up late.

Well, I make it home at last, being greeted by both my roommates and another friend. This time I don't have to pry. "It sucked", they claimed in unison. Hold on a second, these are people who claim to be as fanatical as myself, and they didn't like it? Not only that, they very much disliked it. I pulled Lori aside the next day and asked for details. "They were the worst, I never want to hear them again. Perry's voice sucked; they only played for a half an hour and they were real assholes. Perry started slamming his microphone on the drums then bitched about the shitty sound during their encore. What a let down.”

Then I asked another friend for more details. "Oh yeah, they were pretty atrocious. I did however get to party with the bass player and the drummer afterwards. I gave them a lot of shit because of their image they have tried so hard to achieve." Hmm, that is a total of five strikes. One more and they will be out, twice. I began to believe it. I consulted Phil. "It was great, man, I was right up front". "How much did you have to drink?" I asked. "oh, about a fifth and an odd beer here and there.”

What this all boils down to is that JANE'S ADDICTION just didn't perform the way that everyone expected them to. Maybe they are just a bunch of assholes on an ego trip and don't give a shit about their audiences. Then again, it could have just been a bad night. Whatever it was, I suppose I am the only one who was satisfied with my outcome of the whole JANE'S ADDICTION thing. Maybe I should be happy I missed the show, because I still think their albums are the best. Besides, I have the video and I can watch it whenever I want.

Lollapalooza / A View From Abroad

I thought it would be totally incomprehensible. I wanted it to be, like, wantonly verbose and dynamically apocalyptic. I expected it to be the pinnacle of my mid-formative years. I at least wanted to have a little bit of fun. Alas, I did LOLLAPALOOZA by way of San Francisco and somehow came away from it completely unchanged! The same man I was before!!

Yeah, I did have a good time. I'm sure anyone who went at least enjoyed a day off from the rigors of life; the opportunity to hang out drinking beer and listening to music, as well as the discovery of plastic gizmos that replicate the experience of LSD. No shit! If you are cool, you were there. If you aren't cool, you were there. If you are way too cool or just broke, you weren't there. I happened to go because I have a genuine interest in music and taste for adventure, not to mention a free ticket compliments of a sibling. This is how I saw things.

Whoever selected the lineup for the main stage must be retarded! It's nice to give bands exposure, to try and be diverse, and even to be somewhat politically correct in this day and age. But if you want to entertain a bunch of people who are drunk and stoned to the bejeezus, you have to live in reality. Judging by the crowd, the two biggest selling bands were the reason for 50% of the audience. The level of intensity jumped up from nowhere the second ALICE IN CHAINS revealed themselves, but lapsed in a handful of songs as everyone realized that this wonderful band who sounds great on tape are "El stinko” live. It's not even their fault, it's just that their music drones too much to keep an audience perky,

I wouldn't consider DINOSAUR JR. to be a great live band either, although I'm a huge fan of theirs. Still, the crowd of "Alice" fans couldn't tolerate the fuzz Inspired Dinosaur even though they delivered a good set. Any band that closes their set with the best song from their second album should be applauded. Maybe they should've changed their name to "Jurassic Jr." for this tour and audiences would've ate it up.

BABES IN TOYLAND also suffered from the you've never heard us so we must stink and we feel like shit having to play in front of you and we're the only women playing and since your not responding you must hate women, etc... factor. It's too bad because their music is suitably raucous for live.

PRIMUS at least conjured up some good will as the evening wrapper. The dead walked the field again with the introduction of primo-video art to enhance their already prevalent loopiness. The first band to really catch everyone's vibe, even PRIMUS had to submit to the failings of the sound system as some of SES C's more tranquil lyrics were lost to the wind, and it wasn't even windy out!

Yes, the sound system on the whole was about as effective as wet matches, except for-you guessed it, the second stage. I had to forego the pleasures of FRONT 242, ARRESTED DEVELOPMENT, and most of FISHBONE in order to check out *up and coming" bands like MERCURY REV and TOOL. MERCURY REV might have been good if they had been on the same planet as the rest of us. I wondered why I couldn't hear the lyrics to the songs when lo and behold, I realized the singer wasn't too concerned about singing into the mic. And for fucks sake, you couldn't hear the flute player either!! And they didn't even have a mandolin player!! At least I could see them, and that was a trip in itself.

The big surprise was TOOL. There were lots of TOOL fans around, some even wore TOOL shirts and had tattoos of wrenches and hammers on their skulls. The band emerged with a few sarcastic words toward hippies, a few blessings from RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE (leading to self gratification) and proceeded to unleash the most powerful set of the whole day. Perfect sound, perfect intensity, perfect stage demeanor. What the fuck, these guys would've had all 30,000 people bowling in awe had they played the big stage. Timothy Leary even came out to say that Tool is the band of the 90's. Timothy Leary may be a washed up dry heave but he might be right about Tool.

After the day was over, I had to reflect: What's the point of paying $30 just to get a nasty sunburn, hang out with a bunch of high schoolers who are only there to maintain their stature of cool, get overcharged for beer and food, and try to listen to bands who look like insects from where you're standing? Well, because it's something to do, goddamnit. Because 30,000 people can all laugh at once when the announcer tells them to come back for Bon Jovi in a couple of weeks. Because people are practically naked and doing weird shit to their hair and bodies.

Most of all, it's just a good idea to support these events as the natural cycle of progress, because someday in the near future, someone from a really cool underground band is going to say "fuck LOLLAPALOOZA!” They'll go out and organize a few hip sponsors, about 20 of the coolest most unknown bands, and start a tour. Each venue will sport four to five stages, each area will hold about 30,000 people, who will all be able to see and hear the bands. Each band will sell their own merchandise and collect all the proceeds. Timothy Leary will be sacrificed on a special center stage. Beer and cigarettes will be free. The day will be a holiday! Everyday will be declared a holiday…..

LOCAL BANDS FOR ALL OCCASIONS

Let me tell you about the wealth and variety of local talent prevalent here in SLC, that place you thought couldn't find talent if it tripped over it. What I have here are four tapes by four different bands, all from Salt Lake City at one point or another. Most are fairly low budget recordings, but nothing a boost of the volume can't overcome. None are the ultimate exception tape that I was hoping for, but all are fairly good and quite useful in everyday situations.

For example, if you have trouble waking up in the morning, INSANEACIDE has the perfect solution. Just plug in your new tape "A MULTI CRUCIAL FAZE" and set it for stun in the mornings. The pure aggression here could wake a dead man, let alone your hung over body. Yes, this tape is quite fast, quite brutal, and quite fine if this is your particular bag of goodies. A band as far away musically as you can get from the likes of Tiffany. Must have some redeeming value, right? Highly reminiscent of early Slayer (the fabulous "Show No Mercy" with that punchy style that completely slams you with a wall of sound, then all of a sudden then all of a sudden shows you that extremely good guitar works and sounds are possible. The vocals, sorry to say, are pure shit, but highly amusing. To give you an example, this whole review could have been sung by Insaneacide in under five seconds. When they do slow down to at least one word per split second, they can be quite enjoyable. Available at Raunch

Well, now that you are out of bed, it's time to take a ride to the mountains. We've got the perfect driving music here courtesy of DA NEIGHBORS, so grab your friends and a case of brew and head for those hills. "I ALMOST GOT KILLED" is foot tapping heaven, guaranteed to loosen up your legs by the time you strap them skis on. Those guitars just jangle jangle, reminiscent of many of the masters of the 60's and the 70's. This would all sound better with Joe Walsh at the helm, but for a chap of just 17, singer Mike Graves is quite commendable. What the tape lacks in range it makes up with quality writing, that is quite intelligent, often humorous, and fun to sing along to. Not too much differentiation offered here, but when it does fall out of form, it is really good. In the songs "Paint Yourself" and "My Disease" the speed picks up just enough to show you that these guys can rock as well as strum. And then there is “Buddha is Napoleon,” yeah, I can just see the wind going through our hair yelling “Someone should tell us to go to hell!” Available at The Word.

Now that you’ve found a nice spot to park and have allowed a few beers to settle, it's time to relax just a bit with FLOWERS FOR CHARLOTTE. 'OBSCURE AIMS" is the name, which the tape certainly lives up to. The pace of the music is much slower, often serene. Layers upon layers of sound are smoothed into a mostly modern style, with hints of the avant garde and a touch of progressive rock. Probably the most professional sounding of the four tapes I reviewed. The vocals come across rather nicely, finding their proper place among the various beats and quirky sounds. The lyrics are especially impressive, forming enjoyable, intelligent choruses that are just a little repetitive. But sit back and let the music caress and move you; forget really and "Dream of a place where none of this could happen." A lot of people helped out on this recording, there is a lot of style and variation. Very enjoyable; I Hope you can still find a copy. Available @ The Word.

If you are like me, you'll be needing to raise your heart beat a bit at this point. The beer's gone and it's time to get scary, so what better choice of music could there be than VICTIMS WILLING new demo. (Soon available on vinyl) Don't worry about what the name means, just listen to the music. More in line with Anthrax and Ludichrist, this band hammers at you with it's raw, straight forward vocals and driving beat that lapses into more time changes than you can imagine. It's those time changes that I just love because they make every song that much more interesting. Definitely an album that requires many listens to truly appreciate, but once you do, these songs will really grow on you. I don't know much about the album (title wise, my copy wasn't labeled) but every song seems to be structured similarly, mixing a short, punchy chorus with a pulsing beat, and those time changes that cover a whole range of strange and unique guitar styles. All in all quite complex, yet delivered so simply and stylishly. 

Just a miniscule portion of the talent available in Salt Lake City, most of the bands can be heard live at various locations in town. We'll keep you posted; In the meantime, find the tapes yourself and realize that "The world doesn't revolve around Bon-Jovi." Lord No!