#pop n schlock

[ibbandflow]

Pop 'n' Schlock from Splatoon 3's Lobby: Wii-Shop-ified!!!

[salamispots]

I love how you can chill in the little basket by the shell out machine :'D

[bump1nthen1ght]

A Very Monstrous Kinktober: Day 21 (Tentacles)

Kink: Tentacle Sex

Pairing: Tentacle Monster x Male!Reader

Other Kinks: Roleplay

Warnings: N/A

Word Count: 1103 words

Kinktober Masterlist

“Oh my,” You gasp “-look at all this treasure! I guess I chose the right cave to explore. Just me, an adventurer all by myself.”

You cringe at your voice, hearing yourself repeated in the echoes across the cave walls. You were never the best actor, delivery a little too stiff and predictable. It doesn’t help that your improv is schlock, reciting the cheesiest lines from dirty books you’ve read in the past.

But the churring sounds around the corner suggest your lines, corny as they may be, are effective.

“I sure hope there's no big, strong monster protecting this treasure.” You call out, eyeing the nearby hiding hole. “It’d be such a shame, considering I’m all by myself,” You languidly bend over, pretending to look at the “treasure chest” in front of you, “-so defenseless.” Wiggling your hips, you turn toward the ‘chest’, popping open the top and pretending to coo at the fake bounty inside.

A satisfied smirk curls the sides of your lips when a familiar tentacle wraps around your ankle. Still playing as the oblivious adventurer, you ignore the creeping sensation that crawls up your pant leg, massaging your calf. You just wiggle your hips some more, pride and something else stirring in your gut when your partner churrs.

“Hmm, what's this?” You whine as another tentacle wraps around the opposite ankle, both quickly pushing up the bottom of your pants. “Oh no! A monster!” Your gasp is breathy and dramatic, paired with you throwing your hand to your forehead in woe. A thicker tentacle wraps around your waist, thoroughly ‘trapping’ you. “Let me go, foul beast!”

You fake slap the tentacle now pulling you towards your partner. Their chuckle reverberates against your skin.

Soon you're pulled into a rolling mass of tentacles, who don’t hesitate to fondle your body. Several crawl up your shirt, petting the skin and even flicking your nipples. Others easily undo the buttons of your trousers, quickly sneaking under the hem once your fly is down. You let out another breathy gasp, half real and half dramatic.

“Oh my goodness, what are you doing?” With all the indignation of a primadonna, you wiggle and thrash in your partner's hold. In reality the act only stimulates you more, lets the tentacles wrap around your limbs and hold them in place. You lick your lips, watching several tentacles pull down your pants and underwear, releasing your cock.

“I’m gonna have fun with you, traveler.”

A shiver rolls down your spine, the normally stuttered and shy voice of your partner especially deep and lusty.

Damn, they are a good actor.

“Ah!” You gasp, really gasp, as a tentacle wraps around your shaft. It squeezes tight as it slowly moves up the head, the tip playing with your slit. Already hard in their grasp, your head begins weeping precum, which the tentacle gleefully smears all over it.

You almost break character when the tentacle slithers off your cock, a whiny “Why?” on your lips. But then the tentacle slides up to your partner's mouth. They lean their faux, shining purple face down and suck on their own appendage, eyes rolling back. After letting go with a ‘pop’, they lean down next to your ear.

“Delicious.” They purr, their entire form rumbling against you.

It takes all you can not to melt in their tentacles right then and there, still trying to put up a ‘fight’.

But your partner doesn’t give you the chance to break, a quick tentacle wrapping around your cock once more as another begins circling your hole. You gasp again, this time quickly silenced by another wayward tentacle, shoved down your throat.

“Your noises are so pretty.” Your partner chuffs. “But I want to explore all of these holes.”

Tears bubble at the corner of your eyes, feeling your throat gag from the new intrusion. But you tap three times on the tentacle, the signal you are good to go forward. It may have been sudden, but the penetration is far from unwelcome.

You can see your partner smirk from the corner of your eye. The tip circling your asshole oozes lube, leaving faintly buzzing trails in its wake. The tentacle around your cock begins oozing as well, some dripping down to your balls as it jerks at a steady pace. That familiar grape flavor touches your tongue, helping suppress the gag reflex and ease your mind a bit.

Your hole stretches slowly open, the lubed tentacle so gentle despite your partner’s dirty talk.

“I can’t wait to see you, all fucked open on me. Dripping with me.” A tentacle lovingly strokes your cheek. “Wait a treat you’ve given me, adventurer.” The easing tentacle hits your prostate, your lower half overwhelmed with sensations from both sides. “A brand new toy to play with.”

Your cock twitches in their grip as they begin to jerk you off faster, another tentacle from underneath coming to fondle your balls. You’re slowly emptied out as they withdraw the tentacle in your ass, before shoving it inside with an emphasized “Hmmp!” Your moans are muffled, stuffed from the appendage still in your mouth, which stays still. Something you’re thankful for, as you’re not sure you have the brain power to fellate them properly.

Your legs spasm and shake, held up in mid air by two tentacles. You can see your toes curling, feel the electric shocks as they fuck you open. The tentacle stroking you keeps you on edge, going fast for some seconds and lingering on your head for others, playing with your sensitive spot underneath. Your balls tighten in their grasp, eyes rolling back into your head as your orgasm begins to creep up on you.

“Are you gonna cum?” Your partner pants, that more familiar desperation coming back to their voice. “Cum from my tentacles? All strung up, like a proper cum-slut?” They lick theit faux-tongue up the side of your face, tasting salty tears. “You came here for treasure, yet here you are— Some monster’s bitch.”

The snarl in their voice is enough to send you over the edge. Nearly numb from overstimulation, your cock jerks and semen shoots into ready tentacles. They lap at it like thirsty tongues, letting the cum drizzle over several as they fondle your cock.

The cavern floor is cool on your face, slowly lowering onto your stomach as tentacles leave your more sensitive parts. The ooze on your skin sinks in like a relaxant, your partner making sure to keep you comfortable.

“D-did you like that?” They pant in your ear.

You give them a lazy thumbs up.

“We’re definitely doing that again.”

[geminired]

To everyone, what's your favorite song?

(Extra rule for idols, can't pick a song from your own idol group and group members. E.g. Callie can't pick Tide goes out.)

agentFUN: pop n schlock

Agent-2: Ink or Sink.

Shiverin: Not one of ours?

Agent-2: We’re nostalgic.

MC.princess: paintscraper

DJ_HyperFresh: Calamari Inkantation.

Agnt8: calamari inkantation

MC.princess: new rule

MC.princess: octos cant pick the inkantation

Agnt8: :(

DJ_HyperFresh: Fine, then I chose #12 Awake.

Agnt8: Fly Octo Fly~Ebb and Flow

4gent: Tidal Rush

CapIII: Spicy Calamari Inkantation

4gent: she just said

CapIII: I’m not an octo

agentFUN: pick a different one

CapIII: Fine

CapIII: City of Color

Neo3: till depth do us part!

Neo3: or maybe smeared canvas idk

Sizzlin: good choice

Shiverin: Nasty Majesty

Sizzlin: ride or fry

BIGMAN: two shadows in the sun

BIGMAN: or maybe whirlpool tune

BIGMAN: or maybe pour it on

Agent-2: Do you like having existential crises or something?

BIGMAN: yes

4gent: ay my team wbu all

Trip: rip entry

Rip: kinetosis

HAVOC: Wave Prism.

Sparks: chopscrewey

Carabine: Ebb and Flow

MC.princess: so what im getting from this is that everyone likes oth

agentFUN: whatever boats your float!

MC.princess: ???

[nineoutof10sion]

apologies for the unusual post but my curiosity's eating me alive

[borisbubbles]

Eurovision 2022 Ranking:

While I’m working on the final chapter for my 2021 ranking, I will announce the obvious: I am of course NOT going to do a full 2022 pre-show ranking lol. There’s no time, and besides, I would be forced to rank 2022 twice, back-to-back and there’s no fun in that!  So instead, I will do it here, JUST to have a pre-show order of sorts. Can you guess which songs I’m refering to by merely reading these acid-laced descriptions?

Also um, spoiler: I don’t like this year much. 

In 40th place, the fuckin’ Todrick Hall song In 39th place, oh great another overdramatic theatre gay. In 38th place, “Boys With Emotions”, the Salvaduncan remix. In 37th place, “I am gnome”  In 36th place, Rock ‘n’ Roll Gays In 35th place, vegan Pollapönk In 34th place, hola mi bébébé In 33rd place, some kid attempting a 90s Not joke. In 32nd place, ASTOUNDINGLY, we finally find Bulgaria. In 31st place, the worst lyrics of the year (”The battle of the life is bigger than you know // to act so selfishly is unforgiveable // the air is what they need, the air is what they breathe // THEY DIE WITHOUT IT!!! IT’S UNFORGIVEABLE!!!” is there a bdex for text?) In 30th place, a handsome ghoul. in 28th and 29th place, two songs that have a dead first minute: One of them transitions into a midtempo pop ballad while the other becomes an uptempo poprock song, you get no points for guessing which one I prefer.  In 27th place, right above Denmark, the song whose country I WOULD have guessed as Denmark if I hadn’t known any better. (also this song DOES sound like Elhaida Dani, what’s up with that?) In 26th place, staggered dithering to a Yohio track. In 25th place, a camp pastiche of Green Day.   In 24th place, drunk uncles at a peasant wedding. In 23rd place, one of the biggest EDM disasters WAITING to happen. I am of course refering to We Are Domi, d’uh.. In 22nd place, spoken word (with an insipid song built around it I guess) In 21st place, some likeable Hellene filler In 20th place, You don’t wanna test mah limits...x In 19th place, “Willow” by Taylor Swift. In 18th place, the biggest bullshitters in the universe, if only they could bs themselves into actually going viral...x In 17th place, a lowish ranking for Kalush because I don’t condone bad sportsmanship. (#VidbirWasn’tRiggedGiveItARest #LeaveEnvelopeLadyALOOOONE) In 16th place, again, SHOCKINGLY, we somehow find Malta’s slice of generic Swedish scammer schlock? It could have been even higher if Hamilton Travel had paid me more for the sponsorship. In 15th place, a good Aviicii tribute, how nice that Estonia get to pretend they’re Swedish for another year. In 14th place, a deepfake In 13th place, ALSO a deepfake?! but this one is accompanied by a Gabri Ponte protégé, so a bonus point for that. In 12th place, the most popular entry amongst Spanish border guards In 11th place, QUEEN Ronela only because the new drop bangs less than the original! In 10th place, a charming bunch of kids living the adventure of a life time. In 9th place, booty hypnotic, make it want mo mo mo mo In 8th place, @Itsamemaro  in 7th place, adlib queen <3 In 6th place, the worst kept secret in the universe <3 In 5th place, country aunties / haim hags / incoming shock qualifier queens In 4th place, the winner of Eurovision 2022 In 3rd place, 🦉😂 In 2nd place, Competent Tanxugueiras + the man who moistened all of Europe through sheer eyecontact. In 1st place, Konstrakta because sanitation of both the body and mind are of paramount importance! Here’s a fun graphic giving you some visual perspective: 

WILL THIS HOLD AFTER ESC 2022?! Probably not (I’m already looking for excuses to rank Brividi dead last <3) but this is what it looks like going into rehearsals!.  (ESC2021′s top five will be up in a few days)

[otherworlder]

mp3 of pop n schlock because i've been looping it for so many hours since it came out... i love how bubbly and nostalgic it seems!! truly peak splatoon

[dandelion-idk]

I just now listened to pop 'n' schlock and damn... it feels like something u would listen in a dating simulator. And i mean that in the best way possible

[the-infinite-jukebox]

U.S. Girls - Bless This Mess (Quick Album Review)

Genres: Electro-Disco, Pop Soul, Synthpop

Meg Remy's solo experimental pop project U.S. Girls put out an excellent album in 2018 with the neo-psychedelic modern cult classic In a Poem United after years of mostly middling releases. The aforementioned record seemed to mark the turning over of a new leaf for Remy. Unfortunately, the follow-up to her 2018 fan-favorite was the pop soul misstep that was 2020's Heavy Light. Rather than correcting her mistake by taking her toes back out of waters that obviously do not suit her, Meg Remy dives even further into the sounds of Heavy Light on Bless This Mess. It is on Bless This Mess that Meg Remy genuinely makes an attempt to deliver her best impression of the 1980's decade-unique brand of synthpop-soul fusion. While she may admirably attempt to channel her inner Sign O' the Times-era Prince, what comes out on Bless This Mess is more directly related to disappointingly sober karaoke than it does an enjoyable recreation of the Minneapolis Sound. The instrumentals here feel preset and cheap more often than not; only adding to the lackluster cheesiness of the entire listening experience. Remy's presence is obviously meant to carry some degree of attitude and sensuality, but she has all impact of a light breeze on both fronts. Bless This Mess feels like a budget, store-brand version of modern 80s-influenced pop soul music. One would reasonably hope that Meg Remy would have taken a few steps backwards after the failure of Heavy Light in 2020. Instead, the latest U.S. Girls album feels like a headfirst dive into a cheaply produced rehash of outdated schlock that manages to disappoint even with roughly zero hype behind it.

Final Rating: 1/5 (Horrendous)

Essential Tracks: N/A

[schlock-luster-video]

Happy birthday Spamalot, Clue and The Rocky Horror Picture Show star Tim Curry!

Here’s a few drawings of Frank N. Furter to mark the occasion!

[pollylynn]

Title: Microburst WC: 1100 Episode: Nikki Heat (3 x 11)

Natalie Rhodes makes him uncomfortable. It’s the stuffiest blandest, beige-est statement of all time. It is a characterization that is so far beneath him—a master of characterization—that if he went looking for it, he’d probably run into a dinosaur on the verge of turning into crude oil. But try as he might, he can’t improve on the statement and still have it hold true: Natalie Rhodes makes him uncomfortable.

It’s not that way from the beginning. From the beginning, he hates Natalie Rhodes. He has about a million cheap shots about her locked and loaded. He has these neatly categorized: There’s her “career,” her high visibility hot mess lifestyle, her unrivaled gift for finding the nearest hot mic and and saying the worst possible thing right into it. He has material for days, and it is baffling that his mother has, at her fingertips, the box office numbers for Knife 2, his daughter can cite US Weekly, chapter and verse, about her dedication to her craft.

It is maddening that his home is overrun with people who have not gotten the memo that details how much he hates Natalie Rhodes and outlines their familial duty to hate her right along with him. It’s maddening that the evidence they present for the defense plants the first uncomfortable seed. He has a flash of self-doubt. He wonders for half a second if he actually hates Natalie Rhodes or just the fact that the studio, as an afterthought—as a courtesy said someone’s second assistant, sounding bored—had presented to him as a fait accompli after months of promises that he’d get all the Nikki audition reels. Thanks to that first uncomfortable seed, he wonders if his hatred, visceral as it is, isn’t somewhat misdirected

But then he meets her in the flesh, and for a brief and shining moment he has the luxury of hating her on her own merits. Within one hour of appearing on the scene, she reveals her deep lack of understanding of what being “very method” means (hint: not nothing and observing) or who it is who gets to decide what “goes in the movie” (hint: not C-list actresses, even if they are inexplicable box office draws). She reveals herself herself to be the kind of narcissist who specializes in fixation on one other human being at a time, and if that human being is Kate Beckett, the position has been filled, thank you very much.

That realization should probably flip the uncomfortable switch. It should probably pull a comically giant lever labelled uncomfortable, but he carries on hating her for a while, instead. He hates all the breaks Beckett is cutting the Janey-Come-Lately—how she’s suddenly the Police Procedural Welcome Wagon, she’s lecturing the bullpen on how not to behave like rubes in front of schlock horror’s “It” girl, and she’s inviting the interloper to sit in on the interview. He hates that Natalie Rhodes, Day One, seems to tap into some vein of punchy cop dialogue in her, when he, for nearly two years, had to settle for Esposito and Ryan’s five hundred words for “suspects.”

The hate—the jealousy and irritation with Beckett for her seeming determination to take him down a peg or three—lasts him quite a while. But then she, Natalie, stands at the precise moment she, Beckett, stands. She “does” Beckett. She lectures her on posture and its connection to how the case is going. She declares that soon she’ll be a far better Beckett than Beckett v1.0. She departs with a double-snap, and what she leaves in her wake is . . . unnerving.

She—Kate—doesn’t know what to do with her body. She is painfully hyper aware of the casual slump of her spine, the pop of one hip, the palm she rests her chin on as she leans against the edge of the desk and studies the murder board. She is devoid of the grace, the easy power and self-possession that he’s always thought of as native to her—as innate and quintessential. But it’s not. Beckett’s bad-ass body language is a highly calculated affair. It costs her to maintain it. It costs her, and he sees her come up short as Natalie Rhodes huffs and puffs and blows down a house that he didn’t even know was there.

He doesn’t give Natalie Rhodes any credit for the discovery, any more than he’d give the monstrous bit of an oil drill credit for discovering the delicate impressions of ancient life it chews up and spits out. But he can’t un-know the things wrecking-ball approach to her work has exposed. He can’t un-see how vulnerable is—how vulnerable she thinks herself to be—when she wonders what Natalie will take from her next.

She doesn’t want him to know these things. She doesn’t want him to see the cracks in her facade or the sheer effort it takes, day after day, to pull off Detective Kate Beckett, NYPD. She doesn’t want him to know, even though she drags him by the arm—twice—and tells him these things, because there’s no one else she can tell. She doesn’t want him to know that she wonders how easily she could be replaced, if she’s nothing more than a fantasy, if he’d gladly settle for a wig, a knockoff blouse, an ill-fitting blazer.

Natalie Rhodes, with a huff and a puff, with a paper football flick of her finger, has left them with this—the things he cannot unsee, he cannot un-know, she cannot keep from telling him, though she’s desperate to hide them away.

And he can’t even hate her for it. He can’t muster up the energy, and he can’t tell whether it’s fair or unfair or something in between. He can’t tell whether he’s the evil twin from the mirrorverse—the one who’s been huffing and puffing and undoing her for two years—or if the mirror verse denizens specialize in a Natalie-esque quick strike. He can’t see how much blue sky there is between what this awful, shallow, one-dimensional woman has done in just two days, and what he’s been doing for nearly two years. He just can’t see where the lines fall.

It’s bland, it’s inaccurate, it’s a necessary fiction and a deeply uncomfortable truth. It’s all he’s got in this moment where it feels like whole universe is shaking all the way down to its foundations. It is regrettably beige, but it’s the working truth: Natalie Rhodes makes him uncomfortable.

A/N: My misery has morphousness. It finds its morph in demorphing these things.

images via kissthemgoodbye

[wonderfulworldofmichaelford]

Michael After Midnight: Yoga Hosers

“So bad, it’s good.”

This is a phrase that is near and dear to me. It is a phrase that indicates quality where others would find none, it indicates that a movie is saved unintentionally, it just tells me I’m in for something fun. I love “so bad, it’s good” cinema. My love for it is is pretty much the entire reason I made Michael After Midnight, so I could showcase these weird, quirky, awkward films I love so much and spread them to a new audience, and maybe even convince you that some of these films actually do have genuine qualities underneath it all.

I also love the View Askewniverse, as this old review of the franchise can attest to. Kevin Smith really was onto something with this series, combining snarky dialogue, pop culture references, and stoner humor together into something that I feel so many movies tried to replicate but that very few ever came close to. Like most movies that use “lol weed” humor fall flat on their face, but not Smith’s movies. Any other movie where a couple argues over the girl having given 37 different dudes blowjobs prior to this relationship would just feel tacky and forced, but Smith made it work. Kevin Smith could take weird concepts like “A woman who works at an abortion clinic is tasked by the voice of God (played by Alan Rickman) to stop Matt Damon and Ben Affleck (who are fallen angels) from accidentally rewriting reality so they can get to heaven; she is aided by Jay & Silent Bob, a black apostle, a muse, and a skeevy priest played by George Carlin. Also there’s a shit demon and Alanis Morisette is God” and make them work. But outside the View Askiewniverse his success has dwindled, with his films ending up forgettable at best; you’ll never find anyone citing Zack & Mirri Make a Porno as their favorite comedy, you know?

So you’d think his “True North” trilogy, a series of B-movies with “So bad, it’s good” aesthetics set in good ol’ Canada, would just be a home run. Combine Smith’s with with the kind of fun campiness of B-movies, what could go wrong?

A lot.

“So bad, it’s good” is not an exact science. It’s not an exact art. The expert creators of this style of film – people like Tommy Wiseau, Neil Breen, or the SyFy Channel – they always have an air of sincerity to them even when they wink at the audience and really lay it on you. The Sharknado movies showcase a perfect balance of telling the joke and being in on the joke, to use one example. But it is so incredibly easy to go too far and end up ruining your own joke by just constantly rubbing in the audience face that yes, it is a joke. Willing suspension of disbelief applies to enjoying films ironically, interestingly enough, and if you keep slapping your audience in the face and telling them “Hey dipshit, this is supposed to be fucking stupid,” they’re not gonna like it. Tusk had this pretty bad, with its interesting premise being ruined by too much self-awareness and too much Johnny Depp. But Yoga Hosers?

This movie is even worse.

This movie is an absolute trainwreck of premises. Two clerks at a Canadian convenience store have to fight Nazi bratwursts created by an evil German mad scientist sculptor who helped form a Canadian Nazi party during WWII. Also there are Satanists who want to cut up the clerks and sacrifice them. There’s also yoga tossed into the mix for good measure. The thing is, all of these ideas could have been used separately for some fantastically stupid films, the “Bratzis” in particular being the idea only someone who is high half the time could come up with. The concept for them alone is what made me want to watch this film, and yet, the execution is just so utterly terrible it makes me regret ever finding the idea charming at all.

A big problem with the Bratzis is just how poor the effects are. They are painfully greenscreened in, an effect that makes the Fierys from Labyrinth look like something out of Avatar in comparison. They speak in gibberish German phrases and when they are killed they splatter in a confetti effect that looks like it comes prepackaged with Baby’s First Video Editing Suite. I get Smith doesn’t work on big budgets or anything, but this is just absolutely embarrassing. This man made a movie with a shit demon as a practical effect and this is what he does when he gets his hands on cutting edge technology?

And it’s not like anything else about this movie is pleasant enough to make up for the awful effects. The two main characters are played by Johnny Depp’s daughter and Kevin Smith’s daughter, and while they undeniably have good chemistry as friends and can sing very well, their characters are just unpleasant, obnoxious millennial stereotypes: they’re catty, they’re snotty, they’re glued to their phones, and they’re pretty dim. Johnny Depp’s character from Tusk is back, and I’m happy to say he’s just as terrible here, mumbling his way through his scenes and just in general sucking what little life there is out of this film. And as if the characters aren’t annoying enough, every fucking character is introduced with some social media title card. It’s absolutely as stupid as it sounds.

And see, some would point to this and say “Oh, come on, it’s so bad it’s good, Smith is clearly just taking the piss here, it’s supposed to be bad!” Well guess what? That’s no excuse to make your movie shit. The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra is also an intentional “so bad, It’s good” movie, one that spoofs the gloriously cheesy sci-fi B-movies of the 50s. But that movie felt like a loving, affectionate parody, one that didn’t insult its audience. They knew you were in on the joke, and they just let you enjoy it while they tell it.

Smith, on the other hand, won’t let you enjoy his joke. He constantly needs to cram in cameos from his celebrity pals, with Stan Lee, Jason Mewes, and Kevin Conroy all popping in for some pointless appearances. The terrible effects are just too terrible, with none of it feeling like a charming throwback to rubber suit monster movies and all of it feeling more like budgetary constraints, laziness, and lack of creativity. But worst of all, this film is clearly trying to be funny. The best part of any “So bad, it’s good” movie is that it’s funny accidentally. Humor is derived from the awkwardness of lines delivered earnestly; again, going back to Lost Skeleton, it works because as goofy and awkward as the lines are, they really aren’t too inauthentic to old school sci-fi cheese. Yoga Hosers, though? It is so desperately trying to make you laugh at it unironically while simultaneously trying to get you to laugh at it ironically. It feels manipulative and tasteless, and in the end, it’s what kills the movie.

I have no idea who this would appeal to. It has none of the quality of Smith’s better work, it’s not going to appeal to monster movie fans because its plot is so scattershot and the effects are too poor for even ironic enjoyment, and the jokes are not going to appeal to anyone who isn’t too stoned to realize what they’re watching. All of it feels phony, insincere, and crappy in a genuine way, and there’s just no humor to be derived from something this creatively bankrupt. Shame n Kevin Smith for taking an unironically fascinating and stupid concept and running it into the ground with schtick. I came for Nazi bratwursts assaulting convenience store employees, but instead I get mumbling Johnny Depp and a guy dressed as a Nazi doing celebrity impressions. Fuck you, Smith. Fuck you and your insincere attempts at schlock.

[criticalangst]

AN INTERVIEW WITH BEN MANCELL OF NYC’S FUZZY WARBLES CASSETTES

An interview with Ben Mancell of New York City’s Fuzzy Warbles Cassettes

Ben Mancell was born and raised in Ann Arbor, MI. He started playing in bands at the age of 12 and "has pretty much been in a band ever since.” Some of the bands he’s been in include: Factory Rat, Etch-A-Sketch, Nadsat Nation, Pist-N-Broke, MHz, Rael Rean, Elevations, Imaginary Icons, Famous Logs In History, Fun Time Objects. 

CRITICAL ANGST: What made you want to start a cassette label?

BEN MANCELL: About 10 years ago I was asked to record a solo synthesizer album for a friend’s cassette label. I had accumulated a collection of vintage analog synthesizers and I was building my own synthesizers and sequencers using DIY kits. I ended up not recording anything and always had regrets about that. A few years ago I started recording some synth stuff and eventually had enough material for an album. At the same time my band Famous Logs In History had recorded four songs. So I had two recordings that I wanted to self-release. I couldn’t afford a vinyl release and the production turnaround was too long. I did not want to release CDs so I felt the cassette tape was a logical conclusion. It was easy and cheap to duplicate and I could include digital downloads with every cassette purchase (as of course not everyone has a cassette player these days).

You have put together a big roster of bands in a short time -- what is the process for finding bands?

My goal was to have an FW release every month. I started the label in February 2018 and released 11 cassettes during the first year. I’ve slowed down a bit after releasing an ambitious double cassette retrospective of the 70s Manchester punk band The Hamsters and related bands featuring over 40 songs including some unreleased tracks featuring Marc Riley and Paul Hanley from The Fall, Peter Hook of Joy Division/New Order, and Mike Joyce of The Smiths. The bands that I’ve released are either current bands (often that have played shows with my band) or archival material from bands that I like.

Is there an overarching Fuzzy Warbles sound, theme or statement? I notice most have an analog keyboard -- even your surf band! (The Zolephants)

I do like minimal synth and DIY/art punk stuff. In fact starting a cassette label was heavily influenced by early 80s cassette culture, especially Deleted and Fuck Off Records. However I never wanted to limit the label to a specific genre of music. I’ve released hardcore, no wave, surf, electrofunk...

Any plan for a vinyl release? (Maybe a label compilation?)

The lack of funds for a vinyl release basically kick started the idea for a cassette label but yeah I would like to have a vinyl release...gimme some money! Actually, if I was to release vinyl I would have to be more involved, set up proper distribution, and overall dedicate more time and resources to the label in order to sell enough units to recoup costs. The label has always been something I enjoy doing in my spare time which I don’t have a lot of (working full time, married with two young kids, playing in two bands, etc.). The upfront costs to release a cassette are very low and if something doesn’t sell I don’t have much to lose.

What kind of gear went into producing your Benzoil album?

The gear used on the Benzoil release included the following: Hohner SH-10 Korg MS-10 Korg Arp Odyssey MFOS SoundLab MiniSynth MFOS 16 Step Analog Sequencer Oberheim SEM Roland CR-78 drum machine Roland RE-201 Space Echo Roland System 101 Powertran Transcendent 2000 Wurlitzer MLM Yamaha EM-70 Mixer/Spring Reverb

How about a word or phrase that pops into your head for each of the bands on the label? (Links are provided to each bands’ Fuzzy Warbles Bandcamp.)

Germ House: Boston/Providence’s Finest Far Corners: Same as above (same members different band) Pelvi$$: Sludge Schlock Warmly Lights: Deep Storage Pepper Kings: NYC’s Best Autoharp Punk Band Swilson: 21st Century Junk Shop Glam SPREDTR: Funky Robots The Zolephants: Tronic Spaghetti Western OOF: Baritone Stab Famous Logs in History: Damaged Haikus Benzoil: John Bender wannabe The Hamsters: Stupid songs for sussed prats Rodent Kontrol: Ann Arbor’s Flipper Fun Time Objects: Scrappy Didactics

What have you been listening to lately?

The last 5 albums I’ve listened to: Manchester Mekon, No Forgetting Here & Now, Give and Take Kevin Ayers and the Whole World, Shooting At the Moon Johnny Moped, Cycledelic Androids of Mu, Blood Robots

You’ve been in NYC over a decade -- seems like you are pretty settled.

My wife and I moved to NYC in 2003. Since then we’ve bought a house and now have two daughters. The city has a way of sucking you in where it’s difficult to leave. We’re here for the long haul.

Do you miss anything about Metro Detroit?

Cheap records!

Beside the FW lineup, what is local and interesting in New York City right now?

I don’t go to shows much anymore unless I’m playing or going to see friends bands. Fortunately I have some friends that are DJs at WFMU that are on top of what’s happening on the local music scene. There’s a lot of good bands happening now such as Brandy, OPTO S, and Consolidated Plastics.

I’m sure I missed something. Could you ask yourself a question and then answer it?

What does the future hold for Fuzzy Warbles Cassettes? New releases from Fun Time Objects and Famous Logs In History and a couple of archival releases from some Michigan bands are being planned. Thanks for the interview Craig!

Thanks Ben!

FOLLOW CRITICAL ANGST ON FACEBOOK

[krispyweiss]

Sing a Mean Tune, Kid: Peter Cetera Turns 75

As he celebrates his 75th birthday today, Sept. 13, 2019, Peter Cetera's age has finally caught up with his adult-contemporary musical style.

It wasn't always that way. As the bassist and high-tenor vocalist with (the) Chicago (Transit Authority) from its founding though 1984's 17, Cetera spent the band's first decade-plus as an actual rock 'n' roller whether on his own tracks such as "Lowdown" or his bandmates' compositions like "Sing a Mean Tune, Kid," which jabs at the kind of pop stars Cetera and Chicago would become after Terry Kath's death, and, most famously "25 or 6 to 4."

Of course, and regretfully, Cetera is most well-known for dreck such as "Hard to Say I'm Sorry," "Glory of Love" and "The Next Time I Fall."

It's such schlock that makes it difficult for one (read: Sound Bites) to admit he's a Cetera fan - it's kinda like being into Air Supply or Leo Sayer. Fortunately, however, Cetera has a wealth of material on Chicago's first dozen albums or so that make such fandom defensible and keep hope - however slim - alive that one day he'll put his animus aside and join his remaining former bandmates on stage one last time before it's too late.

9/13/19

[theunsungheroines]

Ellen Willis, was a noted journalist, feminist and cultural critic, whose work ranged seamlessly through politics and religion, sex, film and rock ’n’ roll. As a writer, she was best known for her political essays, which appeared in The Nation, Dissent and elsewhere. She was also widely recognized for her rock criticism: she was the first pop-music critic of The New Yorker, and wrote regularly about music for Rolling Stone, The Village Voice and other publications. In addition, Ms. Willis was a vital figure in the women’s movement of the late 1960s and afterward. She was a founder of Redstockings, a short-lived but highly influential radical feminist group begun in 1969. In the 1980s, she helped found No More Nice Girls, a street theater and protest group that focused on abortion rights. At its core, Ms. Willis’s work was rooted in the three R’s, which for her were radicalism, religion and rock. But little escaped her scrutiny, and over the years, her writings embraced subjects as diverse as psychoanalysis, the O. J. Simpson trial, Monica Lewinsky and “The Sopranos.” To Ms. Willis, each of these was a strand in the contemporary social fabric, and her responsibility as critic was to map out the complex ways in which they interlaced. In an essay in The New York Times in 1999, Ms. Willis wrote: “The Lewinsky scandal has prompted an impassioned national conversation on the relationship of the political to the personal, public authority to private behavior; on sexual privacy versus ‘family values’; on female sexual autonomy and victimization. Granted, the affair has also produced an outpouring of schlock with no redeeming social value. But far from vindicating the eat-your-vegetables school of journalism, the schlock suggests what’s wrong with it. Arguably, just as Victorian repression produced a thriving pornography industry, the exclusion of sex from ‘serious’ news media produced tabloidism. As this taboo passes into history, there should be more room for a public conversation on sex that is neither coy nor prurient, but simply frank.” She passed away on Nov 9 2006. #theunsungheroines