July 26, 2010: Psychobabble Has Moved!

Greetings, foolish mortals! Just a message to let you know that Psychobabble has moved to an all-new site! I think you’ll now find it easier to navigate, with older posts categorized neatly in a sidebar and a search bar that actually works. It’s also easier to keep track of the site via the RSS feed.

I’ve moved most of the major posts from the old site to this new one, but the All-Old Psychobabble can still be accessed here. So reset your bookmarks, pull the kids out of school, and stock up on dry goods, because you’re spending the day perusing the All-New Psychobabble! You are!

Dig the All-New Psychobabble here!

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July 24, 2010: Gloria Stuart Attends her Centennial Celebration

Nearly 80 years have passed since Universal Pictures launched its golden age of talky horrors with Dracula and Frankenstein, so it goes without saying that most of the folks responsible for the studio's incredible run of pictures in the '30s exited this mortal coil years ago (even Valerie Hobson, a mere 18-year old when she co-starred in Bride of Frankenstein, has been dead twelve years). So it's quite a notable event that Gloria Stuart, who turned 100 this past July 4th, has lived to attend her own Academy of Arts and Sciences Centennial Celebration. The event-- which consisted of tributes, clips and screenings of her work, and an on-stage appearance by the guest of honor--took place at the Samuel Goldwyn Theater in Beverly Hills.

Stuart and Claude Rains in The Invisible Man



Today Stuart is mostly known for playing old-Kate Winslet in James Cameron's blustery Titanic, but classic horror fans recall her most fondly from her work in James Whale's two great non-Frankenstein horror/comedies: The Old Dark House and The Invisible Man. Stuart didn't really get much to do in these movies aside from looking worried and gorgeous, but she did both quite well. Clips of both films were shown at the celebration and some of her artwork was on display.

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July 21, 2010: Psychobabble recommends John Cale’s ‘Fear’

After Lou Reed booted John Cale from The Velvet Underground in 1968, Cale wasted little time getting on with his work, producing Nico’s terrifying The Marble Index and The Stooges’ classic debut the following year. In 1970 he recorded his first solo album, a collaboration with minimalist composer Terry Riley heavy on extended, instrumental, jazz-like workouts. Church of Anthrax would not be issued until 1971, a year after Cale released Vintage Violence, a solo debut dominated by relatively straight-forward singer-songwriter material influenced by The Band. These two records—both interesting yet flawed—indicated that Cale’s solo career would take a mercurial path, but neither hinted at the confidence and variety he’d achieve on 1974’s Fear. Strong in voice and composition on each of the album’s nine tracks, Cale produced an album that deserves classic status.



The record commences its seduction with “Fear Is a Man’s Best Friend”, which starts off as a Bowie-esque, piano-based pop song before climaxing with frenzied bass noise and paranoid primal shrieks. It’s exhilarating, scary stuff and a sharp contrast to the deliberate, choral beauty of “Buffalo Ballet”, which follows. A reggae-tinged rhythm comprises the groundwork of “Barracuda”, but Cale provides the hooks with his mumbled melody, circusy organ fills, and screechy viola solo. “Emily” is an expansive, gorgeous ballad, and —like “Buffalo Ballet”, “Barracuda”, and the soulful “You Know More Than I Know”— makes very tasteful use of female backing singers (a real rarity in the mid-‘70s!). “Ships of Fools” is woozy and romantic with a sparkling arrangement that conceals a creepily Gothic lyric. Rolling along on a strolling rhythm, “The Man Who Couldn’t Afford to Orgy” is as funny as it sounds. Critics tend to compare this number to The Beach boys, although to my ears, it sounds more like a lift of Van Morrison’s “Straight to Your Heart (Like a Cannonball)”. These are all superb tracks, but the album’s masterpiece is the eight-minute stomp “Gun”, a sweaty-palmed tale of a criminal on the run (later covered to great effect by Siouxsie and the Banshees). Lou Reed may have gotten all the press with solo career, but I’ve never heard him do anything as accomplished as Fear post-Velvets.

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July 20, 2010: Psychobabble recommends ‘Psycho II’

Psycho II is a movie I avoided for a long time. I’d never seen a great sequel to a great director’s great movie that wasn’t made by that same great director. The non-Kubrick sequel to 2001: A Space Odyssey? An unimaginative, dated trifle. Part 2 of Spielberg’s Jaws? My two-word review simply reads “shit sandwich.” Why should I expect any more from a sequel to Alfred Hitchcock’s greatest movie made three years after Hitch died? Robert Bloch, author of the Psycho novel, was not involved either because Universal execs supposedly hated his own literary sequel published in 1982. Anthony Perkins, however, is back as Norman, who is finally being released from the mental institution he’d been imprisoned in since committing his—errr—youthful indiscretions. So is a tough-to-recognize Vera Miles, who reprises her role as Lila Crane, sister of the showering woman Norman knifed in 1960.



That Psycho II begins with an extended clip of that original murder is not a good sign. A bit of advice to director Richard Franklin: when making an unauthorized sequel to the masterwork of one of cinema’s legendary filmmakers, don’t actually include footage from that filmmaker’s film; it will only make it easier to draw comparisons that place you on the losing end (editor’s note: Richard Franklin is too dead to actually take this advice). It was also a bad idea to shoot a shot-by-shot remake of that shower scene with Meg Tilly, who plays Norman’s co-worker and would-be girlfriend Mary, even if you do toss in a lazy bit of ‘80s body-double boobs.

So many Psychos… so many shower scenes…



So, yeah, there are some major problems with Psycho II (I haven’t even mentioned the bad-taste violence that might be kind of funny elsewhere but feels really out of place in this picture. Oh, wait a minute… I just did). Yet this is actually a pretty good flick. Surely it suffers in comparison to Hitchcock’s movie. That’s a given. But Tom Holland, who went on to write good stuff like Fright Night and Child’s Play, put together a script that remains true to the spirit of the original while also taking the story in some interesting new directions. About an hour into the picture I thought I had the inevitable twist all figured out, but Holland keeps playing games right up until the final scene. He even includes an ingenious parody of the most notoriously clunky scene in Psycho.

Equally important, Anthony Hopkins never misses a beat; Norman is just as twitchy, uncomfortably sympathetic, and way creepy as he was 23 years earlier. I also like the fact that director Franklin was actually an associate of Hitchcock, who supposedly schooled his protégé about the ins and outs of German Expressionism. I would have liked it better if he’d used more of what Hitch taught him. Aside from a small handful of distorted shots, the direction is too straightforward. And though it is interesting to see all those iconic sets and props from the original film in full color—and Franklin really luxuriates over them— I think this sequel would have been much better in black and white. Still worth a view, though, even for skeptics like myself.

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July 19, 2010: Psychobabble recommends ‘Jack Bruce: Composing Himself’

In the introduction to Composing Himself: Jack Bruce (Jaw Bone Press), Harry Shapiro explains that when he told a friend he was writing Bruce’s biography, the friend asked, “Well, what are you going to write about after Cream?” In some perfect alternate universe, such a question would never be asked. Jack Bruce’s shiver-inducing tenor, manic bass playing, and freaky songwriting defined Cream far more than anything Eric Clapton contributed to the band, and Bruce’s first solo album, Songs for a Tailor, was far more adventurous than any of Clapton’s. Still, the guitarist went on to an extremely popular and successful post-Cream career while Bruce’s ever eclectic work was only familiar to fanatics. Reams of text have been scribbled about Slow Hand—and even a good deal has been laid down regarding deranged Cream drummer Ginger Baker—while Bruce’s life and work has received a lot less scrutiny. Chances are Composing Himself will not only be the first but the final biography focusing solely on Jack Bruce. Fortunately, it gets the job done well enough that no other will be necessary.



Probably since so much has been written about Cream, Shapiro doesn’t dwell on that band too much here. The group’s existence is limited to roughly 30 pages of this 300-page book, although their legend looms over much of what proceeds. This leaves plenty of room to discuss Jack’s early career as a serious jazz musician and a journeyman with crucial British blues groups like The Graham Bond Organization, John Mayall’s Bluesbreakers, and Manfred Mann and his numerous—and often quite bizarre—projects following the demise of Cream in ’69. The cast of characters is enormous, including Mick Taylor, Lou Reed, Fela Kuti, Jim Keltner, Ringo Starr, Leslie West, and Todd Rundgren. The breadth of his work is even more expansive: hard rock jam bands and jazz-fusion or avant garde groups, and somewhat sadly, a host of nostalgia groups that include a Beatles cover band. Bruce’s personal life is equally varied: a devout left-winger of Scottish Communist stock in a largely right-wing, English Rock world (no pro-Enoch Powell on-stage rants from Bruce, friends!), a longtime heroin-addict, an occasional dabbler in theater.

Shaprio’s writing is solid and supported by Bruce’s close involvement (this is one of those “authorized” biographies), multiple interview sources, and a quite good forward by Clapton, which makes some of the book’s stranger detours not only palatable but mesmerizing. There is a nightmarish interlude at a Mafioso’s compound where famed session pianist Nicky Hopkins is being held prisoner, possibly by black magic, and Bruce’s extended hallucination following liver surgery. Some of this stuff would not work if dropped in a less assured book. Here, it adds some extra color to an already fascinating tale.

Get it here:



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July 16, 2010: Psychobabble’s Twelve Greatest Albums of 1980!

If the ‘80s—a period defined by how image trumped content and sterile digital technology shaved away all organic rough edges—was the most artistically meager decade since the dawn of Rock & Roll twenty five years earlier, there was little to indicate this would be the case to anyone who dug deeper than the Top Forty in 1980. Punk was on its way out, but its seismic waves were still shuddering across the landscape. The genre’s major figures were expanding into more adventurous realms, often with incredible success (creatively, if not commercially). MTV had yet to intrude on the scene. Disco was gasping its last. New Wave and Power Pop made 3-minute, guitar-based seven inches a viable force again—with “Call Me”, Blondie even scored the biggest smash in a year when the charts were dominated by (ick) Olivia Newton John, Kenny Rogers, and Christopher Cross. Of course, one had to keep an eye on the underground to find the year’s best music, a situation that would basically remain permanent in pop music. Here are Psychobabble’s twelve favorite long players released in 1980…

12. Remain in Light - Talking Heads

Talking Heads got lumped in with the punks because they were weird and played at CBGB, but their angular, intellectual artiness always set them far apart from, say, The Voidoids or The Ramones. By the end of the ‘70s, most of the original punks—The Clash, The Damned, John Lydon— had moved on to more expansive worlds. Not surprisingly, the most radical record of the new decade by a band originally labeled “punk” came via Talking Heads...

...continue reading here at the All-New Psychobabble!

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July 15, 2010: 'House of the Wolf Man' finally coming to DVD

Around this time last year, I reported that a cat named Eben McGarr had taken it upon himself to write and direct his very own Monster Rally in the vintage style of Universal's House of Frankenstein and House of Dracula. Shot in gritty black & white, starring Lon Chaney Jr.'s grandson Ron, and featuring the essential monster troika of Frankenstein's Monster, the Wolf Man, and Dracula, House of the Wolf Man looks like a well-meaning nod to the kinds of Monster Movies that, as Grandma would say, "they just don't make anymore."

On September 28, House of the Wolf Man will finally be coming to DVD. I'll do my best to get a copy of it for a more in-depth review, but the monster crazy can just go ahead and pre-order their own at Amazon:



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July 13, 2010: Join Psychobabble's All-New Facebook Group... Join It, I Say!

Hey, kids... just a quick note to let you know that you may now join the exclusive* Psychobabble Facebook Group for all the newest news about all the oldest Monster Movies and Rock & Rollers! Dig it here!



*Group is exclusive to all peoples living and dead.

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July 13, 2010: You too can help back the new David Lynch doc...

Step right up, and be sure to have a crisp fifty dollar bill in your clammy paw, because "Black and White", the mysterious moniker of the maker(s?) of Lynch 1 and Lynch 2, is/are asking for fan contributions to fund the third installment of his/her/their documentary series about our greatest living filmmaker. I wasn't overly impressed with the theatrically released first part or the Inland Empire-DVD-extra second one, so the prospect of a Lynch 3 doesn't quite thrill me unless the filmmakers decide to take a very different tack this time around. The meandering "fly on the wall" approach made the whole project feel more like a pretty OK DVD extra than a great documentary (Toby Keeler's Pretty as a Picture from 1997 was a far superior overview of Lynch and his work).



If you're like me and you can do with or without a Lynch 3, there are a few extra incentives that may inspire you to donate that big fat fitty. Along with the opportunity to contribute interview questions that may or may not be used in the film, you will get a neat self-portrait of Lynch looking a bit like a diseased lung (maybe all those American Spirits are finally catching up with him) printed on your choice of poster, T-shirt, or tote bag*.

*Not to be confused with a smiling bag.



Check out the full details at the official Lynch Three web page.

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July 12, 2010: Psychobabble recommends ‘White Light/White Heat: The Velvet Underground Day-By-Day’

The contemporary trend in Rock & Roll retrospectives is the day-by-day chronicle; exhaustive accounts of the where and when of every doing—both major and marginal— of Rock’s hugest institutions. I’ve read books of this nature about The Who, The Rolling Stones, The Kinks, and The Monkees. All of these have been essential and valuable reference guides even if they don’t provide the fluid reading experience of a straight biography.

Published last year by Jaw Bone Press, Richie Unterberger’s Velvet Underground chronicle delivers even greater OCD exhaustiveness than these other books, while also dragging the genre closer to the realm of classic biography. As such White Light/White Heat is the most traditionally readable day-by-day chronicle I’ve perused, tethering all of those dates and details about recording sessions and concerts together with insightful critiques of the band’s records and shows, as well as personal information that truly attempts to answer every conceivable lingering question about the freaky East Coast horde. If you’re still wondering why John Cale quit, how and why the band made such a radical transition from hedonistic avant-gardists to a pop group that could record stuff like “Who Loves the Sun?”, or how they fell into the hands of Doug Yule, Unterberger does his damnedest to answer you. As a Brit Rock fanatic, I was tickled to read about the Velvets jamming on stuff like “Day Tripper”, “The Last Time”, “My Generation”, and “I Can’t Explain” and Lou Reed’s effusive praise for The Easy Beats and Something Else by the Kinks. This certainly cleared up the pop question for me.



Along with covering all relevant incidents pertaining directly to The Velvet Underground, Unterberger allows no periphery detail escape him. Amusingly, he even mentions the BMI registration of a song written by one Lewis Reed— who clearly is not the Mr. Reed relevant to this book. I also like the way he gradually folds the various stars who will be most influenced by The Velvet’s into the story, particularly David Bowie, Jonathan Richman, The Plastic People of the Universe, and Patti Smith. Such artists are crucial figures in VU history since a good deal of the band’s significance lies in how heavily they altered Rock & Roll by inspiring a new generation of artists.

As fine as White Light/White Heat inarguably is, all but the most devoted fans may still find themselves skipping around a bit. The incredible number of concert overviews gets a bit repetitious and I quickly lost interest in all details regarding pre-fame Velvet Angus MacLise, whose activities are chronicled here long after his departure from the band. Still I was greatly appreciative of how closely Unterberger followed Nico and John Cale’s post-VU careers (I can’t wait to pick up a copy of The Marble Index!). The writer’s obsession with cult acts, which made his earlier books Unknown Legends of Rock 'n' Roll and Urban Spacemen and Wayfaring Strangers so indispensable, fully flourishes when detailing Rock’s ultimate cult act. Maddeningly definitive.

Buy it here:



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