The Black Angel Zine
Welcome to The Black Angel Zine, where Black Angel Promotions brings you the latest and greatest in rock, metal, and punk culture. Our zine is your go-to source for concert reviews, movie and documentary critiques, advice for aspiring musicians, retro music reviews, and the freshest news in the industry. Dive into each section and discover the raw, unfiltered content that makes Black Angel Promotions the voice of the underground.
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Stay in the know with the latest happenings in the world of rock, metal, and punk. Our news section is your source for the updates that matter—band announcements, tour plans, album release dates, and the events shaking up the industry. Whether it's a long-awaited reunion, a shocking split, or a game-changing collaboration, we’ve got the info you need.
We don’t just report the news; we deliver it with the edge and attitude you expect from Black Angel Promotions. Our commitment is to keep you connected to the heartbeat of the music you love, cutting through the noise to bring you real stories that resonate. Check back regularly for updates that keep your finger on the pulse.
Can 2025 just fucking stop already? Ozzy and David Roach of Junkyard were more than enough heartbreak, and now, Ace fuckin’ Frehley has left us. What a hole he leaves behind. This one hits on a different level. KISS wasn’t just another band to me as kid, it was life. My childhood was painted in greasepaint and guitar solos. I can still see the flashes of those album covers, “Love Gun” and “Rock and Roll Over”, my original vinyl copies, worn and weathered, but still spinning strong. My Ace solo record, though, that poor thing is wrecked due to overuse. I played the absolute dog shit out of it. It was always my favorite. Ace and Peter were always my guys, sorry, Cam McHargue . I know My mom made sure I had every KISS record and tape she could get her hands on. That was more than enough to light a lifelong fire. “Shock Me” and “Talk To Me” still send chills down my spine. And then came Frehley’s Comet. That debut hit like a meteor, loud, defiant, and full of space dust and swagger. When “Rock Soldiers” kicked in, I felt like I was part of something, a brotherhood of misfits who didn’t just listen to Rock; we lived it. I still call myself one of them, though I’ve prefer the title “Rock Warrior.” Meeting Cam McHargue way back when, lit a fire of KISS love for a few years too – they his favorite band, next to W.A.S.P. of course. That dude talked about them like they were long lost friends. We had HOURS of conversations that would never fucking end about which albums were the best and which ACE solos were better. I’m not going to talk about how Ace should’ve had more songs in KISS, that ship sailed long ago. The reasons were their own, and the circus carried on. But let’s be honest, KISS has mocked themselves to death. And I’m sure Gene and Paul will find a way to disrespect Ace even in death. This though, this is the real end of an era. There will never be another time when we see the true band, the real spirit, take the stage again. And I don’t care who’s reading this, Tommy Thayer wearing Ace’s makeup has always been a disgrace. You can’t imitate soul. You can copy the look, the licks, even the smoke from the guitar, but you can’t fake that cosmic magic. Ace was danger. He was mystery. He was the heart of KISS’s wild side. He made being an outsider feel like belonging. That was his real power, beyond the solos, beyond the image. Ace gave the weird kids, the dreamers, the Rockers who never quite fit anywhere, a home amongst the stars. He told us it was okay to be loud, to be strange, to be ourselves. So yeah, this one hurts. Another legend is gone. Another light in the galaxy has gone dim. But every time that Les Paul screams through the speakers, every time “Shock Me” rips through the night, he’s still there, floating somewhere above us, six strings closer to heaven. Long live the Space Man. The one. The only. ACE FUCKIN’ FREHLEY
I always say that 1987 was the most important year for music in my life, but the more I look back, the more I realize 1989 had just as much to say. I was coming of age, past puberty, into rebellion, and already applying for the job of Captain Trouble. Of course, no 13 or 14-year-old could be legit trouble without the right soundtrack, or the right amount of booze and chemical inspiration, but that's a whole different confession. And 1989… it came armed with the soundtrack I needed, delivered with divine timing, especially that summer. May gave us the self-titled debut from Texas hellraisers Dangerous Toys, and June gave us Junkyard, by way of California but carrying Texas grit in their pockets. Two albums. Just two. But those records came to define me, not just as a music fan, but as a drummer, and frankly, as a human being. I’ve lived those lyrics on purpose, some by accident. I drank too much, took too much, laughed too loud, fought too often, and loved the chaos too dearly to see it happening. But from those albums came something deeper. A mantra. A war cry. A piece of soul carved into vinyl. Junkyard’s “Simple Man” wasn’t just a song, it was scripture. It still is. The lyrics spoke in a language I hadn’t heard before but somehow always understood. The groove and approach were what I now call Southern Sleaze, a term I live by. To this day, if someone says, “Hey man, this sounds like Southern Sleaze,” I’ll damn near break my neck to give it a listen. That song, it is me. I’m the guy they sing about, on purpose, with pride. My socials even quote it “Don’t throw your pennies in the wishing well, cause what you get is what you see.” My wife will agree with this sentiment too although it took her several years to come around to accepting it, now she appreciates that about me. That line has followed me since ’89, like a shadow and a shield. I’ve listened to more music than I can count, written my fair share too, but “Simple Man” still stands tall as the one. The gold standard. My personal gospel. Junkyard never stopped. Not really. They were Rock Warriors, scarred and shining, and I followed them through it all, lineup changes, label switches, indie releases, tour rumors, all of it. The internet helped, and later, so did social media. I got to befriend a few of the band members, and more importantly, I found other lifers, fans who loved this band as deeply as I did. Some of those people are now among the most beautiful souls I’ve ever met. As for the band, I only ever really chatted with vocalist, David Roach, and even that was minimal. I didn’t want to fanboy too hard or come off like some kid still begging for an autograph. I’ve always been that way - respectful. These people are human. You don’t treat them like trading cards or living statues. I’d drop into his DMs now and then, check in, ask about new music or tours. Quiet admiration. Still, I've never seen Junkyard live. That’s a damn crime in my book. They were part of the Monsters of Rock Cruise scene for a while, but I never went. Too expensive. Too surreal. Too many fans mistaking proximity for entitlement, hovering around their heroes like flies at a barbecue. That’s not me. I don’t need selfies while they’re eating. They know we love them. You’re on the fucking boat with them, let the man drink his juice in peace. That’s my opinion though, it’s not law, it’s just my 2 pennies. Then came the news that cut deep. A few years ago, maybe not even that long, David announced he was battling cancer. I backed off immediately. That’s the time for space and dignity, not inbox clutter. I gave what I could to the GoFundMes, I sent strength through silence and followed updates from his wife, who posted daily, even when things got rough. Especially then. And now… he’s gone. Yesterday. Maybe the day before. Time doesn’t matter when grief shows up, it just is. A wife lost her husband. A child lost their father. A band lost its frontman. And we, the musical misfits, the lifers, the dirtbags with hearts of gold, lost one of the truest voices to ever rise from the Texas heat. David Roach was a lifer. And he was that Simple Man. There’s not a damn thing more admirable than that. I’m crushed once more. This is another voice of my youth falling silent. Another soul who taught me how to survive, how to feel, and how to keep it real, even when life turns savage. When I can’t find the words, I put on “Simple Man” and let David speak for me. I dive back into Junkyard’s catalog like a lifeboat, looking for comfort, for clarity, for that edge of truth I can’t express alone. He had the pulse. He had the guts. And even when the spotlight dimmed and the hairs turned grey, he never strayed. You don’t live through something like the ‘80s and just walk away from it. Unless, of course, you never really meant it. David meant it. Every damn word. Denim vest, heart on sleeve, middle finger ready. A man’s man. A poetic bruiser. A straight-shooting, no-bullshit saint in Sleaze. And now, gone. But we have the records. We have memories. We have the lines tattooed across our souls. And we’ll carry him with us until the wheels fall off this motherfucker. R.I.P. David Roach Thank you for showing a wild Georgia kid that it’s okay to be simple, to be raw, to be real. And to never, ever, take shit from anyone.
Farewell to the Father of Metal I can’t quite recall the first time I heard Ozzy. Not exactly. But I know it was a Sabbath record, one my mom picked up for me. That was our thing: records for birthdays, Christmas, or just because. She didn’t overthink it, just snagged whatever sat on the endcaps. KISS. Alice Cooper. Sabbath. Then came Ozzy’s solo work, and with it, something seismic shifted inside me. It must’ve been '79, on the cusp of a new decade. Next came Blizzard of Ozz and Diary of a Madman. Amazingly, I still have those same two records today. Not replacements. Not reissues. The real thing. They’ve survived the wreckage, just like I did. Sabbath was a love. But those Ozzy records, They cut deeper. Randy Rhoads’ guitar - A revelation. Ozzy’s voice - A spell. The melodies, they carried me someplace else. I studied those album covers like sacred texts, memorized the lyrics and wrapped myself in every note like armor. Ozzy wasn’t just an artist to me. He was something holy, a constant in a life where constants didn’t exist. When I was a kid, I told people Ozzy was my dad. They knew I was lying. I knew it too. But it felt better than the truth: I was the discarded son of a burnout musician who chose bar tabs and backstage blowjobs over bedtime stories and birthdays. So, Ozzy & my older brother raised me. His voice, his chaos, his pain, they gave me a place to hide, a space to heal, a world where I was wanted. That has never changed. I’ve lost count of how many times I saw him live. Ozzy solo. Sabbath reunited. Ozzfest in its glory. And I’ve had the honor of covering his songs on stage myself, Mr. Crowley still gives me chills when a guitarist nails those leads. I’ve never claimed Ozzy or Sabbath were my favorites. They’re more than that. They’re elemental. If you’re a Metalhead, Ozzy is the oxygen you breathe. We don’t have Metal without him. We never would’ve. Today, I am shattered. He’s gone. Just weeks after I watched his final show. I wept the whole time, even during bands I don’t care for. But it wasn’t about preference. It was about presence. It was about bearing witness. It was about love. You could see it in his face. Hear it in the strain of his voice. He knew it was goodbye. And he still gave us everything he had left. The tempos were slower, sure, but who gives a damn? That man showed up. For us. His tribe. His chosen family. My wife called me at work today. She didn’t want me to find out online. She knows how I carry grief. I drove home in tears, blasting deep cuts from those same solo albums I’ve been clinging to since the farewell show. What a life he lived. What a hole he leaves behind. For his family. For us. For Metal itself. I told my wife during that show, “He won’t see the end of the year.” Not because he looked frail, but because he looked finished. At peace. Like a man who had given everything and wanted to give us a proper farewell. After the PPV ended, I watched the whole thing again. Just because I could. Because it mattered. Because it felt right. A few weeks earlier, I’d had double ear surgery. I’d been struggling to hear anything clearly. But that day, my ears were open. And I heard him. The Universe, or maybe Ozzy himself, was giving me one last gift. One more embrace. One final reminder that I belonged. Long may his spirit thunder across this Earth, in riffs, in howls, in rebellion and in grace. Ozzy Osbourne, the eternal father of misfits and Metal hearts. God bless Ozzy. God bless his family. And God bless every single soul he ever saved with a song. R.I.P. Dad, the sweetest Prince Of Darkness the world has ever known. “You don’t need a ticket to ride with me… I’m free.” "Let me see your fucking cigarette lighters"!
Black Angel Promotions is proud to announce the release of the CD press of The Unforgotten: The Rare and Unreleased from the legendary Hellbilly/Cow Punk Texas band, Ghoultown. This album features several deep cuts, a few live cuts and the long OOP “Killer in Texas” EP. This album has never been offered in physical format until now. This pressing will be limited to 100 pieces only. Each CD will be hand numbered. We won’t be offering a repress, no holds and no preorders will be available. No sales outside of the USA will be offered. The release date is February 25 th @ 5PM (EST) Prepare yourselves to DRINK WITH THE LIVING DEAD once more… https://blackangelpromotions.bigcartel.com/ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tiumPFYv058&list=PLKKv22G-G4CKRAmk1RB0KjyQu_xlx34g2
Helstar The Devil's Masquerade Massacre Records 2025 I might be late to the party, but I’ve finally made it to what I’d call the comeback album of the year. The legendary Texas Thrashers Helstar have returned, and “The Devil’s Masquerade” (via Massacre Records) is everything I hoped for, a fiery, riff-slinging reminder that the old Gods of Metal still walk among us. Most diehard metalheads have at least one Helstar record tucked away in their collection, maybe “Burning Star”, “Remnants of War”, or the immortal “Nosferatu”, but there’s still a surprising number of people who have no clue who they are. To those folks: Helstar helped pave the way for the more technical, progressive end of Thrash Metal. Without them, there’s a good chance bands like Sanctuary (and later Nevermore) wouldn’t have hit quite the same way. Sure, Helstar’s lineup has shifted over the decades, and they’ve split and reformed a few times, but that core spirit still burns wildly. “The Devil’s Masquerade” feels like a spiritual successor to “Nosferatu”, it's loaded with Horror-soaked atmosphere/lyrical content, scorching lead breaks, and enough riffs to make your neck hurt for weeks on end. James Rivera remains an absolute beast behind the mic. The man must be a vampire; there’s no other explanation. Decades later, his voice hasn’t lost a shred of its power, those glass-shattering falsettos still send chills down the spine. I’ve always had a soft spot for Helstar, but this album turned that fondness into full-blown obsession. I’ve spun this thing repeatedly, and every time it ends, I’m ready to start it again. I even preordered the vinyl, because hell, this band and I go way back. It feels damn good to be an aging Rock Warrior and still have a band like Helstar putting out music that hits just as hard now as it did when I was a kid. If you haven’t picked this one up yet, don’t wait until it’s too late. Grab it right fucking now and join “The Devil’s Masquerade”, we’re waiting for you… Standouts: “The Devil’s Masquerade”, “The Haunting Mirror”, “Carcass for a King” and “I am The Way”.
Zombiecock Elegy Self-Released 2025 It’s been way too long since I’ve been able to celebrate a band from Utah, but that drought finally ends with Zombiecock. Now, they’re not a new band by any stretch, but they’re new to me. I’d heard the name floating around, especially since one of the members toured with Argyle Goolsby and The Roving Midnight, but I hadn’t taken the time to dig into their music. Recently, the band dropped a new EP titled “Elegy”, and since October is our sacred month of Horror, it felt only right to bring these ghouls into the fold. I reached out, and within a day or two, the EP landed in my inbox. Now, out of all the releases I’ve received for this Horror celebration, “Elegy” stands out as a shapeshifter. This isn’t your standard Horror Punk bloodbath, it’s got more depth, more texture, and a lot less reliance on clichés. Zombiecock might flirt with the macabre, but musically, they’re far more Punk than “Horror.” Blink and you’d swear you were listening to something straight off an Epitaph or Hellcat roster. Forget Misfits worship, these guys channel Bad Religion & AFI energy with strong hooks, sharp melodies, and airtight songwriting. Clocking in at just over 21 minutes, the EP doesn’t waste a single second. There are no drawn-out intros, no filler tracks, just pure momentum and conviction. Every song hits hard, with melodies that cling like cobwebs and choruses that demand a second spin. This is a melodic Punk record with just enough Horror flavor to keep things sinister, not gimmicky. What really floored me is the craftsmanship. Zombiecock sound seasoned - confident, deliberate, and disciplined in their writing. You don’t often get that level of polish and purpose from unsigned bands, but these dudes have it dialed in. Honestly, if Tim Armstrong stumbled across this EP, I have no doubt he’d be reaching for a pen. But don’t just take my word for it, hit up Zombiecock’s Spotify and give “Elegy” a spin. Start with the track, “Patient Zero,” then dive into “Blackmoore,” “Witching Hour,” and their killer take on Blitzkid’s “The Howling”, which they absolutely own.
The Fuzztones Buried Treasure Cleopatra Records 2025 Dig deep enough into the dirt of Garage Rock history, and eventually you’re gonna hit something radioactive. That’s what The Fuzztones “Buried Treasure” feels like, not just an album, but a grave robbery of fuzz-drenched gold. It’s the Fuzztones doing what they’ve always done best: exhuming the bones of 60’s garage and injecting it with a jolt of sleazy psych energy until it twitches back to life. The record plays like a creepy old Horror movie with an organ howling like an old church gone to ruin, guitars crackling with the kind of distortion that smells of witchery and regret. There’s a sense of celebration in the decay. What makes “Buried Treasure” so damn fun is that it’s both familiar and filthy. The songs breathe that classic Rudi Protrudi swagger, sharp, dangerous, tongue firmly in cheek, but there’s a looseness to it, like the band isn’t just revisiting their past but reveling in it. You can practically see the dust cloud rising from the tape reels, the ghosts of fuzz pedals past echoing in every riff. The organ leads slither like a psychedelic snake, and the guitar tones sound like they were dragged through a swamp of reverb and voodoo. Vocally, Rudi is still the ringleader of this carnival of sleaze half preacher, half graveyard ghoul, totally in command of the chaos. This isn’t some slick modern remastering job or an attempt to recapture long-lost glory; it’s more like a secret story that’s finally seeing daylight. “Buried Treasure” feels like the soundtrack to a midnight dive-bar ritual, where the spirits of The Sonics, The Seeds, and The Cramps come together and make plans to take over the world while downing cheap beer and working on broken amps. At its core, this is pure, uncut Fuzztones, gritty, greasy, and gloriously undead. They’ve unearthed something raw and primal here, proof that even after decades in the graveyard of Rock ‘N’ Roll, the band’s bite is still venomous and mean! While I don’t consider the band to be traditionally Horror related, this album has quickly become a staple for Halloween season, there’s an oldschool spooky feeling attached to it. Stand outs – “69 (Strychnine)”, “Barking up the wrong Tree”, “She’s Wicked” and “One Night Stand”.
Prison Of Blues Born To Be Killers Self-Released 2025 Indonesian Psychobilly band, Prison of Blues has unleashed their latest album, “Born To Be Killers” and it storms in wearing a blood-smeared grin. The band sounds like a gang of undead lifers who tunneled out of a pit with chains for guitars and bones for drumsticks. Every track drips with danger, and every note feels like it was hammered out under a flickering light in some haunted lockup six feet under. The riffs bite with vengeance, but they also carry that greasy, vibe along with a Motorhead attitude. There’s a raw, rusted-out edge that could peel paint right off the walls, specifically on the instrumental tracks. The drums come across like pounding fists on the door, begging to be let in, while the bass jumps and slaps like a crazed lunatic all methed up. In standard Psychobilly fashion, the vocals carry that classic growl like an undead version of Sparky with a voice that’s been soaked in gasoline and grave dust. This isn’t a clean-cut Punk record; this is Horror Street Psychobilly. It’s stitched together from nightmares, tattoos, and bad memories that refuse to fade. Every track is a Horror show with the amps turned up to ten, tales of blood, vengeance, and the kind of madness that never really leaves you once it gets in. “Born To Be Killers” lives in the space between the graveyard and the back alley, where Rockabilly swagger meets Death Punk. It’s an album where the monsters wear leather jackets instead of capes – it’s filthy and alive in all the right places. It’s a damned shame I’m just now hearing the band as this is their 13 th release! Don’t waste another second reading this review, go and cue this album up, pour a stiff drink and try to control yourself as best you can! The album is packed with stand outs; the band doesn’t waste a second of energy nor do they let off the gas. The tracks that have the most meat on the bone for me are as follows – “Ghoul Rumble”, “Bloodsuckers”, “Graveyard Shadows”, “Pain Killer” and “Hell’s Rider”.
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Talk to us about this era of the band – the members, the recording of the album etc. Paint a picture for the OG fans of what it felt like to be in the studio laying down tracks like “44 Caliber”? It was amazing. Most of the time I was a walking drunk then, but I drank wine, you know? “Alcoholic Haze” on that record. I sang that in the studio half drunk. Michael Johnson from the band Catera produced the album. They were sort of like Mother's Finest. We had Smooth, their backing vocalist, sang amazing on “Damn Saint,” and their keyboardist, Chavez, did some work on “Boney Fingers Of Truth,” “Loose Screw,” and “Damn Saint.” But yeah, being in there during that time, man, and being in the studio, being in there recording “.44 Caliber,” it was a vision of just, you know, being a gunslinger or something. Sort of like a Stephen King book, you know, it felt like I was a gunslinger of other dimensions. And then I’d have visions of the Son of Sam murders, you know, and I'd go deep in imagination and a lot of it was dark, you know, a lot of dark and haunted imagery, and I loved every haunted minute of it. We recorded it in Ringgold, GA at Michael Johnson’s place, Ultrasound Studio. But doing that during that time was wonderful and it felt good. I was on top of my game during that time. We started recording that record in ’98 with Tony Byers but ended up re-recording the whole thing with Dave Schenk. Do you have a favorite track off the album and why? My favorite track from the album, “Alcoholic Haze.” I love the whole record, but “Alcoholic Haze.” I did my crying solo like Lux Interior on it, and I loved doing the crying solo, but that was where I was at, you know, and I mean it was getting me ready to quit alcohol, quit drinking. We were having a ball. I'd get drunk on the weekends, you know, like I’d be working all week and then come Friday I'd be drunk. I’d get to Johnny’s, they’d throw me in the back of the hearse with the equipment, like I was a piece of equipment, and then we’d go to a show. I'd be drunk at the show, and we had a ball, it wasn’t a big deal. But then everything started becoming a problem because I couldn't even go to Best Buy without being drunk. I couldn't hang out with my friends without being drunk. I wanted to enhance it in some way, and it seemed like that my whole damn life was becoming, you know, a freaking drunk joke. I couldn't just enjoy myself without trying to get drunk. “Alcoholic Haze” told the truth. And there's a lot of songs like that. The first song on the record is a part of that, Pretty Weird, Huh? It's part of that whole trip, you know, the whole thing was about being too messed up to even have people come over. I mean, it’d become a problem, and recording the album itself I was drunk, you know, so Real Gone Pale Face was probably as close to self-destruction as I could get, and it was the truth, you know? I was a “real gone pale face and that’s no illusion…I’m never, ever, ever gonna drink again…” Also, can you share with us what formats the album will be released in – CD, Vinyl, Cassette? Please share/plug everything about the reissue so our readers know where they can get it if they can’t make the show. I'm gonna let Lysa roll it down for you. LS – RGPF will be available on CD and eerie green 12” vinyl in limited numbers and you can get one at the Halloween Resurrection Show on Oct 31 st at Songbird’s. The CD's we may reissue one more time, but the 12” will be in the limited number of 100 on the green vinyl. If you come out to the release show to get one, they will be available at a discounted rate, and you can get them signed for free. We will even have collector sleeves available at the live show, so you don’t have to feel bad about taking your record out of the plastic for signing. If you can't make it to the Halloween Resurrection Show at Songbird’s to pick one up on the release date, we will make any remaining copies available through our website at: theunsatisfied.com on the merch and discography pages Nov 1 st . I know it’s been years since the album was originally released, but were there any cuts that didn’t make the album? If so, have they been released on anything else or are they still lingering in limbo waiting to be unleashed? They're probably a few songs that we were doing during that time period that that didn't make it. I can't remember off the top of my head, but Johnny would remember that stuff. For most part, that whole album was the set list that we were running by at the time. You know, that was probably pretty accurate on that. As far as any extra songs there might have been a couple. There might have been some songs that made it to Seven Inch Rock Scar that we were doing during the Real Gone Pale Face era that waited until we got to the next album. While we’re talking about Unsatisfied albums, please share where your physical albums can be purchased. Tell us what you have available physically, I’m sure there are a few good people out there that would like to have an Unsatisfied Record or CD! That’s a Lysa question, she’s the go-to on what we’ve got and where to get it. LS – We currently have Street Shaman on CD and 12” black vinyl. We also have Songs the Belt Taught Us on CD and on limited edition autographed CD. These are available at live shows and on our website at: theunsatisfied.com , just check the merch and discography pages. Or feel free to email me at: theunsatisfied2020@gmail and just ask, and I will put together an invoice for you through there 😊 This last option works best if you are buying multiple copies or combinations. Real Gone Pale Face will also be available this way after Nov 1 st . If you would like to hear samples of the songs, check out the discography and EPK pages of the website at: theunsatisfied.com
Several weeks ago, Tracy had the opportunity to sit down with Victor Elian, guitarist and vocalist of the Brazilian Death Metal band Escarnium. In their conversation, Elian offered insight into the group’s current projects, the state of the underground metal scene in Brazil, and what lies ahead for the band. Known for their uncompromising sound and relentless energy, Escarnium continues to carve out a place for themselves on the global stage, and Elian’s perspective sheds light on both the challenges and the passion that drive the band forward. Can you give us a brief history of how and when Escarnium came to be? Escarnium started taking shape in 2008/2009. I already had a handful of song ideas and finally began giving them real life after I left Impetuous Rage in late 2007—not the friendliest split, let’s say. From there we pulled friends in, rehearsed anywhere we could, and by 2010 we were playing shows and putting out demos. You guys are from Salvador, Brazil. What’s the metal scene like there? Salvador’s scene is often overlooked—even by locals—but it’s vibrant. Classic names like Headhunter DC, Mystifier and Malefactor paved the way, and killer new bands such as Devouring keep popping up. We have committed promoters, zinesters and distros; everything a healthy scene needs. Sure, we’re outside the Rio/São Paulo/Belo Horizonte axis, so the city sometimes gets forgotten, but to us Salvador (and Bahia as a whole) is still the best place in the world to play. For the new album, did you have many of the songs prepared before you recorded? If so, was there a lot of collaboration and adding ideas to them once you were in the studio? Yeah—drafts of several tracks were around as far back as 2019. COVID and an old-label mess delayed things, but that also gave us freedom to refine every riff. In 2022 we proudly released the EP Dysthymia ; many riffs on the new record were written in that same creative burst, so the EP now feels like a clear harbinger rather than a stopgap. Pre-production opened the floodgates, and once we hit Walzwerk Studio, Sergej (who runs it) kept pushing fresh ideas. His talent and instinct really elevated the final songs. This is your fourth full-length overall. How has the band’s sound evolved since you formed, and what’s the biggest evolution you notice on this album specifically? The core is still dark, straightforward death metal, but we’ve let our influences roam more freely—crust, punk, grind, black metal, even jazz or soul. Experience in the studio taught us that sometimes a two-note riff can crush harder than a thousand-note sweep. To me the new album is a natural step beyond Interitus : same raw violence, sharper dynamics, deeper atmosphere. Nothing reinventing the wheel—just 100 % Escarnium, honed. Being signed to Everlasting Spew Records, what is your relationship like with them? Fantastic. They’re transparent, supportive and genuinely care about underground extreme music—no shady moves (we’ve had enough of those elsewhere). We’d wanted to work with them for a while; once our deal with Testimony finally ended, Thomas Haywood at Redefining Darkness (our U.S. partner) connected the dots and Everlasting Spew welcomed us instantly. Grazie to both labels.
A few days ago, it was announced that Jason McMaster, Paul Lidel, Jack Pyers, David Beeson, and Mark McLain would be releasing a new EP under the banner of HOT SHOT. If you're a little long in the tooth or just have an insatiable appetite for Rock N' Roll, you already know these guys are straight-up Rock royalty, having played major roles in bands like Dangerous Toys, Dirty Looks, Broken Teeth, and Sacred Reich. Naturally, The Rev. and I were all over it. We immediately reached out to cover the EP and lined up an interview with Jason himself. We wanted to keep the spotlight squarely on HOT SHOT so we and the rest of the world could get the full scoop. The Rev. took the reins on the interview. His questions were spot-on, so I didn’t mess with a thing. Sometimes you just let greatness speak for itself. So, grab yourself a strong drink and dig in, this is one you won’t want to miss.
I can’t lie, I swiped “Halfway to Halloween” idea from the Horror Music label, HorrorShock Records. The label was promoting their upcoming show of the same name, and I thought what a genius idea. It also didn’t hurt that the label had sent us a few of their releases to review for the site. So, I put it all together and turned it into a special little celebration for us, the label and all the fans of Horror! In doing so, I wanted to reach out and do an all-inclusive interview with the label owner, Rev. Chad Wells. The Rev. has been in the Horror scene for several years now and he’s responsible for one of my favorite Horror bands – The Jackalopes! Not only that, but Chad’s also the vocalist of a newer Horror band, The Creepy Crawlers. Wells is a staunch supporter of his scene and a real family man at heart. I have a great deal more respect after conducting this interview and from trading barbs back and forth. You’ll be hard-pressed to find a kinder gentleman in the Horror scene. Since you’re in charge of a Horror Label/Media group, can you share with us what first attracted you to the genre of Horror no matter whether it be music, movies or media? What planted the seed of Horror first that lead you to start this business up? That one’s kinda tricky. I was born to teen parents in the early 70’s and horror was sort of ever present in our world back then. Every TV show had a spooky Halloween episode. Scooby Doo was on every day and that’s definitely horror adjacent. The Universal Monsters were sort of everything at that point in time. My uncles had these floppy rubber action toys that were non-posable, sticky, ridiculous things, but they were Frankenstein’s Monster, Wolfman, Dracula and The Creature. But it was really the limited, non-cable TV we had back then. Lugosi’s Dracula was on TV one Sunday afternoon when I was probably 5 years old and seeing that imagery made me want more. Also, our local TV network had its own very cool and fun late night horror host, Dr. Creep. Dr. Creep was the host of “Shock Theater” and had white face paint with his orbitals blacked out with greasepaint. He had a jawline beard and semi long hair. He was a big heavy man in black - like an alternate universe Santa Claus. He was the biggest gateway drug. I think that KISS, Alice Cooper, The Misfits, King Diamond and Dark Throne all owe my fandom for them to this awesome old horror movie host. He used to MC the openings of businesses and stuff. You could go out to the new Burger King on Main Street and Dr. Creep would sign autographs there. I attended many events in my childhood just to shake his hand and have him sign a photocopied promo shot. Will you please share with us what all Horrorshock Media does, are you all just a music label or can we expect something else? We call it HorrorShock Media because we don’t want to limit ourselves. We’re all interested in music, video, movies, art, books, and events. Expect the unexpected. We get really bored with things fast. When the whole scene seems to be doing one thing, I’d rather go back the other way and maybe even take the long way around to discover something new that strikes my curiosity and then we’ll do what we want to do for the sake of pleasing ourselves and the people like us. We’ll work with certain acts forever and other acts get one shot, and it feels wrong, and they’re gone. We’re not here to make a bunch of fake friends or collect followers. We’re here to build platforms for our own art and the art of people we want to boost. So far, what obstacles have you faced as a label owner, aside from sales – those are always tricky, specifically today given that most folks have went digital. Sales are weird. If you want the business to pay its bills and grow, you need to see some way to accrue some financial gains. That’s not an easy game nowadays for all the reasons you mentioned and more. I think the hardest obstacle for me is the “peopling”. Every scene has busybodies who are friends with everybody just so they can float around and talk shit about everyone. I don’t do a lot of the interpersonal “friendly” stuff for that very reason. The bad news is that we’ve worked really hard to make a cool thing and certain people make it their business to try to tear it down. The good news is that those people have only been successful in looking foolish and being turd stirrers. Comparison is the thief of joy, so we don’t look at what anybody else is doing. We have our blinders on and are burning our own trail and that’s where we want to be. If you compare what we’re doing with what other labels or bands or scenes are doing, we look terrific from one angle and we look like we have no idea what we’re doing from another angle. I like not knowing what I’m doing. It’s always a surprise that way! Are you a physical media guy or have you moved over to digital, personally? I still have a ton of physical media, and I love creating and holding new media. I’ve got thousands of records, tapes and CD’s, VHS, DVD, Blu Ray’s, stuff on hard drives… I’ve even got old floppy discs. But for discovering new music I just really love the digital realm. Youtube especially, but I do use that evil corporate tyrant Spotify as well. I can find something, go down a rabbit hole, find more, playlist it, burn it out by overplaying it and see if I still like it in a month or three and then, maybe I’ll buy that insanely expensive $30 to $40 vinyl release or a couple T-Shirts at the show. I love the ease of digital. I wish that vinyl and CDs were as inexpensive as they once were. Some labels and distros that have huge rosters do it right and have $10 vinyl if you buy 5 or more. I think that’s a great way to go.
I’ve never really gotten off on haunted house movies or the whole haunted house conversation in general. It’s just not something I care for or put much faith in. Sure, I went to a few of those so-called haunted attractions back in the day, but getting touched, chased, or screamed at by strangers in the dark isn’t my idea of fun. As for the real deal, most of the “haunted” spots I’ve been to were more about old rituals, animal sacrifices, and leftover occult vibes than any kind of ghost story — and that’s not the kind of energy I want to hang around. But then there’s The Legend of Hell House - a film that doesn’t just play haunted house, it bleeds haunted house. This one gets under your skin. It’s not about cheap scares or creaky floors; it’s about madness, decay, and spiritual rot. It drags you inside and seals the door shut behind you. And with Roddy McDowall leading the charge, you know you’re in for something a little more twisted than the usual séance séance-and-scream routine. This thing is a gothic nightmare soaked in madness. The walls are alive, the air is diseased, and by the time it’s over, you feel like the house has stripped you of your sanity. The plot’s simple on paper: a team of investigators is sent into the notorious Belasco House to determine if life after death exists. But calling it a “house” doesn’t cut it, this is a tomb that forgot to die. Built by a perverse millionaire named Emeric Belasco, a sadistic freak who threw orgies, tortured his guests, and supposedly vanished into his own nightmare, it’s earned its nickname fair and square: Hell House. From the moment the team steps inside, you can tell the place hates them. It’s all cold stone, stale air, and something slithering behind the walls. Every inch of the place feels wrong, like the whole house is possessed by the collective filth of everyone who ever sinned inside of it. And right at the center of this descent is Roddy McDowall, my guy, one of my absolute favorite actors. Nobody plays haunted like McDowall. Nobody. He’s a psychic who’s been inside Hell House before and barely made it out. You can see the trauma dripping off him, those darting eyes, the shaking hands, that brittle voice trying to sound brave when you know he’s just holding himself together with willpower, caffeine and booze. He gives the movie its pulse. Every time he’s on screen, you can feel his fear, but also that spark of defiance that says, “I’ve been through Hell once, let’s see if I can stare it down again.” Pamela Franklin’s character, the spiritual medium, gets eaten alive by the energy of the place, literally and emotionally. She’s sensitive in the worst way, tuned right into the heart of all that corruption, and it starts tearing her apart. The whole cast sells the hell out of it, but McDowall’s slow burn unraveling is acting from another dimension. The visuals in this film are pure decay. You can smell the mildew through the screen. Every shot feels damp, cold, and dangerous. It’s not flashy, it’s oppressive. The lighting’s sickly, the fog never stops, and even the quiet scenes hum with tension like the house is breathing right behind you. And when the supernatural stuff hits, it hits. Furniture moves, invisible forces slap people around, the house moans like it’s alive. But what really gets under your skin is the psychological rot, how the house feeds off the human weakness inside its walls. Pride, lust, guilt, fear… all of it gets chewed up and spat back out. By the time the ending rolls around, you’re not sure who’s winning anymore, the people, the ghosts, or the house itself. It’s got that early-’70s British grit - grim, cerebral, and cold as hell. There’s nothing comforting here, no warm light at the end of the tunnel. Just darkness and the lingering echo of a place that should’ve been burned to the ground centuries ago. The Legend of Hell House is one of the crown jewels of haunted Horror. It’s mean, it’s brilliant, and it doesn’t pull any punches. Forget polite hauntings, this one screams in your face and leaves claw marks on your soul. McDowall is the glue holding it all together, the terrified survivor who’s too broken to quit. One of the finest performances in Horror history, period. The man could read the phone book and make it sound haunted, but here, he’s transcendent and that’s what makes it worth it for me. If you haven’t watched this one, have a quick look, you might recognize McDowall as he went on to portray Peter Vincent, The FEARLESS VAMPIRE KILLER in the classic 80’s Vampire films – Fright Night 1 & 2.
This flick is pure midnight-movie slime, the kind of thing you put on when you’ve had a few beers, the lights are low, and you want something that makes you question your life choices halfway through, but you keep watching it anyway. It’s got that greasy, VHS grime that could only come from the golden age of rubber monsters and bad decisions. I’m still trying to put together how my mom was ok with me watching it with her back in the day. The story’s simple: a guy inherits a creepy old house and decides to throw some occult parties instead of calling an exterminator, because, you know, priorities. Before long, he’s neck-deep in demonic nonsense, and here comes the Ghoulies, those little toilet-dwelling gremlins that look like they were sculpted by a deranged Muppet artist on a cocaine bender. The creatures themselves are the real stars here. They don’t make a lot of sense, but they don’t need to. They’re gross, hilarious, and somehow adorable. Every time they pop up, it’s like a reminder that the 80’s really didn’t give a shit about logic, just latex, fog machines, and the occasional sacrificial chant. The human cast is serviceable at best, which is exactly what a movie like this needs. Everyone’s either wearing way too much eyeliner, reciting Latin like they learned from the back of a cereal box, or screaming their lungs out at something that’s clearly being pulled by fishing wire. Honestly, that’s part of the charm. It’s not about believable acting, it’s about the camp, and the weird feeling that this whole movie might’ve been shot in someone’s basement over a long weekend. What I love about Ghoulies is that it’s not trying to be Evil Dead or Gremlins, even though it gets compared to them sometimes. It’s got its own scrappy, low-budget personality, a kind of “we know this is dumb, but we’re going for it anyway” feeling. You can almost feel the crew behind the camera saying, “Yeah, this might end up in the bargain bin… but it’ll rule there.” When the credits roll, you’re left with that sweet aftertaste of nostalgia, cheap practical effects, and occult absurdity. Ghoulies is the cinematic equivalent of a gas station hot dog at 2 AM, questionable, messy, but somehow it hits the spot every time. And if you really want to live on the wild side, watch Ghoulies II, the absurdity is really cut loose.
Today, let’s talk about an old favorite of mine from childhood! Terror Train from 1980. This is another one of those old Horror movies that I watched with my mom and for me it was love at first fright. It also helped that I grew up with a train track right in front of our house, so that had built in Horror vibes even if most of the time it was just empty rail cars every hour on the hour. Sadly, I’ve found that this movie isn’t well liked in most circles, and I can’t comprehend why, then again, I was 6-7 years old when I first watched it, so its impact on me runs deep. There’s something about trains that already feels a little haunted. Long corridors, locked compartments, the endless clack of wheels rolling into the dark, you’re trapped, whether you like it or not. Terror Train plays into my crippling claustrophobia and laces it with masks, blood, and just enough trickery to keep me guessing until the bitter end. On paper, the movie sounds simple and run-of-the-mill: a bunch of college kids rent out a train to party their way into the new year, complete with booze, pranks, and even a magician on board - David Copperfield. But then the past comes calling, and suddenly the joyride turns into a rolling coffin. The setup feels goofy, but underneath the disco lights and confetti lurks something mean and nasty. The killer’s gimmick is what really sells it - changing masks, slipping into costumes, blending with the crowd while bodies keep piling up. It’s an old-school magic trick of its own: you think you’re looking right at the answer, but the film keeps misdirecting until it’s too late. There’s a weirdness to it all, almost dreamlike, as if the party itself becomes a nightmare that you can’t quite wake up from. Jamie Lee Curtis anchors the movie, of course, carrying her final girl energy that we all know so well. But what makes Terror Train stick isn’t just her, it’s the way the movie leans into its setting. The train itself is a character: the cramped cars, the constant motion, the way there’s literally no escape except to jump into the frozen night outside. By the time the last mask drops, the party’s long over, and the only thing left is cold steel and the echo of screams rattling down the tracks. Terror Train isn’t flashy, but it doesn’t need to be. It’s a slow, rolling descent into paranoia, reminding us that sometimes the scariest thing isn’t the monster outside, it’s the one sitting across from you, waiting for the right moment to gut you!
Hammer Films has always been the cathedral where Horror fanatics like me come to worship, and Twins of Evil is one of its most wicked sermons. Released in 1971, this one drips with all the decadent, blood-slicked Gothic energy you’d ever crave, vampires, witch-hunters, castles cloaked in fog, and enough crimson to paint the countryside. And at the heart of it? The immortal, magnetic force of Hammer itself: Peter Cushing, swinging his righteous fury like a crucifix dipped in fire. I know it shouldn’t be, but this is one of my favorite Hammer movies and it’s mostly due to Peter Cushing. The storyline stalks through familiar Hammer territory: a puritanical brotherhood obsessed with burning witches, a cursed nobleman dabbling in vampiric resurrection, and the gorgeous Collinson twins caught between innocence and corruption. Hammer never played coy about its obsessions - sex and blood - and Twins of Evil delivers both in abundance. From the opening scene, where innocent flesh is branded and fire licks the night sky, you know you’re in for something unholy. The violence here isn’t subtle, it’s Hammer Gothic at its wildest. Jugulars gush, stakes plunge deep into undead hearts, and the flames of “righteous” fury consume more than just the guilty. Every drop of red splashed across pale skin feels like an act of defiance against the stiff collars of morality. And then there’s Peter Cushing. Even gaunt and grief-worn after personal tragedy, he is a force. His Gustav Weil is no simple hero, he’s a puritan executioner, wild-eyed, trembling with fanaticism, swinging between justice and tyranny. Watching him hunt vampires while questioning his own brutal crusade adds a venomous weight to the film. Cushing bleeds conviction across the screen. Of course, it wouldn’t be Hammer without that lush Gothic flavor. Castles loom like tombstones, candlelight flickers against velvet drapes, and every shadow seems to hide a fang waiting to sink into bare flesh. The atmosphere is thick enough to choke on, dripping with a heady mix of religious dread and vampiric lust. And make no mistake, this film is as much about temptation as it is about terror. The Collinson twins embody that eternal Hammer duality: innocence corrupted, purity stalked by bloodlust. When fangs pierce throats and crimson wells up, it feels like the ultimate collision of sex and death - the very essence of Hammer Horror. By the final act, Twins of Evil throws subtlety on the pyre and erupts in a glorious storm of stakes, fire, and shrieking damnation. It’s a symphony of Gothic excess, every note soaked in blood, every chord echoing with the clash between repression and desire. Twins of Evil isn’t just another Hammer entry - it’s one of their crown jewels of debauchery. Equal parts lurid, brutal, and beautiful - it stands as a perfect example of why Hammer reigned supreme: atmosphere thicker than graveyard fog, Horror dripping from every velvet curtain, and enough blood to satisfy even the most ravenous fiend. Don’t take my word for it, have a quick watch of this movie, I’m sure you’ll feel the same. This is one of Peter Cushing’s greatest performances on film… “The Devil has sent me, TWINS OF EVIL”!
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There’s no better omen than a Friday the 13th to hit the road in search of noise, danger, and sweaty communion, and that’s exactly what my comrade-in-debauchery and I did. Destination, Boggs Social & Supply, Atlanta, Georgia. A venue I’d never set foot in before but now consider hallowed ground. Boggs is a dive bar reimagined, not some sticky-floored hellhole, but a joint that lures you in with killer food, cheap drinks, and a staff that actually gives a damn. The place gets it. It breathes in neon, exhales soul. I’ll be back, over and over again like a sinner to the confessional. This night kicked off the Savage Master and NITE tour, and from the jump, there was that unshakable buzz in the air, the kind that says you’re about to be baptized in riffs and fury. For NITE, it was their first taste of the East Coast, a long-overdue collision between coasts. And for me, it was my first time finally seeing Savage Master live after years of near misses. Chariots Overdrive, a local Atlanta act I’d never heard of, opened the gates and didn’t just warm up the stage they lit that Sombitch on fire. Their sound is a snarling cocktail of early ‘80s Speed Metal and NWOBHM sweat and swagger. Like Angel Witch and Exciter had a nasty little one-night stand. The real kicker, a Heavy Load cover, thrown down like a gauntlet, raw and righteous. I didn’t see any merch at the show, but I hunted them down online and bought their downloads which is something I hardly ever do. If you’ve got blood in your veins and denim on your back, go find them. Now.
April 3, 2025 I’ve been a major Cancerslug fan for over 20 years and I was always disappointed that I never got to see them live. Now, I’ve seen them live twice in the past couple of years. I wouldn’t be upset if this trend continues. Please keep coming to this cesspool that is Florida!
This lineup could rival any other three death or thrash metal bands anyone could put together. Admittedly, I am not the biggest Possessed fan, but respect the hell out of them for their contributions to the genre and was really interested in seeing them perform. I had my earplugs in, but took those mother fuckers out when they took the stage to take in all the blasphemous hymns! Their set was short and sweet (about seven or eight songs) and when they played "Tribulation" I was amped because that's one of my favorite tracks from 'Beyond the Gates' and they killed it! My biggest issue with their performance is that while Jeff gave everything in his vocal performance, it came across as a little subdued. The instruments drowned his efforts a bit which is rather unfortunate. And I know this is super trivial, but their bassist did not move from his position on stage at all. It was almost like his feet were glued to the floor and it was a bit distracting. The fact that your lead singer moves around more and he's in a wheelchair speaks volumes.
This past Friday, (August 9 th) I took my girl to see L.A. Guns & Tom Keifer (Cinderella) in Peachtree City at The Fred Amphitheater. Unfortunately, I didn’t know about the show until a few days before. To be blunt, the PR for the show was trash, otherwise I would’ve had front row seats or a “table” as that was the thing at this venue. Nevertheless, we were able to land great seats and the way the Amphitheater is set up I knew we were going to be able to see the bands well. I was still a bit pissed about the lack of PR though, if I’d missed another chance to see L.A. Guns, I would’ve been MAD AS HELL!! The ride to the venue was highly amusing, we took the backroads and had an adventure, it also helped that my girl was half in the bag and feeling a strong wine buzz – she’s always hilarious, but when she’s on the “drank” and we’re traveling she’s even more fun! We got to see several old farmhouses, ranches and so forth. About 30 minutes outside of Peachtree City we rode through some small town where they had what I believe to be a hunting store with two large statues of Bigfoot standing outside which turned my girl’s tickle box on full tilt and she laughed herself into a stupor. Right then and there she decided we were going to ride back down that way on Vacation to see what's up with the Sasquatches. I’m sure that’s really going to happen, although we have no business in a Hunting Store whatsoever. After an hour or so of my wife loud talking, dranking and giggling we pulled into The Fred and were greeted with FREE PARKING – HELL YES! I’m not sure of the age of the venue but it’s the newer style of Amphitheaters that are starting to sprout up all over the place that tends to cater to the local folks who have plenty of money and are just looking to have a good time and drink themselves blind with their golfing buddies. It’s a bit on the high falutin’ side, if you will. The Amphitheater is nestled deep back in the woods a few miles off a main highway, but you don’t realize it, it feels like you’re a million miles from nowhere. Aside from the normies in khaki shorts and collared Polo shirts, it was a brilliant vibe and there was enough of our tattooed brothers and sisters around to make us feel at home or at least me – my girl was buzzed, she didn't care, she was just happy to be there with me and I with her... L.A. Guns hit the stage at 7:35PM it was still light outside, but that didn’t sway the band or the crowd. Those ole Hollywood Vamps came out guns a'blazing. (If you haven’t seen LAG, this is a standard, they don’t fuck around, they dig in and deliver the goods). We were treated with ten-mile-wide smiles, laughter and cheers from the band too, they were as happy to be there as we were. LAG, stuck to the standards - “Sex Action”, “Electric Gypsy”, “Over the Edge”, “I Wanna Be Your Man” were a few of the notables. The band also sprinkled in some of their newer tunes – the much loved “Speed” from The Missing Peace record. They also opened the show with one of my personal favorites “Cannonball” off the “Checkered Past” album, which I thought was a nice touch. Sadly, they only played one track off their new album, “Black Diamonds” and that was “Like A Drug”. Naturally, the band played their biggest hit “Ballad of Jayne” and while I still adore it, I’m cool if I never hear it or see them play it live again. I’ve been a fan since the debut album in 1988, so it’s a bit old hat to me, but I know all the cool kids in collared shirts had probably never seen the band play it live. Plus, my girl had never seen LAG live, so that was a moment for her too. The band was highly interactive with the crowd, but this is the LAG way, they’re all about the fans and being in the moment. There were a few of the ladies down front who were a bit too excited to see Phil Lewis & Tracii Guns so we were all treated to a little “Breast Wishes”, but it’s all in fun and hey it’s an L.A. Guns show, if you can’t be sleazy there where in the hell can you be sleazy?! If you’ve never seen L.A. Guns live, don’t miss the chance when they come to your town, the band is still as good as they were in 1988!!! I’d go see them again tomorrow if they were playing near me. To be fair, I try not to miss L.A. Guns when they come to town, they’re one of my all-time favorite bands. I’d be lying if I didn’t say that I still miss and love Steve Riley (R.I.P.) on drums, but the new guy held it down well enough to get the job done. Now we come to the hard part of the night - Tom Keifer’s set. I haven’t seen or heard Tom live outside of his time in Cinderella and that was years ago when we were both still young and wild. It’s well documented that Tom has fought a long hard battle with vocal cord paralysis. Over the years several surgeries have been performed and he’s basically had to teach himself to sing again over and over. From the first note I knew something was wrong, someone was singing off-key, or something was happening somewhere. Much to my dismay, I soon realized it was Tom. I was hoping it was just the on-stage volume and they’d get it figured out after the first song, however when Keifer spoke I could hear that his voice was gone, it cracked instantly as he welcomed the crowd. I’m not slagging Keifer at all, just calling it down the middle. Honestly, I didn’t think this was an issue anymore, I’ve got a few friends who’ve seen Tom several times, they go out of their way to travel miles and miles to see him and not a word has been said. My mind immediately went to this thought - I could leave, be disappointed and turn my back on one of my childhood heroes. Or either I could stay, scream my ass off and raise my hands in the air and cheer the man on as he sang and played his heart out for us. You all know I stayed and screamed, looking for that sacred “Shot of Gasoline”!!! Tom got me in my feelings several times when I was least expecting it too. The 3 rd track of the set was “Heartbreak Station”, and the intro was so heartfelt I was tearing up before he sang the first line. I stood their awe struck and dumbfounded with tears in my eyes remembering how much the song has meant to me through the years and how much of a pleasure it was to hear it live for what could be my very last time. It also stung me deep that Jeff LaBar (R.I.P.) wasn’t up on-stage playing guitar. These feelings hit me even harder on “Coming Home”. Of all the songs Cinderella released, this track has always been my favorite, it’s a bio of my life, warts and all. All I’ve ever wanted was to be loved and to “come home”, it felt like forever to be able to achieve that feeling. A million thanks to my girl for giving me that home that I yearned for my entire life. “I took a ride in a world I'll be spinnin’ for the rest of my life” … Keifer went on to play all the hits, he hit us with “Hot and Bothered”, “The Last Mile”, “Nobody’s Fool” and I thought the crowd was going to full on riot when they played “Somebody Save Me” and “Nightsongs”. It was a fantastic scene. There were several other classics played throughout the evening. I’m sincerely glad I stayed for Keifer’s set, the young man that still haunts the halls in my memory needed it. Now my cup runneth over with love for all the things that I’ve experienced and all the places I’ve been. It’s not just Tom who’s gotten older, I’ve done fucked around and gotten old too. Thankfully, us old dogs can still get up there and fucking get it when it's time. If either of these bands roll through your town, get off your ass and go! While Tom isn’t the young man he once was, know this, the voice he had in the in the late 80’s was wrecked for us and all in the name of Rock N’ Roll. Keifer deserves to hear the crowds roar and every one reading this “NEEDS A SHOT OF GASOLINE”! And if you can’t get down with Keifer, them Hollywood Vampires, L.A. Guns still got that 100-dollar bill and a bottle of lotion – S.E.X. Who’s next?! ~Black Angel