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
5¢ Freakshow Horror Punk Splatter Massacre Blood Freak Records 2019 If there’s a razorblade in your candy apple, rat poison in your cotton candy or wolfsbane in your funnel cake, there’s a high probability that you’re under the big top of Canada’s psychobilly outfit, 5¢ Freakshow. Clearly, this isn’t any ordinary attraction and the screams from underneath the tent only intensify your morbid curiosity. It’s only a matter of time before the cornucopia of sights and smells lure you in and once you’re in, you’re not seeing the light of day again. Part of a 7” split with Los Lügers, ‘Horror Punk Splatter Massacre’ features the tracks “Bury You Alive” and “My Sweet Elena”. Both of those songs alone are worth the price of admission, but through their Bandcamp page, you can purchase it with the bonus acoustic version of “My Sweet Elena”, which only sweetens the deal. And if you know me, I’m a sucker for acoustic performances, especially when it comes to anything horror punk/rock related. “Bury You Alive” starts off as a slow anthemic crawl that sees you throwing your fists into the air, but just as quickly erupts into a rousing track that plays as the soundtrack to holding your girl close in your arms as you dance before throwing her in your trunk and taking her to an unmarked grave somewhere off of Lover’s Lane. “My Sweet Elena” is so god damn good. The Nekromantix-esque bass intro grabs and hypnotizes me. The choruses live rent free in my head and I cannot stop myself from letting it take over my motor functions. The acoustic version is truly a treat and Nikky’s vocals really stand out. The emphasis on harmonizing vocals in conjunction with the slower pace make this version completely different and not just in the electric vs. acoustic mindset, but in that a slower, more methodical take makes it feel darker and more emotional.
Alice Cooper The Revenge Of Alice Cooper ear Music 2025 Writing about Alice Cooper is like trying to bottle lightning from a haunted carnival, every time you think you’ve got it contained, it slips through your fingers, laughing. It’s not that he’s unloved, but Cooper’s story is a kaleidoscope of faces, fangs, and flashbulbs. Blink and you’ll miss an era. And then there’s the endless debate: the solo artist versus the original band. To me, they’re the same creature, stitched together in eyeliner and attitude. Others may split hairs; I don’t have the headspace for that. Now, after half a century of silence, the original Alice Cooper band has clawed its way back from the dead, intact save for Glen Buxton, who left this world in ’97 but still haunts the record in spectral form. The album’s title, “The Revenge of Alice Cooper”, feels less like a marketing move and more like a prophecy fulfilled. The shock is they haven’t aged a day musically. It’s as if the coffin lid was never closed. The riffs, the Horror, the sly grin, it’s all here, carrying the same dangerous weight as “Billion Dollar Babies” and “Killer”. Yes, the decades have changed our tools, our ears, our bones, but the pulse is the same. They still wrap Horror and glamour together like barbed wire around a champagne glass. And let’s not kid ourselves, early -’70s Cooper was Glam as hell. If you disagree, you’re rewriting history. Just ask the glittering icons of the ’80s who wore his influence like a badge. There’s too much here to pick apart clinically, so I won’t. I’ll just tell you this, if “Dead Babies,” “Under My Wheels,” or “I’m Eighteen” ever made your pulse race, this belongs in your collection. Listening isn’t optional; it’s a Rock ’N’ Roll rite of passage. Standouts, too many to count. “Black Mamba” slinks and strikes, “One Night Stand” swaggers in like rhinestones, “Kill the Flies” festers with glee, “What Happened to You” stings like nostalgia’s hangover, and “See You on the Other Side” closes the curtain with a wink from the grave. There isn’t a single dud here, not a one. Cooper’s voice is Razor-sharp. The band is as deadly as they were in their prime. So don’t let this pass you by. Grab the vinyl, pour yourself a whiskey, drop the needle, and let the old magic, the kind that smells like stage fog, sweat, and eyeliner, seep back into your veins.
Demented Are Go Psychotic Mutilation Sunny Bastards Records 2025 If you know me, and if you don’t, you should - you’re aware that beneath my Metal-plated heart throbs the undead, twitching pulse of a Rockabilly/Psychobilly fiend. I’m stitched together from roadkill DNA and the ectoplasmic sweat of Lux Interior, the Stray Cats, Johnny Cash, and whatever is left of the mad bastards who once wandered the halls of Sun Records covered in pomade and gasoline. I’m equal parts Rock Warrior and roadside Honky Tonk exorcist. But here’s the dirty little secret: while Metal labels chuck promos at me like candy at a deranged parade, the Psychobilly world is crickets. Tumbleweeds. A genre still alive and howling, but the labels act like no one wants to hear it unless there’s a pin-up girl humping a Rat Rod in the background and a dude in a leather jacket explaining to no one how he used to "tour with The Cramps." Newsflash: Psychobilly ain't dead, it's undead, it's thriving, and it smells like blood, beer, and burned rubber. Demented Are Fucking Go have risen from the grave with "Psychotic Mutilation", their first slab of sonic mayhem in 13 damn years, courtesy of Sunny Bastards Records. I didn’t expect this to happen, hell, I half-suspected Sparky had exploded in a cloud of whiskey, pills, and bat wings years ago. But nope, the maniac lives, and he’s dragging his band of miscreants with him, cackling into the void, and folks… THEY HAVE NEVER SOUNDED THIS GOOD. This isn’t just another album. This is a razorblade valentine to the unhinged, a blues-soaked, gasoline-gargling inferno of everything that makes DAG the deranged royalty of Psychobilly. It’s slicker than the old days, sure, no tape hiss, no puke-on-the-microphone production, but that’s not a complaint, it’s a weapon. And Sparky - the man’s a shaman. A menace. A walking Horror show fronting a dive-bar sermon for the beautifully damned. His voice has aged like a black leather glove pulled off a corpse, worn in, full of stories, and ready to slap you in the soul. Anyone crying "sellout" can shut their yap and go choke on a bottle of Brylcreem, DAG ain’t chasing trends, because there’s no mainstream left for them to sell out to. These guys built the house, then set it on fire and pissed on the ashes. Track by track, Psychotic Mutilation is a murder spree of bangers. Opener “Black Valium” struts in like a junkie preacher before detonating into a galloping, brain-splitting freakout that’ll rip your heart out and feed it to the jukebox. From there, “Out of Reach” picks up the bat and breaks your knees, pure Hellbilly Storm era power with enough snot and swagger to raise the dead. Then comes “Chasing Rainbows”, which proves the band isn’t just chaos merchants, they’ve got chops. Tight, mean, and full of enough electricity to bring Frankenstein’s monster back for an encore. But then we hit “Cast A Lonesome Shadow” and holy hell, it’s like the moon cracked in half and a duet fell out. Sparky and Emanuela Hutter (The Hillbilly Moon Explosion) are back together, and it's nothing short of necromantic bliss. Their chemistry is nuclear. If there’s any justice in this cruel, neon-lit hellscape, they’ll record a duet every time a comet passes overhead. This one’s got a touch of New Wave shimmer to it, I blame the guitar tone, but it works, goddamn does it work. And if you’re frothing for classic DAG gore-splatter nonsense, “Dismembered Hand” is here to rip your spine out and make you dance like its prom night in the ninth circle of Hell. It’s mean, it’s fast and everything you hoped and feared it would be. Let’s not mince words. Psychotic Mutilation is the sound of a band clawing its way out of the grave, middle fingers up, bared teeth, and ready to drag you down into the smoke and fury. It’s one of the best Psychobilly albums not just of the year, but of the past decade. Period. Full stop. Put it on my Top 10 of 2025 now and carve its name into the wall. You don’t question Sparky. You don’t second-guess DAG. And you sure as hell don’t look this gift horse in the mouth unless you’re ready to get trampled and bitten. God bless Demented Are Go. God damn them too. Whatever cosmic force keeps Sparky on this earth, keep doing your evil work, we need him, and we need this kind of music now more than ever.
Hellgreaser Hymns of the Dead Sunny Bastards Records 2024 Hellgreaser have always walked that thin, filthy line between psychotic Rock N’ Roll and a full-blown Horror Punk meltdown, and “Hymns of the Dead” is where that tension finally explodes. It’s raw, rotten, and glorious, the kind of record that sounds like it was recorded in a graveyard lit only by the fire from a crashed hot rod. From the first track, “Dead Like You” you’re thrown into a pit of crooning vocals, razor-precision guitars, and drums that slam like a bomb going off. The album is packed with Pop Punk sleaze, and blood-soaked swagger. The band leans hard into the moody side of the macabre, but not in that cheap costume-party way; their Horror feels lived-in, like the reek of smoke and formaldehyde clinging to your clothes after a night in hell’s basement. Each song drips with the kind of attitude you can’t fake or rehearse. It’s that unhinged, dirty, corner-bar energy where every chord feels like a punch and every lyric sounds like it’s been crooned through a cracked skull. The bass lines jump, the guitars slice through the mix like switchblades, and the drums keep everything moving with a manic pulse. What’s wild is how “Hymns of the Dead” feels both chaotic and deliberate, and wholesome like these ghouls know exactly how to ride the edge without tumbling off it. It’s the perfect soundtrack for late-night drives down backroads or for drowning out the world when you just want to feel alive. The title track “Hymn Of The Dead” is worth the price of admission alone. It’s got that sing-along vibe down pat, that one has seen some serious repeat action since I got this album in for review. Hans from Left Hand Black also guest on the tune. It’s a call to arms for all the Monster kids of the universe. Speaking of guests Nim Vind makes his presence felt on the tune “Her Other Side”. I don’t care what anyone says, if Vind is guesting on your album, you’re obviously onto something special. “Hymns Of The Dead” is a special album and while it’s not brand new, it’s still very worthy of your time. I’m quite surprised this album hasn’t gotten the band on bigger stages. Nevertheless, it’s something you want in your collection, and you’ll definitely want the title track in your playlist!
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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.
The Monster Squad is a cult classic that blends Horror, comedy, and childhood adventure into a fast-paced, creature-filled romp. Released in 1987, this film carries the DNA of the '80s, quirky characters, punchy one-liners, and a deep love for classic monster lore, all wrapped up in 90 minutes. I vividly recall watching it for the first time and declaring it the best movie I’d ever seen! As a matter of fact, I watched the VHS 3 times before I returned it to the Video Store. The story follows a group of monster-obsessed kids who find themselves in the middle of a supernatural shit storm when Dracula assembles a team of legendary creatures, including Frankenstein’s monster, the Wolfman, the Mummy, and the Gill-man to take over the world. Only the kids, armed with their knowledge of monster mythology and a healthy dose of courage and balls, stand in their way. What makes The Monster Squad stand out is its unapologetic embrace of classic Universal-style monsters while injecting a youthful, irreverent energy that keeps the tone light even when the stakes are high. The practical effects hold up surprisingly well, with each monster given a distinct look and personality, thanks in large part to the craftsmanship of the makeup and effects teams. There's a real affection for the source material, and that respect shines through in every scene. The young cast delivers performances that are surprisingly grounded for a film that features ancient amulets and creatures of the night. The chemistry between the kids sells their friendship and makes you root for them, even when the dialogue occasionally leans into the era’s cheesier tendencies. The film straddles the line between a kid-friendly and something darker, and that balance is key to its enduring appeal. While it might not have landed huge box office success on release, it’s easy to see why The Monster Squad has gained a loyal following over the years. It captures a specific kind of youthful imagination, the belief that, if monsters were real, only the most dedicated fans could stop them. The movie isn’t perfect, the plot moves fast, sometimes too fast for its own good, and some characters feel underdeveloped, but the charm, energy, and fun more than make up for it. The movie also plays into stuff that we were going through ourselves as kids – being bullied, being overweight, nerdy, un-popular and just all-around uncool. A lot of us were misunderstood, we didn’t have the best home life and growing up just wasn’t the best. It spoke deeply to me as a young kid who had experienced it all at such a young age. I wanted to be a part of “The Goddamn Club” – I know they would’ve let me join up, stake some Vampires and raise hell along with them. With every watch this movie gave me hope that I’d find a place where I would fit in and be wanted eventually. Sadly, that never came to fruition in “real life”. However, I carved my own path through playing music, writing and other random sorts of internet madness. Now I don’t give a damned whether I fit in or I’m wanted or not, and I’m a firm believer that ALL kids should be raised this way… In the words of the immortal Dee Snider, "I Am, (I'm Me)". For bone-US points the documentary “Wolfman’s Got Nards” is wonderfully written and shot documentary on the movie that goes in deep on every nook and cranny of the movie. If you’re a fan, it’s something you absolutely can’t miss! The Monster Squad is a love letter to monster movies and all of us kids who adore them. It’s funny, spooky, and full of heart, exactly the kind of film that has earned its place as a Halloween staple for generations.
I didn’t walk into Clown in a Cornfield expecting to feel like I’d been dropkicked straight into the rotting guts of small-town America, but here we are. This thing hits like a 3-day bender on Red Bull and fertilizer fumes. It’s a slasher, yeah, but not the shiny Hollywood kind. It’s the kind that smells like gasoline, dried blood, and the desperate sweat of a town that gave up on itself twenty years ago. Kettle Springs, that’s the sad little speck of a town where this mess unfolds. They used to have pride back when factory jobs paid the bills and everyone smiled through their teeth at Sunday service. Now it’s just dust, broken dreams, and a clown mascot named Frendo that nobody gives a shit about anymore. But ol’ Frendo, he’s not taking retirement quietly. No sir, this bastard comes back to slice, dice, and cleanse the corn-fed sinners one screaming teen at a time. It’s got that classic slasher DNA, kids getting picked off for being loud, horny, or alive, but there’s something nastier festering under the surface. Every kill feels like a punchline to a joke about how far gone we are as a species. The blood isn’t there to shock, it’s there to remind you that this place has been bleeding for years. The teens are exactly what they should be - smartasses who think they’ve outgrown the rusted-out ghost town that they live in. And maybe they have. But when the killing starts, they’re not running from some random psycho, they’re running from the entire ideology that built the town. The clown’s just the blade attached to it. The violence is unrelenting, beautiful and glorious. It doesn’t dance around with slow buildups or ironic detachment. When Frendo gets going, it’s chaotic, loud, messy, and cathartic. You can almost taste the blood and corn dust in the air. The kills are mean, the pacing’s relentless, and it all feels like a middle finger to nostalgia, a scream in the face of “make small towns great again” delusion. In the end, I wasn’t rooting for survival. I was rooting for obliteration. Clown in a Cornfield isn’t just Horror; it’s a grimy reflection of a country choking on its own traditions. It’s blood-soaked, fast, and mean as hell. Exactly the way I like it. I didn’t waste any time purchasing the Blu-ray edition of this movie, I couldn’t get in the door at Wal-Mart fast enough to collect my prize – I’m going to get a shit ton of life out of this movie! For those who stream, the movie is on Shudder, but trust me, this one is going to be something you want on your movie shelf. But yeah, the next time you’re driving through a dying town and see a faded billboard with a smiling clown, don’t look too long - he might still be waiting out there, in the dark, laughing his ass off with a machete…
Lock the doors, light the candelabras, and sharpen your fangs, because The House on Haunted Hill is a séance at midnight where Vincent Price himself presides as the master of ceremonies! This 1959 creeper from William Castle doesn’t tiptoe into Horror, it kicks the crypt doors open and drags you screaming down into its shadow-choked mansion. The premise is simple: a pack of strangers are lured into a haunted meat grinder of a mansion, where surviving until sunrise means cash in hand and possibly your sanity intact. Easy enough, if you ignore the blood-curdling screams echoing through the hallways, the bone-chilling basement that looks built for dismemberment, and a skeleton that’s got more stage presence than half of Hollywood. And then there’s Vincent Price. Sweet, sinister Vincent. He doesn’t act in this movie, possesses it. With every venom-dripping line and devilish chuckle, he’s both a charming host and grinning executioner. Price has this supernatural ability to make you love him even as he tightens the noose; a phantom trickster playing his guests like marionettes dangling over an open grave. He is the lifeblood of this flick - if blood came in martini glasses and was served with a razor blade on the rim. Imagine a theater in 1959, filled with wide-eyed Horror fiends, when suddenly a rattling, bony ghoul swoops overhead. Pandemonium! People shrieking, laughing, ducking, pure grindhouse magic. William Castle, the grand ghoul of gimmicks, went full freak-show with “Emergo,” a stunt where a skeleton would fly out over the audience during screenings. Yeah, the effects are corny. The skeleton looks like it got lost on the way to a fifth-grade Halloween pageant. The jump scares are more funhouse than frightmare. But that’s the wicked joy of it all! The House on Haunted Hill doesn’t care about realism, it’s Horror as theater, atmosphere dripping like candle wax, shadows stretching like claws, and every doorway looks like a portal to the grave. By the end, you’re not just watching, you’ve been hexed, rattled, and baptized in old-school Horror glory. This is the kind of flick you spin on a stormy night, glass in hand, cackling with the ghosts that rattle in your own walls. The House on Haunted Hill is a coffin-shaped thrill ride. A reminder that Horror doesn’t need gore to make your bones shiver, it just needs Vincent Price, a haunted mansion, and a director crazy enough to throw a flying skeleton at your head.
Tonight’s feature isn’t just a movie, oh no, tonight we’re cracking open the mausoleum doors and letting out the radioactive stink bomb from Hell itself: RETURN OF THE LIVING DEAD! Buckle your seatbelts, kiddies, because this ain’t no slow shuffle of the dead. This is a full-blown PUNK ROCK HOLOCAUST on celluloid! Picture it: a bunch of dimwitted stiffs at a medical supply warehouse crack open the U.S. government’s biggest screw-up, and BOOM! Toxic gas shoots into the sky, rain pours down on the graveyard, and suddenly every rotting meat sack six feet under is crawling out to party. And by party, I mean eat your BRAAAINS like popcorn at the drive-in! These ghouls don’t stumble, they don’t groan, they RUN, they SCREAM, they speak… And ohhh, the cast of freaks caught in this mess! Punk rockers writhing on tombstones, leather-clad delinquents cackling into the night, and one infamous cemetery striptease that burned itself into midnight movie history like a pentagram carved in flesh. The effects? GORE-SOAKED GLORY. Tar Man, that slick, slimy cadaver with moves smoother than a drunk uncle at a wedding, oozing across the floor, chomping skulls like popcorn shrimp. Melting bodies, twitching corpses, and Zombies that TALK BACK – “Come in dispatch, SEND MORE PARAMEDICS”! This film doesn’t just spit in the face of good taste; it slaps it across the jaw and dances on its grave! And let’s talk about that soundtrack, it’s a flaming chainsaw shoved into your ears. Punk rock anthems blast like the soundtrack to your last night on Earth, driving this freak show into the red zone. Featuring 45 Grave’s “Party Time” and of course my personal favorite “Surfin’ Dead” by The Cramps. This isn’t background music; it’s an open casket rave. If you don’t have the soundtrack, stop right now and seek it out, the vinyl reissues are readily available. But wait, if you really want the full necrotic scoop, crawl your maggot-covered carcass over to the documentary MORE BRAINS! It’s the behind-the-scenes tell-all that proves the making of this film was just as deranged as what ended up on screen. Fights! Egos! Meltdowns! It’s like the production itself was cursed, and we’re lucky the film didn’t just crawl out of the projector and eat the audience whole. So, here’s the deal, you decomposing degenerates: Return of the Living Dead is not a movie. It’s a toxic waste barrel cracked wide open. It’s a love letter scrawled in blood to every Horror fan who likes their terror with a side of sleaze, slime, and a killer backbeat. This film doesn’t just rot, it RAGES. Now dim the lights, tune into this movie, the documentary, the soundtrack and let’s do the DEAD, yeah TURN BLUE!
movie and documentary reviews
Explore the intersection of music and film with our in-depth movie and documentary reviews. We critique the latest releases that delve into the world of rock, metal, and punk, offering insights and opinions that cut through the noise.
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unfiltered Concert reviews
Get the lowdown on the most electrifying shows around the country. Our concert reviews offer an uncensored look at live performances from your favorite bands and emerging artists. We cover every detail, from the setlist to the crowd's energy, ensuring you feel like you were right there in the pit.
Whether it's a dive bar show or a massive festival, our reviews capture the raw power and intensity of live music. We don't just tell you about the concert—we take you there. Read on for brutally honest assessments and photos that bring the experience to life.
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