Bad Girls of the 50s/All-night Joints & All-night Dames/That Cool Cat From Not That Far Back Wants Hotdogs
The TRUCKS that hi-ball thru the night!
The ALL-NIGHT joints of dames and java!
The rough-tough guys and wide-eyed Dolls who get their kicks from BENZEDRINE!
and saturday night drinks in bars where all the ladies bad dentistry/dolphin and tribal tattoos adorn tired flesh/dirty flat beers with the best company/but me on the sleazier side of drunk/watching karaoke kings and queens/once upon a time I was falling in love/now I’m only falling apart/as the doors lock and the kerry katona iceland treats come out on paper plates/tandoori chicken bites and soggy goujons/the dirtiest tapas you ever saw disappear with drained pints of stale lager/and we three slip away/a blur of taxi rides through the misty streets/into the a.m./where dark rooms shuffle a sinister cabaret of shemales/fags in drag/and a muted hard-on in my trousers/and I can hear the static noise of drunk in my ears/playground legends just tourists in this grim safari/too drunk to be disgusted or to get my dick sucked in the back room/she says she wants it rough/for me to pull her hair/and call her a dirty slut/but that nausea I can’t shake/like the dirt in my belly I can never throw up hard or deep enough to get out/and breakfast fried plantain with scrambled eggs and peppers/and that cool cat from not that far back/wants hot-dogs
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download soundtrack: The Fabulous Chordettes – The Chordettes
if you enjoy this album please obtain a legal copy
“I thank God I was raised Catholic, so sex will always be dirty.”
and the weekend left me bruised and trampled/paddled by a mistress whose nazi uniform/black strapon and heels/thrashed me on a st andrews cross/and buxom corseted ladies put me in the trampling cage and sat on my face/and put their heels in my mouth/and next to the dance floor a mistress whipped admirers as they lapped at her little pussy through the bars that guarded her/or them/and I thought that whilst that pussy looked good it was maybe riddled with herpes/and my arrogant chin thrust out I drew the line in the sand/and she hit me in the face/and outside the human ashtray/whose burns and ashy grey lips/and sissy boys/where freaks and fingerings/slaps and shuffles/stockings and shoes/breasts constricted in corsets and me drunk/staggering through this/like a half-tranquilised kaiju/riding through the grim carnival like gidrah/stroboscopic lights/and mr wankee man/shuffling dismally/using the least amount of energy and movement possible to slap both thighs with a sore looking penis/in some ketamine disco jiggle/gold lurex leotard/one stocking fallen down/blonde wig and golden mask/but when the mistress prodded my ass with her strappon/I was weary of being thrashed
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“What a strange thing man is; and what a stranger thing woman.”
and the porn then was visceral, all meat and potatoes with a side order of meat/todays filth so clinical with rubbery cold flesh, astro glide, the smell of bleached surfaces and antibacterial hand gel/there is no vaginal discharge, stray hairs, wet pussys, just cold lube smeared on cold thighs sickly sweet/a machine pumping out dilated cunts and viagra engorged wangs.
and they asked buttman in a documentary about his fixation with anal, and he said that it was because it was ‘real’ that you get a ‘real’ reaction from the actress/and I like that, porn thats ‘real’/and rocco siffredi still holds the fort down/no antibacterial hand gel or viagra there/the last great porn auteur/dirty anal kelly in rome part 2 his citizen kane.
and I heard about a cocktail, called a mexican hooker, that consists of tequila, tuna brine and tabasco/and thought it sounded quite good/and talking of mexican hookers, if they all looked like jessica alba in the killer inside me/I’d be continually broke/and they don’t understand that casey affleck is the physically small, appearingly mild mannered psychopath that jim thompson captured and characterised in a lot of his books/and played it perfectly.
so enjoy the tattered magazine covers/ranging from sinister to hillarious/with wild typographic design/and semen glazed laminate/and the riz ortolani soundtrack/ecclectic sounds that somehow are never disjointed/so go get your gun and lets christen this evening
soundtrack: Cannibal Holocaust – Riz Ortolani
if you like this album please purchase a legal copy
Book jackets artwork from the design legend Alvin Lustig, for the New Classics series. This is the full series from a the New Classics section of the Alvin Lustig website, to view his incredible ads, identities, periodicals, architecture, interiors and more book jacket artwork click on the link bellow.
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“Lustig’s solution of a book jacket problem was seldom a literary solution. He was no verbalizer; as a matter of fact, writing came hard to him. His method was to read a text and get the feel of the author’s creative drive, then to restate it in his own graphic terms. Naturally these reformulations were most successful when there was an identity of interest, but it was remarkable how far he could go on alien ground.
In discussions of values in art the positiveness of his assertions occasionally suggested egotism; he would submit himself to it fully and with humility.I have heard people speak of the “Lustig style” but no one of them has been able to tell me, in fifty words or five hundred, what it was. Because each time, with each new book, there was a new creation. The only repetitions were those imposed by the physical media.”
by James Laughlin, New Directions – Print Magazine, Oct/Nov 1956
ranging from unintentionally hilarious to creatively inspired, from peculiar to just plain shoddy, the hand drawn artwork and typography from 80s video covers is tangled up in my aesthetic sensibilities and as much a part of me as Milton Glaser, Saul Bass or Eric Gill.
All of the above designers were impressed on me from an early age, but it was at 6 or 7 years old, wandering through the video rental store that I became obsessed with the salacious, sleazy and garish covers and the sexy/violent/forbidden/terrifying/taboo events that were promised inside. I would run to my father with a big clamshell VHS box in hand, and try and persuade him to rent Nail Gun Massacre or Death Ship, completely at a loss as to why he never wanted to watch such intriguing and sensational movies.
This was before video stores would just carry 20 copies of each of the newest releases and sold fucking haribo and walkers sensations, before they became homogenous, soulless and bland . Every cassette, every beta-max or VHS, was different, and it smelt of old cigarettes in there, and it was a seedy, exciting jungle of forbidden stories. An obese man sat behind the counter, all chip grease and pedo-chic, who wheezed at the effort of raising a B&H up to his sweaty face, and you’d expect to have found him in a run down sex shop, selling second hand wank mags, tie-dyed with spunk and curled at the corners, and marital aids the colour of skin grafts, and novelty condoms, and cock rings and clitoral stimulators that look like a tools to torture women who cant orgasm.
and I would have to stand on tip-toes to reach up and slide off the cases with my finger tips so that I could read the synopsis on the back, drawn in by the covers; all metallic tinted letters, meat cleavers, guns, drop shadow typography, skulls and tits; all painted by hand.
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props go to Critical Condition Online for the images and for creating a virtual VHS shrine
Cover artwork for the Latvian magazine Jauna Gaita
Published by the exiled Latvian community in the USA from the Soviet occupation of Latvia until the early 1990s.
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