Entry 0113: Call of Cthulhu summary


7-inch: English Civil War by the Clash

1979 CBS Records, CBS 7082

Favorite Track: Pressure Drop


You may remember my last blog post was a little background story about Wendell Christmas. Wendell was a handyman from Buffalo, NY, had a fondness for taxidermy, was dealing with the death of his mother, and was going hunting in Vermont. I had high hopes for Wendell. I was really expecting him to start creating alien taxidermy to sell to weirdos in New York City or Arkham. However, the stars were not aligned last night and poor Wendell as well as the rest of the investigating crew met their demise.

Here’s how it happened:

In one way or another, all seven of us knew Bryant (? I’m forgetting the exact name) who was a reporter gone missing in the Strafton Mountain region nearby the small town of Jenner. Almost immediately, we got the sense that the locals did not enjoy us asking too many questions. Yes, there were fires up there occasionally. Most likely, Harney was just sacrificing goats again. The reporter was last seen at the feed store, but who really cares. With mounting curiosity, we visited his house and found an odd clue. At night, we decided to visit Harney with one of our characters dressed in a diving suit and pretending to be a pest control agent. This is where the alcohol must have started kicking in. Unfortunately for us, this is exactly when some tall centipede creatures with glistening wings came to his farm. Our shotgun fired valiantly and dangerously in its face, but the creature still managed to wound our investigator. A drunk Harney shotgunned another sitting in the getaway car. Wendell, having been left behind, stole into the farmhouse, found a letter, then spent the night crazily dashing through the woods back to our inn.

That was the end of our first session. Last night, we gathered together as it just started to rain outside. We knew we were toward the end and were excited to solve the mystery. Our wounded tried to fast talk the doctor, but with no success. Right there, we should have paid heed to the lack of quality dice rolling. A few others went back to Brattleboro and bought weapons and a lot of dynamite. Wendell asked around the other farms but found out no other information. Some others in the day time went back to visit Harney and pull a gun on him, forcing a confession. He was working for the bugs, trying to get them home although we did not really believe that. The group decided to split up: one party would join Harney for the ritual with his buggy friends; the others would build a blind and stop any danger the others might get into.

And that’s where it all went wrong. Those who joined Harney immediately fell intoxicated with the chanting of strange, nearly unutterable words. A portal was growing and the world was turning icy cold. Wendell and two others pulled out their shotguns. Wendell muttered he would be the one to do the worst: shot the lady with all the hidden dynamite and blow up everyone down there. Wendell did not want to do it, already it weighed heavy on his mind. But he knew he was witnessing something not Christian, hell not even human, and this would be the safest way. We had failed to conceal dynamite around the stone circle earlier.

But this is where my stat sheet ruined the game. Wendell was slow with a 9 Dexterity.

One character got to fire first and they decided to target the dynamite lady even though that was suppose to be Wendell’s job. He fired and blasted the poor head off of the lady. Sadly, he was not lucky enough to hit any of the dynamite. One investigator dead. This senseless killing awoke one member from their trance, but the other kept on repeating gross syllables. The other investigator in the blind ran away screaming in terror. Wendell went homicidal.

Now, I could have shot the corpse of the lady anyways and maybe we would have won. But that didn’t seem inline with what just happened to my character. I was told that I now hated the human race. So, naturally, why would I not shoot the person who shot my target? I missed, but one of the creatures snapped his neck very soon after. Two investigators dead.

Wendell walked forward as the portal grew larger than even the tallest of the creatures. Clearly, they were not going home. Wendell aimed his shotgun again at the nearest target. She was still chanting when the spread tore through her neck and chest. Three investigators dead. Another bug creature got the guy who awoke from his trance. Four investigators dead. The screaming guy regained his sanity and came back to see if anyone was still alive. Wendell was moving along the circle getting ready to shoot the next person, Harney.

But the portal was open and out came a long, long arm. It thumped the ground and all of us flew into the air. Screaming guy only went 20 feet into the air, but feel and was severely injured. Wendell went up 70. He thought of his mother. He thought maybe I can get off one more shot. Harney should die after all. Then he landed on his neck and was dead. The screaming guy died as he froze to death. All seven investigators dead.

I laughed. The dynamite plan would have worked if it ignited. Or if I or someone else had killed Harney, the chanting would have stopped although the creatures may have still party wiped us. Alas, no alien taxidermy this time.

But, I am already at working creating Wendell Christmas’s brother, Hank.

Entry 0112: A Little Background on my New Call of Cthulhu Character


LP: Dead Can Dance by Dead Can Dance

2016 4AD Records, CAD 3622, reissue

Favorite Track: A Passage in Time


Wendell Christmas sat on the stalled train, watching the cardinals flash red past his finger-spotted window. Just once he would like to fly…feathery wings growing from the curve of his back, flapping powerfully so as to sweep away all the dust at his feet as they slowly left the earth…just once he would like to fly back home to Buffalo. Instead the train lurched forward and the cardinals became faded brown dots in violet dusk.

He knew he should get some rest. Tomorrow he would start his week tracking turkeys, possums, and foxes. A customer of his had wanted him to bag and stuff a stag, but Wendell laughed and said he did not have the materials necessary. However, something bothered him about shooting a noble deer. As a child, he would explore the woods of his pappy’s farm and the deer would always find him by the lake, approached tentatively, but always approached and stood by him, sometimes drinking out of his cupped hands, all the time breathing heavily while their big black orbs tried to convey some natural message. Wendell used to believe it was his mother possessing the Cervidae, attempting to communicate supernaturally with her son. Wendell fumed over what he would say to her incorporeal spirit. Five years was not enough, yet, in an impassive way, he wouldn’t know what more he could say to her.

It was dark when the train pulled into the station. An active owl hooted like a watchman over the cold tracks and fallen pine needles. Wendell slung his heavy bag over one shoulder and made his way to the hotel. He would camp tomorrow, but now was too dark for him to find a safe spot by the river. Plus, a gloomy disposition had settled over him like a fog rolling off the water and into bay. A question nagged him: was his interest in taxidermy merely a coping mechanism for the death of his mother? He tried to tell himself many things: electrical and mechanic repair were hobbies that paid bills and tabs; there is a calming effect scooping out the entrails of a fresh kill; the complimentary thanks of a satisfied customer made his soul glide above snow-peaked mountains; the danger of the hunt and the silence of ambush; his mother had left the earth and it didn’t matter anymore and all Wendell had to worry about was feeding himself and satisfying his customers and be wary not to fall in love. The owl hooted again and then surprised Wendell by flying out with far-reaching wings. Its eyes were the color  of squash and its flight took him right over Wendell’s tall frame. As it went past, he could have sworn a sweet, raspy voice squawked, “Sunrise…”

At the hotel, Wendell climbed into bed after washing his hands with the soap he brought with him The mattress was hard, but Wendell expected worse. After a few moments of adjusting and relaxing, he reached for the Weird Tales magazine he brought with him. It was the black-bordered October 1923 issue. The frightening image of a snowbound ship and, presumably, the captain forced to walk the plank caught his eye at the newsstand. What strange and horrible stories this Edwin Baird published. Wendell felt a little rebellious collecting these pulps. His father would flay his skin with a poker if he knew.

Tonight, by candlelight, Wendell read a short story by a newcomer: H.P. Lovecraft. The tale was titled Dagon. When he was done, he took the candle to a window and stared out into the darkness, hoping to see the river in the distance. Nothing but tall trees with extended limbs greeted his vision. A slight breeze made every branch sway like a mummy’s outstretched arms. Wendell shook his head, but couldn’t laugh. An owl swooped by, catching a fat mouse that gave little squeal. He was sure it was the same owl and he knew for certain that he would see this same owl every night this week.

Who hunts the hunters? was his last thought before a queer sleep overtook him.

Entry 0111: Black Coffee, Part One


LP: Queens of Noise by the Runaways

1977 Mercury Records SRM 1-1126

Favorite Track: Queens of Noise


The laser snake surged with potential energy, its purple scales pulsing with biofed power. It was coiled around a memory tree on the lowest branch where the data was richer. Cy and I had our converter packs with us, but weren’t interesting in computer history right now; we were smuggling. Black coffee was a crime. The president general had demanded a sweet world, a media wash on all things bitter. Every morning was video loops of cats stretching and children writing new patents. Outside my house, eight dead bodies laid in the gutter. Coffee addiction was the only thing keeping me alert and alive. Same with Cy. So we pooled our limited sources together and decided to wake up the world.

But we could only do that if we could get past this laser snake. We were not prepared for it. Laser snakes spawn where government secrets get filled with radiation six-packs. Nearly silent, able to read barcodes and ID chokers, laser snakes are typically used to guard something valuable, but, frequently, one or two will go rogue and eat for sport. They were most deadly around water, which, thankfully, wasn’t within a hundred miles of us. Well, thankfully because we were near a laser snake, but that lack of water was actually one of our biggest headaches in the black coffee world. We hated to serve our patrons powder.

Cy turned to me. “I forgot my sodium bicarbonate balloon at the guild.”

I saw a flicker of tension drain his face of its usually calmed countenance. I didn’t have much in my bag either, but I had a jacket because I get cold easily. It was my father’s–the only thing I had of that legendary figure. His wanted poster was still at the post office although that place was abandoned seventy years ago. Briefly, I thought of all the unread love letters and post cards. There was a story there I would have to write later.

“Cy, be prepared to run.” I tried to sound confident but the laser snake hissed, a zillion ones and zeros booming like thunder.


I threw the jacket on top of the snake. It was on fire before it even left my hands and I felt my fingertips blister. But the snake thrashed wildly, incinerating its way through the cloth, but Cy and I were long gone, 18 bags of coffee grounds awaiting their water source.

We just didn’t know at the time that we were under the eye of the president general.

Entry 0110: Tarot Mirror


LP: Mirror Man by Captain Beefheart and His Magic Band

1973 Buddah Records BDS 5077

Favorite Track: Tarotplane


Just bear this in mind:

Sun siftin’ thru kandy korn little girl with the long black wavy mane. Mirror frog yellow and orange and faces ‘n’ phases–just what you’ve been told. Oh, listen to me baby: stay stay warm dawnin’ on me. Going through the cottage cottage, you are going to need some bodies on your eyes that flutter like uh wide open shutter. Automatic Sam told Mirror Germ “Don’t give us no pay. Blue cheese faces mirror man, mirror me.” “Well they taste so good, gonna take you for a ride,” said Elixir Sue, “in my reborn tarotplane.” Mirror dawn, I want to eat’em. She uh pickin’ poppies, I get to need’em. 25th century candy corn. Mirror day bringing them into her hue. Drum razors in the clay mice heaters. “Be reformed,” Baby person told Mirror Bird, “laces goin’ flyin’ in my tarotplane, tarot mirror, man me, Elixir corn, flutterin’ ants crack and dawn with me, Mayflower can-can-can.” Automatic Sam told Mirror Man, “Don’t you understand? Just bear this in mind: Sun just mirror way and true friends are hard to find and they taste so good I want to eat ’em.”

Entry 0109: Why Never to Ask Me What I Had for Lunch


LP: Hard Attack by MX-80 Sound

1977 Island Records ILPS 9520

Favorite Track: Civilized / Demeyes


Friends today learned the hard way not to ask me what I had for lunch. Food was still digesting in my belly so my brain was on fire with quick, silly responses. Here is the transcript (I am the Librarian Demon):

Pippi Gothstockings: how was everyones lunch?
Hero Scientist: I had taco truck pork burrito with spicy salsa
Librarian Demon: let me describe mine: I stood waiting by the counter, counting my chin hairs.
Pippi Gothstockins: where is there a taco truck
how many were there
this is important
Librarian Demon: the food seemed to be taking its time as if the chef had to grow it, water it, sing it Brahms, then slaughter it herself
Hero Scientist: it is the best taco truck
in the BP parking lot in pleasant ridge
Librarian Demon: a man approached me with a plastic bag. “oh my food” i said
mostly to myself as the man returned to the screaming kitchen
Pippi Gothstockings: oh youre at other a—s
i forgot about that
we’ve talked about that taco truck
Librarian Demon: i walked back to the library briskly, remembering that I had to pay a prank on C——
at my desk, I unveiled my succulent prize: sytrofoam
the fork was handy save for my fingers which i dropped a few times
after securing my fingers, i decided to press my nose into the styrofoam, inhaling the robust odor of mango, until the foam was pierced and a semi-burning liquid filled my nostril
to eat, I use my teeth but I have learned of stranger ways
the colorful array of snap peas, zucchini, ginger, pineapple, and mango on top of the saucy red (jack the ripper) tofu was ruined by the pale brown rice. why did I get brown rice???
only after overcoming all my fears that my poisoners had finally found after i escaped Buffalo, i place foods in the many places of my mouth
to save for later
my stomach farted happily as the stir-fry tore holes through my lungs with a rush of nicotine tar
now I peek at my desk, smiling fondly at the tragedy of my lunch hour: sixty minutes of my life to take sixty bites and sixty bites for my marriage to fall apart, leaving me alone with my tofu gun
*noticeable silence from the other two*

Entry 0108: Patti Smith plays Horses in Cleveland

LP: Horses by Patti Smith

1975 Arista AL 4066

Favorite Track: Land

LP: Horses by Patti Smith

1977? Arista AL 4066, reissue

Favorite Track: Land

The chill of the icy morning air woke me up a minute before my alarm went off. Daylight saving time had robbed me a precious hour of unconsciousness. I still hadn’t packed. My mouth felt fuzzy, but tolerable. I hoped my body odor was the same. I was bound to Cleveland to see Patti Smith play her seminal album Horses in its entirety. Horses is everything to me. This album changed my life more than probably any other album besides Smash by the Offspring, which was the album that made me fall in love music. But Patti Smith saved my taste in music.

When I first decided to collect records, I thought I was going to amass a small sample of jazz albums. I had an idea about having music to listen to while cooking plus realized that I could name five or six jazz musicians but have never heard any of their music (or at least not consciously). So I set off to the record store and bought a few jazz albums and then I happened to find London Calling by the Clash (one of my all-time favorites) and Horses by Patti Smith. Back at home, I listened to the jazz and enjoyed it. But it was when I put on Horses and Gloria started up with its sneering provocation of “Jesus died for somebody sins but not mine” that I knew what I had to do: I had to collect punk albums. Sorry jazz. You are wonderful and needed, but punk is my soul.

Sitting in the car in the back seat, my feet kept tapping awkward rhythms to the alternative playlist coming from the speakers. I was with two wonderful co-workers on the road trip of our lifetimes or, at least, it felt that heavy at the time. The father-daughter duo bantered in the front and I laughed along with them, but my mind kept spacing out during the long stretches of Ohio farmland. I couldn’t wait to eat. A beer would be the best. Actually, just get me out of this car already! I’ve pulled some super long car trips in my childhood, but I’m secretly starting to get real antsy in them. Getting old means feeling like you are going strange–maybe not crazy in its full sense of mental illness, but that feeling you cannot tolerate certain annoyances as easily any more.

We arrive on good time and with plenty to kill. Being a cold Sunday, we have few places to go within the Playhouse Square area. After a cozy and necessary Irish meal and beer (I had a black and tan for the first time in probably 7 years), we took an Uber to A Separate Reality record store where all three of us scored some dream records. My haul were nice original copies of Tim Buckley’s self-titled and Lorca album, the Bush Tetras’ Ritual EP, and the Live at CBGB’s compilation with Mink Deville’s Let Me Dream if I Want to (a song I love so much from that No Thanks punk rock CD box set). On the way back to the hotel, I imagined my next day off: a bottle of wine and all these new records.

The State Theater is beautiful. A Discordian miracle happen: I had bought my tickets separately than the Rileys. I only vaguely remembered where they sat. I picked a random seat. We were seated by the polite staff only for us to discover that I picked the seat directly behind theirs. Hail Eris! Then the lights dimmed and applause thundered from the 1,000+ audience members. Patti Smith strolled on stage dressed in her black vest and pants, a slight hop in her step as if she got some really good news right before entering stage left. Lenny looked the same as on the back of the album except for the obligatory white hair of venerable age. Then the piano chords rang out and Patti sings “Jesus died for somebody’s sins…” The place is already going nuts.

“Gloria” was a wonderful opener just like on the album. At first, I think they had Lenny Kaye’s guitar too low, but as the night went on, the more impressed I became with him. It’s so easy to get distracted by Patti’s frantic lyrics coming-at-you with beautiful imagery and brain-exploding meanings that the power of the music is present but not demanding of your ear. But if you listen to the individual instruments: damn, this is a tight band. Which they displayed with a relaxed version of “Redondo Beach”, which made me think of Pina Coladas. Then came the first vocal challenge of the night: “Birdland”. How was she going to do this? She did it with power in her voice. Anyone who believes that you should only see a band during their prime time or that no band is worth seeing 30 years later is a shit head. Patti Smith was as powerful now as she was then. Maybe, possibility, she could be better. When she hit the chorus for “Birdland” even the most prolific Patti Smith hated would have melted and been moved by her performance. “Free Money” rocked on and the band seemed to only get more energetic as the night wore on. As soon as that song ended, Patti quipped, “That was the end of Side A.This is where you physically flip the record to side B.” Us vinyl nuts found that funny, at least.

“Kimberly” is one of my secret favorite songs off that album. Patti told the audience about “Break it Up” which she wrote with Tom Verlaine of Television and how it is about Jim Morrison and his lack of grave at the time in France. “Land” well, do I even need to say how powerful, floor thumping, and volcanic explosion of catharsis and improv that had everyone on their feet dancing awkwardly in the confined seating areas of the State Theatre. For “Elegie” she sang the names of the musically dead while allowing people to add their own names. At that point, I think most people thought the concert was over. But they were not done. We were treated to “Dancing Barefoot” (my favorite non-Horses Patti Smith song), “Ghost Dance”, “Citizen Ship” and “Pissing in the River” from Radio Ethiopia!!! The hall reverberated with the magic of the band’s talent. Someone threw a Jerry Garcia shirt on stage and Patti launched into a rant against Jerry Seinfeld only to realize she misread the shirt. She also told us what she bought at the store: turmeric drink and a pear is all I remember.

And then the encore happened. After making us wait and clap and whistle and shout (like a professional) Patti came out and they tore into a ten-minuted rendition of “My Generation”–their famous cover that destroy’s the Who’s version in classic pass-the-torch-and-burn-the-past fashion. Patti even shredded on a guitar, wailing mad feedback like a proto-Kim Gordon and ending the cacophony by ripping all six strings off.

I had to immediately have food and a bourbon after that. For two hours, I was in heaven.

Entry 0107: The Collector of Records


7-inch: If I Should Fall From Grace With God by the Pogues

1988 Pogue Mahone Records FG-1, Red

Favorite Track: If I Should Fall From Grace With God


When he finished hanging the nine records in a grid pattern opposite his dining room table, he sighed, placed his hands over his eyes, and groaned loudly. He uncorked the bottle of Malbec and poured a deep drink, knowing this was a full bottle night. Unconsciously, he had ordered the nine albums from the start of the relationship right to the break up. The very freakin’ album that was playing when Sandra stormed out the door. He had made a tapestry of his misery.

When she finished hanging the nine records in a grid pattern opposite her bed, she sobbed once, fought back the anger, and curled up inside her favorite blanket. With deft precise, she sliced off the label of a Tempranillo and poured a heavy glass, understanding this most likely was going to end up as a full bottle night. Unconsciously, she had ordered the nine break-up albums in order from first relationship (Tommy: high school: ended via text) to her last (Grant: the last five years: February 12 in Grant’s old apartment). She had made a snapshot of her sorrow.

Grant took the first album down and put it on his player. Rubber Soul by the Beatles. How funny one night at trivia, an offhand comment about the different tracks on the UK and US versions of Rubber Soul could actually start a full-blown relationship? At the moment, a sickly sensation surging up from his stomach and making his skin feel cold, he dreamed of keeping his mouth shut. Denying the five years a chance before they were born. What would have his life been like?

She placed the first album on the platter and hit the on button. Then back to the wine for another glass. She settled down with her blanket on her bed as the needle scratched through some dust and began the opening track of Blondie’s Parallel Lines. He had kind eyes, a warm touch, and always had the other boys laughing at the lunch table. His kiss was lackluster and most of the time he hardly paid attention to her words, then later when Gina McDavid, the new girl, came along, her affections. At the best the relationship felt like a roller coaster, but at worst it was a roller-skating party, full of spills, falls, and running into old people. Where was he at this moment and was he the exact same as he had been?

The second album was Grant’s favorite, but he hated to admit to himself that it was all about the sex. One Track Mind (by Egyptian Lover) indeed. They couldn’t wait to touch each other, launching out of their stiff dreams into a passionate embrace that spilled them over the sides as their nakedness warmed with the rising sun and each other’s immediate contact. Afternoons on days off were the best: wrapped around each other on the couch reading or chatting about future plans, only for his intrepid cock to rise to the occasion again and off they were moaning filthy pleasure and forgetting the clock. Already halfway through the first bottle, Grant held back the tears. Looking down, he saw that he was erect.

Sandra’s second boyfriend was short lived. The only good thing Brad did was introduce her to punk rock. Group Sex by the Circle Jerks was as short, violent, and scathing as their three week hell. Tommy had been in puppy dog love with Gina for three weeks now, never missing an opportunity to kiss her in front of Sandra. He never winked at her and almost always seemed embarrassed, yet she was sure it was done on purpose. Brad was just a dark leather jacket nearest her the time it got to her. She grabbed Brad, forcing her mouth to open his, slithering her tongue in like a dart. She tasted beer even though Brad was only fifteen. Her virginity would be lost by midnight.

Two songs into the third album, he wasn’t sure if the self-titled Undertones album was the right choice. He knew that “I Know a Girl”‘s breezy, simplistic guitar work captured his own rather narrow but happy enthusiasm about Sandra, but was everything really peachy keen during that first year? Their friends said they were the “perfect couple”, yet none of them seemed to pick up either Sandra’s or his fears. After all, didn’t he at one time believe she cheated on him with Russell, the stranger they met at the art museum who claimed to be her long lost first kiss? Grant never voiced the doubt. He just trembled every night for two sleepless weeks. Surely, Sandra had her own doubts. When she surprised him at the office and Katie was there, he saw dangerous eye contact. Grant turned the record off before the A-side was down.

Tago Mago by Can. A double album for a duplicitous relationship. At first, she was carried away by the complex rhythms of Ivan’s wandering lifestyle. He pulled her through worlds she had never witnessed before: movie sets, garrulous agents, flashing photographers, stunning magazine models, Italian sports cars, rabid fans, and, even, the brutal dance performance of the matador. Before Ivan, she had never left her state, and now she had not only traveled to two dozen countries with him, but she caught the bug herself and replaced comics with travel guides. It was, on self-reflection, easy to become one his accessories, which she in her gullibility  became. His confidence was never tested, his will to continue doing what he did unfazed by any of her questions. Everyone always asked her how she did not know that he slept with his secretary, the models (male and female), the director’s assistant, the Macy’s girl, a few from various pubs around London, and even his sister’s best friend, Matilda. Sandra could only point to the A-bomb explosion of “Mushroom”. She didn’t know. Or she didn’t care to know.

Grant filled up his glass, took his socks off and then put them back on when he realized how cold the floor was. The fourth LP wasn’t a mystery as to why it described the most difficult part of their relationship: the death of Sandra’s father. The album brooded in its own sadness, wallowing like a drowning horse in a murky, dank swamp. Each track secretly whispered: suicide, suicide, suicide. Grant wished he was listening to Suicide instead, or, hell, even Tim Buckley’s Starsailor. The album wasn’t even his; it was Sandra’s. She must have left it behind because she knew he would do this: catalog their life together in music and this album was the only way to describe 2016. Which was like her. She could always see through his fake indifferent face and tell when he was hiding something. Then, with a simple gesture or sentence or look, she could extract the confession with ease. However, during 2016, when he needed to get inside her head, he found all his attempts useless. She remained impassive, a stricken bundle of dirty clothes and ruined make-up. He shuddered when he flipped the record over to Side-B. The latter half of the year was even worse. Grant just wished he could forget it.

22. The Rolling Stones concert. Sandra had met Adam a few days before at a trivia night competition. He was brought in because of his extensive knowledge of literature, which netted them five points for Tom Wolfe being dressed in all-white for a magazine cover and the final bonus question, which he singularly answered the locations for five novels. He smiled too much and seemed too eager, but he had an extra ticket and seemed a little wounded. Sandra didn’t realize how wounded she was from Ivan. The Stones were better than she gave credit for, but it also may have been Adam’s primo weed. He put his hand around her waist during “Brown Sugar” and she let him feel a little ass. He tried to kiss her before getting in the car, but she put a finger to his lips, gave a coy smile, and made him drive her all the way home before she blew him to his immediate satisfaction. Maybe it was a control thing, she thought later when Adam tried to bring up the subject of sex–she certainly dangled it in front of him, but often never let him have it. Her dreams were filled with Ivan’s rough hands and she was certain that Adam would never understand. A year into the relationship, he surprised her with a gift, his first as they often talked about how nerve-wracking buying gifts in relationships were: Aftermath by the Rolling Stones. Sandra flipped it over to side B, a little too nervous to hear “I am Waiting”–a song Adam played relentlessly the second and briefest year of their relationship. Words choked her throat as part of her past she blocked out returned to her. She had always suspected him of listening to “I am Waiting” because he was cheating on her. He wasn’t, but she was cheated on him.

Sandra snapped up in alert one morning and squeezed against him. It was a warmer sense of bodily contact since the death of her father. She didn’t need a hug, or silence, or someone to listen, or encouragement. She needed him. It was brief, but it lifted a heavy stone from his chest and, well, his testicles. Each morning, she returned to him: clouds lifting away from her green eyes like a leaving fog; the corners of her mouth turning up; a trip to the museum which lead to the symphony which lead to a three-day vacation in the woods; the strange obsession with the Cramps. So album five naturally had to be Songs the Lord Taught Us. There was a spontaneous burst of sexual activity, even more than when they first met. Each track reminded him of a specific time: “TV Set” doggy-style on the couch to a midnight creature feature; “”Rock on the Moon” her on top with her billowing red hair framed by the eclipsing moon; “Garbageman” interrupted by a knock on the door; “I Was a Teenage Werewolf” again outside in the Jewish cemetery down the road (which he still felt a little guilty about but they were pressed up against a tree, not a grave); “Sunglasses After Dark” a threesome with a drunk blonde from the bar that taught him a thing about his prostate gland and ice cubes; “The Mad Daddy” when a morning bout ended up with her sobbing–the death of her father returning to mind; “Mystery Plane” when they couldn’t get away with joining the Mile High Club on a flight to Chicago, but play-acted it in the Hotel room’s shabby bathroom; “Zombie Dance” where both of them went through the motion after a bottle of wine; “What’s Behind the Mask” the most epic Halloween night of his life; “Strychnine” more a fingering and heavy petting during an acid trip; “I’m Cramped” a failed attempt which left him washing the bedsheets at three in the morning; and “Tear it Up” when they both lost buttons to their favorite clothes. When Songs the Lord Taught Us finished, Grant opened up another bottle of wine.

Seeing the Stones in concert and had brought Sandra to a ’60’s music phase. At times, she suspected she was chasing her indifferent father through each album, catching coattails of his personality, his tastes, and, perhaps, his penchant for psychedelic drugs and free love. Sandra herself considered free love. Why entomb yourself with a person whose love for you will only die or become hatred? She saw what happened to her parents and she remembered being five years old and aware she was uncomfortable and sad, but couldn’t further explain away the despondent feelings. But Adam wanted nothing to do with free love; he had eyes only for her he said over and over. When Carl came along to the bar one night and he began expounding on the influence of American jazz on the French and the Argentinian cultures, all while wearing that flippant smile, a Moody Blues T-Shirt, and that wet, shiny, carefree ponytail of his, Sandra found herself holding his callused hand (because of course he played guitar) underneath the table. Adam was in a sour mood that day–his work had become increasing erratic with the promotion of a co-worker–and he decided to dip out after one drink. Carl, Sandra, and Lily stayed until closing. Lily left with a pool hustler with a gold tooth and the swagger of a man about to get laid. Carl kissed her the minute Lily turned her back. Sandra hadn’t feel this much love in years. It was almost like falling in love for the first time all over again: that precious delicate moment when your childhood erases itself with the thudding of your heart and a lascivious flash through the mind and body. But afterwards, wrapped in Carl’s arms in his gross bachelor pad, Sandra could only think about Adam. The reasons she was with him came back hard and fast. But she found she couldn’t resist the temptation of Carl. A line from Blood on the Tracks–her fifth choice–came to her mind almost thirty seconds before it came out of the speakers: “And when finally the bottom fell out / I became withdrawn / The only thing I knew how to do / Was to keep on keeping on like a bird that flew / Tangled up in blue.” Carl was more like a color, an abstraction, a maze to get lost in and to mess up. Once again, she considered she was just chasing her father, but did she even know if he really cheated on her mother? Then Adam found out. There is no album for that. Tonight, Sandra sang to herself her favorite track of the album, crying when she mouthed: “If she’s passin’ back this way, I’m not that hard to find / Tell her she can look me up if she’s got the time.”

The vacation. Grant was pretty sure he did something here, well actually he did something in Paris that was the beginning of the end. C’est Chic: French Girl Singers of the 1960’s was a breezy romp through the catchy pop tunes of the revolutionary times. Sandra was a fan of those bizarre directors who seemed more interested in cutting-up film to make political statements (Godard) or using pulpy crime noir as a means to espouse cafe philosophy (Truffaut, Melville, Malle). She bought this record as a surprise gift to him, explaining he didn’t seem interested in the trip, or in anything, until he understood its music. Sandra went on to say she just found it sexy. Grant remembered them pouring over maps, leafing through museum websites, Google searching landmarks and bookstores, and eating plenty of pastries and drinking more than enough overpriced red blends. For all the bohemian nature of Sandra, Grant never understood why she did not just want to fly over there and explore, discover whatever they happen to stumble upon. But she was insisted that they plan everything, as if in the very process of planning they could visit half the tourist spots and then be able to skip past them when on actual French soil. Grant had to admit, about a week before the trip, he wanted to cancel. A band previously broken up for almost twenty years was reunited. The only chance he had to see them (they were volatile enough to maybe not even make the 12-city tour in its entirety) was smack dab in the middle of the trip. He knew it was a mistake when he brought it up. That night he stayed up until three in the morning while she snored on the couch, looking up the perfect apartment to rent in the Latin Quarter. This surprise had seemed to do wonders. And then they arrived at De Gaulle airport and quickly things began to unravel. They had trouble buying a phone and then the instructions were only in French. They took the wrong train and spend two and a half hours trying to find their way back to the other side of the Seine. Their first night’s dinner was spectacular and has they pressed their longing lips together in the shade of the tree in the Jardin, Grant forgot the troubles of the day for one lingering moment. The next morning, Sandra seemed distant. She kept returning to the Mona Lisa, staring at it from all different angles, pushing people out of the crowd with her elbows, fuming, then setting off for the Egyptian Wing only to turn around and come back. Finally, as they were leaving, he asked her. Her reply: “It seems too small.”

The seventh relationship was foggy but the album was not. Van Morrison’s Astral Weeks always rang as clear as a church bell on a cloudless summer Sunday. Van Morrison’s vocal delivery sent pulses and waves cresting along her ear canals, brain lobes, and spine. From the opening track–a hypnotic drugged feeling–to the sweet release of the closer, Sandra danced in dirty white socks and her pants halfway undone. Because she could not really remember Nicholas–a beanstalk with curly red hair or was he the broad-shouldered beast with the shiny blond hair?–she found herself just enjoying the music with no associations, even starting to formulate ideas that Astral Weeks was created specifically for her by a secret lover, or, now wine drunk, by a young (and more handsome according to her standards) Van Morrison himself. It even dawned on her how much she was tainted her own taste in music by hanging albums up defined by relationships–by boys! What good was that? How would she truly see herself if she limited her perspective through the filters of the men that barely understood her, hurt her, or ignored her? She–like all the other women out there–needed their own song, their own individual power. She held hers now. No wait, she dropped the wine glass, but she would not fall to her knees and sob into the stained carpet even though she wanted to not because she had ruined the beige apartment carpet that felt like small rocks under her bare feet, but because she had wasted a copious amount of good wine, and was she so sure it was her idea to cry over spilled alcohol or did she fear her friends would rib and tease her relentlessly for wasting a good portion of Syrah, but at age twenty-seven, wasn’t this the only time where it was appropriate to cry over lost alcohol? Did Nicholas ever cry? She was nodding her head at herself in the mirror. Her cheeks were rosy she noticed. Yes, Nicholas cried and the sight of his tears had made Sandra feel embarrassed more than anything. She was Nicholas’s first girlfriend and she had to push aside the ugly thought that it was pity more than love that brought them together. Nicholas and his tears and his musical taste in acoustic rocker chicks, ambient snoozedom, and Van Morrison. God, so much Van Morrison. Was this is album or did she buy it after she broke up with him? Why would she do that? But what girl hasn’t done something stupid because of a man? Why did some of them wedge into the very core of your being like a metal splinter and why are some of them so on the peripheral that they may have well been spectacular comets or barren moons? She retreated from the mirror and looked down at the purple bruise on her floor. She almost missed Nicholas now for he didn’t even feel like a ghost–the way thoughts of Brad still made her flinch. Nicholas was free, carried away by invisible winds, roaming in search of love or perhaps settled down and anchored in warmth and companionship. She was too, she realized, yet she still felt a prisoner. Just like wine in a bottle, waiting to be poured forth.


*I’m on a crazy writing schedule this week, trying to do 500 words every day. I will return to this story. Check back soon!


Entry 0106: More Conan reviews


LP: We are the Lazer Viking by An Albatross

2003 Ace Fu Records ace 023

Favorite Track: The Vitally Important Pelvic Thrust


Before I return to the bloodshed of Conan, I want to say Happy New Year and let it be as good as 2016 as far as record collecting goes. Last year, I found some of the rarest records I had been searching for, leaving me speechless yet again at the mass of goodies I have hoarded in my one bedroom apartment. One day, I will take a vacation and just list to all the records I own. I may have to take two vacations. Finding the Little Johnny Jewel Ork Records 7-inch made it feel possible that I could acquire all the crazy records I’m searching for. What would I do if I found an original the Return of the Durutti Column in all its sandpapery goodness? What if next time I walk in, I see an original New Rose single? Oh, the tasty possibilities.

Okay, jazz music is driving me nuts. I wanted to write but this is distracting. Don’t get me wrong: I like jazz music. But right now, it is not helping. I actually wrote “tastiness possibilities” and only just caught the error. I blame the keyboardist.

So, by Crom, let’s get to the violence!

“The Vale of Lost Women” – 1 out of 5 broken skulls

Robert E. Howard


Oh brother. Where to start with this tale? I enjoyed that it was told from Livia’s point of view instead of Conan’s, but, well, Livia is very proud of a whiteness while being captive of the Bakalah tribe. Then she offers Conan her body as a prize for rescuing her. Yikes! Instead she flees Conan and finds the vale of lost women, which has some lesbian suggestions, but they try to sacrifice her to a moth-god, which was by the far the best part. Conan saves her and tells he wouldn’t have slept with her because that would have been rape. Who knew Conan was a class act? Is he? His sexual policy seems to alter between stories (see the Frost Giant’s Daughter) so I am not sure what to make of this ending. Either way, this story was never published during Howard’s life time and perhaps it would have been best left that way. For you future Conan-reading people, feel free to skip this one. You are only missing out on racism.


“The Castle of Terror” – 3 out of 5 broken skulls

L. Sprague de Camp and Lin Carter


I’ve noticed that I prefer the weird tales of Conan. Something about combining the bloodthirsty action with the supernatural and the cosmic mindbending that reels me in like a fish swallowing the fly. This tale is more atmospheric than plot. In fact, the plot is a little thin. Conan is once again being chased by nature. This time a couple of lions. This already feels a tad unrealistic; I get Conan is the hero and faster than most humans…but lions?!? Just when he is about to turn and fight, he notices the lions have stopped chasing him. He has wandered too close to a dilapidated castle, a haunted castle. Conan enters and, despite seeing eerie spirits, decides to sleep. Well, I love Scooby Doo so I bought it. Then Conan realizes the serpent-people of long ago are ghosts trying to eat him! Nightmare fuel! He wakes only to find a shadowy demonic shape. But then, the cheesy deus ex machina happens: some soldiers also decide to enter the castle and quickly are devoured by the massive ghost-creature. Conan flees. Again, weak plot, but totally enjoyable with good images.


“The Snout in the Dark” – 2 out of 5 broken skulls

Robert E. Howard, L. Sprague de Camp and Lin Carter


This second collection of Conan short stories has been great, but it ends on a mediocre note. This was an ambitious story with a lot to chew on. I suspect Howard realized it would have been a better novel and that is why he scrapped it. We have too much world building to do in this tale to make it work: there is a caste/class social system; there is a web of betrayals against the Queen; there is the strange wizard character who needed more background; there is the Snout in the Dark; there is a captive prisoner (with more damn white emphasis); and there is Conan playing a sort of Yojimbo kind of role. I really liked the first part of the story. The head of the Queen’s guard is imprisoned and thinks he will only be locked up but then comes the Snout! Unfortunately, the Snout is a limited scary creature. In fact, after this initial scare, the Snout seems like a poor choice to mount a rebellion against the Queen. It seems like in order for it to be effective, you would have to have your victim captured and tied up, which seems to defeat the point. That aside, the end of the story offers an interesting look at anarchy as the town destroys itself.

Two books in and I am really glad I am reading Conan the Barbarian. Sure the stories are a little bit the same (and then last few had some elements of racism and sexism), but they remind me of my favorite elements of fantasy books and video games: each story introduces a new city, custom, villain, dastardly deed, and Conan heroics. I cannot wait to discover his other adventures and I wonder if he will ever meet his end? Unfortunately, I do not own the third book yet (it is a bit rare) so I don’t know when I will return to Hyperborea, but until then, slay all the monsters!

Entry 0105: Xmas Conan Reviews


7-inch: Long Distance Lovers by Huggy Bear

1994 Gravity, Gravity 9

Favorite Track: Tuff Lovin


Happy holidays and anti-holidays to all of you crazy people out there! I had a wonderful trip to visit family down in the Carolinas. There was plenty of family photos, the traditional watching of National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation, cookies and other good food, presents, and, of course, time to bond with my nephew, an expert in insects, birds, and Jenga destruction. Also, I picked up this sarcastically wonderful head cold. But that gave me some time to catch up on my Conan the Barbarian stories, so let us see what he was up to this time! Spoilers below, of course.

“The Frost Giant’s Daughter” – 4 out of 5 broken skulls

Robert E. Howard


How long I have waited to read this tale? This is the tale that inspired The Sword to write a song about (and probably other bands as well). This is one of Fran Frazetta’s best Conan pieces and is the cover of the book (and an album cover for Dust). When I first started to show interest in Conan the Barbarian, it was the first tale whose name I learned. So how did it stack up? Quite well. Conan has found himself with an AEsir war party who has been slain in a mighty battle that leaves Conan all alone. A semi-nude woman appears and taunts him which drives the battle-weary barbarian into a lusty anger (how rude Conan! What are you a barbarian or a gentleman?) and he pursues her deep into the winterlands. Conan can never quite catch her and she sends two Frost Giants, her brothers, to attack Conan, which leads to an excellent fight. At the last moment, the woman calls upon her godly father’s name and a blindly bolt of lightning causes Conan to pass out (something he does a lot. I should have kept track of that.) When he wakes up, he thinks it was a dream until he sees her veil in his hands.

The tale is based upon Bulfinch’s version of Atalanta mixed with Apollo’s chase after Daphne after having been struck by Cupid’s arrow. This may be the mythological justification for Conan’s pursuit with intent to rape, but that aspect of the story is problematic. Now no one should be reading Conan and thinking he is a good guy and modeling their life after his behavior, but this action is too far wrong even for an “anti-hero”. In fact, Sprague de Camp and Lin Carter added Conan’s code of honor towards women in the very next story, stating specifically that Conan would never rape a woman, which I think was their (perhaps lame) attempt to gloss over this story. The rest of the story, however, is brilliant. It contains some of Howard’s best landscape descriptions and the battle with the Frost Giant’s is vicious. Also, it was a nice break from all the treasure hunting. A man overcoming the powers of nature and some gods before ultimately being humbled by a very powerful god, reminding Conan that even he has limits.

“The Lair of the Ice Worm” – 5 out of 5 broken skulls

L. Sprague de Camp and Lin Carter


This title excited my brain to no end. I wanted to just pull out a piece of paper and draw what I thought the Ice Worm looked like and its lair. The story did not disappoint. Conan is traveling through the mountain ranges at the beginning of spring. A woman’s scream alerts him to some cave people circling a strange woman, so Conan begins to impale them upon his lance until it breaks. But his war axe handles the rest. The woman hardly knows a word Conan can understand, but she follows him into a cave so they can stay warm. Soon, they make love–okay, I did roll my eyes at this. While Conan slumbers, the girl sees two giant eyes. When Conan wakes up, he finds her missing and his honor shamed that he did not protect her. He follows the Ice Worm’s tracks to its lair and uses an ingenious idea (Conan understands science!) to defeat the Worm. I loved this story because the descriptions were just like out of a movie or an excellent D&D campaign. I love stories set in cold mountains during the winter. The Ice Worm was a great villain: a giant mouth with thousands of teeth to eat the flesh off the skeleton, but also a freezing breath to save food for later. Perhaps the plot is a bit too simplistic, but it show cases Conan as a maser fighter against even the most vicious of beasts.

“The Queen of the Black Coast” – 4 out of 5 broken skulls

Robert E. Howard


The first epic Conan tale. Some people rank this as the best Conan tale. Although I disagree, it certainly is a strong one. But like “The Frost Giant’s Daughter” even its lush language and large-scope plot cannot hide the sexism and racism in the story. The story starts with Conan fleeing a crowd by leaping on a barge and quickly befriending the captain, Tito. Conan admits he does not understand civilization: he had been called into trial as a witness (this may be the third time Conan has gone to court; is this another thing I should be keeping track of?) and frustrated at not understanding why he was there, Conan broke the skull of the judge and fled. What is interesting about this is you have the typical American “anti-hero” attitude against the Man (court system, police, government, etc.) which is commonly thought of as happening in the ’60’s, being presented in a Conan story written in 1934. Unfortunately for Tito, Conan is a bit of a curse of his companions as they are almost immediately attacked by Belit, the Queen of the Black Coast, which is exactly the groan inducing title you think it is: a white woman considered a goddess by superstitious black natives, who come with tom-toms, spears, and circular shields. By Crom, Robert E. Howard! She is also topless although maybe because she is also sailing around the hot southern oceans that would make a little sense…okay, looking at all the ladies glaring at me, nope, nevermind! Tito and his crew are killed and Conan leaps aboard Belit’s ship expecting to die, but Belit is sexually turned on by his savage nature and she asks him to become her mate. The sex hinted at suggests BDSM. Thus, Conan becomes a pirate and makes raids along the Black Coast until Belit decides to find a fabled lost city full of treasure. Okay, people have to stop doing this around Conan. It is definitely bad luck. As they travel down a lonely river, a giant snake eats one of the crew members. I suspect the Weird Tales editor said to Howard: “It has been five paragraphs since someone has died. Kill someone quick!” Then we get to the real meat of the story where they find the treasure, Belit issues some bad commands maybe under a curse, a winged creature has destroyed their water supply, Conan leads some troops into the jungle only to pass out at the touch of a black lotus. There he hallucinates the eons of history of the forgotten city: where superhumans lived but devolved into winged apes and other humans were turned into hyenas. Then comes a lot of death, including Belit who is hung from the yardarm. Conan’s final showdown expertly combines brutal wartime with the supernatural, which makes these Conan tales so special.

I really appreciated the scope of this story. It takes the normal Conan tale and stretches it into three distinct sections, pushing the limits of what Howard could get away with. A movie could be made out of this tale alone. Belit is a bit hokey as a character, but a better woman character despite her nakedness and immediately sexual attraction to Conan. Had Howard wrote out her background and how she become Queen of the Black Coast, this may have earned another broken skull in my ratings system. The dialogue between her and Conan feels comfortable and sort-of believable despite how fast they seem to pair up. Besides there is a jump-cut of time between sections one and two of the story, where obviously the two love birds would learn about each other. We are treated to Conan’s inner thoughts about gods including Crom. I did not expect this sudden religious contemplation at all! Then you get a Lovecraftian ancient history lesson followed by a bloody fight and a mourning Conan who gives Belit a Vikings funeral. Like I said, the scope of the story is impressive and had Howard only fleshed it out just a little bit more–say another 3,000 words–this would be contending with the best (minus the sexism and racism, of course). That being said, I would recommend this story to people first picking up Conan as an introduction besides “The Tower of the Elephant.”

Entry 0104: Mix Tape 2016


7-inch: She is Beyond Good and Evil by the Pop Group

1979 Radar Records ADA 29

Favorite Track: She is Beyond Good and Evil


2016 was a terrible year. I shed many tears, clasped many a friend to my shoulder as we tried to hold each other up. However, 2016 was a great year in music for me. I discovered two bands that I binged on, finally got Hex Enducation Hour by the Fall, found some of my favorite punk albums as originals, discovered the groove in Veneuzuela during the 70’s thanks to Soul Jazz Records, and, like every one else, enjoyed the Stranger Things soundtrack. In fact, after making this list, I discovered this year I spent a lot of time listening to early electronic/industrial music–a good bit of it instrumentals. Needless to say because of the size, I am not going to put them in any particular order. You are going to have to be your own DJ (or just use the shuffle button).

2016 Mix

Song ————— Artist

  1. No One Can Find the War – Tim Buckley
  2. Carnival Song – Tim Buckley
  3. Pleasant Street – Tim Buckley
  4. Hallucinations – Tim Buckley
  5. I Never Asked to Be Your Mountain – Tim Buckley
  6. Once I Was – Tim Buckley
  7. Phantasmagoria in Two – Tim Buckley
  8. Get On Top – Tim Buckley
  9. Strange Feelin’ – Tim Buckley
  10. Buzzin’ Fly – Tim Buckley (Now in my top ten favorite songs of all time)
  11. Gypsy Woman – Tim Buckley
  12. Other – S U R V I V E
  13. Dirt – S U R V I V E
  14. Copter – S U R V I V E
  15. Angels and Demons – Echo and the Bunnymen (another favorite!)
  16. Erotic City – Prince (I already loved this song, but I rediscovered it)
  17. Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas – Lee Ving
  18. Another Christmas Beer – Fear (a classic!)
  19. Soldier of Love – Arthur Alexander (also knew about this one but was excited to get it on vinyl)
  20. She is Beyond Good and Evil – the Pop Group
  21. Mind Your Own Business – Delta 5 (also just super excited to get on vinyl)
  22. I Remember – Suicide
  23. Radiation – Suicide
  24. Mr. Ray – Suicide
  25. Touch Me – Suicide
  26. Harlem – Suicide
  27. Breath the Fire – the Soft Moon
  28. Circles – the Soft Moon
  29. Out of Time – the Soft Moon
  30. Parallels – the Soft Moon
  31. Insides – the Soft Moon
  32. Want – the Soft Moon
  33. Black – the Soft Moon
  34. Wrong – the Soft Moon
  35. Deeper – the Soft Moon
  36. Rainbow Demon – Uriah Heep
  37. Sunrise – Uriah Heep
  38. Spider Woman – Uriah Heep
  39. Rain – Uriah Heep
  40. Sweet Lorraine – Uriah Heep
  41. Tales – Uriah Heep
  42. The Magician’s Birthday – Uriah Heep
  43. Green Machine – Kyuss
  44. Le Coeur Au Bout Des Doigts – Jacqueline Taieb
  45. Laisser Tomber Les Filles – France Gall
  46. Roller Girl – Anna Karina
  47. Je Suis Folle De Tant T’amier – Arlette Zola
  48. Black Star – David Bowie
  49. Lazarus – David Bowie
  50. I Can’t Give Everything Away – David Bowie
  51. Nine Plan Failed – Adam and the Ants
  52. Never Trust a Man (With Egg on his Face) – Adam and the Ants
  53. Paralysed – Gang of Four
  54. What We All Want – Gang of Four
  55. In the Ditch – Gang of Four
  56. Song I – Wire
  57. Internal Exile – Wire
  58. Dead Weight – Wire
  59. Still – Wire
  60. I’m on Fire – Chelsea
  61. Decide – Chelsea
  62. Blank Reflection – Nots
  63. Inherently Low – Nots
  64. Entertain Me – Nots
  65. Ha Ha Ha – the Julien Ruin
  66. Just My Kind – the Julien Ruin
  67. Cookie Rd. – the Julien Ruin
  68. Lookout – the Julien Ruin
  69. I Decide – the Julien Ruin
  70. Mr. So and So – the Julien Ruin
  71. Time is Up – the Julien Ruin
  72. Calverton – the Julien Ruin
  73. Araguaney – Vytas Brenner
  74. Amor en Llames – Pablo Schneider
  75. Machu Picchu – Un Dos Tres y Fuera
  76. Polvo Lunar – Miguel Angel Fuster
  77. Basheeba – Angel Rada
  78. Son De Tambor y San Juan – Un Dos Tres y Fuera
  79. Dame de Comer – Miguel Angel Fuster
  80. Caracas Para Locos – Ofrenda Vytas Brenner
  81. Panico a las 5 a.m. – Angel Rada
  82. Deny Everything – the Circle Jerks
  83. Back Against the Wall – the Circle Jerks
  84. What’s Your Problem? – the Circle Jerks
  85. Nine Million Rainy Days – Jesus and the Mary Chain
  86. April Skies – Jesus and the Mary Chain
  87. Stranger Things theme – Kyle Dixon and Michael Stein
  88. Kids – Kyle Dixon and Michael Stein
  89. This Isn’t You – Kyle Dixon and Michael Stein
  90. The Upside Down – Kyle Dixon and Michael Stein
  91. Hanging Lights – Kyle Dixon and Michael Stein
  92. Over – Kyle Dixon and Michael Stein
  93. Danger Danger – Kyle Dixon and Michael Stein
  94. Making Contact – Kyle Dixon and Michael Stein
  95. Breaking and Entering – Kyle Dixon and Michael Stein
  96. Baby Please Don’t Go – Budgie
  97. In the Grip of a Tyre Fitter’s Hand – Budgie
  98. Jumping Someone Else’s Train – the Cure
  99. Plastic Passion – the Cure
  100. Fire in Cairo – the Cure
  101. Dusseldorf – La Dusseldorf
  102. Time – La Dusseldorf
  103. Rheinita – La Dusseldorf
  104. Geld – La Dusseldorf
  105. Miss Fortune – Faust
  106. Der Garten Sandosa – Amon Duul
  107. Ein Wunderhubsches Madchen Traunt von Sandosa – Amon Duul


Whew, enjoy. It could have been longer.