By Jemiah Jefferson
It was with great sadness that I read about the passing of Rudy Ray Moore, one of the most influential, offensive, brilliant cultural voices of the 20th century. I don’t believe that I exaggerate when I say that. His uniquely out-there perspectives, voice, and performance can be heard imitated and sampled in countless examples from hip-hop and Tarantino; his films are classics of the “completely ridiculous, hilarious, independent cult curiosity” genre. The term “blaxploitation” is a catch-all for movies and culture with a lot of black people acting the fool, shooting folks, acting violent and crazy, dressing loudly, pimping, revenging; the films of Rudy Ray Moore transcend and encapsulate everything about them, but in a way that no one else dares to do. I’ve got a special place in my heart for RRM, if for nothing else than because he is the centerpiece of one of the few films that I just couldn’t get through on the first try. That film was Dolemite.
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By Michelle Patterson
I had what I thought to be the perfect metaphor for this article series. It started out well enough and soon became an epic flowchart in the grand tradition of Barney Stinson (Neil Patrick Harris on How I Met Your Mother), complete with elaborate examples and explanations, some even color-coded, and most of them flimsy enough to fall apart upon closer examination. Then, it started to become creepier and more in poor taste. It just made me too uncomfortable to continue. Finally the thought hit me that the exercise itself—trying to find the ultimate way to explain just why and how remakes are usually not a good idea at all and leave you feeling devastated and empty—had actually turned into the real metaphor I was looking for. This was followed by the realization that the explanation of the explanation had become just what I needed: a way to prove why remakes are mostly bad, sometimes good, but usually ugly. I’ll start and maybe you’ll understand what I mean.
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[This piece was originally published in Smack Dab Fanzine #4, September 1995. With the exception of typos I may have corrected, all of the original text and formatting remain the same. I have also scanned the original artwork.—Ed.]
Everyone whether they like it or not, remembers Rick Springfield. After all, he was a teen idol: musician, soap opera heartthrob and movie star.
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By Kristin Messina, Mandy Mullins, and Jaime Sparrowhawk
Fresh from their stint at Will’s Pub with Quintron in Orlando, Florida, the three sassy lasses from Garbo’s Daughter share ten tantalizing tales of celebrities who were famous before they were famous. Read on and you’ll see what we mean.
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By Christian Lipski
I heard about Tori Amos in early ’92 from a Kate Bush newsgroup, where they kept referring to this mysterious album called Y Kant Tori Read and wondering where it might be found. I dug Little Earthquakes so the existence of an additional entry in the Amos canon was a tantalizing thing. I saw a copy of YKTR once in a record shop in Tucson, Arizona, selling for $300—so close, yet so far.
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By Danny R. Phillips
Authors’ Note: This piece of fiction is based on a dream I had and is a product of my twisted imagination. Feel free to email me with thoughts relating to this or any of my other work but please, do not state the obvious. I know Hunter Thompson is dead and therefore he is extremely difficult to reach for comment.
On February 20, 2005 the great Doctor of Gonzo journalism, Hunter Stockton Thompson spent the day with his son Juan and his grandson Willie, and after giving Juan some cherished family heirlooms, Hunter put a .44 Magnum to his 67 year-old-head and well, let’s say “checked out of the hotel.”
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By Emily C.
While bands like Roxy Music gained much publicity and popularity in the mid-1970s, Duncan Browne’s musical talents—superior in many ways—seemed doomed to fade into obscurity. Duncan Browne was a classical guitarist and singer who began his career in a folk vein with 1968’s Give Me Take You album. In many ways, this album is like the solo work of the Beatles, only less saccharine. Many of these gorgeous-sounding songs wouldn’t seem out of place next to George Harrison’s “My Sweet Lord” (perhaps the best post-Beatles song by any member of that band) with their whispery vocals, ambitious horn sections, and Browne’s impressive guitar figures.
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By Brenna Chase
This month, Total Request Live ends its ten year run, marking the end of the oldest show still running on MTV and the end of “music” content on the channel for good. Everyone who grew up in the 90s has their memories of the viewer-controlled, top-ten-music-video-countdown, but was it ever really that great? Though the concept of TRL was geared to encourage viewers to vote like crazy to see their favorite video, it rarely showed music videos in their entirety. The show always lacked a much-needed charismatic host (did anybody ever like Carson Daly?). And while I started tuning in every day after school once the show premiered, I stopped watching years before the network (ironically) began pre-taping half of the week’s “live” episodes. I actually agree with MTV’s decision—a rare occurrence these days—to pull the show off the air. TRL sucks, and it has sucked for a long time. So why is it such a shame to see it go?
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By Emily C.
5. Spinal Tap does jazz fusion (from This is Spinal Tap)
“On the bass. . . Derek Smalls. . . he wrote this. . . “
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By Adam McIntyre
“What’s going on here?”
“John Hodgman. It’s a book reading.”
“Never heard of him. What’s he do?”
“Um. . . well, he’s a minor television celebrity.”
“He has a show?”
“Well. . . no. He’s on shows.”
“He’s on a show? Like what?”
“Well have you seen The Daily Show?”
“No.”
“Well he’s reading from his book.”
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