Judge not that ye not be judged.


My experience with pink film is mostly the action-oriented stuff that I think most people here would find relatively tolerable. Not much worse than the average exploitation film, imo. I highly recommend for Zero Woman: Red Handcuffs (I wrote a review at one point, will dig it up later) and Female Prisoner 701: Scorpion, if that counts.


As for the more overtly pornographic fare, my experience is even more limited (and best in small doses, I found), but given my appreciation of golden age hardcore, I hesitate to write it off. The video store I frequented back when I left the house carried carried some if I recall correctly, so if they're still around post-pandemic, I'll put on my raincoat and check a few out. (I don't think they're streaming in any of the usual services, although I do remember Fandor having some when that was still a thing).

I'm not judging. I'm delegating. ("You take the blonde, I'll take the one in the turban.")


Oh, does that count? Love those films but I don't find them, er, erotic exactly.


I'm really in the weeds here. The only "pink" I've seen was Slave Widow, which was very good and much more into pathos than I was expecting. Maybe something like....Flesh Market just seems to be more tawdry than it actually is? I don't know. I do find it strange that Realm of the Senses is not generally considered pink, I guess because it's too arty, or maybe because it just goes too far. I'm a babe. I know not.

Re: Watching Movies Alone with crumbsroom
 

The only certifiable 'pink' I think I've seen is about some guy up in an attic peeking in on women undressing. But maybe that's all of them.

Let's see, non-actiony stuff I've seen Debauchery and Flower and Snake, which I guess are good for what they are (the former is like a porno Belle de Jour with a much dumber ending, the latter is supposed to be a classic of the genre), and School of the Holy Beast, which I found kinda dull tbh (too perverted to argue its themes and too self serious to be entertaining) but I think it's well regarded. Great to look at at lest least.


Do Entrails of a Virgin and Entrails of a Beautiful Woman count? The latter is one of the most upsettingly sleazy things I've ever seen, yet I can't help but sort of admire it on that level.

JJ, I am adding those to the watchlist.*

Actually, does Gate of Flesh count? Big fan of that one.


Oh, I've seen Ecstasy of the Angels as well, but remember being left a bit cold by it.

Wanna see a wild "pink" film... watch "Woods are Wet: Woman's Hell". that **** was bat crazy... loosely based on the work of deSade.. but not for the light-hearted.


I have seen a lot of Nazi Exploitation films in my movie experience.

Oh, I own Ecstasy of Angels. Didn't even know what it was.

I've definitely gotten a bit more squeamish on extreme films over the years, and have nudged slightly away from them fairly recently. After watching Moodyson's "Hole in My Heart" I decided I was tapping out for awhile. I don't know if I wasn't expecting something like that from that particular director, but....no thanks. Really awful stuff. Like, really really bad.

That's not to say my tastes are entirely tamed though. I'm still up for most provocation and offence.I just tread slightly more cautiously towards it.

I guess I will never realize my dream of watching the entire August Underground trilogy. *sigh*

Charlotte Rampling asks a lot from me.

Does The Night Porter count? I'm kinda with Ebert on that one.


I've seen Salon Kitty, which has its charms. The Ken Adam production design and scenery chewing by Helmut Berger and Ingrid Thulin make it an entertaining enough watch.

Music!



https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aevvtpRej5M

I rewatched this last night. It doesn't help that the last minute of my copy doesn't play, but also the rest of the movie that came before didn't help much either.



I don't know how I feel about it. From the perspective of Rampling's character, I think the movie is extremely lazy. And for the good majority of the film, that was the perspective I was watching through. By the end I was looking at it more from Bogarde's perspective, and it's a better way to look at it, since his attempts at reconciling with his past seem to have a little more meat to them. But...I don't know. I still don't know. Maybe it's still lazy from that angle too.


I think this was much like I felt the first time I watched it.

My problem with the movie is that it wants to be transgressive with its central relationship but the transgression rings hollow because all the flashback scenes to the concentration camp establishing the basis of the relationship feel like outtakes from a softcore porno. Had those scenes been "uglier" and the movie didn't resort to a cloying, overly romanticized tone at every opportunity, it might have worked for me. The film as is, despite the very good lead performances, pissed me off more than anything.

I think I agree. I struggled with the almost stage production look of those scenes. But, then again, it's also his memories (mostly, I think). And he is holding onto them, regardless of it facilitating his down fall. But, even this is cheap and kind of obvious transgressive stuff. And the emotional emptiness (deliberate?) doesn't help.

Regardless though, I can't say I enjoy it much, regardless of how much it works or doesn't. It's transgressions aren't even all that startling. They are muted like the entire tone of the movie. Am I supposed to be shrugging at how deplorable and sad and ugly it all is. Because I'm shrugging.

It's no Salo.

Zing!

The Night Porter popped up on the Criterion channel and I made it about 90 minutes in and just quit.

And the whole hiding-Nazi support-group thing felt so dumb.

The central relationship felt transgressive in writing, but not in how it was portrayed.

Looked up the runtime again, would have lol'd if it was 91 minutes long.


Yeah, that whole Nazi group subplot is coming back to me and yeah, not good.

The Nazi Support group is super dumb. But was also my hook into trying to piece together what the point of this movie was. Not a good sign though when something super dumb is your Rosetta Stone. And you still don't have any great answers by the end. LIke said, I still don't know how I feel. I either hated it, or begrudgingly didn't hate it.


I will say that the last half hour is where I went from actively hating the movie to wondering if maybe there was a sliver of something there. I don't blame you for bailing though. I think it would easily qualify as one of the worst films to get a Criterion blessing.

That was a ballpark. Would have really been something if the film were 86 minutes long. "It was the last 4 minutes of static that I just couldn't take."

Usually when I don't "get" a film, I assume that it's me. But this was one film where my overriding feeling was "WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO SAY?!".

Re: Watching Movies Alone with crumbsroom
 

I also recently watched Gillo Pontecorvo's Kapo. But it was on a double bill with Slime City, so I'm sure everyone can forgive me overlooking it.

I think maybe The Night Porter had a lot more excitement to it back in '74 or even like '86 when I saw it. I'm hesitant to revisit it now because contemporary reviews are not kind.

I'm pretty sure excitement and Night Porter have never had anything to do with each other, no mater the decade. It's dreary .Deliberately dreary. With nothing to hang on to, and nothing to ponder but "oh, they're fcking".


I'd love to hear from someone who sees anything interesting in it. But I'm stymied.

I recall finding the homoeroticism of the fascists vs their revulsion to the “romance” to be interesting but it was one of those early forays into art cinema and it’s only left vague impressions and isolated images impressed upon my mind to where I don’t feel comfortable about defending it.

I dunno, it excited me when I was 12. Nudity and black leather and something about Nazis. Yup, all in.

Re: Watching Movies Alone with crumbsroom
 

Slow Down! Relax. Here's some music to sip some peaty Scotch to. Contemplate The Night Porter if you must.


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z1vYs5LBC3c

I'm sure its wretched despair would have appealed to me as a twelve year old. I would have hoped I could grow into it, but I have become so much more nuanced with my despair in these autumn years of mine.

Re: Watching Movies Alone with crumbsroom
 

More music, mother****ers!


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7gYoj-WGH5U

To wind up Hannukah this year, how about a song about Jesus?


https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lnvv1Lgj9zM

I've never been too sure, but is this song about reading inbetween rounds of golf?

I'm sure Lester Bangs would swear it was about underaged loved....between rounds of golf

Another ancient write up from Rotten Tomatoes that I'm attempting to salvage.


That stone cold classic.....





Just the facts ma’am. Or so one might expect the detective keeping vigil outside of the house in a rumpled raincoat to ask. He chews on his obligatory cigar and sips at his obligatory coffee that we will presume has gone cold. Nothing that the Lutz family does, whether it be George chopping firewood on his front lawn, or Cathy stalking her family priest to come and finally bless her new home, will slip past his sharp investigative powers. He’s on the case. Exactly what the case is, one can’t quite be sure. But he’s got his frumpy detective hat on, so he must mean business.

The Sgt. Gionfriddo subplot in The Amityville Horror will not ultimately go anywhere. His investigation is seemingly only based upon the fact that the detective thinks George looks an awful like the previous tenant of the home who murdered his family. Stakeout ensues, cigars get soggy, Styrofoam cups are emptied, then after a scene where he pointlessly shakes down a priest for absolutely no information, he will completely vanish from the movie after mumbling his final line: “Maybe I am only chasing shadows”. As if swallowed in one great gulp by the red herring that he has been chasing for about three abbreviated scenes, Gionfriddo and his hat will sink from sight, and we can get back to the important business of watching George chopping all that firewood.

For a movie famously touted as being based upon true events, Amityville Horrors director (Rosenberg) paradoxically almost seems to be approaching the truth of his own film as a skeptic. Like the fruitless snooping of Gionfriddo over nothing but shadows, Rosenberg seems to be looking for facts that just aren’t there and, as a result, has thrown up his hands and instead constructed a film not so much haunted by ghosts, but by the specters of a failing marriage, mid-life dissatisfaction and pained domesticity. Yes, walls will also bleed, but more importantly, so will pocketbooks.

As a result, the film will move towards its supernatural elements with the lethargy of a stepfather getting off the couch to tend to his step kids. While it may be compelled towards them out of a sense of obligation to the source material, it really doesn’t show any enthusiasm in committing to their maturation. Instead it will mope over the sort of details that slowly undermine a marriage, and then try to convince its audience to accept that these sometimes odd but almost always explicable events could be evidence of a haunting. They will have some problems with an insect infestation. Money goes missing. Kids get injured during horseplay. Their plumbing backs up. There are some issues with the insulation in the house, leaving George perpetually cold. And then, with all the menace of allergy season, a nosy neighbor arrives on the porch with a six pack and a lip covered in snot. He’s popped by uninvited to introduce himself. Who doesn’t relate to the horror of such a thing?

Normally this would be more the kind of foe suited for a sit-com family to fend off, but in Rosenberg’s film, an unscheduled visit from this under dressed schlub next door is presented as yet another notch on his horror cred belt. At least as long as we suspend enough disbelief to conclude that this is the manifestation of centuries old Indian spirits seeping up from beneath the house; finally returning to a physical form as a runny nosed alcoholic who wants to talk shop about the New York Jets. When he mysteriously disappears from the porch before he can even share one of his Miller Lites, the jury has come back conclusively that this is Devil business. At least one must assume according to the ominous music that suddenly accompanies the mans vanishing act.

Meanwhile, as such terrors as theses continue to mount, George can’t shake a flu and his hair is suddenly in want of serious brushing. He hasn’t been to work for weeks. His eyes have turned to an exhausted shade of red either meant to evoke menace or looming unemployment. Beginning the film as a bearded and burly lumberjack of a man, he has now dwindled down into a flannel wearing husk in baby boy briefs: a fragment of what he once was. And as the movie continues to chip at his ego, it becomes clear that the further he is scrubbed away, the more it seems that all that is washing off is his pretense of being a good husband and father. His tolerance for raising three children that are not his begins to fray, and he can’t keep up with the mortgage his wife had already reasonably warned him might be beyond their means. Not only is George not the man we thought he was, but he is not even the man he thought he was. And so off to that pile of lumber he skulks again, hoping to regain some of that lost virility by smashing the **** out of a bunch of wood.


With Rosenberg occasionally garnishing his film with traditional horror elements, it becomes natural to draw a direct link between the murder house that George and his family have moved into, and his growing anti-social behavior. We have seen how its windows light up like eyes at night, and how it exudes such an evil presence that it drives both priests and nuns to such convulsions of overacting, they either barf at the side of the road, or scream themselves blind. These are admittedly highly suspicious activities for a house to be engaged in. But maybe this is all little more than some supernatural camouflage for George’s all too ordinary decent into becoming a distant and abusive prick. More of a pragmatist than his Catholic wife, George himself even seems resistant to her insistence that something is evil about the home they have moved into. And when the wife of a co-worker talks about her sensitivity in contacting the spirit world, he seems mainly irritated at the thought that she might be offering such services to him.

For George, nearly all of the evidence of this haunting has a pretty clear bottom line. It has simply meant he will have to call a plumber, arrange for an exterminator, over pay on his heating bills because of that ********* draft and find a babysitter who at least doesn’t get herself locked in a closet. Before we reach the climax of the film, one of the only true reckonings George seems to have in regards to the possibility of something supernatural happening here, is a moment where he hacks open a wall in his basement to find a hidden chamber beneath the stairs. As he peers into this room he has just uncovered, a mysterious vision comes to him. Staring back at him from one of walls that have been painted an all so subtle shade of cut-jugular red, there will be a specter of a floating head: his own. Or at least close enough. So even as George is being presented with something that can be safely considered beyond natural explanations, the implication still remains that whoever it is that is haunting this home, looks an awful lot like him.

Such a dreary affair as a man growing to despair over the bland miseries of his day to day life though is hardly what one imagines The Amityville Horror’s audience has come to see. Much like the Lutz’s, many in the audience may relate all too well to being overwhelmed with bills, the struggle of maintaining a happy family veneer, the inconvenience of children walking in on their lovemaking. For many, this trip to the theater may be their monthly scheduled date night. Babysitters have been brought in to permit the occasion, and with the excessive two hour run time of the film, that leaves a lot of time for lots of American babysitters to find their own kinds of trouble with closets. So it would be understandable for many watching to be underwhelmed by a film promising horror to be presented with so much of what they have come to the theater to escape.

But for some, those that maybe have bought into the ‘based on a true story’ hoopla, and maybe a little desperate to see such ordinary lives presented as something moderately extraordinary, the movie may find an audience more than willing to accept its molasses slow chills after all. It definitely allows for a better narrative in our lives when we can view the details of an unfulfilling existence as being something a little more exotic, even if it isn't really earned.To imagine the clogged toilet that is coughing up **** in your bathroom, as instead filling with a demonic sludge. Or that the eyes glimpsed outside of a darkened window, are not evidence of a stray cat, but are quite obviously those of an imaginary friend dreamt up by a daughter in consort with the dark side. And when George loses a wad of cash from the living room, it is not between the cushions of the couch he should be looking, but instead he should be screaming in an empty room at the unseen perpetrator of this other worldly prank to give it back. The Amityville Horror, in this way, may have almost stumbled upon an audience that will be eager to become complicit in forgiving the increasingly lousy actions of George, not only because maybe they are married to a George themselves, but its just so much more fun to view the whole yawning middle class of America as under the thumb of a perpetual haunting. Maybe they too will one day be able to abandon their lives behind them, and sign a book deal. It can happen to anyone!

Almost as a surrogate to this sort of audience member, Cathy Lutz herself seems equally eager to accept the ‘haunted husband’ version of this narrative. Plagued by a nightmare of George murdering her children, her response to these subconscious concerns of hers that bubble up in her sleep, will not be to find the original sin as something that has been laying dormant inside of her husband. Not at all. It is instead to seek out the help of the Catholic church in getting her home blessed. Because this is what is to blame here. If only she could just wrangle Father Rod Steiger away from his damp eyed, knuckle chewing soliloquy's on the horrors of house flies, and get around to dashing a little of that holy water at the threshold of their bedroom, maybe her husband would be free to return to normal. It is the ghosts, after all, that are keeping him from bed during those long cold sleepless night where he tirelessly feeds wood into his fireplace, unable to shake the chill of mediocrity that has seeped into his bones. It is the ghosts that caused him to slap her to the ground when she dared interfere with him tending to this fire. It is the ghosts, and not George’s personal shortcomings, which compel him to spend afternoons standing in the rain, chopping hilarious amounts of firewood as if it is the last lingering evidence of his diminished virility. It just has to be the ghosts, because then she can always choose to move away from the home and whatever haunts it, presumably also leaving behind whatever fondness George has for fondling that axe handle.

But it is a hopeless belief that she holds onto. Even as the film begins to become a little more outwardly gregarious with evidence of an actual haunting, setting off all of its supernatural Roman Candles at once during its climax, there is a moment which seems to speak louder than the blood dripping from the walls, or the visions of demon pigs in windows. George will go barreling into the home with his axe. From the look on his face this appears to be the moment when both the malice of the home and the malice in George’s heart have merged. The house creaks and teeters with the force of a thousand ghost story clichés as George beings to chop down the bathroom door his step children are hiding behind. Emerging from the shadows, Cathy jumps upon George’s back to stop him, but he quickly swats her to the floor. And then, as he stares down at her, axe in hand, what he sees is a clear tell towards what the true nature of George’s true demons are. Staring up at him is not the youthful Margot Kidder he has married, but instead, is Margot Kidder webbed in prosthetic make up. She is greyed, wrinkled, aged. This is a vision of what awaits George if he dares to maintain his vows of til death do you part to its more traditional end. And so this will be the moment, staring at this phantom, that George will bring the axe down.

Whether or not he misses is besides the point. Whether or not he comes to his senses once his wife regains her youthful flush, and can now act the proper hero by dragging his family out of from the home, can hardly be absolution for the horrors that likely still await this family. What should be frightening is not the house that is spitting hell fire behind them as George speeds down the road with his wife and kids and dog by his side. It is that he will be the one driving them away to safety as the tail lights disappear into the darkness.

If only Detective Gionfriddo hadn’t skulked off to be forever lost in those shadows he was chasing.

I remember your original post having more pictures of Brolin in tighty whities.

I lost all of my pictures when I dropped a glass of water on my old laptop.


It distresses me. These were cultural artifacts.

https://zuts.files.wordpress.com/201...8830785923.jpg


You're welcome. You're all welcome.




https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uaNyz1hr0...Bunderwear.gif

*Chefs kiss*

https://i.postimg.cc/CMbKGpHS/three.jpg

So...this is a legit masterpiece, right? And if you disagree, you live in a turd bucket, right?

At the very least, it's the best Western I can think of since Unforgiven. And I might have to go back to something by Leone or Corbucci before I find another one that might be better.

Not that I'd ever want to deprive the world of the Actor Tommy Lee Jones (easily one of the best living American). But why wasn't this old grouch playing director long before this? It feels negligent.

Re: Watching Movies Alone with crumbsroom
 

I remember Macrology recommending a few of Tommy Lee Jones' Westerns back at Corrie some time ago (this one, I think, and The Homesman). I'll have to check both of them out.

Yes, that's why I watched it. It never crossed my mind to give it a go before.

We need that guy here, even though he made it sort of clear he was retiring from the posting game.

Three Burials, yes.

The Homesman . . . meh. My sister and I low-key hated it. The performances were okay, but its character arcs felt confused,

Yeah, it's a shame that Mac isn't coming here. Due to him, I learned how to see :)

I don't think anybody I met at Corrie (not those I met beforehand at RT) came here.

I was joking, of course, but as much as I love the song, I had never bothered to look at the lyrics before, and, as is the case with Van, there's always some curveballs. Like, I was pretty sure that he was talking about "only one middle way to go", and choosing "Geronimo" (meaning "straight down") was a lateral joke about taking the unpredictable route. So it's axchully "one meadow way to go"? OK. He must be talking about golf, and "geronimo" is sinking the put. "Fair Play" in golf means an open green available. "Killarney Lakes" where the Irish Open is held. Make sense? Not really, but demon bourbon.


I know now that I know nothing.

To use a tired allusion that might even fit in with something Morrison might reference, I see his lyrics much like the idea that you can never step into the same river twice. You may be standing in the same spot, but it moves around you and continues on past. I rarely can put my finger on anything specific that he is writing about, but his words allow memories and feelings to rise up in me, in different ways, at different times, with each listen.

Coupled with the gentle tug of the music behind him, almost like a current pulling you along with the song, there is something elemental about the man and his art. As a friend once said to me regarding his voice, a friend who doesn't have any real knack for music or ever listening particularly close to anything that isn't immediately gratifying, he commented on a listen to Astral Weeks that he sounds like his singing into the wind. For such a musical dummy to almost immediately get the appeal of what Morrison does, is a testament to how perfect what he does is.

Yup, the whole "slipstream between the viaducts" thing. How can written lyrics even begin to transcribe the way he bites off the "best" he's trying to do in "Astral Weeks". Or, as Bangs did say, the way he can turn legible syllables into pure verbless music. I won't even look up a correction to my assumption that he shall drown his chariot down your streets of crying. Nope. I'll never feel that pain.

Crummy, you ever watch Deadly Games aka Dial Code Santa Claus aka 36.15 Code Pere Noel?

No. But I own it! Should I have watched it too?

Ab.
So.
Lutely.

I just had a friend recommend this movie this morning!

What is happening? Have I missed how this movie suddenly became something to discuss in the last 24 hours, while I've been sitting on it for 2 years.

Two fold of Vinegar Syndrome dropping a 4K release and Joe Bob screening it with Christmas Evil a couple weeks ago.

Speaking of VS, I'm still waiting for my Black Friday haul to arrive. My sleazy, shameful Black Friday haul.

Meanwhile, I’m about to pop in White Sheik from the Fellini set from my Criterion haul. Suck it, fellow collector that made mildly different irresponsible expenses during a pandemic!

I had no choice. Barnes and Noble refused to let me order from a Canadian address.



As did Mr. Porter, so my frivolous wardrobe purchases had to be sourced from other merchants. Oh, why must foolishly spending money be so hard?

Why does B&N seem to take every action possible to lose money? If it weren’t such a large franchise, I’d be convinced it were a means to launder money.

I’m very jealous of everyone that snagged the Beastmaster in 4K release. Not “I’d have bought it over this Fellini set” jealous but “did I really need to buy Parasite a second time and grab the Irishman despite it being perpetually on Netflix” jealous nonetheless.

I did not buy The Beastmaster, so perhaps we can call a truce.

Or do I view this as you compounding mistakes?

Do not let the olive branch fall from my hand.

Re: Watching Movies Alone with crumbsroom
 

I bought a copy of Point Break for a dollar in a thrift shop.


This is all I have to add.

Yeah, but did you have walk into the store, pull out your wallet and hand them the cash, like a chump? Sounds like an awful lot of work, my friend.

I'll see your Fellini set and raise you one 11 disc box set devoted to Dutch prog band Focus.

* throws a white dove into Rock’s face like it’s a can of dog food and I’m Brad Pitt *

Blu or DVD?

Please accept my humble thanks for this generous offering of dog food.

Wow, if it's that good, I might just have to make it a priority...

It is.

It’s exceptional. Bring Me the Head of Alfredo Garcia with a heart and conscience.

Alfredo Garcia definitely seems to be the touchstone. But this is weirder and sadder and better. And as much good as one can say about Warren Oates, Tommy Lee Jones is THE man

I need to rewatch it to decide between the two. The sadness of Three Burials has kept me from regular rewatches.

Sadness is my sustenance. I'll be back again soon enough.

Re: Watching Movies Alone with crumbsroom
 

Within the first 30 seconds of my new Band of Gypsy's LP, it becomes clear to me that this is the Jimi Hendrix album I've always wanted.

Damn, this is the first time you've heard Band of Gypsies? Yeah, side one is a monster.

Yes, I have come to love even Buddy Miles' yoop-yoop-yoop yodeling.

Yes.


And so is the second side!


Band of Gypsy's, when I first began collecting records in about.....1992....was one of the maybe twenty records my uncle put on a list of 'must haves'. And it was the last I finally got, because I neglected it for many really dumb reasons over the years.


Immediately my favorite by him. And I'll stand by this even when I sober up tomorrow.

https://img.discogs.com/h0eMhj0AnrrG...-6127.jpeg.jpg

I got this earlier this year, the (not quite) complete New Year's shows. Probably overkill if you're just now getting to the original album, but recommended for later when you're ready for more. The "new" stuff is great but also interesting to me was the new approach to some of the older hits, which were left off the BoG LP.

The second side's alright. There's better versions of "Message to Love" and "Power of Soul", and I do like the sly steal of "Sing a Simple Song" during "We Got To Live Together".


But...."Machine Gun" has to be the most impressive performance the man ever squeezed out of his instrument - a complete performance, btw, with no editing, overdubbing, or other post-production. And "Who Knows" is just groovy as grease as glass.


Your poor uncle. The cast aside and abandoned wisdom.


So what other Hendrix holes do you have? War Heroes? Winterland? Nine To The Universe? I have to tether this.

My uncle's recommendations were actually perfect, it turns out.

With the exception of Monterey Pop, it was exclusively his three main studio releases. Plus Cry of Love (which I've lost).

That's it. In total.

I'm glad they finally released the whole thing. When they put out Machine Gun (only the first show) as a standalone a few years back, I thought it was going to be a trickle.

Yeah, I never did get that one so I managed to avoid a triple-dip

Band of Gypsys is an all-time album. It has been my favorite album at least once in three different decades of my life (teens, 30s, and 40s).

Oh you gotta love the yoop-yoops.

I will always prefer Mitch as a drummer, but Buddy's singing was pretty good.

I am curious what the dumb reasons were.

Band of Gypsys 2 was a hot album to have when I was younger with some of my friends preferring it to the first one not only for the newer things like "Hey Baby (New Rising Sun), Ezy Rider, and Hear My Train A'Comin, but also for the hot new takes on some previous hits.

The Cry Of Love is probably my favorite Hendrix album, period.
I don't care what any "purists" say about the posthumous releases, I love The Cry Of Love and Midnight Lightning to pieces and anyone who decries them can suck the largest of dicks.

Right, I forgot that existed. I've never been obsessive about Jimi (thank GOD- there's a lot of stuff to buy out there), so it's only recently that I've strayed from the main albums.

Holy ****eroo, MF Doom died.

Not only that... But apparently died in October and the family only just now announced it? Happy New Year's Eve...

?

He was a rapper: https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/MF_Doom

Oh, Madvillain, no! Definitely a surprise. Wonder why? He's only 49.

Thanks, I had never heard of him. Any good?

Madvillainy is one of the best rap of albums of the last 20 years.

Alright, I'll give it a spin.

Ya know, I don't know if I'm obsessive about Jimi but, at a glance, I have more Hendrix albums by far than I do anyone else, at 15 vinyl records. My digital collection is much more extensive though not as large as my Grateful Dead section. Bowie is probably after that at 8 vinyl records and a pretty large digital presence.

I just meant I haven't gotten to the point with Jimi where I have to own everything. If I ever do get there, I will buy a stupid amount of stuff that I don't have time to listen to because that's how I roll. Today's Jan 1 and if I only listened to my Miles Davis stuff in sequence, I might be done by summer. There's no need for that! :)

The Dead is another band that I'm grateful (hee hee) to not have embraced because there's SO MUCH out there. I could easily go bankrupt collecting their stuff. (I've tried, many times, just can't make a love connection with them)

I'm curious to know which ones. Any boots?

I have to admit: I'm a bit of a Jimi completist. Not in the sense of buying all of the product (because, gawd, there's lots of deceptive crap) but in the sense of tracking down as much of the vintage available material as possible. I like to think that I have just about as much of his poorly recorded audience tapes as humanly consumable.


Just stick to their "Dark Star" variations. I can't think of anything better they produced.

When I started collecting records in the early 90s, when I received my uncle's guidance, I didn't want live albums. Outside of Live at Leeds I didn't like any that I had ever heard. This eventually changed, and you'd think that after I realized I much preferred Hendrix live recordings to his studio output, I might move towards Band of Gypsies at some point. But by then it had been on my list for so long that it lost its lustre and seemed like a record from a bygone era I'd moved past from. I generally buy very little 'classic rock' anymore, even if Hendrix breaks out of pigeonholing him like that.

I've never bothered with boots generally because I'm already spread thin enough with my collection.


I don't mind the Dead, but outside a couple of there early records like Workingmans Dead, I don't feel any burning desire to bog my collection down too much with them.

Yeah, I don't know if I have to own everything when it comes to Jimi, there have been a few releases I didn't think were up to par that I've passed on, but some of the deep stuff, before anyone knew who he was, it's just so fascinating to hear it coming. I mean, even when he's playing R&B with saxophonist Lonnie Youngblood, you can hear that no one sounds quite like that.
The Dead are different because the Dead kinda never played anything the same way twice and were constantly pushing the music so, yeah, you can really get lost. It's very much like Jazz that way, though it's actually a little more interesting than a lot of Jazz to me because of their structure. Dead fans have conversations all the time about what the best version of a single song is and if you get 10 Dead fans in a room you will get at least 7 or 8 different answers to that question and usually you will get 30 because no one can actually narrow it down to just one. Fortunately, the Dead have made their music really accessible.
As for connecting with them, I don't really know what does or doesn't make someone connect with them. I needed to hear it and be exposed to the lyrics and iconography and ethos exactly once and it has been a part of my life that transcends music and gets more into philosophy for 43, 44 years now.

Hang on, I'll give you the vinyl list (I have to go look):

Jimi Hendrix At His Best
Roots Of Hendrix
Moods
Are You Experienced
Jimi Plays Monterey
Axis: Bold As Love
Electric Ladyland
Smash Hits
Band Of Gypsys
Band Of Gypsys 2
Rainbow Bridge
Soundtrack Recordings From The Film Jimi Hendrix
The Cry Of Love
Midnight Lightning
Nine To The Universe
Valleys Of Neptune
The Essential Jimi Hendrix, Vol.1 & Vol.2 (the first ones I ever bought when I was like 14 or 15)
First Rays Of The New Rising Sun
People, Hell, and Angels

So, 19, as it turns out.

On CD or digitally, I also have:

Blues
Blue Wild Angel
Crash Landing
Every Way To Paradise
Isle Of Wight
Kiss The Sky
Live At Clark University
Live At Winterland
Live At The Oakland Coliseum
Live At The Fillmore East
Morning Symphony Ideas
Radio One
Rescued From Randall's Island
South Saturn Delta
Stone Free
War Heroes
West Coast Seattle Boy

And I think that's it, actually. Looks like more when I scroll through my library. I never got into the bootlegs. Sound was too muddy considering Jimi's style.

It's actually kinda funny that that's not even close to all that's out there now.

I actually totally understand that.
Despite being a huge fan of the Dead, I really only listened to their studio albums for like 20 years after getting into them. Let that sink in. A Dead fan that doesn't listen to any of their live music.
I did love Dead Set and One From The Vault but I actually thought their studio recordings were so perfect I didn't wanna hear "diminished" versions of those. I had gotten a bootleg and very few of the songs that night sounded that good and I wasn't into 15-minute jazz jam sessions yet, so I just quit there.
Now, I still LOVE their studio recordings and I think Dead fans who say they don't like them and that's not the spirit of the band and all that are ****ing idiots (and I'm close friends with a lot of them) but I've come to really appreciate, very, very deeply, what they were doing live and it's really a huge part of the way I play music myself (the philosophy, not the actual music).
And to you and Captain Terror:
It's funny, my friend, Kate, was over the other night and she said, "Ya know, I don't think I could be friends with someone who didn't like The Grateful Dead. I just wouldn't trust them."
Which I get because listening to the Dead is as much Philosophical and Spiritual as it is Musical. And I might say that about Jimi, too.