Life Harvester #23: Bëëf Stew, Spooky Movies & TV Shows
Life Harvester is written by Colin Hagendorf and edited by Rebecca Giordano. This is the email version of a print publication available for low-cost individual subscription via Paypal or on Patreon. Life Harvester subscriptions are free to prisoners. If you know an incarcerated person who would like to receive a newsletter every month, get in touch with me directly and I’ll take care of it.
WHEN YOU’RE HERE YOU’RE FAMILY
I’m writing this after the election, but before the results have been announced. Right now it’s still looking like there could be a tie. Our friend Hannah 1 described this last night as “not what any person deserves, but what this country deserves.” I couldn’t agree more. This issue has nothing whatsoever to do with national politics. Life Harvester hates both candidates. Let’s just remember that no matter who wins, we still have to abolish ICE, legalize drugs and sex work, shut down the prisons, and make sure everyone has access to food, shelter, education, medical care, and, most of all, joy. But, you, dear reader, know that. Here in the eye of the storm, we focused on diversions this month—we define a newly-discovered subgenre of heavy metal and talk about some horror movies. Movie reviews co-written with editor Becca Giordano.
BËËF STEW
Punk icon and Life Harv lifestyle inspo Layla Gibbon has been posting a lot of Blue Öyster Cult (BÖC) ephemera on Instagram, and having never really fucked with that band, it got me intrigued. Mostly, they have an incredible logo. Plus, Becca had just suggested I put their hit “Don’t Fear the Reaper” on a recent Life Harv Mix Club tape, and that song objectively rules.
Like I do with any phase I’m considering going through, I consulted a few trusted friends. When asked “how do you feel about BÖC?” Pint-sized shredder Marissa Paternoster of Screaming Females simply said “I think they’re fuckin sick.” Long term MRR shitworker and former teen metalhead Rotten Ron Reddy was like “they rip. Did you know they went to school with the Dictators?”
I felt ready to take the leap, so I asked Queens-born cool guy and my most trusted musical resource, Cory Feierman at Academy Records, “where do I start?” “Just go in order,” he told me. “The first record is perfect. The key to digging them is to get into their mindset. They’re five idiots from Long Island with names like Buck Dharma. They call their instruments shit like ‘stun guitar.’ They scared parents before KISS. They’re funny, heavy, but not afraid to get a lil jazzy.” He had me at “five idiots from Long Island.”
For a long weekend, the first three BÖC albums were all I listened to. That Sunday, I was playing the self titled record for the 16th time while Becca was in the kitchen. When it ended, I figured I’d put on something different before she asked me to stop. I had just selected Mope Grooves JOY for a change of pace when she shouted “I think I just accidentally made beef stew.” A startling exclamation from my vegan girlfriend. Turned out she’d been making lentils with the broth from a homemade seitan and she’d used too much broth. She threw in some carrots and potatoes, worked a little culinary magic, and voila, beef stew. “I’ll put on some beef stew music,” I called back.
“What the fuck is that?”
“You know, music that you would eat beef stew to. This record I was about to put on just isn’t right for the meal.” I was in a bind. What felt right was BÖC and that was a no-go. I wracked my brain and finally settled on the self-titled first record by Welsh power trio Budgie, an album I was introduced to 15 years ago by the painter Eleanor Swordy.
As the descending riff of “Guts” blasted into our home, Becca looked perplexed. “It is beef stew music, but what makes it beef stew music?” Truth be told, I didn’t know, it was just a feeling. In a moment of inspiration, I pulled up a picture of Budgie on my phone. The band are sitting on a roof ledge with what I imagine to be a council flat in the background. Drummer Pete Boot (what a name!) is clad in tight denim, staring into the distance slack jawed, his face framed by a mop of unruly hair. Guitarist Tony Bourge is in the center, looking straight ahead, shirt unbuttoned halfway down, a mischievous half-smile beneath his Fu Manchu mustache. Bassist Burke Shelley has an arm draped over Bourge’s shoulder. He’s hunched over, squinting through his large-framed spectacles, hair nipple-length, wearing some kind of tunic. They’re not an outrageously ugly bunch, all told, but the picture isn’t flattering. The overall impression it leaves about its subjects is that they’re unintelligent. They look dumb. As Becca looked at the picture I asked, “I mean, what do you think these guys eat?”
Bëëf Stew was born.
Throughout our meal and in the days and weeks that followed, we tried to come up with a concrete explanation of Bëëf Stew. The two concise definitions I’ve been throwing around are “heavy rock that sticks to your gut,” and “proto-metal by white idiots.” The real essence of Bëëf Stew is somewhere in between.
In establishing the confines of the genre, it was easier, at first, to categorize what Bëëf Stew isn’t. We had to map the borders, so to speak. My exploration led me astray many times. Blue Cheer, for instance. They’re white, they’re dumb, they’re LOUD. But there’s too much fuzz, and they’re too bluesy for a true Stew sound. Motorhead, too fast. Slade, too glam. AC/DC, too pub rock. Becca made this assessment, “AC/DC is all in the throat. Bëëf Stew is down lower than that. Bëëf Stew is in the hips,” and she began to gyrate while leering at me. A vulgar display, but she was right. Dust, despite being the first band of rock’s most lovable dum-dum Marky Ramone, strive for a sense of low-brow sophistication in their arrangements and lyrics that disqualifies them from Stew categorization. Perhaps they’re more of a Bëëf Bourguignon.
The first real lead (after Budgie of course) came with Dust’s outer borough contemporaries, Sir Lord Baltimore. They claim to be the first band referred to as “heavy metal” in print, though that distinction actually belongs to Humble Pie, who’s British approximation of a Dixie shuffle I might characterize as Hamburger Helper. Sir Lord Baltimore’s riff-heavy rock presaged stoner metal bands like Sleep, and for that we all owe them. Their first LP Kingdom Come is a ripper through and through, not even slowed down by the tinkling zither on Ren Faire ballad “Lake Isle of Innesfree.”
From there, I immersed myself in early hard rock and proto-metal, whittling away bands that promised me Stew but left my ladle dry (Grand Funk Railroad, Primevil), and finding more who’s Stew was thick and filling (Leaf Hound, Ancient Grease, Lucifer’s Friend). One afternoon Becca burst into my office. “Do you think ‘Purple Haze’ was the first Bëëf Stew song?!” As soon as we hit play, I knew she was onto something. The history of rock music consists, almost entirely, of white co-optation of black innovation. Why would Bëëf Stew be any different?
Soon I began compiling tracks for this month’s Mix Club tape (which you can stream for free, along with all past mixes at patreon.com/lifeharvester) when I hit a wall. I had 53 minutes of Stew for a 60 minute cassette and had seemingly exhausted all my resources. In my moment of need, I turned to Perry Shall, accomplished illustrator and front-man for Philadelphian Bëëf Stew-revivalists Hound. Perry was quick to pick up what I was putting down, and immediately suggested Bloodrock’s “Melvin Laid An Egg,” a seven minute hard rock meditation on life in the side show, described by blogger Casey Chambers of Wichita, KS, seemingly the only person on the internet who has written about this song, as “mindless heavy metal poundage begging to be cranked.”
Perry also suggested “Philadelphia Bëëf Stew royalty,” BANG!, who’s Stewy debut record Mother / Bow to the King might as well have been recorded in a crock pot. They didn’t make the tape because I mistakenly listened to their next album, which is like Stew, but not quite Stew. “I might call that Bëëf Stroganoff,” Perry said.
In the end, we were able to identify three dominant lyrical themes of the genre—Women Are Evil And I Am Mesmerized (Sir Lord Baltimore “Hell Hound,” Yesterday’s Children “Evil Woman,” Ancient Grease “Women and Children First”), Hey Check It Out I Do Drugs (Black Sabbath “Faeries Wear Boots,” The Jimi Hendrix Experience “Purple Haze,” Leaf Hound “Growers of Mushroom”), and People Like Me Have Been Victimized By Society (Lucifer’s Friend “Everybody’s Clown,” Granicus “Bad Talk”).
The latter subject is most aptly summed up by Budgie’s unfortunately named “Rape of the Locks,” a song which compares the band members’ parents wanting to cut their hair to a violent sexual assault. Coarse analogy aside, the song rips. It opens with two ringing chords and 30 seconds of chaotic noodling before settling into a steady gallop. The two chords, it’s worth noting, are identical to the beginning of “Sonic Reducer.” Could the Budgie/Dead Boys connection be part of a heretofore unknown Stew to Punk pipeline?
“Locks” also features what Becca and I have come to think of as the apex of Bëëf Stew lyricism when Burke Shelley wails, “I grow my mind inside my head. I grow my hair to keep it fed.” Faux-intellectual but ultimately meaningless drivel, in service of nothing but looking cool and rocking hard. And who doesn’t want that? In the unrelentingly horrific moment in which we live, during which liking anything fun has to be justified as relevant, why not lose yourself for a few minutes in something totally dumb, something that’s only reason for being is the fact of its own existence? I don’t want to live in a Bëëf Stew world, but I think we all could use a Bëëf Stew dinner.
SPOOKY MOVIES AND SHOWS
The Other Lamb (2019, dir. Małgorzata Szumowska) A teen in a Christian cult who’s too horny to live becomes disenchanted with her “Shepard,” leading to mild murder and mayhem. Hair crowns, mostly white cults, and the film’s sapphire hues draw unavoidable comparisons to Midsommar. And, yes, sure. But, The Other Lamb has both more and less than that. The natural claustrophobia of a valley or a river sets the stage for this visually stunning film. The roaring chirps of groups of unself-conscious women and spikes of warmth followed by sudden spite evoke locker rooms and slumber parties. It is a kind of detailed feminist filmmaking that made us want to watch this director’s other work.
Borgman (2013, dir. Alex van Warnerdam) In this tense Dutch psychological thriller, writer/director Alex van Warnerdam stars as supernatural scammer and tunnel dweller Camiel Borgman, who manipulates his way into the home of an upper class family. With unclear but nefarious motivations, Borgman and his crew’s control over the family and their estate plays out through surreal destruction and murders. Watching this film on the night of the election, as a distraction from the possible coup taking place, its message felt a little too on the nose: be careful who you let into your house.
Evil Eye (2020, dir. Elan and Rajeev Dassani) Desi daughter deals with amma’s karma. A fun enough watch, but nothing spectacular. Traumatized mothers’ pain affecting their children is a mainstay for horror. Evil Eye brings generational and cultural divides among Indians to the trope which, among other things, allows for the best use of non-knife cooking utensils as weapons we have seen.
Blood Diner (1987, dir. Jackie Kong) 80s ritual shocker directed by a 24-year-old punk. Two brothers taking orders from their dead and murderous uncle’s exhumed brain in a jar. Hard to imagine how the over-the-top sexism in this script would’ve been handled by a male director; it was barely tolerable as is. If you’ve got a thick skin for sexist banter and appreciate gore, slime, and low budget FX with an LA Punk-adjacent sensibility, this is for you.
#Alive (2020, dir. Cho Il-hyung) Wonderful experience watching this zombie movie that goes from 0 to 60 in the first five minutes, and delivers edge-of-your-seat thrills til the very end. Some of the best herky-jerky moves in the history of zombie cinema! Of all the films we watched, this is the one it would be most fun to be an extra in.
His House (2020, dir. Remi Weekes) Stellar performances by Wunmi Mosaku (Ruby from Lovecraft Country)and Sope Dirisu as South Sudanese asylum seekers in the UK anchor this story about isolation and shame. The depiction of an immigration system governed by the arbitrary whims of bored bureaucrats is more horrific than any ghosts. The movie’s interesting twists, deep psychological questions, and breakout scenes were cheapened by the sudden appearance of a CGI monster that looked like Iron Maiden’s mascot, Eddie. We already had a perfectly terrifying witchchild successfully tormenting the protagonists to the point of near total destruction of their house, their relationship, and their chances at citizenship! Why give such obvious shape to what has been so delicately evoked?
La Llorona (2017, dir. Jayro Bustamonte) One of the best of the recent slate of films using horror to get at serious social issues that we have been seeing more of after the well-deserved success of Get Out and Parasite. Guatemalan director Jayro Bustamonte spins the trope of haunting-as-trauma to address the failure of the state to rectify the genocide of Maya peoples during the decades-long US-backed civil war in Guatemala. The plot of the film mirrors the real-life 2012-16 trial of general and ex-president Jose Efrain Rios-Montt. La Llorona centers women's experiences of war including how it bridges and divides family. Maybe horror is the right genre for seeing what the possibilities for justice are after a genocide. Soda rocker and scholar of Guatemala, Lara Lookabaugh told us that Guatemalan activist and Nobel Prize Winner Rigoberta Menchu did a panel with the director, making it a must for anyone who went to the communist language school in Guatemala, Proyecto Lingüistico Quetzalteco (now offering digital immersions!).
The Lure (2015, dir. Agnieszka Smoczyńska) Spin out in this Polish nightclub retelling of the Little Mermaid. It’s a gory voyage that’s part Eurovision dance sequence and part revenge fantasy. Good for loosening up while you’re cooped up.
Wounds (2019, dir. Babak Anvari) Paranormal thriller from the director of 2016 Persian-language psychological horror Under the Shadow which was easily one of the best movies of that year. Wounds isn’t teaching us a grand lesson about life or asking us to think about pressing philosophical questions. It’s just a well-paced, creepfest full of hallucinations, insect infestations, and evil incantations. Mostly it was nice to think about the insides of bars in New Orleans and reflect on the real life terror of the “smart guy bartender” fantasy (played by Armie Hammer, hottie scion of an evangelical LA real estate empire). See what happens when Madewell Insiders get covered in bugs.
Monsterland For fans of Black Mirror, and we mean that pejoratively. Some great directors (Nicolas Pesce The Eyes of My Mother, Desiree Akhavan Appropriate Behavior, Babak Anvari Under the Shadow) and exactly two great actors (Nicole Beharie Miss Juneteenth, Roberta Colindrez I Love Dick) do the best they can with truly hack scripts that beg the pressing philosophical question: “what if man is the real monster?” Mary Shelley much? A huge waste of time, even the lesbian episode. I ordered low rent “San Junipero” and was served a tepid zombie allegory that relied too heavily on tired lesbian stereotypes and flat portrayals of mental illness to be anything but annoying to watch.
The Haunting of Bly Manor A ghost story about the staff of a Tudor manor in the 1980s, but everyone looks like they’re dressed for a Waxahatchee show. Wardrobe problems belie a deeper misunderstanding of history like having the wrong century for the plague and corny anachronistic marriage customs. Worst of all, there wasn’t dialogue, just a roundrobin of histrionic monologues. Indie rock icon Sadie Dupuis summed it up succinctly in a text message: “The show would’ve been better with half the words.”
Swallow (2019, dir. Carlo Mirabella-Davis) wonderfully atmospheric thriller about the compulsions of an alienated housewife. Its feminist ending is more perfect than I could’ve dreamed. Nearly without blood, it is a tense body horror movie about insides. You will cringe. You will also marvel at Director of Photography Kate Arizmendi’s perfect framing and masterful use of color which amps up the austere glass and cement modernist house the protagonist is kept in. It’s like Hitchcock, if he had known about pica and respected women.