Much in the vein of Douglas Coupland’s collection of slacker stories, the point is to examine the life of the subject, and how he reacts to the day-to-day.
Reverb-drenched guitar swirl, the pounding beats of bleeding wrist ballerinas, the pretentious ultra-smooth Goth croon, and lyrics Robert Smith’d think oblique.
All the shredding half-steps and snarling vocals of, say, Kreator’s heyday, and crushing production that’ll leave you breathless as a hamster on a wheel.
King Fowley found a way to deliver horror stories without lapsing into comic book Rob Zombie-isms. There’s a trace of camp, but he smothers it in hot asphalt.