Monday, October 10, 2011
Totally hilarious, and insane.
This book is 249 pages of short vignettes that follow a maddening formula. Morbid Angel and Napalm Death blast out of each unruled panel. It seems Troma Films, Wes Craven and that Steroid infused era of Hollywood starring Chuck Norris and Arnold Schwarzenegger have been tossed into a short circuiting blender. Frenetic, poorly drawn sex and violence leap off the carved surface of an 8th-grader's desk interspersed with social commentary and philosophical rants that slap normalcy, maturity and reservation in the face. Admittedly, I can't leave the thing lying out in my room because it looks like a maggot infested stain on the floor.
Jose Angeles appears at Bay Area comic book events with a table covered in paper-mache' gore, advertising his own personal brand of 80's hesher freakout art. He hails from the seldom mentioned South San Francisco district. One story implies he is a janitor where piles of prostitutes' condoms and dogshit accumulate, but this could be the life of a fictional character.
Since 2000, Jose has gone against anything "acceptable" or "trendy" in any sphere, devoting himself to a purity void of social pressure in his drawing that refuses to clean up its adolescent scribbling and shot-gun pointillism which achieves something that I can only describe as . . . "Brutal."
Let's ignore Freud today. Any artiste' or anthro-psycho-activist over analyzing this book would obviously be missing the point completely. To these people I say: When is it a good idea to invest the powers of careful art criticism, sociopolitical analysis, or the skills of Rembrandt upon artery-laden viscera, flaming vomit, and silicone tits? It's a joke.