Here we present a survivor, resurrected from a dormancy dating back to the genesis of the 2nd wave of Hollywood glam/punk. Comprised of a triumvirate of legendary musicians- Brandi Kates Mitternacht (vocals), Johnny Astro (bass), Keri Kristan (drums) and a revolving door of live guitarists, which has recently been rectified for approaching live assaults. Originally Darling Dead adopted the tried yet trite mantle of Tinseltown glitz but has since coalesced into a rather interesting amalgam of gothic/punk/industrial black metal surging within the burned out temple of an Italian sci fi horror flick.

  Oddly enough, the album is very eclectic as an entire musical presentation. The first half resonates with sheer gothic gloom, abounding with grandiose, poetic themes that seem fitting for sentient night creatures. You know, those who prowl the seedy deathrock clubs that only open after midnight. And whereas that initial section is all fanged and funereal, the second half is more, how shall we say...optimistic. At times jovial and even rocking. Perhaps the vampires like a bit of glitter in their cosmetic pallor after all. These selections are glam/punk on amphetamines. I hear homage to Traci Michaelz and GG Allin running ravenous in these up-tempo rebel rousers,  segueing and sashaying like it's still 1992.

 The intro to the fractured festivities "The Opening Of Lilith's Box And Other Astral Obscenities" sets the tone 'ala In The Beginning by Motley Crue. Essentially a call to arms to revolt against treason, whilst cradled in the arms of impending demise. "Images In The Convent" attacks the nunnery,  albeit in a sleazy fashion. Shades of Argento anyone? and "Flowers From Mars" is the shining jewel of the album. Slow, epic, monolithic and lithe. It's alien structure lurches forth like a lumbering backhoe unearthing a cadaver for examination. Brandi's vocal execution is fluidly narrative, causing one to imagine the strange world of scenarios his barritone is alluding to. Johnny's prowling bassline brings to mind the simplistic yet effective minimalism of The Cure's Simon Gallup, and Keri Kristan's deadbolted, percussive workmanship pumps the corpse full of rhythmic blood.

 All in all, this is a solid release. A sordid blend of styles that shall appease a variety of folks. Namely black lipstick sporting insomniacs, still breathing New York Dolls and Glamour Punks adherents and anybody with a knack for sugary snacks and candlelight Ouija board sessions. Essential stuff indeed. Definitely needed in our society of mediocre and melodramatic malcontents.