Janis Joplin would have been 83 years old today. Here she is, singing about cars.
Janis Joplin would have been 83 years old today. Here she is, singing about cars.

Iron Maiden’s “The Number of the Beast” has always been more than its fire-and-brimstone title suggests — it’s paranoia turned into power. The song’s galloping riffs and Bruce Dickinson’s almost theatrical wail capture the feeling of witnessing something apocalyptic yet beautiful. In the context of 28 Years Later: The Bone Temple, that sense of awe and fear fits perfectly with the film’s tone. The track mirrors the world’s collapse into ritual madness — humanity trying to reframe its pain through cultish belief, just as Maiden’s lyrics dance between religious imagery and sheer existential panic.
There’s also a rhythm to the song that mirrors how The Bone Temple paces its moments of horror and release. The pounding drums feel like the heartbeat of survivors, racing through collapsed cities while their faith in reason splinters. Just as Iron Maiden’s piece builds to a manic crescendo, the film layers intensity until chaos feels almost sacred. The chorus could easily underscore the movie’s climactic sequences — not as a literal choice, but emotionally, where fascination with evil becomes indistinguishable from fear.
What ties them together most is their shared refusal to moralize the apocalypse. Iron Maiden tells a story about vision and hysteria — not right or wrong — and The Bone Temple does the same, showing how people build new devotions in the ashes of old systems. Both suggest that when we stare into horror long enough, it stares back with rhythm and purpose. In that way, “The Number of the Beast” isn’t just an anthem of terror; it’s a hymn for the end of reason — making it the perfect spiritual soundtrack for this chapter of the 28 Years Later world.
The Number of the Beast
Woe to you, o’er Earth and Sea
For the Devil sends the beast with wrath
Because he knows the time is short
Let him who hath understanding reckon the number of the beast
For it is a human number
Its number is six hundred and sixty six
I left alone, my mind was blank
I needed time to think to get the memories from my mind
What did I see? Can I believe that what I saw
That night was real and not just fantasy?
Just what I saw, in my old dreams, were they
Reflections of my warped mind staring back at me?
Cause in my dreams, it’s always there
The evil face that twists my mind and brings me to despair
Yeah!
The night was black, was no use holding back
Cause I just had to see, was someone watching me?
In the mist, dark figures move and twist
Was all this for real or just some kind of hell?
666 the number of the beast
Hell and fire was spawned to be released
Torches blazed and sacred chants were phrased
As they start to cry, hands held to the sky
In the night, the fires are burning bright
The ritual has begun, Satan’s work is done
666 the number of the beast
Sacrifice is going on tonight
This can’t go on, I must inform the law
Can this still be real, or just some crazy dream?
But I feel drawn towards the chanting hordes
They seem to mesmerize, can’t avoid their eyes
666 the number of the beast
666 the one for you and me
I’m coming back, I will return
And I’ll possess your body and I’ll make you burn
I have the fire, I have the force
I have the power to make my evil take its course
John Carpenter is not only a great director but he’s also a brilliant composer. Today, in honor of Carpenter’s birthday, our song of the day is his haunting Theme From The Fog.

In The Wrangler, using Robert Alda’s original version of “Luck Be a Lady” from Guys and Dolls hits differently than the more famous Sinatra take. Alda’s rendition, coming from the Broadway stage, is less smooth and more desperate—it’s a man bargaining with luck, not charming her. That’s a crucial difference in Fallout’s world. When Alda’s voice drifts through the smoky ruin of The Wrangler, it feels like an echo from a long-dead civilization—one where people still believed that fortune was something you could negotiate with. It grounds the scene in Fallout’s favorite tension: the clash between old optimism and new despair.
Thematically, the original version suits Fallout’s tone better. Sinatra’s version oozes control and self-assurance, while Alda sings with the anxious rhythm of someone clinging to hope. In the episode, that anxiety fits the stakes perfectly—characters gambling with their lives, exchanging trust for survival, and hoping the “lady” of luck doesn’t turn her back at the wrong moment. The Broadway earnestness becomes a tragic counterpoint to the brutality around it, emphasizing how fragile that old-world faith in luck or charm truly is.
By choosing Alda over Sinatra, the show subtly reframes what “luck” means in this universe. It’s not style or swagger—it’s survival by the skin of one’s teeth. The song’s theatrical flair feels almost haunting in a world where the audience is gone and the casino’s collapsed. Yet that’s what gives the moment its punch: Fallout has always used nostalgia as both soundtrack and satire, and with Alda’s pleading vocals hanging in the air, The Wrangler reminds us that sometimes, luck isn’t a lady at all—it’s just what’s left when everything else runs out.
Luck Be a Lady
They call you Lady Luck
But there is room for doubt
At times, you’ve had a very unlady-like way of running out
You’re on this date with me
The pickin’s have been lush
And yet before this evening is over
You might give me the brush
You might forget your manners
You might refuse to stay
And so the best that I can do is pray
Luck be a lady tonight
Luck be a lady tonight
Luck if you’ve ever been a lady to begin with, luck be a lady tonight
Luck let a gentleman see
How nice a dame you can be
I know the way you’ve treated other guys you’ve been with
Luck, be a lady with me
A lady doesn’t leave her escort
It isn’t fair, it isn’t nice
A lady doesn’t wander all over the room
And blow on some other guy’s dice
Let’s keep this party polite
Never get out of my sight
Stick me with me baby, I’m the fella you came in with
Luck, be a lady tonight
Luck, let a gentleman see
Just how nice, how nice a dame you can be
I know the way you’ve treated other guys you’ve been with
Luck be a lady with me
A lady doesn’t leave her escort
It isn’t fair, and it’s not nice
A lady doesn’t wander all over the room
And blow on some other guy’s dice
So let’s keep the party polite
Never get out of my sight
Stick with me baby, I’m the guy that you came in with
Luck be a lady
Luck be a lady
Luck be a lady, tonight
It’s Marjoe Gortner’s birthday!
Marjoe Gortner is a former child evangelist who had a long career as an actor in films, usually playing sinister characters. His most-seen film was probably Earthquake. My favorite Marjoe film is Starcrash. That said, Marjoe’s best performance was probably as himself in the candid documentary, Marjoe. The Oscar-winning film featured a look behind the scenes of the religious revival industry, with Marjoe as an amoral tour guide who discussed how he didn’t believe what he was preaching and who had basically been forced into the business by his parents. Marjoe described how every word he preached was calculated to inspire people to donate more money to his ministry. Marjoe described himself as being “bad but not evil.”
In 1972, Marjoe recorded an album called, after his famous documentary quote, Bad But Not Evil. Today’s song of the day is Marjoe Gortner covering Bob Dylan’s Lo and Behold on that album.
I’ve always liked Amy Winehouse’s version of this classic song.
I was thinking of re-binging The Sopranos next month and that led to me remembering this totally awesome bit of music from the show’s third season premiere!

Johnny Cash’s “Cocaine Blues” rolling over Lucy gleefully mowing down the ghoul Elvis-faction is one of those perfectly twisted Fallout moments — absurd, violent, and darkly funny. The song’s tale of a killer singing about his own crimes while Lucy grins through the carnage gives the whole scene a warped playfulness. Cash’s deliberate rhythm, all swagger and doom, turns what could’ve been grim into something closer to a dance — a gunslinging ballet where the wasteland’s chaos feels almost celebratory. That contrast is what makes it pop.
In that moment, “Cocaine Blues” becomes more than just needle-drop nostalgia; it’s commentary on Lucy’s transformation. She’s still got that vault-born cheer in her step, but now there’s something unhinged behind it — she’s caught up in the thrill. The imagery of her gunning down rhinestoned ghouls to Cash’s steady beat blurs innocence and indulgence — she’s no longer reacting to the brutality around her, she’s participating in it with genuine abandon. The song’s tale of killing and comeuppance hangs over her like prophecy, reminding us that even the brightest smile in the wasteland can cast a long shadow.
As the gunfire fades and Cash’s voice trails off, the irony hangs in the dust. Fallout has always thrived on these juxtapositions — the sunny Americana soundtrack to utter moral decay. “Cocaine Blues” leaves the scene pulsing with contradictions: joy and violence, freedom and madness, music and mayhem. It’s the sound of Lucy crossing another invisible line while smiling all the way through it, and Cash is there to make sure we don’t miss the joke.
Cocaine Blues
Early one mornin’ while makin’ the rounds
Took a shot of cocaine and I shot my woman down
Went right home and I went to bed
I stuck that lovin’ 44 beneath my head
Got up next mornin’ and I grabbed that gun
Took a shot of cocaine and away I run
Made a good run, but ran too slow
They overtook me down in Juarez, Mexico
Laid in the hot joints takin’ the pill
In walked the sheriff from Jericho Hill
He said, “Willy Lee, your name is not Jack Brown
You’re the dirty hop that shot your woman down”
Said, “Yes, sir, yes, my name is Willy Lee
If you’ve got a warrant, just read it to me
Shot her down because she made me sore
I thought I was her daddy, but she had five more”
When I was arrested, I was dressed in black
They put me on a train and it took me back
Had no friends for to go my bail
They slapped my dried up carcass in that county jail
Got up next mornin’ ’bout a half past nine
Spied the sheriff coming down the line
Hopped and he coughed as he cleared his throat
He said, “Come on you dirty hop into that district court”
Into the courtroom, my trial began
Where I was handled by 12 honest men
Just before the jury started out
I saw that little judge commence to look about
In about five minutes in walked the man
Holding the verdict in his right hand
The verdict read in the first degree
I hollered, “Lordy, Lordy, have mercy on me”
The judge he smiled as he picked up his pen
99 years in the Folsom pen’
99 years underneath that ground
I can’t forget the day I shot that bad bitch down
Come on you hops and listen unto me
Lay off that whiskey and let that cocaine be

Metaphor: ReFantazio‘s “Battle Theme” erupts with thunderous brass and pounding drums, turning routine turn-based scraps into pulse-racing spectacles that pull you right into the fray. Shoji Meguro amps the drama by weaving in rhythmic chanting from Myōhō–ji temple’s chief priest, Keisuke Honryo, sung in the international language of Esperanto for that timeless, cross-cultural resonance which makes every Archetype clash feel profoundly ritualistic.
The rhythmic Esperanto vocals loop hypnotically over surging strings and synth pulses, cresting with victorious horns that time perfectly to weakness chains and squad synthesis attacks, mirroring the combat’s strategic highs. This primal chant roots the fantasy battles in spiritual depth, evolving Atlus’s sound beyond synth-pop into something hauntingly primal that lingers post-fight.
It anchors the award-lauded OST’s standout moments, those monk-delivered Esperanto lines lending legendary weight to even basic encounters—though their fervor can overshadow subtler scenes.
Today, the Shattered Lens observes the birthdays of two great actors, Robert Duvall and the much-missed Diane Keaton.
Along with being two of America’s best actors, Duvall and Keaton also co-starred in the first two Godfather films. They didn’t share many scenes in the second film (though there was at least one Duvall/Keaton scene that was filmed but not included in the final film) but, in the first film, they have a memorable moment in which Keaton (as Kay) visits the Corleone compound while the Corleones are in the middle of a gang war, and asks Duvall’s Tom Hagen to send a letter to Michael in Sicily. Hagen explains that he can’t do that because that would serve as evidence that he knew where Michael was. When Kay notices a car that has obviously been bombed, Tom blandly replies, “Oh, that was an accident. Luckily, no one was hurt!”
In honor of these two amazing performers and my favorite movie of all time, today’s song of the day is Nino Rota’s theme from The Godfather.