This Wednesday 20th July marks National Lollipop Day (seriously, look it up), and what more perfect occasion could there be for the release of ‘The Attack of the Dancing Demon Lollipop Man from Hell’?

This project will be the latest to emerge from Rodgures & Hammergrant Industries (in association with Glow-Worm Productions), and I can now exclusively reveal that it will be a 4-track, 12-minute EP containing music from one of cinema’s greatest lost treasures. So don’t forget to check this blog on Wednesday for details on how to give it a listen!

To delve further into the history of this music, we have been lucky enough to enlist the expertise of respected cinematic scholar Herman Drei, who has written some truly comprehensive sleeve notes to accompany the release. So read on, and learn why this EP could be the most significant in all of modern film music.
 

 
“Of all the greatest mysteries to be found in the labyrinthine pursuit of lost cinematic masterpieces, few are as scintillatingly impenetrable as those that surround The Attack of the Dancing Demon Lollipop Man from Hell. It takes a keen scholar indeed to unearth the slightest trace of this ill-fated motion picture, and a keener one still to form even the vaguest notion of its contents. Nevertheless, if one delves deep enough into the thick fog of rumour, gossip and hearsay in which the history of this picture is mired, certain aspects do eventually begin to establish themselves as, if not incontrovertible, at least probable.

“The film’s producer/writer/director, for instance, can be identified with some confidence as a certain Armando Allegro. By all accounts an eccentric gentleman, it is said that Allegro was also a prolific gambler, in fact taking on the task of creating this film as the result of a bet with a friend. It has been suggested by a number of academics that, when production on the project became bogged down in legal problems with local trade unions, Allegro suffered a severe mental breakdown, setting fire to the studio before taking up a sharpened lollipop stick (intended to be used as a prop weapon in the film) and turning it on himself, his remains being engulfed in the ensuing blaze. Then again, a similar number of academics (slightly more, in fact) assert that this is mere fiction, and that the entire doomed project was little more than a highly elaborate piece of insurance fraud. Indeed, in the years since, there have been several reported sightings of Allegro in the Côte d’Azur region, usually lounging outside an exclusive restaurant with a large cigar in one hand and a glass of Dom Perignon in the other, his luxuriant handlebar moustache wafting in the gentle breeze.

“Whatever the truth of its origins, for decades it was universally believed that nothing whatsoever remained of the production itself. No footage had been uncovered, and any scripts or other related documents were apparently destroyed in the fire that brought such an abrupt end to filming. No trace of the film’s soundtrack (reportedly composed by notable Russian recluse Alexander Despot) had ever surfaced, and it too was assumed to be lost forever.

“Until, that is, the year 2019, when a whole new chapter was to begin in the ongoing mystery of Armando Allegro’s lost masterpiece. While conducting research into the acoustical preferences of villagers in the North West of England, the eminent musicologists Michael A. Grant and James Ure discovered an old decaying wax cylinder recording in (of all places) a disused corner cupboard in a now-defunct working men’s club in the otherwise thriving village of Ribchester. To their great surprise, further investigation revealed that this cylinder contained perfectly preserved representations of four distinct musical ‘cues’ from Despot’s original score to The Attack of the Dancing Demon Lollipop Man from Hell.

“Filled with excitement, Ure and Grant hurried to share their discovery with the world and shed some much-needed light in what is surely the darkest of cinematic corners. But as with all aspects in the history of this cursed motion picture, tragedy was not far behind. No sooner had they transported the cylinder to their state-of-the-art acoustic laboratory in the University of Royton, than it was discovered by the departmental dog Spike, who (mistaking it for a chew toy) dug his teeth in without hesitation and unwittingly destroyed the one piece of solid evidence ever to emerge from Allegro’s production. (Incidentally, since that unfortunate incident pets are no longer permitted in the university laboratories, except on Casual Fridays).

“This disaster struck a severe blow for cinematic scholars everywhere, but thankfully all was not completely lost. For on their initial drive from Ribchester back to the university, Ure and Grant had listened through once to the material contained on the wax cylinder (through their specially adapted car stereo), and their memories of that journey were still vivid enough for them to recollect in some detail the music they had heard. Therefore, following the loss of the original recording, they immediately set about reconstructing – from memory – the cues that they had listened to on that fateful day. It was to be a long, tortuous process, but after three years of toil they ultimately managed to reproduce each of the four cues, if not exactly as originally written, at least as close as humanly possible. It is those recordings that are presented here.

“Who knows what further material may surface in the coming years pertaining to the lost masterpiece of Armando Allegro. Perhaps somewhere out there is another copy of the wax cylinder that Ure and Grant discovered (the reader is encouraged to check the backs of their kitchen cupboards in this regard, preferably in the absence of pets). Maybe there is more compelling evidence still, out there waiting to be unearthed. Only time will tell. In the meantime, these heroically reconstructed recordings give a truly fascinating insight into what is surely the greatest film that never was.”