Here's one of the more pleasingly scuzzy 70's blaxploitation grindhouse items; it's a pervasively low-rent pimp opus which comes across like a sleazier version of "The Mack." John Daniels, the studly womanizing hairdresser hero Mr. Jonathan in the immortal "Black Shampoo," gives an excellent steely portrayal of the Baron, a ruthless, business savvy, forever on the make all-powerful flesh peddler who much to the dismay of his bitter, brutal Italian rivals reigns supreme over the Sunset Strip. When not locking horns with his fellow no-count criminal pals or doing his best to avoid being busted by the local vice cops, Daniels is leading a sweetly average existence as your standard garden-variety suburbanite dude (complete with caring wife and loving kids!) in some typically humdrum California small town.<br /><br />The glaringly absurd premise alone promises top-rate trashy greatness of a decidedly Grade B schlock picture variety (George Theakos deserves kudos for his hilariously ludicrous script). Matt Cimber's commendably tactless and tasteless direction delivers the junky goods by the slimy bucketful, thus making this film a hugely enjoyable serving of celluloid grime. Among the assorted squalid delights to be savored herein are plentiful gratuitous female nudity, coarse dialogue, beautifully gaudy Me Decade threads (halter tops, felt hats, sparkling Day-Glo jewelry, loud seersucker suits), an intensely funky R&B score by Smoke, some hopelessly pathetic acting (the little old lady who lives next door to Daniels is excruciatingly shrill), a memorably nasty turn by Patrick Wright as a sadistic goon, a couple of cool action set pieces (the climactic slow motion barroom massacre seriously cooks), more lurid travelogue footage of the Sunset Strip than you can shake a feather boa at (said footage allegedly includes "the actual hookers and blades of the Sunset Strip in Hollywood"), effectively dark'n'dingy cinematography by Ken Gibb, a few sicko sexual fetish tableaux, some raw explicit violence (a prostitute has one of her breasts cut off!), and amusing supporting performances by familiar schlock feature perennials Richard Kennedy and George "Buck" Flower as a pair of racist, corrupt, browbeating police detectives. Sure, this movie ain't art, but it's certainly artless enough to qualify as a deliciously grungy chunk of entertainingly sordid cinematic swill.