Well, well, look what’s coming back to the theaters for a 40th anniversary engagement! My fellow Gen Xers and especially Carroll County, MD folk will recall we had the dinky two theater job of the 140 Cinema in Westminster with the beat-up, transparent screens. You didn’t dare as an adult go there on a Friday night since we teens took over the joint, especially for new horror movies on opening night.
Horror night back then was Party Time and we made Rocky Horror look tame by our rowdy behavior, screaming, laughing, scaring the ladies to much shared amusement. Toilet humor abound. Popcorn and Milk Duds flying all over the theater. Other flotsam pelting the screen. The theater oversold tickets and people sat on the floor screeching over spilled sodas. Catcalls at the random fools trying to make out admist such mayhem. Always a wit a minute hollering at the butcher fodder teenagers doing what we wanted to be doing, other than die!
I think of Friday IV when I think of this wonderfully immature time of life. I confess to being participant in the shenanigans. I also have to testify to being only 14 when The Final Chapter came out, getting myself and six of my neighborhood buddies into an R-rated movie. Glory days.
This was one of the zaniest nights of my teen life, ending with the usual teen farmer fight in the back parking lot and the all night spinnerama of teen cruising around the shopping center, lap after lap. A 140 Shopping Center tradition for much of the decade.
Definitely NOT the Final Chapter, but the second best of the whole series and one of Tom Savini’s SFX masterpieces. Won’t be the same arena of lunacy as we enjoyed back in the day, but I love sharing this story with younger generations of horror fans
If you’re a deep reader, especially horror, and you don’t know the name John Boden, learn it. I urge you. I have been reading John and getting to know him the past year after picking up his book, Jedi Summer in a large stack from Richard Chizmar’s Cemetery Dance table the day I was privileged to meet him and Billy Chizmar, whose fate in this game hints of similar fortune as his renowned dad.
Boden blew me out of the water with Jedi Summer and the timing was close to his next release, Snarl, which was utterly moving in its tragic designs. Now Boden strikes again with another release through Chizmar’s decades running house of horrors. Cemetery Dance has released a Stoker Award-worthy collection of Boden’s short works with his savagely witty title, The Etiquette of Booby Traps.
Boden and poet Michael Branscáth are probably the most unheralded American greats of my generation. Guys I have gotten to know better and know they are like me and share my experiences coming of age, same as Richard Chizmar. I feel brotherhood with all of these dudes for the places we lived and seen, the things we’ve done, the music, films and books we share a love of.
As a reader, you will seldom find writing of Boden’s caliber turning twisted imagery into gorgeous horror prose. As a writer, my guts often writhed with envy reading these stories spanning John’s publication history, but mostly I cringed with a love of Boden’s ballsiness to make you FEEL, even to weep from his visceral textures and at times shocking climaxes. I kept saying to myself, “Keep elevating your craft, Van Horn, because you MUST.”
The flavor of this post is full-on ass-kissery and I can live with that. This was my job once as a music and film journalist and when a band came across my desk who wanted it more than others, who went the extra mile to count, I made it my mission as the critic to boost them as high as my pen could. I can tell you I told two bands on the spot after playing their slots they were going somewhere huge. In the case of Trivium, I told Matt Heafy and Corey Beulieu at age 18 they would rule the world. They proved me right in a hurry.
John Boden, my friends, is horror’s true reigning poet Laureate. He is Joe R. Landsale’s immediate peer. He is that Trivium of the written word. My literary agent friends, seek this man out and make him an offer. I’m that serious.
Holy smokes, we lose Greg Kihn and Jack Russell of Great White in the same day? Jack was my first pro interview for assignment. I’d drawn Jack based on word of mouth from a personal project where I cold contacted and interviewed about 20 hard rock and metal bands from the 80s before they resurged.
My network of publicists from those early interviews who helped me break into the music industry took a shot on me by pitching me to Pitriff. They assigned me Jack Russell only a couple weeks after Great White’s Rhode Island tragedy. I was told not to “go there” with him, but I didn’t need the warning. I was sold by my network as someone new who already had the savvy to avoid yellow journalism.
Jack was still shaken, upset and angry by the Rhode Island deaths and the public backlash he and the band faced. I stayed off topic, got him to loosen up taking about the old days, MTV and Headbangers Ball giving Great White a boost and then getting into the new album they were promoting.
I won’t ever forget it, my debut in the big boy leagues, Jack saying, “Ray, I appreciate your class by not addressing the elephant in the room, but I want to comment on it anyway.” He said his peace and his publicist thanked me when I sent the transcript to ensure Jack stood on his words. I will always give you an out as an interview guest if I feel it’s potentially damaging. Jack sent me a message of thanks and to go for it.
From that interview, I was avalanched by requests from other bands who’d gotten word about my handling of this moment.
Yeah, this is a self-serving post, but I thank Jack Russell and his publicist (who became a lifelong friend after this) for giving me a chance at proving myself. It was a debut to remember that went on for 16 more years.
Rest in power, Jack. Hope you find a lady red light to put a smile upon your face on the other side.
Rest in power, Greg, may you wreak jeopardy across the great, lost arcades that time forgot.
Let’s keep things in the key of Chili Peppers and drop my favorite cut the band ever did, this slap-happy funk bomb of psychedelic joy, “Show Me Your Soul.”
Dropped as a side nugget during the Mother’s Milk cycle, this song blew me away with Anthony Keidis (back in the long locks, sans porn ‘stache days), Flea, John Frusciante and Chad Smith humming on all cylinders. Probably the sexiest expression of newfound love, I still have the potential to just lose my shit cranking this one with no one around.
Every time I hear this song or watch the gleeful video, I always sigh at the end (a true sentimental gentleman), knowing it represents the end of an era for this point in the band’s history. The subsequent Blood Sugar Sex Magik and Californication changed the tide and the band itself, even with the momentary drop-in of Jane’s Addiction guitarist Dave Navarro for the rowdy if sometimes unfocused One Hot Minute.
Not a lick of it, with moments of greatness amidst the commercialized watering down of the band on those and subsequent albums, compares to the booming energy and love of roots this song shoves out with a wild alpha-omega blend of machismo and femininity. As I mentioned in the last post, I’m very fond of the Chili Peppers’ more recent albums The Getaway (a therapy album I needed during a rough stretch, and I played the snot out of) and the exuberant Unlimited Love.
Still, try putting anything following “Show Me Your Soul” against it. Limp noodle by comparison.
Wow, this game-changer came out 40 years ago. People tend to forget the Red Hot Chili Peppers started as a fast-moving funk punk band before settling into the pop rock juggernaut they are today. I remember vividly when I would stay the night at my dad’s in the early days of cable television and MTV, I would be up all night watching horror and action movies and music videos.
There was this foursome of day glo painted lunatics shaking, shimmying, dancing like absolute spazzes. Some goofball bassist named Flea thrashing his head twice the velocity as Angus Young at a mid-tempo song of savage weirdness. I’m talking about “True Men Don’t Kill Coyotes” from the band’s self-titled debut album from August 10, 1984.
Those insane images imprinted themselves upon me for more than a week after first contact. I came across RHCP again later being their coked-out, writhing, manic, costumed selves in 1986’s comedy Tough Guys. Who can forget Kirk Douglas bashing that mosher in the chops coaxing him to, “Slam me!” with the Chili Peppers doing their thing?
The Chilis became one of my all-time favorite bands and I prefer the first four albums and from their later catalog, The Getaway and Unlimited Love. Facing the facts, the Red Hot Chili Peppers are at their finest (in my opinion) when laying down the funk, preferably fast. “Get Up and Jump” from this first album being that huffing go-getter. My favorite Chili Pepper track ever? “Show Me Your Soul.” Psychedelic funk blasted to perfection, John Frusciante’s blistering guitar solo being RNR HoF worthy in itself.
Mother’s Milk is their finest hour, sorry. Many will disagree. I saw them on that tour and whatever they may have been laced out with, it was the most incredible display of raw power not even The Stooges had. Greatest live performance I ever bore witness to.
I tripped over this really cool shot someone from the Shore Leave event organizers took of me manning TJ’s space at Shore Leave at the Friday night “Meet the Pros” event that weekend. I can tell you exactly what was tumbling around my head here:
I’d interviewed more than 300 bands, artists, actors, film directors and authors in my 16 years covering the things I loved. Many being royalty of their respective genres. I just got used to talking to people of success in the entertainment world, except I hadn’t had any opportunities to cover sci-fi then. I was often backstage and on tour buses. I had film directors get so caught in the moment talking to me they asked me to wait around until they took their next appointed interviewer, THEN came back to me for a second round. I’d talked to many guitarists, singers and drummers who just opened up to me for three-hour chats. One even asked to collab with me for a biography and we generated six hours of footage until the artist torpedoed the idea.
All of that, and I’m still geeking here in this photo, landing the people with the names of renowned authors and marveling my wife and I started 25 years ago writing Darth Maul of Star Wars fan fiction together, a few of our first publication credits. We supported each other, cheered each other on. On our first date later in life, she reeled off the names of established and successful writers in the Star Trek and sci-fi-fantasy genre and I said “Wait, you know WHO?” I jokingly told her she’d trumped my entire side career.
Two years prior at another Shore Leave, she’d introduced me to whole lot of them, mostly in passing. I was the new, uncertain guy in her life, though I knew after our first date this was meant to be. I got a better read and fix on these popular authors this year and at the point of this picture, I’d told TJ, “Go see your friends, I’ve got this.” I’m smiling watching her talk to every single one of them and enjoying the camaraderie they shared with her and with each other.
As the night wore on, I got to know many of them myself in the hotel bar, then the second night, hanging in this circle of writer friends, I soaked the moment. It felt different than all the bands I’ve bro’ed down with, the directors who shared their own backstage magic with me, so to speak. All the incredible conversations I had with them, and I fell into that rhythm, engaging with the authors and always keeping to my credo, whether it was Alice Cooper, Rob Zombie, Mick Garris or an-up-comer. They’re all people too, just like you and me. Conduct yourself accordingly.
I believe when this shot was taken, I’d been approached warmly by two of the authors I now consider my friends as well, particularly the physical tokens of goodwill we’d shared with one another. They’d honored my off-the-cuff mentions or offers of trade, and I assure you, I got the better end of the deal, to quote one of them who’d used that of himself with humility, which gained my further respect.
I thought to myself, “Ray, you lucky bastard, you got the woman you need to finish this life with. You’ve been at this whole writing thing most of your life and FINALLY momentum is happening with your fiction.” Many of these people before you, you were reading years ago, some more recently. This is a tribe to aspire to.
I’m in a rebrand and rebuild mode, or a “new mode,” as Kudi Cudi sings about. I lost a sizable and loving audience who followed my career in journalism. At one point in time, I was writing for 13 simultaneous magazines and websites. I covered 8-10 concerts a month. I slept very little, turning in copy under deadline at 4:30 to 5:00 a.m., then back up at 8:00 a.m. for the day job. That haunted me last night watching the Jim Henson documentary. A man of passion, genius and outrageous drive, dying at 53 chasing after it all with little rest. I know better than that these days.
I did it for the thrill, for the love, because I wanted to matter, and I did. Hopefully I will yet again. Attending the panels and workshops at Shore Leave, I learned from some of the masters. Later, threw back some drinks with the masters.
My face here in this shot is the most hopeful thing I’ve seen anyone capture from me.
I am currently writing a punk based horror story in answer to a call for submissions. Got me pulling out this time capsule gem from the photo albums. McDaniel College when it was known as Western Maryland College, Westminster, MD. Washington, D.C. hardcore legends, Government Issue headlining a four pack of punk bands.
Carroll County hadn’t seen the likes of it before, nor after, but what an incredible night with Bob, Joel, Mark, Jeff, John and Mike, the days of crossover when metalheads and punkers bridged.
I marked a few of us off in this photo from the Carroll County Times, myself holding on to the floor amp belting out “Jaded Eyes” with the late John Stabb. This clip fueled my story I just finished the first draft for. These were our salad days.
Picture a brutal horror element at play here, if you will…
Roads Lesser Traveled 