Shock Totem 7: Curious Tales of the Macabre and Twisted

by Shock Totem

  BLOODSTAINS

  & BLUE SUEDE SHOES

  by John Boden and Simon Marshall-Jones

  PART V: THE EARLY SEVENTIES

  I (Simon) remember watching a documentary on the late 60s hippie movement, wherein a “spokesperson” for the movement announced to the crowd gathered at some festival that he had returned from a fact-finding mission abroad, ending with the words, “It’s happening!” The spokesperson’s name remains unremembered, but that phrase epitomizes the optimism that carried the whole love-generation along. It was a hope that all wished would materialize—sadly, it was not to be.

  I’VE SEEN THOSE SHADOWS...

  At the beginning of the seventies the psychedelic tides had turned, leaving behind a petrified forest of those cherished ideals the hippies had espoused so fulsomely. The peace and love that had been in the air was now slowly being suffocated, choking on its own poisoned ethos, and was destined to fall to the ground like diseased cherubs. The love-in that had been a major part of the 60s was in the final throes of a brutal death by the end of that decade.

  If there was a definite moment in which the final nail had been driven in the coffin of the 60s it would in all likelihood be the free concert at Altamont Speedway in 1969.

  Of all the participating bands, Santana, The Flying Burrito Brothers and The Grateful Dead (the Dead actually declined to play their set, due to increasing violence and bad vibes at the venue), it would be The Rolling Stones who would be most remembered. During their set, which closed the festival, a rattled Mick Jagger repeatedly pleaded with the crowd to calm down. The set was stopped a few times to accommodate the pleas. During “Under My Thumb,” a young black man named Meredith Hunter tried to access the stage with a throng of other fans. He was violently repelled by two members of the Hell’s Angels motorcycle club, who were serving as security for the gig. Moments later Hunter returned to the front of the stage, drew a .22 caliber revolver from his lime-green suit jacket, and pointed it toward the stage. It is unclear whether or not he fired the weapon, though video of the incident suggests it is possible. What is clear, however, is that after brandishing the gun Hunter was stabbed to death by a member of the Hell’s Angels.

  The incident was yet another hemorrhage to the already weakening ideals of peace and love, a crimson smear on the doorway into the next decade.

  Inevitably, there was bound to be a backlash against the failed hippie ideals of “peace and love.” In addition, around about this time the US was embroiled in an attritional war in Vietnam with the Viet Cong, the communist organization opposed to both America and the South Koreans. The war dragged on and on, polarizing opinion in the US and causing discontent, leading to riots at home and mass protests around the world. There were also continuing racial tensions to add fuel to the mix of discontent—altogether a heady cocktail, which sought an outlet. And, as is often the case, out of all this turmoil emerged new creative forces and modes of expression in popular culture—especially in the field of music.

  Alice Cooper (born Vincent Damon Furnier) is perhaps the most famous “shock rock” artists of all. Prior to his fame as one of the prime progenitors of the close association between rock music, the macabre and the grisly, he’d been a member of various bands throughout the 60s. His debut album, Pretties for You, was released in 1969, but it caused nary a blip on the musical radar. At this time, the name Alice Cooper referred not to the singer’s identity, but was instead the name of the whole band. It wasn’t until the release of the Easy Action album in 1970, however, that the band started to slowly metamorphose into the notorious entity people know them as today. Songs like the bombastic “Return of the Spiders” and “Refrigerator Heaven” were merely tantalizing glimpses of what was to come later as the decade sprawled out. They developed an outrageous stage show that would never be trumped for sheer theater, accompanied by an arsenal of material bridging such family friendly subject matter as necrophilia, dental misdeeds, giant spiders, murder, and all manner of mayhem, and all created by one of the tightest musical combos ever to grace a stage.

  ...AS THEY’RE MOVING IN MY SLEEP

  While the heavies of the late 60s like Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath were still slackening jaws with their primal rock styles (and they would continue to do so, becoming major influences on later bands), new and interesting things were brewing elsewhere.

  Just then the UK was priming to deliver one of their best: Genesis. Starting out as a straight pop act they quickly evolved into an intense progressive rock band known for their elaborate songs as well as a stage show featuring costumes, pyrotechnics, and detailed sets. Fronted by Peter Gabriel, an innovative musician in his own right, the band became an audacious behemoth to be reckoned with. It takes some stones to deliver a twenty-three minute opus about one’s inevitable demise (“Supper’s Ready”).

  In 1974 the band would release their benchmark album The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway, which would also be their last to feature Gabriel as their dynamic frontman. Lamb seemingly concerns the adventures of a boy forced to journey through the underground and save his brother, in which he faces many surreal and frightening creatures and obstacles. But if one digs deeper there is an allegorical thread detailing the loss of self and the subsequent rediscovery of one’s identity. As groundbreaking as they were in their early years, the band would sadly go through many personnel and stylistic changes before calling it a day after toiling through the 80s and early 90s as an anemic pop machine. It is worthy to note that, during the same period, ex-frontman Peter Gabriel released consistently challenging albums, full of the sinister edginess and often dark themes that made Genesis such a great musical force initially.

  At roughly the same time, Malcolm John Rebennack, Jr. (more famously known as Dr. John) was gaining notoriety playing his wild amalgamation of rhythm and blues infused with voodoo chants and tribal instrumentation. Jaunty jazz and blues with a little funkification was, and still is, his signature sound. However, it wasn’t always about mass consumer appeal and cranking out the hits. Were that the case we would never have seen the likes of acts such as Louisiana’s own anonymous darlings, The Residents, who, throughout their existence, have ostensibly attempted to operate under anonymity, instead preferring to have all attention focused purely on their output rather than the identities of its members. Much outside speculation has focused on this aspect of the group, rumored possible members have included folks from magician Penn Gillette and Primus frontman, Les Claypool to one bizarre theory that they were, in fact, members of the Banana Splits. In public, the group is silent and costumed, often wearing eyeball helmets, top hats and tuxedos—a long-lasting costume now recognized as its signature iconography.

  Musically, their ultra-bizarre stylings left most listeners flabbergasted. Utilizing samples and wild electronic sounds in addition to more traditional instrumentation, they’ve inevitably produced something which is entirely unique and instantly unforgettable. They’re well-known for crafting entire albums of off-kilter cover versions of classics and current pop fodder, as well as penning original and surreal songs such as “Smelly Tongues,” “Monkey & Bunny,” “Semolina,” and too many others to list. But just to prove that quirkiness is next to godliness, The Residents are still going strong and we still don’t know who the fuck they are—in all likelihood we never will, but that is part of their appeal.

  SATAN, LAUGHING, SPREADS HIS WINGS

  Of course, it goes without saying that while all this was going on the sonic juggernaut that was Black Sabbath continued to trample all in its path. The seminal “Paranoid” single, released in the UK in September 1970 (with the album appearing a month later), pushed the band into the stratospheric heights of rock stardom. Among the other tracks on the album was one of the band’s strongest and most memorable pieces, “War Pigs,” a song critical of the Vietnam War (which was providing unimaginable horrors of its own). Black Sabbath’s chugging doom-laden riffs were in contrast to Led Zeppelin’s more fantasy-oriented fare, and they were without
doubt one of the most influential bands in heavy and occult rock genres, lending a creative springboard to many bands in that decade and beyond. This writer (Simon) would wager that without Black Sabbath, such subgenres as doom, grindcore and sludgecore would never have materialized, or would have done so a lot later on if the band hadn’t existed.

  Let’s not forget that at the beginning of 1975 emerged a band that has possibly the closest link of all to the horror genre—Goblin. This band is mainly known for creating the score for Dario Argent’s films, their progressive synthesized soundscapes adding layers of depth to Argento’s already disturbing celluloid visions. Although their sound may appear dated to today’s ears, there’s still something ineffable about the marriage between their music and Argento’s imagery. It’s a powerful symbiosis, lending a particularly esoteric atmosphere to the films. The formula of cutting-edge giallo filmmaking and electronic rock scores was a winning one, eagerly taken up by others in the Italian horror film industry, with varying degrees of success—or not, as the case may be.

  What we’ve mainly concentrated on here are the highlights of the early part of the decade—undoubtedly there were plenty of obscure rock bands which allied horror to their musical output. The seventies would turn out to be a very interesting decade musically, one which led to an explosion in the music industry and the proliferation of musical projects and bands. In the next installment of this series, we will be dealing with the advent of punk and new wave, and the behemoth which the indie music scene created as a result.

  Tune in next time!

  John Boden resides in the shadow of Three Mile Island with his wonderful wife and children. Aside from his work with Shock Totem, his stories can be found in 52 Stitches, Everyday Weirdness, Black Ink Horror #7, and Psychos: Serial Killers, Depraved Madmen, and the Criminally Insane, edited by John Skipp.

  Simon Marshall-Jones is a UK-based writer, artist, editor, publisher and blogger: also wine and cheese lover, music freak and covered in too many tattoos.

  THE LONG ROAD

  by Kristi DeMeester

  “It’ll never leave you, Danny. Not now that you’ve heard them. Bet you can feel them itching down inside your guts. Bet you can hear them moving around out there at night. Sounds pretty, don’t it? Bet it gets your pecker hard just thinking about it.” Pop coughed, deep and wet in his chest, spit flecking gray stubble. He fumbled for the glass resting on the end table next to him, gulped at the brackish water he’d pulled from the marsh, smacked his lips and grunted.

  “You thirsty, Danny?” he said, offering me the glass. I didn’t want to answer him. Because I wanted that water, wanted to take it deep into myself, cool the burning working its way through my belly and down into my groin. But there were things moving in the dark liquid, things made up of shadow and night. Things that bite and tear and eat. I couldn’t see them exactly. Could see only the outlines, the hint of fingers—or were they tentacles?—scrabbling, the slight high pitched hum of jagged teeth against glass, and I was afraid of those things burrowing inside of me, eating their way from the inside out. I shook my head.

  “Suit yourself,” he said.

  In the night, I tried not to hear them. The beasts that moved. Long, slow undulations beneath the reeds that made me think of fish whipping their tails. Only there had never been any fish here. Pop dragged Ma here when she was fourteen, her brown skin stretched tight over the seed in her belly, and tied her to this place of rot. It took fifteen years for the beasts to come. They found us and spoke their words, their voices honeyed, and the world turned inside out like an animal peeled out of its skin.

  Pop was the first to listen to them. Walking the long road, he called it. He took to the water like an alcoholic takes to whiskey, and before long his insides started seeping out of him, his blue eyes turning black and oily. Then Momma disappeared into the night, and the beasts ripped the sky open with their shrieking, and I knew that the Devil moved in that water. It didn’t matter how much it burned, how pretty they sang, I wouldn’t drink.

  My tongue dried against the roof of my mouth, and Pop dragged his finger along the glass, suckled at the last few drops. “You’ll walk the road before too long, boy. And they’ll be there waiting on you. Sure as shit they’ll find you, crawl inside that pretty hide of yours, scratch that itch in your belly. Like the balm of fucking Gilead.” And he laughed, his jaw working loose from the skin, the smell of his decay rising, hot and liquid.

  And I was moving out the door, letting it bang behind me like the way Momma would have once hollered that I wasn’t raised in a fucking barn, Danny. We got some manners in this family. Only there was no Momma anymore, and I ran until my calves cramped, and I tumbled into the dirt.

  Everywhere was the smell, the hushed whispers, and my skin blistering with the want, the need to drink of them. This is my body. This is my blood. The Holy Communion. The wafer and the wine. My body burning from the inside out, their voices scraping and sliding against my skin like claws and teeth hunting meat, but there was sweetness there, too, and the shame when I went hard, the shame when I pressed my body against the earth, spurting helplessly against the dust.

  “Hard not to scratch that itch, ain’t it, Danny boy,” Pop said and moved beside me, knelt before the water, his hands twitching, dancing across the surface as the beasts unfurled, reached toward him. The fingers and hands of lovers.

  He grinned. Like the cat who ate the canary, Momma would have called it. He had lost his molars, and he brought a finger against his right incisor, pushed and wiggled until the tooth fell into the dirt.

  “Reckon I don’t need them anymore, huh Danny boy? The pipes are fucking calling, and shouldn’t you be dead?” He paused, pushed against the left incisor until it too came loose then tossed it into the water.

  “No, not you. But somebody you love. Somebody you love in the cold, cold ground, and you just keep on living, Danny boy. You’ll push your lips against her grave and whisper to the worms, and that itch will just keep on gnawing at you.” His eyes flickered, the darkness momentarily pulling away from something deeper.

  Water leaked from my father’s eyes, his mouth, dripped from what remained of his teeth. His lips coated with dark viscous dribbling, and his skin seemed to rattle, loose around his bones. His mouth opened, a great yawning chasm, and I could see the beasts reaching from his throat, groping at his tongue, as if the things inside were trying to find their way out.

  “Come on and walk the long road, Danny,” he said, and the things inside of him laughed, a deep gurgling that sounded like drowning.

  And I ran.

  • • •

  I met Sarah ten years later. And while there were miles and years between, at night I’d dream of the long road, the beasts, and the water. Wake up screaming in the darkness, the mattress sweat-soaked and cold.

  I’d taken another girl to see Tom Waits. A girl like all of the other girls, the names vanishing as soon as they spoke them. She had spent the night applying and reapplying her too pink lipstick. Every now and again her hand would brush against my crotch. Pathetic attempt at seduction. Her brightly painted face like something you could look through and see the broken parts. Buried things she covered with the sharpness of her hipbones, with the emptiness of her sex.

  I told her I needed a cigarette, left her sitting there, frowning at her own reflection mirrored in a lavender compact as she checked her lipstick once more. Vanity made flesh, and I moved away from her, through the sea of people into the spring night air that did not smell of salt but of pine.

  Sarah was sitting on the curb, a dark sweater pulled tightly around her shoulders, the tip of her cigarette just barely illuminating the angles of her face. She looked frail, birdlike, as if I could gather her into my arms and grind her bones into dust. Her hair was cut short then, dark spikes tipped with crimson, the only color against her pale, clear face. She would tell me later that makeup made her feel like she was staring at the world from behind a mask, like what people saw was not really
her but some approximation of her, a thing walking around in Sarah skin.

  “So what are you running from?” Her voice startled me. I’d expected something light and airy, a voice to match the delicacy of her body, but the sound was deep and gruff. A voice steeped in long years of whiskey and cigarettes.

  “I’m not running from anything.”

  She turned to face me. Dark eyes framed by tangled lashes. “That’s bullshit, brother.”

  “Guess I could ask you the same question.”

  She inhaled sharply, laughed. “The same thing you are.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “See? So you do admit it,” she said and stood. She was taller than I thought she would be, and she crossed her arms over her chest. It was a protective gesture that prevented physical closeness. Much time would pass before she would unfold herself, and even then, her arms would be hard, her embraces too tight as if reminding herself that Yes, this is real, I have accepted this moment.

  We both went quiet then, smoked our cigarettes in the darkness.

  “See you around,” she said, flicked her cigarette into the bushes, and began a slow walk back to the building.

  “What’s your name?” I called after her.

  “Sarah,” she said, and waved a hand in farewell, her slight form suddenly swallowed up. It took me two days to work up the courage to try to find her, try to figure out who she was, where she belonged.

  She owned a florist’s shop over on Midland Avenue, a small building of crumbling brick that I’d passed often enough to know the sign. I spent another three days driving past it, telling myself each time that I would stop, would go inside and talk with her, but I would speed by, afraid she would see me and think I was some creep.