This Music Leaves Stains

by Jr. Greene, James

  “All Hell Breaks Loose: The Jerry Only Interview” ends with Only talking up Kryst the Conqueror, commenting that “[Glenn’s] problem is he’s living off his Misfits fame—he’s in his own shadow and he don’t even know it.”[5] This is a massively ironic statement given the fact at this very juncture Only was suing Glenn Danzig partially to gain his ownership of the Misfits copyrights, ostensibly so he could have the authority to reform the Misfits without their original singer if that was his wont. Most involved in this erupting legal donnybrook were more concerned with the song publishing/royalty aspect of the fight, though. Negotiations between the Caiafa and Anzalone parties dragged as the specific value of the Misfits was something neither side could agree on—nor could they agree who deserved what royalties. Up until this point every Misfits song was credited entirely to Glenn Danzig. Was that true? Was Glenn responsible for every single note and nuance of the music? If so, did the players deserve compensation for their specific performances even if they had no hand in the actual song craft? Insiders did not anticipate a swift, tidy conclusion to this litigious disagreement. A lengthy, messy trial seemed imminent.

  Finally, in late 1994, Caroline Records made a decision that spared both parties any elongated court time: the label purchased the complete rights to all Misfits recordings for $1.5 million, allocating Glenn Danzig the money needed to reach settlement.[6] This action allowed the warring Misfits to breathe easier and specifically helped Danzig avoid a costly trial that more than likely would have forced him to acquiesce a significant percentage of songwriting credits/publishing rights. Historically, courts view musical acts as collaborative efforts and tend to rule as such. Two years earlier a U.S. Federal Court ruled in favor of two former members of Frankie Lymon’s group the Teenagers who claimed they had co-written Lymon’s 1956 doo-wop hit “Why Do Fools Fall In Love?” (the fact the two men in question, Herman Santiago and Jimmy Merchant, waited three decades to file their lawsuit cast doubt on their legitimacy and eventually lead to the original decision being reversed).[7] A more famed legal action from 1994 awarded contentious Beach Boy member Mike Love co-credit and royalties for numerous songs originally believed to be written solely by Brian Wilson, including the 1964 hit “I Get Around,” despite testimony claiming Love’s contributions to these works were minimal.[8]

  The purchase of the Misfits catalog was a rather dicey gamble for Caroline Records. The company, despite cultivating such globally popular artists as Smashing Pumpkins and White Zombie, was no huge conglomerate with piles of disposable income. Investing so much capital in the recordings of a band that hadn’t existed in a decade seemed potentially disastrous on paper. Would anyone actually buy this music if they released it? A great deal of Caroline’s profits for the following year were resting on this Misfits material and the company’s ability to hawk it to an ostensibly punk-hungry public. Insiders quickly began considering their options.

  Meanwhile, on December 31, 1994, plaintiffs Gerald Caiafa, Paul Caiafa, Frank LiCata, Julio Valverde, and defendant Glenn Danzig entered into a legal agreement regarding the music and rights of their former band, the Misfits. The terms of this settlement stipulated that all members relinquish ownership of master recordings to Caroline Records and that all future music royalties—via Caroline Records or anyone else—should be divided 60/40 in favor of the plaintiffs (save the first $90,000 of post-settlement royalties, which would go directly to the plaintiffs; all royalties earned prior were to be split 50/50). This document also stipulated that the plaintiffs and the defendant would co-own the Misfits name, trademark, and corresponding logos as they appeared on any and all product (including Walk Among Us); that neither party would have to account to the other for any revenues and also agreed not to use the names, likenesses, or visual representations of other party members without full written consent; that all Misfits song publishing rights were to be owned exclusively by Danzig; and that one party would be responsible for notifying the other should Caroline fail to do so concerning future artwork or sound mixes. Perhaps most importantly, though, this settlement decreed that the plaintiffs would own the exclusive right to perform publicly and record as the Misfits and that Danzig could not and would not receive payments from future performances or recordings (the plaintiffs also agreed to alert all concert promoters that Danzig was no longer a member of the band).[9]

  On month later, on January 26, 1995, the Caiafas, LiCata, and Valverde entered their own agreement that divvied up the settlement monies—with a small portion going to Ken Caiafa, the brother between Jerry and Doyle who was nominated to manage whatever new incarnation of the Misfits came to be. Some of the settlement money was also set aside in a reserve clause for Joey Image and Bobby Steele should they decide to claim it; after two years, said monies would revert to Doyle (the only Misfits featured on the disputed recordings who received nothing from this case were drummers Manny Martinez and Arthur Googy, and it has been rumored over the years that both these men sought out Danzig individually for smaller compensation and were accommodated, which would have legally barred them from participating in the Caiafas’ case). This 1995 agreement also decreed all future royalties derived from Caroline Records Misfits product would be pro-rated by instrument and track depending on the performer. Thus, Jerry Only would receive a full third of Collection I royalties, but the third set aside for the guitar tracks would be split up between Frank LiCata, Doyle, and Bobby Steele (as would the third for the drum tracks between Mr. Jim, Joey Image, Googy, and Robo).[10]

  With this matter finally squared away, Jerry Only and Doyle focused on what the New York District Court now legally allowed them to do: reuniting the Misfits.

  One of the documents used for reference in the Caiafa v. Anzalone lawsuit was a sprawling discography assembled by a Misfits fan named Mark Kennedy. A high schooler in the late 1980s who became enchanted with the band and infuriated by the lack of useful information pertaining to their recorded output, Kennedy took it upon himself in 1989 to piece together the ultimate Misfits release timeline, an end-all history that would separate the legitimate albums from the myriad bootleg releases that were starting to cloud the market. Using the Trouser Press Record Guide as his starting point, Mark spent the better part of five years sussing out the Misfits discography. “By 1993, I had amassed thirty to forty pages of information,” Kennedy says. “Every record, every bootleg, just everything. At the same time, my brother had written a letter to Jerry Only about the Doyle Fan Club, and in response Jerry just called him. He would do that—he would just call you. Like, oh my God, he really is Mo the Great!”

  Kennedy’s brother talked up his sibling’s discography, self-published that year as The Misfits Book, and Only expressed great interest due to the legal proceedings at hand. The bassist and Kennedy began corresponding regularly, which lead to the latter unearthing even more fascinating information about his favorite band. In May of 1994, Mark Kennedy used his close connections to launch the Misfits Bible Internet mailing list, where other fans could keep abreast of Misfits goings-on. Six months later, Kennedy built and took live a Misfits website, known as Misfits Central. Not only was Misfits Central cyberspace’s first page dedicated to Lodi’s most famous musical export, it was the best—Mark Kennedy’s close resource pool and slavish attention to detail made sure of that.

  The Misfits Bible and Misfits Central would both mushroom from tiny online enclaves to bustling centers of activity for fiends from across the globe, who were finally getting Misfits news more or less directly from the horse’s mouth—or at least one half of the horse’s mouth. Mark Kennedy would not have a chance to interact with the other half, Glenn Danzig, until long after his online Misfits hubs were established, though the singer was alerted to the existence of Misfits Central shortly after its creation. Naturally, Danzig dismissed the website as “probably all bullshit”; when Kennedy managed to wrangle a private audience with Danzig following a November 1999 gig in Washington, D.C., the sneering singer was convinced Misfits Central was, in
fact, “all bullshit” and let its creator know in no uncertain terms. “They bring me backstage after some gig to meet Glenn, and as soon as I’m introduced he explodes,” Kennedy recalls. “‘YOUR WEBSITE IS FULL OF FUCKIN’ LIES! I SHOULD FUCKIN’ KILL YOU RIGHT NOW!’ So I said, ‘All right, I’m sorry, you tell me what’s incorrect and I’ll fix it.’” Danzig relaxed and said he’d get back to him with specifics. As of this book’s printing, Mark Kennedy still has yet to receive Glenn Danzig’s list of inaccuracies on Misfits Central (though a link that once appeared on Danzig’s official website to Mark Kennedy’s site has long since been removed).[11]

  Originally Jerry Only and Doyle (the latter of whom was now fully expanding his nickname to Doyle Wolfgang von Frankenstein) wanted as close to an authentic Misfits reunion lineup as he could get. Since Jim Catania was no longer interested in performing and Joey “Image” Poole was M.I.A., the brothers turned their focus to Arthur Googy. Only, who had kept in touch on and off over the years with Googy, floated the notion to the Walk Among Us percussionist. Googy considered accepting but ultimately turned him down; having not played his instrument in years, the drummer was concerned he was not up for the task.

  After a series of rehearsals, the Misfits settled on their Congruent Machine co-worker and high school buddy David Calabrese, rechristened Dr. Chud in honor of the 1984 Daniel Stern thriller.[12] Chud was a student of various musical genres including jazz, blues, and fusion, but his true love was in the progressive rock of groups like Rush, Yes, King Crimson, and Genesis (the very groups the Misfits by nature opposed when they first sprung up in the halcyon days of punk). The drummer considered joining the premiere horror rock band as just another step in his evolution as a player. “Learning all I can about all facets of music [is] important to me,” Chud remarked in 2007. “[I draw] on things subconsciously when needed.”[13]

  Pressure and interest mounted over who would fill the vacant Misfits singing slot. Vocalist auditions had begun as early as October 1994, three months before the settlement with Danzig, but Jerry wanted Damned crooner Dave Vanian to front their band. Vanian expressed enough interest to visit Jerry during an unrelated trip to the States; in the end, the British singer couldn’t be convinced (a rumor persists in certain circles that Vanian backed out at the last minute when he learned Only had bedded his wife during the Misfits’ disastrous 1979 visit to England). Another name the Misfits considered was guttural goth vocalist Peter Steele of Type O Negative. Type O, a dreary rock band from Brooklyn who performed such pointedly droll material as “I Know You’re Fucking Someone Else” and “Kill All the White People,” clearly counted the Misfits among their musical heroes. Unfortunately, the group were experiencing their greatest wave of success at this time, affording little time for outside projects. That left Jerry and Doyle the myriad of anonymous singers who were regularly visiting their machine shop compound via an ad the band placed in The Village Voice. Incredibly, the band recorded every one of these sessions and presented all who tried out a cassette copy of the moment with the Misfits. In the end, it was one of these unknowns who would win the coveted singing position.[14]

  Twenty-year-old Michael Emanuel hailed from Teaneck, New Jersey, the son of a police officer and a stay-at-home mom. A self-described “little skate punk” with blue hair, Emanuel always knew he wanted to “be something exceptional” but had difficulty figuring out what direction his life should take. In his late teens he turned to music, hooking up with a band called the Mopes who needed an energetic front person. In the spring of 1995, while the Mopes were recording a demo, engineer Bobby Alleca, impressed with Emanuel’s voice, pulled the singer aside to encourage his trying out for the Misfits. Emanuel was unfamiliar with the band and therefore wary, even after a pleasant phone conversation with Jerry Only. “The first thing that came to my mind [when I heard their name] was death metal,” he says. “I thought, ‘Wow, I wonder if I can sing that shit?’ I bought Collection 1 and I was surprised that I had heard a lot of the songs before. They were all familiar. I quickly fell in love with the music. Those songs . . . [they] turn something on inside of you.”[15]

  Emanuel began a series of auditions for the Misfits, and although there was no question he was spirited and had a memorably haunting voice, the Caiafas were still holding out hope they could land a singer with marquee pull. In an act of some major audacity, Jerry and Doyle even tried to invite Danzig back. Following a show by the Danzig band in Red Bank, New Jersey, on April 26, 1995, the Caiafas, decked out in their Misfits stage gear, arrived at Glenn’s hotel for a proper hatchet burial. Doyle, learning Danzig’s room number from a mutual friend, took the elevator up to greet his old friend; Jerry elected to remain in the lobby. Fifteen to twenty minutes later, the elevator doors pinged back open on the first floor. Jerry turned to see his brother, slightly smirking, flanked by two burly security guards. Danzig never bothered to answer his hotel room door. “We took that as a ‘no,’” Only commented to Metal Maniacs a year later.[16]

  The search for name talent went on until October 1995, when the Misfits realized no one else was interested or available. Roadie Jonathan Grimm offered Emanuel the new moniker Michale Graves,[17] and the resurrected Misfits made their live debut just after midnight on October 31 at Manhattan’s Coney Island High (the band performed a handful of songs the day before as an encore at a Type O Negative concert).[18] Taking the stage in matching sleeveless Misfits shirts, the quartet blasted through thirteen dusty classics to the delight of a disbelieving sweat-soaked audience.

  The next immediate order of business for the reconstituted Misfits was, oddly enough, a movie appearance. In November of 1995 the group filmed a cameo appearance for the Matthew Lillard thriller Animal Room (a move that also boasts the first screen appearance of developing sexpot Amanda Peet and the presence of “Doogie Houser” himself, Neil Patrick Harris). As they had not officially recorded any material yet, the Misfits were forced to pantomime to an old Kryst the Conqueror track featuring the long-suppressed vocals of Jeff Scott Soto. An indignity of sorts for Michale Graves, but not such a loss, considering the low quality of the film.[19]

  Jerry Only was looking for ways for the new Misfits to get some exposure in the industry. The bassist hired a production crew and filmed a television pilot for a revived version of the classic horror presentation program Chiller Theater. Only hosted, of course, with brother Doyle by his side, lounging about a medieval castle set complete with thrones, flickering candles, and stray animal skulls. The Caiafas traded jokes and trivia in simmering growls about 1959’s The Hideous Sun Demon, the film they planned to air on this inaugural outing.[20] Sadly, no station was interested the project, possibly because the far wittier and more camera-friendly Joe Bob Briggs was holding down basic cable’s late night frights on the TNT network’s popular cult film vehicle MonsterVision. The Misfits television pilot wasn’t a complete waste, though—the castle set would eventually be used for a series of great promotional photos.

  The Misfits reunion arrived at a near perfect time in popular culture, when the general mood of the country seemed to revolve around the spooky or macabre. One of the biggest hits on television at the time was the paranormal drama The X-Files, which chronicled the adventures of two FBI agents investigating various unexplained crimes and phenomena across the country—including but not limited to the kinds of hokey monsters (killer sea creatures, sentient trash trolls, etc.) that dotted the 1950s horror landscape that the Misfits originally drew inspiration from.[21] A year prior director Wes Craven released the alleged final installment of his campy Nightmare on Elm Street film series, the refreshing New Nightmare, an early example of the self-aware Generation X horror film that scored with audiences and paved the way for Craven’s massive 1996 hit Scream, which used irony as sharply as knives.[22]

  The inescapable news story of the time was the macabre O. J. Simpson murder trial. The majority of Americans were kept on the edge of their seats by this tense legal circus. The “Trial of the Century” was pac
ked with enough elements of the tragic, the gruesome, and the strangely humorous (mostly from wise-cracking defense attorney Johnnie Cochran) to warrant fair comparisons to Shakespeare. Simpson’s acquittal in October was stunning but did not herald its true conclusion; if Simpson didn’t brutally murder his wife and her lover Ron Goldman, that means someone else did, someone who was still ostensibly on the loose in otherwise bucolic suburban California.[23]

  Even with an apt cultural climate and an initial positive reaction from the crowds who saw them, without Danzig the Misfits were fighting an uphill battle against the indignation of old school fans who saw their reformation sans Glenn as offensive, sacrilegious, and just plain greedy. Much of this anger was concentrated on Michale Graves, whose relative baby-face (soon to be masked by elaborate skull makeup) and corresponding boyish stature did him no particular favors. “It was like being lit on fire,” says Graves of his early shows with the Misfits. “I definitely did not find my footing immediately. Learning how complex and popular the band was, it started to frighten me because it was so much of a bigger world than I was used to. [And] the violence [of the audiences] surprised me, to be honest with you. It usually felt like me against all of them, and I took that mindset.” During a gig in Stuttgart, Germany, for example, Graves fell offstage and was immediately stomped in the face by an angry concertgoer; his jaw was dislocated. On the same tour, Jerry Only fell ill with a collapsed lung. Only, worn to a nub, confided to Graves one night that he was considering calling the entire reunion off.

  Such misgivings were quickly brushed aside. The Misfits toughened up and began shopping around a demo in May of 1996. The prestigious and often taste-making Geffen Records heard the demo, liked it, and saw enough potential in the reunited Misfits to sign them to a multiple album contract in December. The band soon began working on material for a new album tentatively titled American Psycho, but it would not prove to be an easy chore. As Graves puts it, the Misfits were suddenly playing with “big boy money” and having to deal with lawyers, accountants, and all the other business incidentals that come with being on a major label. This was an atmosphere in which the band were novices. The artistic differences between band members also crystallized during American Psycho’s creation. Jerry Only, convinced the band had to stick to the horror shtick at all costs, routinely chose movie titles at random to author songs around. This bucked with the less specific leanings of Michale Graves. Unfortunately for Graves, he quickly came to realize the Misfits were Only’s band; the singer would later lament that the bassist took the lead on everything and rarely ceded, creating a frustrating environment that did not foster much sense of collaboration.[24]