I’ve always been attracted to the macabre.
My original due date was Halloween 1989, though I was actually born a couple days later on El Dia De Los Muertos. I’ve put my hands in the waters of Camp Crystal Lake. I’ve traveled to Haddonfield and walked inside the childhood home of Michael Myers. I’ve worn George Romero’s glasses.
I’m a horror junkie who has never stopped chasing the high. Is there anything better than finding a movie that makes you sleep with the lights on afterward? Anytime there’s a new release touted as the most frightening cinematic event of the last couple decades, I try to go opening night. Often, I’m left wanting.
Horror is the perfect genre. It’s the one most capable of taking you somewhere you’ve never been, showing you something totally new. Like great comedy or songwriting, it’s built on left turns. There’s an argument to be made for its historical use of social commentary, racists are the real zombies and so forth, but what horror really appeals to in my opinion is the very core of what makes us human.
Fear is titillating.
We like looking into the dark unknown from the safety of a movie theater or our living rooms. In polite society, common practice is to avoid the unpleasant. Horror makes us deal with it directly, which is cathartic. There’s also the resolution that it isn’t real, that stories are just stories.
Indulging in horror serves a similar function to watching live sports or smoking cigarettes, the most satisfying aspects usually lie within the ritual itself. We set the circumstances how we like them, use them in one way or another as meditation, and then move on with our lives. The same theory can be applied to myriad activities.
The way we consume the medium is important. With horror, films are the logical choice because they’re a combination of visual and auditory stimulants. You’re getting the best of all available vehicles. Books may seem less alluring in comparison, but they can be more all-encompassing. After all, there’s nothing a film can show you that would be better than your own imagination.
One art form less explored in the genre is music.
…
The Review
Ghost
Opus Eponymous
2010
Opus Eponymous sounds like it was recorded in the dungeon of a haunted castle from a Swedish cartoon.
Seriously, was it produced by Ed and Lorraine Warren? There’s a spooky, lived-in vision that is so well crafted you would think John Carpenter composed it himself. I picture Eli from Let the Right One In putting it on to relax after feasting on human flesh. One playthrough might kill your grandmother, mostly due to the blatant Satanism. We need more of that, honestly; records on the shelf that make your parents worry. Isn’t that ultimately what rock ‘n’ roll is about?
I have lucid memories of Ghost slowly luring me into fandom like sirens coaxing sailors to their watery graves. All I kept hearing about them was that they were heavy and malevolent, as if conjured from the very pages of a Stephen King novel left lying on the concrete floor of a 1980’s wood-paneled basement on a moonlit night. Which tracks, since the album cover appears to be a nod to Salem’s Lot.
When I bought the album as a curiosity, I was immediately possessed by it.
Opus Eponymous came out at a time when most mainstream metal bands felt like they were trying to sell you a Pepsi. Instead, Ghost made something refreshingly evil, something atmospheric and haunting. It’s deliberate, almost seductive. Not only is the sound there, but the songs are too.
“Ritual” seems to be the agreed upon hit, and for good reason. It’s the perfect Ghost blend of melody and devil worship. In my slightly dissenting opinion, however, the real shining star is “Elizabeth.”
Ghost somehow made a hard-driving historical banger about the crimes of Hungarian Countess Elizabeth Báthory. I get it, Báthory bathed in the blood of virgins in an attempt at eternal beauty. That’s about as metal as it gets. Combine that story with loud, distorted guitars and an organ that sounds like it’s being played by the Phantom of the Opera himself, and you’ve got my favorite track on the record.
You have to admire a debut release that plays like a mid-era classic. It’s only nine tracks, barely over 30 minutes long, and says everything it needs to say without wasting a breath. They even open and close with instrumentals, which should be annoying, and yet somehow, I couldn’t imagine it any other way. Even if this kind of music isn’t your bag, at least give “Con Clavi Con Dio” a spin, or walk through your local cemetery with “Satan Prayer” bleeding into your headphones and tell me you don’t feel anything.
As a horror enthusiast, I tend to get the most excited when something spooky feels uniquely accessible. It’s at its best when you just innately get it, feel it in your bones, like it was made almost specifically for you. If you can enjoy with others, or build a community, that’s cool too. Being part of something, a bigger conversation that still ultimately feels steeped in something personal, is one of the best parts of the human experience.
Having something you love step out of the screen and grab you like an episode of Are You Afraid of the Dark? is even better.
…
The Tale
I fell in love with PJ Soles in the summer of 2004.
Like most kids of a certain economic class and time, I spent thousands of summertime hours at my grandparent’s house. Truth be told, I loved it there. My Nan operated a roadside beauty shop right off Highway 41, on the edge of their property. My Pap worked a few minutes down the road, and even when he wasn’t working, he spent most of his time in their garden.
For the most part, during banker’s hours, I had the run of the place. I wasn’t much of a mischief-maker yet, so most of that time was spent lying on my belly in the den watching Comedy Central Presents and reruns of Saturday Night Live. My Nan kept the kitchen well stocked; there was always fresh homemade sourdough bread and a gallon of sweet tea. Looking back now, it was the same type of paradise John Prine sang about.
My favorite were the days when my big brother Jeremy would be gone for a few hours. He lived with them back then, and he was the coolest guy in the world to me. As much as I liked having him around, when he left, I got to hang out in his room. This wasn’t subterfuge; it was a spoken understanding. I could spread out on his futon and watch his television, and sometimes he would even recommend a movie from his personal collection.
It was in my brother’s room that I first watched Clerks, Pulp Fiction, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, and countless other classic pieces of adolescent cinema standards. It’s where I first delved into director’s commentary tracks and making-of featurettes. Perhaps most importantly, it’s where I was first introduced to Rock ‘n’ Roll High School.
Rock ‘n’ Roll High School was a Roger Corman-produced, Allan Arkush-directed B-movie from 1979 about a girl named Riff Randell trying to get to a Ramones concert. At that age, there could not have been a piece of film more specifically curated for any human being on the planet. It was a scrappy little indie film absolutely oozing with charm. Jeremy casually suggested it to me on his way out of morning, and I was immediately entranced.
Even all these years later, with my fan goggles off, I still think Rock ‘n’ Roll High School has some legs. It’s one of those rare gems that leans all the way into its goofy concept to compensate for its utter lack of budget. It’s genuinely funny and wholly original, ingeniously creative and immensely watchable. I quote that movie all the time, and not to bury the lede, but the Ramones are in it way more than you would expect for what’s essentially a MacGuffin.
I was also totally in love with Riff Randell, rock ‘n’ roller.
Of course, as my cinematic education grew and I developed an affinity for horror, I came to love PJ Soles’ performances in Carrie and Halloween. There’s a certain undeniable charm in ‘70’s and ‘80’s horror movies, especially when the budgets were tight, and the dreams required plenty of elbow grease. When in the hands of a visionary, a B movie can be better than a studio picture.
It was my love of the genre that attracted me like a magnet to horror movie conventions when I moved to California in 2013.
At the time, in addition to writing freelance and working a cubicle-based day job in marketing, I also cohosted a YouTube show called Randomland. We made family friendly edutainment, focusing mainly on theme parks and roadside attractions, but with a healthy dose of oddities folded in for taste. The elevator pitch would be a DIY California’s Gold with Huell Howser but made by punks with tattoos.
We were always on the lookout for anything fun or quirky to film, especially if it coincided with our natural nerdy interests. We both loved history, and film, so having California as a backdrop made the possibilities endless. Lucky for us, there was always something happening a few exits down the freeway.
Horror conventions were great because they were like living out a half-remembered dream you might describe to a disinterested coworker. I once saw Ron Jeremy gift a mold of his own head to a confused Corey Feldman, followed by Doyle Wolfgang Von Frankenstein threatening to kick my ass for crowding his booth. Another time I literally bumped into Rowdy Roddy Piper and jokingly told him watch it. Lucky for me, he laughed instead of putting me in a sleeper hold.
All these VHS giants were milling around the carpeted ballroom of a hotel, ready to give up their Saturday to sign headshots and smile for awkward selfies. There was something so intoxicatingly surreal about it, sipping on my vending machine Coke while shooting the breeze with Tarman and Clu Gulager from Return of the Living Dead, only to look over and see my friend Brian Buckley eating friend chicken with Sid Haig. We were the merry freaks, happy to have found one another.
As a product of the digital age, my memory has become deeply insufficient. I no longer have an evolutionary need to retain lasting memories because the internet will provide that function for me. If it weren’t for the modern conveniences of apps and robot assistants, I would be truly lost. For me to recall anything with ease, it must make a lasting impression.
I vividly remember the day I met PJ Soles.
Monsterpalooza took place at the Marriot Convention Center on a gorgeous, blue-skied day towards the end of September 2015. It was at the tail-end of my tenure with Randomland, almost two weeks since I had publicly announced that I would be permanently leaving California. I had ridden to Burbank that morning with my roommate Adam, a fellow (and vastly more successful) youtuber. Justin, my Randomland partner, would be meeting us there later in the afternoon.
As Adam and I were waiting in line, Lance Henriksen stood a few feet away from us and lit a cigarette. Neither Adam or I were smokers, but I know we both thought about working up the courage to bum one from him so we would have a natural ice breaker to discuss The Terminator, Aliens, or even the X-Files. Before either of us had a chance to pull the trigger, the line started moving, and we were through the door.
Unlike most conventions, which are essentially meet-and-greets interspersed with merch booths, Monsterpalooza gave equal attention to SFX makeup. There were scores of attendees in full costume basking in gory glory. It would have been a fun and fulfilling day to grab a chair and watch the parade of ghouls pass by without seeing any recognizable faces. Outside of their designated areas, it never stops being jarring seeing someone famous casually stroll across your path.
At one point Michael Biehn brushed by me, and I remember thinking “Hey, that’s Michael Biehn.”
That morning, I was on a mission. I knew she was going to be there; I had made a special trip up just to meet her. I clutched my DVD copy of Rock ‘n’ Roll High School in my sweaty hands, sharpie in my pocket, ready to go. To my surprise, however, I avoided her for a long time. I had scoped the place out and knew where she was, but as if I were a nerd in an ‘80’s high school movie cafeteria longing after a cheerleader, I couldn’t muster the necessary courage to make my approach.
There was always an excuse; the line was too long, or I could tell she needed a break, and I didn’t want to pester her. Finally forcing my hand, Adam insisted we make our way over to her booth. As we waited and made small talk, I noticed my hands were shaking and my voice was breaking. I studied the floor and shifted in place until we were next.
At long last, there stood PJ Soles.
She was older than she was when I watched her take on Principal Togar and blow-up Vince Lombardi High that morning at my Nan’s house so many years ago, but it was her. She had the same crooked smile and mischievous gleam in her eye. I was in the unmistakable presence of Riff Randell, rock ‘n’ roller. I remember her politely waiting for me to speak, and the compassion in her eyes as it took me a beat too long to collect myself.
I think 10 paragraphs worth of information spilled out of my mouth by the time the wheels in my brain began to turn once again. I told her how much the Ramones meant to me, how I had interviewed the surviving members when I was in college, how I had worn their shirt under my cap and gown at graduation, everything. Even I was surprised at what a dork I was being, but she was exceedingly graceful and kind. She listened happily, signed my DVD when I inelegantly forked it over, and posed for a photo with me without any prompting.
When it was time for the next person in line to have their time, I said a hurried thank you and shuffled to the car. I protected my newly signed DVD as if it were a premature newborn. To this day I can’t explain why, because it was probably the same thing she wrote for everyone, but her inscription made me tear up:
“To Tyler, ‘Gabba Gabba Hey!’ – PJ Soles. Riff Randell Rock -N- Roller. XOXO”
That special-edition DVD is still sitting proudly on display in my office, eye-level on my bookshelf. Seeing it always transports me right back to that breezy, beautiful Burbank day. Although, I don’t usually think about that first initial meeting, I think about what happened shortly thereafter:
Having successfully crossed another item off my bucket list, I went back inside the Marriot to catch up with Adam. Just when I thought I had spotted him, the crowd shifted, and we got separated again. Suddenly, the hallway was packed, and it felt like I could barely wiggle or breathe. In that chaos, PJ Soles once again appeared next to me. We made eye contact, I smiled, and she pulled me into a warm embrace. The two of us stayed like that for a moment longer than I would have expected, and then she was gone.
“Wow,” Adam’s girlfriend said, breaking my hypnosis. “She loved you.”
It was so much better than the autograph.
…
The Aftermath
I’ve met several celebrities, but PJ Soles is the only one who ever made me feel starstruck.
My brother and I have had many discussions about the idea of relative fame. When you’re young, it’s easy to develop the misguided notion that the rest of the world shares the perspective of your specific bubble. I own vinyl copies of everything the Street Brats have ever released, but that doesn’t make them a household name. The woman in the house next door might be too lost in her Savage Garden records to ever delve into the underground, and that’s alright too.
PJ Soles was the star of a movie about my favorite band, at an age where it feels like your favorite bands belong to you, like they’re part of the very fabric of your being. Seeing her in the flesh was like seeing a unicorn in my backyard. It was fantastic and familiar simultaneously, almost too much in equal measure.
Rock ‘n’ Roll High School meant so much to me because it treated the Ramones with the same reverence I gave them. Getting to witness a world where everyone loved them as much as me was a gift. PJ Soles’ Riff Randell was the only person, real or imaginary, whom I was comfortable admitting was a bigger fan.
There’s that old, tired adage about never meeting your heroes because they will ultimately disappoint you. I’ve thought a lot about what that means. I suppose what’s disappointing about the people we build up in our brains is that they fart and eat tacos just like the rest of us. To meet them is to break the seal, to know they’re not holy, that they can bleed.
Color me soft, but I think that’s the best part about meeting them.
It’s important to learn that everyone is equally human, and celebrity is random. That’s not new territory for me, I’ve talked about famous people being human in Tales articles before. I’ve discussed Tommy Ramone treating me like an equal and Clem Burke … taking a different approach. Meeting PJ Soles was transformative in its own unique way.
Truth be told, PJ Soles was not my hero when I met her. I adored her, but at the end of the day, she was just the person from the thing I liked. What converted her from a childhood crush to someone with my full admiration was putting the pieces together that she was a badass businesswoman, making cash and snapping photos. She wasn’t the woman Bill Murray chased in Stripes, or the babysitter who got strangled with a phone cord by Michael Meyers in Halloween, or the girl who bullied Carrie White to the point of vengeful telekinesis. She didn’t need to be any of those things because she moved on and lived a real life.
She wasn’t Riff Randell, rock ‘n’ roller. She was PJ Soles, grandmother. How cool is that?
