You might be thinking, “what other sort of Monster videos can he come-up, with?” And whether it all has to do with “Beetlejuice”, or perhaps– some side avenues as I chose, today to show you “The Misfits” jamming-out on their own personal rendition of “The Monster Mash”– an appropriate entry, of any.

Every band needs “a shtick” and this band appeals to a lot of vintage 1950’s horror themes, like the kind of stuff in old detective fiction. Teenagers from Mars– or bonkers, foam-headed insect creatures as it all amounts to a lot of pop-kitsch and camp.They were originally a punk band, before the original singer– Glenn Danzig– left and you would have seen them active in the late ’70s and early ’80s. Seeking a bit of the nostalgia market, they reformed in about 1995 or 1996 and I actually saw them in concert down at the “Mississippi Nights” club by the ole’ sluggish river on Laclede’s Landing.

All the punks and freaks came-out, that night and there we were, thrashing-around in the goth-horror noise like some sort of “White Zombie” tunnel of mesmerizing-spirals, posters fly-papered to the wall in the smoky murk as our eyes rolled-back in our heads, all proud to be misfits, too– on this little stretch of the 20th century, drawing to a close as it was all rock marketing and neon sports-drinks, revelry and ignorance and sheer black mixed with bright color as there were barriers, and “then not”.

There’s that one moment, the crowd “senses”– when the entire mass feels “one, big shuddering moment” like a relieving warm-glow, losing your self-consciousness and “thinking as one” as all of your hang-up’s evaporate, away.

To be young, poor, and into rock n’ roll– I’m sure you would have seen Lydia Deetz, there.

So long as a group of friend can pool their money, you’d always have a communal “squat-house” to crash, hashing over a giant pot of spaghetti ladled-out to friends as you lived, and idled, and smoked in the slouch of endless free-time. Every one was a writer, a poet, a theorist, a goofball, and quite welcome together as it was personal lifestyle choices, raw and young in smeared mascara and tattoos as life was open-ended, like a big art project.

A whole galaxy of zines and flyers and record-art, as you were a plodding, insectile, alien punk/head with fizzing thoughts, odd occurrences, and true-life “whacko little stories” that would make perfect comic-strips. Freedom, and the bottom-scounging of a few dollars, for cigarettes and coffee and the joys of inertia.

Don’t ever forget that youthful intensity, of life once-lived in a whirling maelstrom of crowd-surfing bodies and wild skater-flips. . . . . radical, man.

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