This Music Leaves Stains: The Complete Story of the Misfits

by James Greene Jr.

  Though he would always err toward naming Orbison, the Righteous Brothers, and Jim Morrison as his vocal gods, there is no escaping the hard truth that Glenn Danzig’s voice, especially at this early stage, was uncannily similar to that of Elvis Aaron Presley, the King of Rock n’ Roll, the handsome good ol’ boy who used his range-defying voice (and obscene pelvic movements) to change the course of popular music. Certainly Danzig liked Elvis, as he would cover various tunes made famous by Presley throughout his career, but it is easy to understand how the former might dismiss the latter as anyone to admire. After all, Elvis was famous for using outside songwriters, rarely (if ever) composing music on his own. Elvis also transformed into such a shallow and bizarre parody of himself by the mid-1970s that it almost began to hurt what he accomplished years prior. Orbison and the Righteous Brothers were smart enough to keep their heads down and work, avoiding the pitfalls of celebrity. The same can’t be said for Morrison, but his premature demise prevented him from becoming a chubby, karate-obsessed weirdo like Elvis. Still, the King made his mark on Danzig in several ways, not merely with his vocals—Glenn would adopt that trademark swagger (though he would twist it into something more sinister), and massive sideburns were only a decade away.

  If there is a consistent lyrical theme throughout all this material the Misfits recorded at C.I. in early 1978, it’s one that Danzig would return to time and time again: power. His song’s protagonists are either arrogantly brandishing it (“We want, we need, we take it!” cries the cold, unfeeling alien leader of “Teenagers from Mars”), struggling to retain it (“Attitude”), or feeling the vacuum that surrounds its loss (“Come Back,” which finds a lovelorn Danzig pleading for his love to return and bite his face in lieu of kissing it). The unseemly imagery in some of these songs, including festering maggots and bloated corpses, is not used for comic affect a la the Ramones’ “Texas Chainsaw Massacre” or Jim Carroll Band’s lurid party anthem “People Who Died.” Rather, these visions or situations are described very matter-of-factly, as if they are but a way of life for the Misfits. As far as anyone knew at the time, it was.

  In February, the band mixed fourteen of the seventeen songs captured on sixteen-track tape and delivered the finished product, tentatively titled Static Age, to Mercury in hopes the label would exercise its release option. The Misfits didn’t hear back until June, and the answer was negative: the label would not be releasing their debut record. Though Pere Ubu’s Modern Dance charmed critics as esteemed as Village Voice scribe Robert Christgau with its damaged deconstruction of rock, the album did not meet Mercury’s optimistic sales expectations. The storied label, whose bread-and-butter artists included bland pop sensations like Rod Stewart and Bachman-Turner Overdrive, dropped Pere Ubu and made the executive decision not to gamble again on a punk rock band—certainly not a relatively unknown punk rock band from the furthest corners of New Jersey. The Misfits were disappointed (as they would be when more punk-friendly labels such as Seymour Stein’s Sire Records and Pere Ubu’s new home Chrysalis also turned down the record),[23] but they didn’t wallow in despair. “Punk rock was a singles market,” says Franché Coma. “So the album not coming out, yeah, it kinda sucked, but we just turned it around and put out the ‘Bullet’ single [that June].”[24]

  “Bullet,” one of the last songs the Misfits recorded for Static Age, was a stark retelling of the John Kennedy assassination that Glenn had written as a poem in 1974.[25] The song has a crisp sound that hits the ground running, an intense blast from the very first second. Without question it captures madness and mania of the scenario it describes (“President’s shattered head hits concrete / ride, Johnny, ride”). The frenzied song becomes a twisted sexual fantasy in its final verse as Glenn informs the widowed Jacqueline Kennedy that his ejaculate is the only substance that will prevent her from becoming “poor and devoid.” Again, Danzig’s lyrics outline a power play, this time set against one of history’s most bloody and shocking incidents. In many ways, “Bullet” is a companion piece to Paul Krasner’s infamous 1967 article “The Parts That Were Left Out of the Kennedy Book” in which Lyndon B. Johnson is fictionally posited as sexually penetrating John Kennedy’s fresh assassination wounds on the flight home from Dallas—the article a gleeful prank that managed to fool a good portion of naïve Americans; “Bullet” is just a song, yet it equally sexualizes the same gruesome event in its own particular way.

  Glenn Danzig wasn’t the only member of punk rock’s first generation to have been deeply affected by the startling gore of the Kennedy assassination and the insinuation of its visuals into our cultural fabric. Colorado native Eric Boucher counts the Zapruder film as one of his earliest childhood memories; the evil and cynicism of the event——more so than the blunt violence—had informed Boucher’s character by young adulthood, leading the nascent artist to San Francisco looking in search of some kind of outlet. Six months before the Misfits released “Bullet” Boucher found a handful of like-minded players with whom he founded the notorious surf-influenced punk band the Dead Kennedys.[26] Although willing to go for shocks as excessive as “Bullet’s” bloody cover—their 1981 EP In God We Trust, Inc. depicted Jesus’s crucifixion on a cross made of dollars[27] —the Dead Kennedys would never be as bloody, nor would they musically revisit the events in Dealey Plaza (when a reporter in 1979 suggested their moniker was in poor taste, DK guitarist East Bay Ray retorted, “The assassinations weren’t too tasteful either”)[28] The San Francisco group never offered their opinion of the Misfits or the “Bullet” single, but they eventually ran afoul of Glenn Danzig for creative similarities unrelated to America’s thirty-fifth president.

  Three other songs from the Misfits’ C.I. sessions were included on the band’s second single: “We Are 138” slows things down to swagger and lets the band breathe as they triumphantly repeat that strange mantra; the caustic “Attitude” finds a cheery melody belaying agitated, violent lyrics concerning Danzig’s issues with a challenger, the first hint this band could compete with the Ramones; and “Hollywood Babylon,” a song that roots itself in a distinct feeling of Eisenhower-era juvenile delinquency—the guitar rolls along like a motorcycle cruising down a lonely highway, Glenn’s sturdy vocal bellow a hard wind in the listener’s ear (the singer’s Marilyn Monroe obsession is also clearly reflected here, as “Hollywood Babylon” swipes its title from the controversial 1965 Kenneth Anger Tinseltown tell-all that related the seamy details of Monroe’s death and placed her cleavage-bearing image on its cover).[29]

  “We Are 138” sparked fierce debate about its subject matter and inspiration. The common line of thought suggests the song is a retelling of George Lucas’s 1971 doom-laden cinematic forecast THX 1138 in which an android police state controls the human populace and prevents them from acting on feelings of love and desire. There are enough references in Danzig’s lyrics to suggest this link, though the singer himself would prove notoriously coy in discussing or dissecting any of his lines specifically at this or any other point in his career (Glenn preferred the listener interpret his work in their own way and in time would banish lyric sheets from his releases). The other band members recall Danzig creating various buttons for them to wear around the time of Static Age that featured a half-man, half-robot with “138” stenciled on his forehead. It seemed clear to them that Glenn was siphoning off THX 1138’s cool for his own purposes and would explain “We Are 138” as such over the following decades.

  When asked point blank years later about the meaning of “We Are 138,” Danzig famously snarled, “They didn’t write it, and they don’t know what the fuck it’s about. It’s about violence.”[30]

  The “Bullet” single’s cover was designed to accentuate the strength of its titular song. Quite an artistic leap over the simple black-and-white photo that graced “Cough/Cool,” “Bullet” presented a Lichtenstein-esque picture of JFK designed by Glenn wherein the president is smiling in his open convertible in Dealey Plaza, unaware of the comically large streaks of red blood spurtin
g out from the back of his head. Tucked under the president’s left arm is an equally bright red Misfits logo scrawled out in Glenn’s handwriting that appears to be inked with Kennedy’s blood. Initially, “Bullet” was to be distributed by Ork Records, the label belonging to the art punk outfit Television’s manager Terry Ork. That partnership collapsed, though, affirming for the Misfits that they should stick to distributing their records themselves (often the DIY ethos of punk bands was born out of necessity rather than preference). Since the Blank name had been traded away to Mercury, the band rechristened their record label Plan 9—a tribute to the comically awful Ed Wood horror movie Plan 9 from Outer Space.[31] “Bullet” was sent to the requisite punk-friendly publications and was met with great enthusiasm. Most notably, Slash’s Claude “Kickboy Face” Bessy hailed the single as “lethal” and “truly inspiring,” going on to rhapsodize “this is the stuff the Dead Boys and other puppets wished they were made of. Dipshits beware, this music leaves stains on well balanced brains.”[32]

  With two singles and an entire unreleased album to their name, the Misfits decided late in 1978 that it was time to begin playing outside of Jersey and New York. The band, at this point considered just another hobby band by their Lodi classmates and friends, had only gigged twice outside of New York or New Jersey so far—a pair of somewhat disastrous shows in Canada the previous December wherein they were to be the openers for jump-suited New Wave icons Devo. After a grueling ten-hour drive from Lodi to Toronto’s Shock Theatre, the Misfits were informed by venue management that Devo had cancelled both performances. The Misfits still played, albeit disheartened, as did a local band known as the Skulls. Recently migrated from Vancouver, the Skulls arrived in Toronto hoping to tap into a punk scene more vibrant than the one they left on Canada’s west coast. The band collapsed before accomplishing anything greater than recording a demo tape; singer Joe Keithley and drummer Ken Montgomery returned to their native Vancouver, where Keithley assembled the celebrated trio D.O.A. with Montgomery’s brother Chuck (who dropped his surname in favor of “Biscuits”) and bassist Randy “Rampage” Archibald.

  Eager to spread their art, the Misfits booked a Midwestern tour for October of 1978. Unfortunately, this jaunt had to be wiped practically as soon as it began—after just two dates in Michigan, Frank LiCata announced his sudden overwhelming desire to leave the band. LiCata, who claims the Misfits never “had words” or fought while he was in their ranks, was dutifully shuttled back to Lodi along with the Misfits’ immediate dreams of conquering the North American continent (though the quartet did manage to return to Toronto later in the month to fulfill a pair of dates, with the Victims’ Rick Riley filling in on guitar).

  Today Frank LiCata dismisses his original explanation of travel paranoia hastening his exit from the Misfits, instead pointing to creative differences. “It wasn’t that,” LiCata reflects. “That’s what I said, but I think I started having thoughts, like, I wasn’t into what Glenn was singing about. I don’t know. At that time, I thought I could do something else. I was not into the horror stuff. I was never into that whole scene. So I felt I wanted to go try another type of band, y’know?” Frank LiCata did just that, forming the jittery keyboard-based Active Ingredients before giving up music for good. Active Ingredients self-released a pair of singles in 1980, “Laundramat Loverboy” and the positively affecting ADD anthem “Hyper Exaggeration,” both of which presented a rougher edge to the new wave format that Devo was purveying at the time.[33]

  The Misfits barely had time to blink following their guitarist’s departure before their drummer followed suit. Jim Catania didn’t have any issue with the band’s strange image but found himself bored by punk’s limiting percussive styles. He preferred the freedom afforded to him in his other band at the time, Continental Crawler (which included former Koo-Dot member Steve Linder on vocals and guitar). Thus, Catania left the Misfits to concentrate on that project; the in-demand percussionist would also go on to play in other Lodi-specific bands such as the Adults and Aces and Eights. As with LiCata, Catania stresses there was no bad blood between himself and the Misfits, despite the fact his sudden departure left them in the lurch.[34]

  “There was so much horror around back then,” says White Zombie guitarist Jay Yuenger. “Everybody grew up on comic books and cheesy horror movies. Every movie theater when I was a kid would show third-run horror movies for a dollar fifty. You’d waste the afternoon watching three horror movies in a row, and it was a totally normal thing. So I’m sure Static Age would have connected. Plus, those tunes are huge. They cut above everything else from that time with the brilliant doo wop songwriting. The melodies are just incredible.”[35]

  Had Mercury Records released Static Age the year it was recorded, the record might have been counted as one of the last great gasps of punk rock’s founding East Coast wave alongside the Ramones’ Road to Ruin, the Talking Heads’ More Songs about Buildings and Food, and the Dead Boys’ Young Loud and Snotty. Anchored by Glenn Danzig’s harrowing melodies and the moody, turgid swirl of the band, this earliest material represents a bold statement unlike anything else at the time. This music is not campy or tongue-in-cheek (even compared to the depraved Dead Boys, who were not above silly double entendres and quasi-ironic pop covers). It has no agenda, political or otherwise, aside from startling violence and frustration-spiked apathy in equal measure. It’s mysterious and odd, amateurish certainly—capturing almost perfectly the feeling of creaking through the cobwebs and dust of a long-sealed upstairs attic in search of unknown treasure—but like all great art Static Age is also affecting, unique, and enrapturing. As rock writer Mike Stax notes, “On Static Age they hadn’t quite fallen into the formula yet. The records that came later, like Walk Among Us, weren’t as pure.”[36]

  “If it would’ve come out then, everything would have moved up five years,” theorized Jerry Only in 1993. “We would have been the forerunners of the new scene. . . . the main problem with our band [was] that we didn’t focus and get somebody to sit down and look at the imagery. But, y’know, we were a band and we were having a good time, and we could give a fuck, y’know?”[37]

  Static Age’s suppression is occasionally mourned in the same manner by fans, though the album would eventually see the light of day in the wake of intense legal wrangling. Certain band members regret more the dissolve of the Static Age lineup. LiCata in particular—with “no disrespect to the players who came” later—feels his version of the Misfits was “really the best” and laments that he lacked the “insight” Glenn possessed (“I just couldn’t see beyond the immediate. If I had stayed with them and realized that was the thing . . . I don’t know”).[38] Pictures of the Misfits from this period definitely show a sense of camaraderie not always present in later incarnations. In a series of images taken by Jerry’s younger brother Ken, the quartet stroll down Lodi’s snow-caked Arnot Street in a tight cluster; Glenn Danzig grins widely when he isn’t offering cutesy faux sneers for the camera, his band mates mugging behind him. Free of the ghoulish dime store accoutrements that would later become the hallmarks of the Misfits’ attire (only LiCata seems to be cultivating some kind of character with his blazer’s numerous enormous campaign buttons and the way he shrinks his face below several popped shirt collars), here the band appears like an actual functioning unit with interpersonal relationships in some basis of reality. In short, they seem normal and relatable, not half-zombies who just emerged from some frightening netherworld to feast on warm flesh.[39]

  The insight of Glenn Danzig that Frank LiCata mentions—not to mention focus, hard work, and determination—would soon see to it that the Misfits reached a nationwide audience. In fact, the band’s next three singles would serve to cement their legend in the underground and contribute to a musical subgenre they would forever rule.

  1. JR, telephone interview with the author, June 12, 2012.

  2. Peter S. Greenberg, “Saints and Stinkers,” Rolling Stone, February 19, 1981, 25.

  3. “Making T
he Misfits,” Great Performances, PBS, 2001.

  4. Graham McCann, Rebel Males: Clift, Brando and Dean (London: Hamish Hamilton Ltd, 1991), 68.

  5. Steve Thorn, “The History of San Diego Rock ’n’ Roll, Part One: A Sleeping Town Wakes Up,” Kicks, no. 3 (November 1979).

  6. Chas Kit, “Lost and Found,” Garage Hangover, August 28, 2007, http://www.garagehangover.com/?q=lostandfound.

  7. Steven Cashmore, “Northland Rock: Part Four—The Beat Goes On,” Highland Archives, 1998, http://www.internet-promotions.co.uk/archives/northlands/north4.htm.

  8. Nick Warburton, “Them,” Garage Hangover, May 17, 2010, http://www.garagehangover.com/?q=taxonomy/term/1638.

  9. Paul Grondahl, “Remembering Bob Gori, Punk Rocker,” The Times Union, April 22, 2011, http://www.timesunion.com/local/article/Remembering-Bob-Gori-punk-rocker-1347843.php.

  10. Daniel Russell, “Horror Business: An Interview with Jerry Only of the Misfits,” MyKindaSound.wordpress.com, http://mykindasound.wordpress.com/interview/horror-business.

  11. Mike Stax, “All Hell Breaks Loose: The Jerry Only Interview,” Ugly Things, no. 12 (Summer 1993): 8–9; Steven Linder, telephone interview with the author, May 25, 2012.

  12. Stephen Blush, “Glenn Danzig,” Seconds, no. 44 (October 1997): 34–44.