As he did in the Misfits, Glenn retained complete control over Samhain’s songwriting, recordings, image, and performing techniques—Marshall remembers being scolded by Danzig occasionally for not adhering exactly to the rhythms and nuances of specific guitar parts even years into playing them. Fed up with the uneven business of fielding his work out to record plants, Glenn sometimes forced Samhain to press their own vinyl in his bathroom, a laborious process that could take several hours.[14] Rumor has it the singer even pressed his own bootlegs of out-of-print Misfits singles and live shows to sell for extra money without a serious loss (something Bobby Steele did openly and flagrantly with the Live ’79 bootleg he hawked at his own Undead gigs[15]). The evidence to suggest Danzig bootlegged his own material are the unofficial releases themselves; often, the sound quality is as good or even better than the original distributed recordings.
Samhain lasted four years with, remarkably, only one lineup change: Steve Zing left the band in 1985 after not meshing well with the others on the road. Danzig later labeled the drummer an “effeminate” who took musical “short cuts”[16] (despite these insults and rumored issues with the singer withholding Initium royalties, Steve never lost his reverence for Glenn and the two remained on relatively friendly terms). Zing was replaced by former Reptile House member London May, who had struck up a relationship with Samhain when he booked the group for its first performance in his native Baltimore. Despite its brief lifespan Samhain managed to garner a dedicated fandom, even outside the United States. The group’s aesthetic bent toward a more realistic or palpable form of shock rock resonated with Europe’s brewing black metal and death metal contingents. Swiss rockers Celtic Frost, the perceived grandfathers of these genres who began operating at roughly the same time as Samhain, consider the band a vital entry in the underground canon. Frost bassist Martin Eric Ain cites Samhain’s “heathen Satanic horror goth approach” as something “very dear to [him] personally.”[17] Indeed, just a few years prior, it was more acceptable for there to be clear division between the musician and their stage persona; by attempting to posit themselves as the most authentic of their violence-obsessed ilk, Samhain helped give rise to the notion of “false metal”—bands who do not practice what they preach.
Musically, Samhain’s impact is more uncertain. Disciples offer praise, but the dissonant and decidedly heathen arrangements present on Initium, its October 1984 follow-up EP Unholy Passion, and 1986’s November-Coming-Fire full-length (generally considered Samhain’s masterpiece) seldom penetrate the suffocating soundscapes of black or death metal, most of which lean on more traditional punk and heavy metal for influence. The goth and post-punk movements of the time more or less ignored Samhain as well, possibly because their level of abrasiveness (underscored by the relatively low production values) wasn’t as digestible as material by the likes of more charismatic acts like the Birthday Party or England’s Killing Joke.
By the close of 1986 Danzig’s goth punk experiment would transform into a beast of an entirely different nature, practically overnight thanks to intervention of noted hip-hop mogul Rick Rubin. Rubin, the unkempt Long Island–bred founder of Def Jam Records (a label responsible for breaking LL Cool J, Run-D.M.C., Public Enemy, and the Beastie Boys), was looking for a rock act to groom for his new offshoot label Def American when he saw Samhain perform that July in New York City as part of CMJ’s New Music Seminar. Rubin didn’t care much for the music (a blunt comment about Marshall’s playing made by Rubin backstage almost escalated to a physical confrontation), but the producer saw in Glenn a powerful and potentially marketable hard rock vocalist. A deal was verbally offered to Danzig on the spot.
By this point Glenn had been paying his dues musically for ten years with no other career options. He would have been rather foolish not to take a deal offered by the man who helped birth such cultural milestones as License to Ill and It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back. Glenn accepted Rubin’s deal on the condition his new group retain Von as a bassist. Marshall and May were replaced with classically trained guitarist John Christ and phenom percussionist Chuck Biscuits.[18] By the start of 1987, Samhain was no more. Glenn saddled this reconfigured outfit with his own last name, Danzig, and set out on his path for mainstream acclaim.
There would be a brief and curious stop along the way, though, on the journey from Samhain to Danzig. The newly formed group found itself recording a song to the soundtrack for Less Than Zero, the November 1987 film adaptation of Bret Easton Ellis’s acclaimed 1985 novel. Danzig and Rubin composed the dramatic swell “You and Me (Less Than Zero)” originally for a female singer; however, after Glenn performed the song’s scratch track with career-making aplomb, it was decided “You and Me” should be the first Danzig recording. The band was excited to introduce itself to the world with this song—unfortunately, an in-studio disagreement derailed that plan. Frustrated with a handful of specific directions Rubin was offering concerning his bass playing for “You and Me,” Eerie Von turned his instrument over to engineer George Drakoulias, who played on the finished recording. To mark this delineation, the group billed itself on the finished Less Than Zero soundtrack as Glenn Danzig & the Power and Fury Orchestra. An odd hiccup that was perhaps offset for Glenn by the other work Less Than Zero yielded—the chance to collaborate with one of his musical heroes, Roy Orbison. The end result of the Danzig/Orbison authorship, a mournful prance entitled “Life Fades Away,” is fondly remembered as one of Orbison’s finest late period compositions. Danzig would later deem working with the famed balladeer so shortly before his death “an honor” (Orbison died just one year later, in December of 1988) and that he “was floored” to hear such a tremendous voice in person.[19]
Legacy of Brutality, the first Misfits compilation record, was released in September of 1985, and in many circles it would be considered quite contentious. The disc was curated exclusively by Glenn Danzig for Caroline Records, an independent label in New York City that months before signed a distribution deal with Danzig and Plan 9 Records. Consisting primarily of material from the unreleased Static Age, Legacy of Brutality proved akin to the Rosetta Stone for Misfits diehards who didn’t even know songs like the brilliant “Spinal Remains” and “American Nightmare” existed. To those on the inside, however, something didn’t sound quite right. The suspicions of other band members proved correct: Danzig took it upon himself to not only radically remix the material chosen for Legacy but to record his own guitar tracks over the half-decade old material.[20] Furthermore, he did not credit any Misfits but himself on the album sleeve.
By this time Jerry Only and Doyle had begun a transition away from music. The brothers relocated with their family to the mountainous resort area of Vernon, New Jersey, where they continued to help their father’s company produce the popular Proedge hobby knife. Jerry in particular had reason to assemble a more steady life—he was raising a daughter, Kathy, born in 1982. According to most who knew him at the time, the former bassist considered the Misfits a failure. This notion was highlighted vaguely (both to Only and those on the sidelines) by the arrival that year of Hasbro cartoon “Jem,” the story of a female rock star whose mortal enemies comprised a band called the Misfits. “Jem’s” creators were oblivious to the existence of the authors behind such vital underground recordings as Walk Among Us and Earth A.D..[21] Since neither Only nor Danzig had ever formally copyrighted their band’s moniker, Hasbro was allowed to keep using “The Misfits” as Jem’s de facto villains. “Jem” and Legacy of Brutality surely upset Jerry Only, particularly the latter considering it found Danzig literally erasing his and his friends’ contributions to history. At the time, however, taking anyone to court over the fading memory of a punk rock band that had already proven a dangerous money pit did not seem like a battle worth fighting.[22]
Jerry Only’s outlook would soon change. In August of 1987, San Francisco thrash kings Metallica, already on track to becoming the most popular heavy metal of the contemporary era thanks to endless touring an
d a string of explosive no-nonsense albums, released an extended play of covers that included two Misfits songs. The $5.98 E.P.: Garage Days Re-Revisited was both a light-hearted exercise meant to help the band cope with the recent tragic bus crash that claimed the life of their bass player Cliff Burton and an easy way to break in Burton’s replacement, Jason Newsted. The late Burton was Metallica’s resident Misfits devotee who championed Danzig’s talents not only to his fellow band mates but to the press (when asked by an interviewer in 1986 to name his top five favorite albums, the bassist stammered briefly before replying, “Everything by Glenn Danzig . . . all of his shit”).[23] The shadow of Danzig’s earliest works loom over such pivotal early Metallica recordings as Ride the Lightning and Master of Puppets, which fuse the Bay Area quartet’s obsession with British “New Wave” metal bands like Iron Maiden, Saxon, and Motörhead with the cold punk bite of the Misfits. You can hear the DNA of Earth A.D. sewn into breakneck assaults like “Fight Fire with Fire” and “Battery,” especially in the way Metallica’s guitars (blistering with the same anger felt on livid Misfits songs like “Queen Wasp”) barrel forward on the rapid drum beat and bounce between just one or two chords before giving way like a dam under pressure.
Metallica drew influence from several other punk bands, including profane hardcore pioneers the Anti-Nowhere League and proto-crust punks Discharge, but of that genre only the Misfits proved worthy enough to be included on Garage Days. The record concludes with a searing run-through of “Last Caress” and “Green Hell” as if they were one song. The track proves an exemplary tribute to both the Misfits and the fallen Burton’s rabid fandom. Of the countless thrash bands who worshipped at the altar of the Crimson Ghost, none would be as blatant as Metallica, and certainly none would be as popular—the $5.98 EP would chart at no. 28 on the Billboard 200, one spot higher than the band’s previous effort Master of Puppets.[24] In turn, an entirely new—and much vaster—generation of bored, restless rock fans were introduced to this mysterious Misfits group and their hyperviolent music.
Suddenly more and more devotees were squirreling out the Caiafa brothers in the rolling hills of Vernon, professing their love for the Misfits and begging for any trinkets left over from the glory days. Jerry Only knew Danzig might prove a potentially valid source for promotional Misfits merchandise to help satiate the growing number of fans, but the bassist was wary of reaching out after such a bitter dissolution. Exercising some degree of caution, Only contacted a mutual friend to ask for a box or two of T-shirts from Glenn. The response was not friendly. “Glenn said that if we want [shirts] we could go out and buy them,” Only recalled in 1989. “I paid for half of the records that are ours from my pocket. I was laying out cash left and right. Now I don’t see why the dude has to turn to me and say, ‘Buy the stuff.’”[25]
A year prior, Caroline Records had released Misfits, another assembly of recordings compiled by Danzig that spanned the group’s entire existence.[26] In October of 1987, the Misfits concert disc Evilive (previously an exclusive item via the Misfits Fiend Club fan organization) was also distributed by Caroline.[27] From these two releases and Legacy of Brutality, only Glenn Danzig was receiving royalties—which were on a steady rise thanks to Metallica’s unexpected endorsement (Danzig also of course benefitted financially from Garage Days’ worldwide sales, as his was the sole songwriting credit). These factors, combined with the T-shirt insult, spurred Jerry Only and his brother to take definitive action. At first the Caiafas wanted to avoid any costly legal entanglement, contacting Danzig directly about the royalty situation. Only later claimed that Danzig offered his former band mates $13,000,[28] a paltry sum considering the perceived monies flowing into Glenn’s pockets. The Caiafas allegedly countered with a $250,000 settlement sum, which Danzig quickly rejected. Unsure of their next move, Jerry and Doyle temporarily distracted themselves with a brand new musical venture.
Rechristening himself Mocavius Kryst (“Mo the Great” for short), Jerry Only spearheaded a viking-themed heavy metal act with Doyle called Kryst the Conqueror. Joined by fellow Lodian Jim Murray on drums, Kryst the Conqueror embraced a galloping power metal sound a la Helloween or Manowar. The overt Christian themes were difficult to ignore, however, not only in the band’s name but on their singular release, 1990’s self-pressed Deliver Us from Evil EP, which boasts songs such as “In God We Trust” and “Trial of the Soul.”[29] There were also “Mo the Great’s” various fan club writings at the time. To wit: “In the final days of the second millennium, I, Mocavius Kryst, and my men now swear this pact with God. For it is by His command that I now open the gates, unleashing the fury of His vengeance . . . behold the power of truth for it burns its light up the sword of my brother.”[30] “We don’t want people to come out and say, ‘They were great, but they’re into that devil shit,’” Only explained to Yeszista. “That’s not it, all of our songs are about going out and chasing the son of a bitch. That’s what it’s all about . . . if I made Kryst with a ‘C,’ people are gonna say, ‘He’s making fun of God.’ We’ve come in His name to do the job.”[31]
Former cohorts would question the validity of the Caiafas’ sudden conversion to ultra piousness (“They’re about as born again as Anton LaVey,” Bobby Steele snorted to MRR in 1992).[32] Further doubts surrounded Jerry’s proclamation that Kryst the Conqueror was on par with Led Zeppelin and that the band’s music would sustain for a minimum of three decades. When push came to shove, “unleashing the fury” ultimately proved somewhat tricky for Kryst: The band never managed to employ a full-time singer as Jeff Scott Soto, the vocalist who sang on Deliver Us from Evil, was under contract to Swedish guitar sensation Yngwie Malmsteen at the time and could not commit fully to another project. In fact, Soto couldn’t even legally be credited in Deliver Us from Evil’s liner notes—the vocalist listed on the sleeve is, in fact, Kryst the Conqueror.[33]
Kryst also never played live, partly because of the sticky singer situation but also because Jerry Only was adamant that his new band never succumb to the perils of being an opening act (read: they only wanted to headline).[34] Only also refused to entertain any record contract that didn’t include “big money” for videos and merchandising. In 1990 the bassist claimed that no less than Atlantic Records, home of Led Zeppelin, initiated the kind of deal he was looking for until the company discovered he had zero control over the Misfits back catalog.[35] No comparable labels came calling for Kryst, apparently, as the full album the quartet recorded remains unreleased—though the material has been bootlegged and passed around the tape trading community for years by curious Misfits completists. Regarding Kryst’s relative quality: there is certainly more acutely cringe-inducing heavy metal hailing from their time period, though none of it has the same pedigree. It is difficult to believe the same musicians who played on such authentic Misfits songs as “Hatebreeders” and “Astro Zombies” are responsible for a Jesus-themed viking band with songs bearing such names as “March of the Mega-Mites” and “Thunder Thruster.” The mind also staggers when one realizes Deliver Us from Evil was released two years after the first Nirvana album. Grunge clearly took its time in clubbing heavy metal to death.
And so it came to pass: the first chapters of the Clinton Decade rolled by and Kryst had conquered nothing—not even the proposed comic book that was to coincide with their ultimately unreleased debut album. The project flatlined completely shortly after Deliver Us from Evil’s January 1990 release. In an angry all caps fan club missive announcing the end of the Doyle Fan Club (what Only renamed the Fiend Club following the Misfits 1983 breakup) that also read like a makeshift obituary for his latest musical project, Jerry Only wrote, “STRENGTH COMES FROM THE WILL TO STAND AGAINST FEAR AND EVIL AND TO STRIVE FOR THE RIGHT REGARDLESS OF THE PAIN . . . THIS PROJECT HAS LOST A LOT OF MONEY, BUT THAT DOES NOT MEAN IT IS A FAILURE.” Only ended the letter promising an early 1991 release for Kryst’s unnamed LP.[36]
That never happened. Kryst the Conqueror’s debut album stayed in the crypt and t
he only public appearance from the Caiafa brothers in 1991 came when Doyle and younger brother Ken were inadvertently caught on camera during the ABC network’s televised interview of the first person in line for Super Bowl XXV outside Florida’s Tampa Stadium on January 27 (Doyle and Ken were second and third in line; their beloved New York Giants would clinch the trophy that night in a harrowing one point victory over the Buffalo Bills). The failure of Kryst was just as well, though. A more complicated task loomed on the horizon for the Caiafas, albeit one with a potentially massive financial reward.
Glenn Danzig began a slow and steady climb to rock stardom after signing with Def American in 1987. His group’s self-titled 1988 debut was embraced by critics and fans looking for a powerful, authentic antidote to the superficial hair metal that ruled the airwaves at the time. Danzig the band would prove “real” enough to weather the storm of grunge that descended just a few years later, wiping so many other metal bands into a figurative sinkhole. Of course, by squeezing themselves into extraordinarily tight pants, festooning their videos with sultry bikini-clad woman, and sporting the requisite flowing heavy metal coifs (even Glenn was parting his hair to the side at this point so as to better accentuate his Travolta-esque facial features), Danzig managed to prove themselves far campier than the Pearl Jams, Mudhoneys, and Soundgardens to come. Regardless, positive press from no less than Rolling Stone and England’s Melody Maker helped the leather-clad quartet gain an international foothold, expanding the audience for Danzig’s snarling brand of rock into countless foreign markets.[37]
Sensing an opportunity, Warner Bros. Records (who had acquired the rights to the Slash/Ruby Records catalog years before) reissued the Misfits’ Walk Among Us on vinyl and cassette that July, one month before Danzig had even come out (following the newer record’s positive reception, Warner released Walk on CD in November).[38] Glenn had long held that he and the Misfits had never been fully paid for the original release of Walk Among Us and was furious to learn of the reissue. He briefly considered filing suit against Warners, talking up a potential lawsuit in various interviews at the time, but ultimately never followed through. He had too much to focus on as it was. A long time was spent prepping the conclusive Samhain release, 1990’s Final Descent, a compact disc offering five previously unheard outtakes and the Unholy Passion EP that served as an aural tombstone for the band. Danzig the band’s popularity also seemed to be growing by the minute; their 1990 sophomore effort Danzig II: Lucifuge and its 1992 follow-up Danzig III: How the Gods Kill proved even more popular than Danzig (How the Gods Kill was even given a full four stars by the finicky Rolling Stone[39] ) while simultaneously finding the synergetic quartet growing musically into a slightly more complex animal. Case in point: Danzig III’s opening track “Godless” begins as a hard-charging call to arms before slowing down to the pace of a funeral procession for the majority of its six and a half minutes; through all that time, the listener’s attention is rapt as Danzig preaches from his pulpit of perceived atheism and pagan birthrights. The band ebbs and flows behind Danzig, creating a tense backdrop for the singer’s howls of religious pain.[40] In particular, the performance of Chuck Biscuits on “Godless” is impressive; the drummer’s work here is regularly cited by percussive freaks as one of the best hard rock tracks of the 1990s.
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