The Misfits: Robbing Graves, Night of the Living Dead and the Teenagers from Mars

Summary

DISGRACELAND: The Misfits – Robbing Graves, Night of the Living Dead, and the Teenagers from Mars

Podcast: DISGRACELAND
Host: Jake Brennan (Double Elvis Productions)
Date: October 19, 2025

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Episode Overview

This special Halloween episode of DISGRACELAND explores the infamous journey of the Misfits—a band that injected horror, chaos, and myth into the punk movement. From rumors of grave robbing and jail time to the creation of horrorcore and infamous riots at their gigs, host Jake Brennan peels back the layers of Glenn Danzig's alienation, artistic obsession, and the band's legacy. Wrapped in Brennan’s characteristic dark humor and pulpy narrative style, the episode merges fact and fiction to echo the band's own outrageous mythmaking.

“If you take yourself and your punk rock too seriously, you might want to skip this episode and dive into your back issues of Maximum Rock and Roll instead. But if you...find Glenn Danzig to be as unintentionally hysterical as he is talented, then strap yourselves in!”
— Jake Brennan [03:49]

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Key Discussion Points and Insights

Glenn Danzig’s Alienation and Early Inspirations

• The Misfits’ Foundation in Alienation & Horror
  Raised in Lodi, NJ, Glenn Danzig (then Glenn Anzalone) grew up steeped in horror films, comic books, tabloid headlines, and a sense of not belonging.

  “The horror seeping in through radio and television broadcasts appealed to him more than...normal adolescent interests. Sports, school, the New York Football Giants...What did Glenn care? He found these things endlessly boring.”
  — Jake Brennan [07:16]

• Outsider Status in Suburbia
  Brennan paints a picture of Danzig as the perpetual outsider, harangued by "Ricky Nelson squares" and retreating into the macabre for solace and inspiration.

The Birth of the Misfits and Punk’s Crossroads

• Discovering Kindred Spirits
  Glenn meets Jerry Only, a local bass player and former football star. Despite differences, their mutual love for Sabbath, Stooges, punk, and the existence of Jerry’s van catalyze the Misfits’ formation.

  “Perhaps the single most important qualifier was...the fact that this kid, the bass player, had a van. He went by the name Jerry, Just Jerry, Only Jerry, Jerry only.”
  — Jake Brennan [14:50]

Chaos and Carnage – Punk Mythos and Real Life

• The Sid Vicious Connection
  Jerry Only’s friendship with Sid Vicious, the latter's heroin overdose, and Jerry’s relationship with Sid’s mother form a morbid backdrop for the recording of “Horror Business."

  “Sid had just gotten out of jail that day…all he cared about was getting high. He kicked his heroin habit in Rikers...within minutes, all he could think of was jacking something hot into his vein. He didn’t care about Jerry’s pasta either. Little did he know it would be his last meal.”
  — Jake Brennan [18:20]

• Songs as Horrific Storytelling
  Danzig’s lyrics—steeped in true crime, pop culture, and B-movie horror—function both as cathartic expression and subversive social commentary.

  “There’s a line in Horror Business...where Glenn says, ‘My mirrors are black for you.’ What a fucking lyric. My mirrors are black for you. It was Glenn Danzig’s worldview channeled through the murderous punk rocker Sid Vicious.”
  — Jake Brennan [20:38]

• Violence at Misfits Shows
  Notorious for riotous live shows, Brennan describes Glenn’s confrontational relationship with fans, echoing his own formative experiences as a Misfits-inspired teen in Boston.

  “Music wasn’t supposed to sound like this. Broken down, shredded, lo-fi, at times even out of tune, messy but precise, filled with rage and an energy that I could uniquely identify with…”
  — Jake Brennan [22:50]

Fact and Fiction: Jail, Grave Robbing, and the London Dungeon

• Fight with London Skinheads and London Dungeon's Origin
  During a disastrous European tour, the Misfits get into a brawl with British skinheads, end up jailed in a literal dungeon, and Glenn & guitarist Bobby Steele write “London Dungeon” in their cell.

  “Within the walls, thick iron loops, no doubt where the chains went...We were underground for sure, trapped in some sort of medieval torture chamber...The two got down to it straightaway...channeling them into music.”
  — Jake Brennan [30:42]

• The Marie Laveau Grave Incident
  Seeking darkness and inspiration in New Orleans, Glenn leads the Misfits to Marie Laveau’s rumored grave but is arrested for trespassing—fueling tabloid tales of “grave robbing."

  “He followed the white noise...went forward into the light...Straight into the arms of a New Orleans police officer. ‘Where are you going, Eddie Munster?’ Glenn was sunk and also under arrest. Criminal trespassing. The next day...the headline: Punk Rock Musicians Arrested in Cemetery.”
  — Jake Brennan [39:55]

The Last Stand: Hardcore, Division, and the Misfits' Demise

• State of Hardcore and Fragmentation
  Brennan reflects on early '80s hardcore: a violent, yet welcoming home for misfits—until tribalism and rivalry destroy its initial unity.

  “Norms could hang at punk shows. Norms could not hang at hardcore shows. They would be beat, stabbed or worse...But the hardcore scene didn’t just leave behind a legacy of brutality...Marginalized teens, outcasts, literal misfits who couldn’t find their way...found a home in hardcore.”
  — Jake Brennan [40:48]

• The Misfits’ Final Show: Halloween 1983, Detroit’s Greystone Hall
  The Misfits’ last show dissolves into chaos: crowd violence peaks, the drummer falls apart mid-set and is forcibly replaced, and Danzig publicly quits.

  “Doyle made an executive decision on the fly, dropped his guitar, rushed the drum kit, grabbed Brian and literally threw him off stage...Glenn was gone. On stage, sure...but purely going through the motions. Mechanical, soulless. Good, he thought. Just like the crowd…”
  — Jake Brennan [45:42, 47:36]

Mythic Finale—Merging Apocalypse and Metaphor

• Surreal Retelling of the Split
  The episode crescendos with a fictionalized, horror B-movie version of the Misfits’ last stand: the band torn apart by a zombie audience as Glenn escapes, only to be gunned down by riot police—tying his lifelong alienation back to his artistic identity.

  “Glenn grabbed Doyle's axe and hacked his way through the coming ghouls...Barricading himself in, stacking furniture against the door, hacking nails into ripped-up plywood...”
  — Jake Brennan [48:19, 49:05]

  “He finally got the door open...the authorities...shotguns raised...looking every part the ghoulish zombie. The authorities...pulled their triggers and blasted him away.”
  — Jake Brennan [51:11]

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Notable Quotes & Memorable Moments

| Timestamp | Speaker | Quote/Description | |-----------|---------|-------------------| | 03:49 | Jake Brennan | “If you like to be entertained and find Glenn Danzig to be as unintentionally hysterical as he is talented, then strap yourselves in for this special Halloween episode of Disgraceland.” | | 07:16 | Jake Brennan | “The horror seeping in through radio and television broadcasts appealed to him more than...normal adolescent interests...Sports...television, the New York Football Giants, good government, Andy Griffith Show. What did Glenn care? He found these things endlessly boring.” | | 14:50 | Jake Brennan | “He went by the name Jerry, Just Jerry, Only Jerry, Jerry only.” | | 20:38 | Jake Brennan | “There’s a line in Horror Business, a lyric where Glenn says, ‘My mirrors are black for you.’ What a fucking lyric. My mirrors are black for you.” | | 22:50 | Jake Brennan | “Music wasn’t supposed to sound like this. Broken down, shredded, lo-fi, at times even out of tune, messy but precise, filled with rage and an energy that I could uniquely identify with…” | | 30:42 | Jake Brennan | “[London Dungeon]...Bobby knew immediately that their unfortunate circumstance would make for a great song. The two got down to it straight away, blocking out their fears and channeling them into music.” | | 39:55 | Jake Brennan | “He followed the white noise...went forward into the light...Straight into the arms of a New Orleans police officer. ‘Where are you going, Eddie Munster?’ Glenn was sunk and also under arrest. Criminal trespassing. The next day...the headline: Punk Rock Musicians Arrested in Cemetery.” | | 45:42 | Jake Brennan | “From the opening riff of Night of the Living Dead, the crowd erupted. More than just dancing. Bottles were thrown at the band and the audience spat up on stage, rushed the stage, overtook the stage, slamming into Glen, Jerry and Doyle before diving off into the pit.” | | 47:36 | Jake Brennan | “This was a circus. This wasn’t nihilism...The crowd...stage divers...Glenn was gone. On stage, sure. Still there, yes, but purely going through the motions. Mechanical, soulless. Good, he thought. Just like the crowd.” | | 51:11 | Jake Brennan | “The authorities took one look at him, pulled their triggers and blasted him away.” |

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Timestamps for Important Segments

• [04:28] – Introduction to the Misfits’ myth and the creation of horrorcore.
• [07:16] – Glenn Danzig’s childhood, alienation, and early obsessions with horror.
• [14:50] – The formation of the Misfits with Jerry Only.
• [18:20] – Encounters with Sid Vicious, “Horror Business,” and chaos at the Chelsea Hotel.
• [22:50] – The power and violence of Misfits’ music and its influence on the host’s teenage years.
• [30:42] – The London Dungeon story: fight, jail, and spontaneous song creation.
• [39:55] – Arrest in New Orleans; the myth of Misfits as grave robbers.
• [40:48] – Reflection on the hardcore scene’s inclusivity and slide into tribalism.
• [45:42] – The Misfits’ final show: Halloween 1983, Detroit chaos.
• [48:19–51:11] – Surreal horror-movie narrative of the band’s ending.

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Tone and Style

Jake Brennan blends irony, horror, pulp fiction dramatics, and sincere appreciation for the rawness of punk and the Misfits’ radical outsider ethos. The episode oscillates between gritty biographical detail, dramatic reenactments, and knowing self-parody, always with a sense of reverence for the band—even as it lampoons their self-mythologizing.

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Summary

This episode is a masterclass in music mythmaking—simultaneously deconstructing and adding fuel to the fire of the Misfits’ punk legend. Brennan honors the chaos and darkness that animates Glenn Danzig’s singular vision, the band’s place in music history as creators of horrorcore, and the wild, violent, and often hilarious specifics that make the Misfits’ story endure.

Recommended for fans of punk history, gothic storytelling, and anyone who believes that music should feel a little bit dangerous.

Transcript

[Jake Brennan]

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[Jake Brennan]

Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. Happy Halloween everybody. This is a Halloween episode. I tried to have a sense of humor about it. If you take yourself and your punk rock too seriously, you might want to skip this episode and dive into your back issues of Maximum Rock and Roll instead.

[Jake Brennan (Ad Read Voice)]

But if you like to be entertained.

[Jake Brennan]

And find Glenn Danzig to be as unintentionally hysterical hysterical as he is talented, then strap yourselves in for this special Halloween episode of Disgraceland.

[Jake Brennan (Ad Read Voice)]

Mellotron.

[Jake Brennan]

Stories about the Misfits are insane. They were rumored to have been arrested for grave robbing. They were locked up abroad for attacking skinheads, incited riots at their shows here and there states. Creatively driven by frontman Glenn Danzig, the Misfits invented what has come to be known as horrorcore. Coming up in a hardcore scene that was as violent as it was inspiring. Growing up, Glenn Danzig was obsessed with the weird, with the strange, with the horrific. Early comic books, heavy metal, scandal rags and B movies helped fill the void in him created by an ever present feeling of alienation. This inspiration fueled him, filled his imagination, and helped him create one of the most enduring musical cult followings of all time. It also inspired him and his bandmates to create great music. Unlike that music I played for you at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my melotron called robo penetration MK1. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to Islands in the Stream by Kenny Rogers and Dolly Parton. And why would I play you that specific slice of middle ear cheese? Could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on October 31, 1983. And that was the day the Misfits played their final show. And all hell broke loose on this episode. Teenagers From Mars, Robo Penetration, Glenn Danzig's Night of the Living Dead and the Misfits. I'm Jake Brennan and this is Disgrace. Sam.

[Narrator / Radio Broadcast Voice]

Because of the obvious threat to untold numbers of citizens and because of the crisis which is even now developing, this radio station will remain on the air day and night.

[News Reporter / Historical Voice]

Rape, torture and murder in Chicago as eight student nurses at the South Chicago Community Hospital have been found dead overnight. The suspect in custody is one Richard Speck, who now stands accused of one of the most gruesome murder sprees of the 20th century.

[Jake Brennan]

11 year old Glenn Anzalone was barricading himself in hammering nails into imaginary makeshift plywood barriers to keep the horror of the world out. 1966. Glenn was just a child, but he could tell the world was turning from where he stood stuck in Lodi, New Jersey. He could feel it. There was a darkness on the edge of town and that darkness compelled Glenn. He knew as a young boy that he was different. The horror seeping in through radio and television broadcasts appealed to him more than so called normal adolescent interests. Sports, school, school, television, the New York Football Giants, good government, Andy Griffith Show. What did Glenn care? He found these things endlessly boring. How the rest of the world did care about these things blew his mind. The fact that he couldn't relate alienated him from nearly everyone he came in contact with at school or in his neighborhood. That was the scary part. Not the horror show on the nightly news, but the alienation who get to say what was normal. The vicious irony was that Glenn found so called normal to be scary. As the Leave it to Beaver types at school with their high and tight boys, regular haircuts, their parents with their two cars, their garage five o' clock martini hours and Lawrence Welk show, the hula hoop and sidewalk Surfboards. Glenn could not relate to any of it. And those who could, the fact that they could still scared the out of them. They were mindless in their adoption of every new fad, television program or piece of Pat's sentimental music. Conformist zombies. They were downright ghoulish to Glenn. Whenever they were near, he'd feel his backbone tense up. He'd get that chill, the one that told him things weren't right. Because everything about them, these norms, said to him, you're not right, Glenn. You're weird. Glenn buried the feeling. It made him feel alone, empty. He felt the hole inside him grow, and he filled it in his young imagination with the kinds of things that seemed to only interest him.

[Jake Brennan (Ad Read Voice)]

At first.

[Jake Brennan]

He barricaded himself in, retreating into the sanctity of his teenage bedroom and devoured comic books, Magneto and Tales to the Crypt.

[News Reporter / Historical Voice]

Dead Bodies before will continue to be transformed.

[Jake Brennan]

Horror films broadcast on local New Jersey television, Frankenstein Conquers the World, Dracula Versus Frankenstein, Revenge of the Zombies, and any and all nationally syndicated horror and adventure programming. Glenn could get his eyes on.

[News Reporter / Historical Voice]

Ghoul Can Be Killed by A Shot in the Hair.

[Jake Brennan]

Also the Vampira show, Dark Shadows with Barnabas Collins. Glenn didn't stop there. He tore into the tabloids and cult rags of the day as well the National Tattler and It's Happening with headlines emblazoned across their covers like dad Eats Baby and Sterilization May Free Killer Mom, Hush Magazine and Confidential gave way to admitted mainstream fascinations for Glenn with Marilyn Monroe and Elvis Presley, which Glenn justified by claiming claiming additional knowledge of less popular versions of those 1950s icons. Roy Orbison, whose darkness was overstated yet did little to curtail his mainstream success. And Jayne Mansfield, who died in a fiery car crash and was rumored untrue, of course, but Glenn didn't know to have been decapitated. Glenn took all of this in. And when he dared venture out into the world that offered him little beyond his bedroom walls, it was to catch whatever B movies and fringe cinema he could find. Plan 9 From Outer Space and George Romero's groundbreaking Night of the Living Dead. The outside scared him. Lodi, with its horrifying conformist jocks, future frat boys with no tolerance for the weird olive skinned Italian kid who was into all that quote unquote weird shit. And the Jersey Devil lurking in the darkness somewhere outside Glenn's suburban bedroom window in the woods, the devil's own green hell and the swamps of Jersey, the Mafia's unofficial burial ground. Who killed Marilyn? Glenn didn't know, but he bet the men who utilized those swamps had an idea. Rotted corpse. Sex. Decay. Her breasts all full of slugs. The air at night around Glen's home had a different feel than in the day. The smell from the refineries, toxins in the air mixing with the sound of the crickets, the peepers, whatever they were, disappointed, disgusting insects soundtracking his nighttime world. Glen kept to the cracked sidewalk, shuffling home. He could feel their presence, whoever they were. Neighborhood bullies, older kids calling him names, heckling him, throwing rocks at him from behind, coming up fast. Glenn kept his head down and kept walking. Even if he didn't know them, he knew who they were. Ricky Nelson squares who were lucky were born a couple years before Glenn and were thus bigger. Glenn couldn't do anything about his diminutive height, but he would morph his body eventually, make him unfuckable. But back then the morphing was done by the ghoulish conformists on his tail. Glenn heard the local horror lore that the refinery toxins made their way into the topsoil. The bugs, those peepers soaked the toxins up and transported the chemicals into the water system supply. The result? A transmutation of some locals who grew extra body parts. From behind him, Glenn could hear the continued talk. Hey, Eddie Munster, where you going so late? Hey, Lurch, where's the rest of the family? They started humming the theme to the Adams family, snapping their fingers out of time like the soulless automatons they were. Their voices were multiplying rapidly, a multiverse of tongue spitting vile insults. And now Glenn could feel their eyes on him, burning into the back of his neck. This is the ghoul's night out. Glenn knew it all. Ghouls go to hell. And the back of his neck burned humans hell bent on eating flesh. The flesh of his neck bubbling under the radiation gaze of conformists, bullying him back into his suburban dungeon. Transformed, radiated mutants. Ricky Nelson's no more now with so many eyes, an overload. Somehow, Glenn made it home alive. He went to his little electric piano and started picking out notes, humming melodies. Black Sabbath, Black Sabbath burbling up from his subconscious. Glenn, by the time he was in high school, had become obsessed with the album. Music made him feel less alone, less of a target. It was empowering and Glenn knew it. Then no more bullying at the hands of freakish ghouls. He'd make music and make himself into something, someone else, someone they couldn't fuck with. And there was a neighborhood kid with a bass guitar. He was kind of a norm himself. Football Player Voted most Popular his old man was some kind of working class hero, but but he was into the music Glenn was into, and not just Sabbath and the Stooges and Elvis, but this new type of loud, fast, anti authority, non conformist music that they were calling punk. The Ramones, Generation X and the Sex Pistols. Plus this kid knew a drummer, a drummer who had a garage where they could jam. And perhaps the single most important qualifier was the fact that this kid, the bass player, had a van. He went by the name Jerry, Just Jerry, Only Jerry, Jerry only.

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[Jake Brennan (Ad Read Voice)]

Hey Discos, if you want more Disgraceland, be sure to listen every Thursday to our weekly After Party Bonus episode where we dig deeper into the stories we tell in our full weekly episodes. In these After Party Bonus episodes, we dive into your voicemails and texts, emails and DMs and discuss your thoughts on the wild lives and behavior of the artists and entertainers that we're all obsessed with. So leave me a message at 617-906-6638 disgracelandpodmail.com orisgracelandpod on the socials and join the conversation every Thursday in our After Party Bonus episode.

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[News Reporter / Historical Voice]

A killer clown confesses in Chicago in a Christmas time horror story. John Wayne Gacy, also known as Patches the Clown, admits to raping, murdering and burying on his property approximately 30 young men and boys. It's the latest dark twist this year with serial killer Ted Bundy finally under arrest and facing the death penalty in Florida after murdering and assaulting FSU sorority girls. The Hillside Strangler in Los Angeles remains at large. Just last month, the world was rattled by the Jonestown mass suicide. And the month before that, the brutal murder of Nancy Spungen by rock star Sid Vicious. It's the year that won't let up until the very last day, it seems, prompting many to dub it Psycho 78.

[Jake Brennan]

Jerry only was making pasta for his friend Sid Vicious, infamous bass player for the Sex Pistols, who was rumored to have killed his girlfriend, Nancy Spungen. Sid had just gotten out of jail that day. The word was he was going to fight the case. Mick Jagger was footing the bill for his lawyer, but Sid didn't care. All he cared about was getting high. He kicked his nasty heroin habit in Rikers, but within minutes of getting out, all he could think of was jacking something hot into his vein. He didn't care about Jerry's pasta either. Little did he know it would be his last meal. Jerry had befriended Sid. He was a fan, and he saw an opportunity. Sid had a hit. His version of Frank Sinatra's My Way. And Jerry knew a tour was in the works and wanted in on that action with his new band, the Misfits. Jerry wanted the Misfits to back Sid. It's not clear where Jerry only singer, frontman for the Misfits, Glenn Anzalone, who was now going by the name Glenn Danzig, fit into his his plan. It didn't matter. Sid would die that night of a heroin overdose. There was no skin off Glenn Danzig's back. He never knew what to make of Sid Vicious. He understood Jerry's fascination with him, though. Sid was famous and punk, a very rare combination at the time. But Glenn would never understand Jerry's fascination with Sid's mom. And Beverly Anne was there the night Sid died with Jerry, the rumors were sickening. Sid Vicious was pretty fucking far from alive. After his mom left his room that night. Hotshot, they'd said. Glenn and Jerry hung with Sid and Nancy at the Chelsea Hotel, where the couple was living. Glen and Jerry got busted and ended up spending the night in jail. Not for heroin, which was everywhere at the Chelsea, especially on the first floor, but for throwing bottles off the fire escape down under West 23rd Street. Nancy wouldn't get off that easy. The world thought Sid had been the one who put the knife in Nancy. Sid was so smacked out at the time of Nancy's deadly stabbing that even he didn't know if he killed her. Glenn Dany didn't give a what Sid Vicious thought he thought he did it, or at least thought enough of the batshit crazy incident to know that it would make for one hell of a song. So he put pen to paper, wrote out the lyrics to a new tune about Nancy Spungen's demise, called it Horror Business, and headed into the studio with the Misfits to get it on tape. Bassist Jerry, only friend of Sid Vicious at the time, had taken to shepherding Sid's mom around town after Sid's death, making sure she was okay, making sure she had enough drugs. Degenerate junkie that she was just like her son, and in general, showing her a good time. Which is how Ann Beverly, Sid Vicious mom, wound up at the recording session for Horror Business, the Misfit song written about her son murdering his girlfriend. Anne sat in the control room either willfully ignorant or too high to care, while Glenn Danzig reimagined Alfred Hitchcock's Psycho through song with vivid hardcore imagery. And there's a line in Horror Business, a lyric where Glenn says, my mirrors are black for you. What a fucking lyric. My mirrors are black for you. It was Glenn Danzig's worldview channeled through the murderous punk rocker Sid Vicious, a worldview that took the ghoulish conformity society offered him and reflected back the blackness that drove him to alienation. The worldview biting back this alienation, this anger, was at the core of the Misfits music. They were louder, faster, angrier, scarier than all their punk rock contemporaries. There were moments that clashed the Pistols when it came to pure nihilistic rage. None could hold a candle to the hardcore brutality Glenn Danzig and Jerry only were imagining and recording Bullet, the aforementioned horror business, Night of the Living Dead and Halloween scorching singles that blasted with inferno ferocity off the tape, telling tales of presidential assassination, zombie apocalypse, and riotous anarchy with dead cats hanging from poles and B sides. Any other band at the time would have been lucky to count as lead singles. Such was their hooky infectiousness and originality attitude. Hollywood Babylon, Teenagers From Mars, Last Caress, Ghouls, Night out and Horror Hotel. Lyrically all were steeped in the prepubescent ooze of Glenn Danzig's childhood bedroom. You can hear the tabloid smut in Hollywood Babylon, the syndicated creature double features in Horror Hotel in Night of the Living Dead, the cult rag exploitation of Last Caress, and of course the painful adolescent alienation in Teenagers From Mars. Danzig's broadside at the ghoulish Lodi bullies and authority figures who tried unsuccessfully to bend him to their conformist ways and shut him out as a child. Gibberish lyrics to parents and mainstream rock and roll gatekeepers put the Secret Serum for 15 year old kids out on the margins trying to find their way through the perils of teenage wasteland. Hearing the Misfits for me at the age of 15 literally changed the course of my life. Nothing I heard to that point sounded like the Misfits and I would hear nothing else the same for as long as I had ears. Music wasn't supposed to sound like this. Broken down shredded lo fi at times even out of tune, messy but precise, filled with rage and an energy that I could uniquely identify with that was all already coursing through my veins. But to this point, untapped, it had no outlet until I heard the Misfits. And when I first heard the band, I literally wanted to break things. It moved me to violence. My friends and I donned black hooded Champion sweatshirts and took to the streets of our neighborhood, a group of 10 or more of us at a time, and shouted out the gain vocals to Misfit songs in the dead of night. Imagine sitting down in your La Z Boy after a long hard day, day of work and turning on your Magnum PI or your cheers to relax and hearing a gang of 15 year olds marching down your street singing in unison about hacking heads off little girls and putting them on our walls. We called ourselves the Hoods in honor of the Misfits logo, the hooded Crimson Ghost. Go ahead, fuck with Misfits. Music was imbued with violence, rage. We'd never seen them live. They were long broken up by the time we got turned on. But the influence of their recorded output and their live shows informed every Boston and New York hardcore band we saw back then. But still as violent as the all ages matinees were that we attended, they were nothing like the shows the Misfits played, where Glenn Danzig was known not to only accost the crowd verbally from stage, but to also get into the crowd and physically assault fans for unknown taunts and offenses. A growing audience of dedicated punk rockers did little to make Glenn Danzig feel less alienated. Sometimes it seemed as though it only made his problems worse. Who the fuck were these kids? Didn't they get it? Mixing it up with the crowd was no doubt seen as less of a risk, given that Glenn knew he was backed by his bulky bass player, Jerry Only, and Jerry's little brother to Doyle on guitar. Both were former high school football stars and both muscle bound. Jacked on stage, they aspired to look like the monsters they worshipped on television on Saturday mornings growing up. Bulging biceps and pecs augmented with dyed black hair combed down over their faces into the Misfits patented Devil Lock, a reverse DA with two mascara eyes peering out behind it. Big platform heels, leather spikes, skeleton shirts and skulls draping their amps. Sounds silly now, but at the time, in the late 70s and early 80s, there was nothing like this in music. There was no horrorcore. The Misfits invented it. And there was hardly yet anything approaching goth. The closest thing to the Misfits was Kiss, but they were more schlock than shock, more comic than killer. Kiss were entertainers. The Misfits were nihilists. Which isn't to say that they were without ambition. In the late 70s, when they were starting out, Glenn and Jerry hustled their band all over lower Manhattan, socializing inside and outside of CBGB's, Max's, Kansas City and Hurrahs with other punk rockers trying to make their way. It was here at Harrah's, after a gig the Misfits shared with Britain's the Damned, a gig that counted Iggy Pop and Blondie's Debbie Harriet amongst those in attendance, that Jerry only somehow talked the Damned into allowing the Misfits to open for them on their European tour. Jerry was stoked. He talked his old man into financing the band's first foray across the pond. When they arrived and hooked up with the dam, they were surprised to learn that they weren't actually booked onto any of the damn shows. Glenn was pissed. So was Jerry. What a witch. His old man was gonna put his nuts in a vice. 3 grand in travel expenses down the drain. Jerry and Glenn worked it out so they could play a couple shows opening for the opening band, but without pay total, and they bounced after a gig or two. But before heading home, the Misfits hit up the Rainbow Club to see the jam outside in line, trying to scam their way into the show, two skinheads started heckling them for the way they looked. Glenn, Jerry and then guitarist Bobby Steele murdered out in all black in a pre goth London skinheads giving them. Glenn couldn't believe it. Different side of the same ghoulish coin. Supposed non conformist skinhead shitting on him for dressing differently. Some things never changed. Alienation was one of them. But this wasn't like back in Lodi. Glenn now knew how to fight fight and frankly didn't give a about the outcome. Plus Jerry had his back. And Jerry was jacked. The skinheads lit into him some more and Glenn took the bottle of soda he was drinking from, smashed the bottom of it into a makeshift jagged glass dagger and dove straight at the skins. A melee ensued. Smashing, stabbing, Doc Martens, kicking, grabbing, wild Wolverine, Fury and then night sticks, fists and more kicks from unholy living dead cuffs. Back of the wagon and a free night. Stay in a British hell. We'll be right back after this.

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[News Reporter / Historical Voice]

Sheltering underground are Glenn and Bobby. Glenn and Bobby. Glenn, Glenn, Glenn and Bobby. Teenagers who came after hearing an emergency broadcast about a series of brutal killings. Glenn and Bobby are securing themselves from angry zombie mutants dug in in the cellar, which they believe to be safer. Meanwhile, the ghouls are relentless in their assault. Dead set on besieging Glenn And Bobby Glenn, especially in ever increasing numbers.

[Jake Brennan]

Glenn den it came too, to the sound of banging, a remnant from his dream, the sound of barricading himself into his room. Away from his childhood fears. The reality he awoke to was much scarier. The banging was replaced by the faint sound of wailing, moaning, someone in pain. Glenn was on the ground. Bobby lay next to him. Jerry was not there. His dumb luck must have prevailed again. And there were iron bars and Glenn and Bobby were obviously on the wrong side of them. Concrete walls that looked to have been chiseled out of a cave by disinterested slaves centuries ago. Within the walls, thick iron loops, no doubt where the chains went, the ones connected to the shackles. There were no windows. The wailing grew louder but remained faint, as if it were there, but it wasn't. The must in the air was thick and they were underground for sure, trapped in some sort of medieval torture chamber. Europe, societies that were hundreds if not thousands of years older than yours, and you were bound to run into some weird and it appeared that Glenn Danzig and Bobby Steele had found themselves locked up for their assault on the skinheads inside of an actual dungeon. A London dungeon. Bobby knew immediately that their unfortunate circumstance would make for a great song. The two got down to it straight away, blocking out their fears and channeling them into music. On the spot behind bars, Bobby banged out a beat with his hands on his thighs. The slap of his palms on his greasy jeans, combined with the natural echo of the cell they were in, made for a hell of a makeshift backbeat. The faint moaning, the painful cries, imagined or real, weaved through Glenn's imagination into a glorious bed of ghostly feedback that lay on top of Bobby's beat. In a fear induced blast of inspiration, Glenn's words came barreling out. The misfit song London, written in jail, was recorded upon the band's return to the States and released as the A side on the band's EP 3 Hits from Hell in 1981. The song makes a brief appearance on the band's masterpiece LP Walk Among Us a year later as the live outro to the song Mummy Can I Go out and Kill Tonight? The song, despite its inspired over origin, played but a bit part on the band's fullest artistic statement to date. Walk Among Us brought the band to a new level of underground fame. The power of the album was undeniable. The band weren't selling out Madison Square Garden or charting on the Billboard top 40, but their shows were attracting more fans. Die Hard committed fans as well as Fly by night fans who just wanted to gawk at the freaks on stage in black, with the skulls and the eyeliner and the hair covered, covering their faces. Glenn resented every last fucking one of them. Music, the Misfits. It wasn't some novelty for him. Despite the imagery, the comic and horror influence, the themes, alienation and nihilism, they were real. They came from a real place. And the aggression and violence they inspired to Glenn Danzig was very real. Treating it as anything less was an affront to his creative sensibilities, not to mention an affront to him personally. Increasingly, it was obvious to Glenn that his bandmates did not share the same passion, the same motivation. Mutant conformist ghouls that they were. Nothing illustrated this more to Glenn than seeing Jerry and his little brother Doyle show up for band practice in their father's van with Van Halen's Unchained blasting from their stereo while chugging cans of beer. The two of them musclebound and sawed off T shirts and cut off jeans, looking like nothing more than the couple of ex meathead jocks that they were. How the, he wondered, had he wound up in a band with these guys on tour? The band's fans weren't much better. Their show, as violent as they still were, were now being populated by the smart set and college kids who'd somehow gotten hip to the Misfits and in general, punk rock's growing popularity. Things were changing, and if Glenn Danzig wasn't careful, his band, their image, his image, his art, would be co opted by the very ghouls he'd made strides his whole life to avoid. They were everywhere, especially on tour in strange Midwest and Southern cities, creeping around every corner, peering, leering, looking for any opportunity to pounce, to sink their flesh eating, soul sucking teeth into you and bleed you of whatever it was that made you special. Glenn wouldn't allow it to happen. Jerry and Doyle could have their Van Halen and football and whatever other mainstream rock star McDonald's eating crap they wanted. Glenn wanted out. And if he couldn't get out just yet, then he wanted darkness. Destruction. Wanted to fill the hole growing inside of him with something he could relate to, just like when he was a kid. But now as an adult, it wasn't that easy. Comic books and creature double features weren't going to cut it when the occult, the afterlife and real darkness were all possible. The gig in New Orleans that night went okay. Glenn was inspired by the city and the voodoo magic. In the air. He could feel Nola's ghost, the Living Professor, Longhair Dr. John and the dead, mainly Marie Laveau. Marie Laveau, the Voodoo Queen of New Orleans. The powerful priestess died in the 19th century, but was rumored by locals to have continued her practice from beyond a grave. Marvel Comics based a character on her in the 1970s, a fact that was not lost on Glenn Danzig. Her grave was the exact type of connection Glenn needed at the time. After the gig, Glenn and the rest of the Misfits set out to find Marie Laveau's ancient tomb and to conjure up some real darkness. St. Louis 2 Cemetery is one of New Orleans oldest Catholic cemeteries. Its graves are above ground. Vaults, tombs and mini mausoleums all rest on top of the ground to avoid New Orleans's high water table that rises up near the ground's surface, making subterranean burials impossible. Glenn wondered about topsoil contamination. The night air stuck to their skin. Glenn, the rest of the band, Cherry to Doyle, and drummer Robo, were accompanied by two strippers named Poison and Venom, who, Robo was very pleased to learn, were more than happy to tease him by pleasuring themselves with his drumsticks in the back of the band's van on the ride over. Glenn had no time for such. He'd just as soon make his pilgrimage on his own without having to suffer the foolishness of his bandmates. In their new groupies, they made their way on foot to the Maze of the Dead. The air hung heavier with every footfall. Crickets, peepers, whatever they were, they were back for Glenn and chirping out their disapproval, snaking in and around their shrieking chorus. The sound of the wind. Soft, near dead, but they're all the same. Heavy. On top of it hung the muffled sound of gnawing. The sound rode up behind Glenn. It rode up the back of Glenn's neck. Where was Marie Lavo's grave? That gnawing sound got louder. It swirled up from behind him and for a moment it blanketed him and then passed on. Gnawing, gnawing, gnawing. There, then gone, but not fully. And not fully demonic either. And there was a strange warmth to the sound of it. Something inviting. It beckoned. Glenn, pulled him toward it. He followed it, sought it out, knew in his heart it would lead to her death tomb. And once there, Glenn knew he'd get answers the priestess would provide. He moved closer to the sound. The sound grew louder. He maneuvered over the tombs. The sound became more and more real. He heard laughing from the rear, demonic, ghoulish hellhounds on his tail. Up ahead, the gnawing had given way to soft whispers, to a chorus of soft white noise. Soft white noise that broke through into a vision of. Of white flesh beckoning. He could see it now. He could. In his mind, he fought off the ghoulish normalcy following him. It was now soundtracked by a different kind of gnawing sound. More hellish, carnivorous, cannibalistic. It was poison, venomous. He focused, tried to block out the sensation the sound made him feel. But he could feel it burning up his back, singeing the flesh of his neck. He kept stride, kept his two eyes up ahead, followed the white noise, followed the vision of white flesh, went forward into the light. It grew more intense, more real. And there were voices. Real voices, actual voices. He moved faster toward them, faster toward the light and away from what lay behind him. His band, his past, the poison, the venom. Toward the priestess, toward his future. He rounded the mausoleum, blocking the light around the backside, toward the voices, the whispers and ransom. Straight into the arms of a New Orleans police officer. Where are you going, Eddie? Monster Glenn was sunk and was also under arrest. Criminal trespassing. The next day, the New Orleans Times Picayune ran the headline punk Rock Musicians Arrested in Cemetery. Word around the punk scene spread. The misfits had been arrested for grave robbing.

[Narrator / Radio Broadcast Voice]

Because of the obvious threat to untold numbers of citizens and because of the crisis which is even now developing, this radio station will remain, remain on the air day and night at this hour. We repeat, these are the facts as we There is an epidemic of mass murders being committed by a virtual army of unidentified assassins. We have some descriptions of the assassins. Eyewitnesses say they are ordinary looking people. Some say they appear to be in a kind of trance.

[News Reporter / Historical Voice]

In a kind of trance In a kind of trance. In a kind of trance.

[Jake Brennan]

Early 80s hardcore shows were unlike any other musical experience before or since. These shows were distinguished by their extreme violence. Hardcore came after. Punk had its dalliance with the mainstream and the major labels. Hardcore in its infancy was the more extreme version of punk in its sound, its fans, its name and its live shows. Norms could hang at punk shows. Norms could not hang at hardcore shows. They would be beat, stabbed or worse. Hell, band members performing on stage would be beaten, stabbed or worse. But the hardcore scene didn't just leave behind a legacy of brutality. Marginalized teens, outcasts, literal misfits who couldn't find their way through adolescence found a home in hardcore that proved to be its own island of misfit toys for wayward teens and young adults. It was a place where you could truly be yourself, where individualism was encouraged, where going against the grain was celebrated. Your identity didn't matter. You were whatever the fuck you were and nobody could say shit because if they did, they'd get beat down. Intolerance was not tolerated and neither was tribalism. You could be who you wanted, dance how you wanted, dress how you wanted, fuck who you wanted, fight who you wanted. And none of it mattered because Ronald Reagan and Mikhail Gorbachev were going to be blow the world up imminently anyway. That spirit of individuality, nihilism and destruction manifest on hardcore dance floors with a far more aggressive form of slam dancing than what came before in the punk scene. Bodies pummeled into one another with vicious abandon. The pit not only housed fists and steel toed kicks from heavy engineer boots, but also brass knuckles, knives and chains. The violence was legit and inspired. Early 80s hardcore bands. Black Flag, TSOL, Circle Jerks, Bad Brains and Minor Threat pummeled their audiences with blasting beats and anvil swinging riffs. And their audiences were not afraid to pummel them right back. In hardcore, there was no separation between band and audience. There were no bouncers, there was no security, no protecting the sanctity of the rock star. Unlike punk in hardcore, there were no real rock stars that didn't fly. These were the shows the misfits played. And they didn't know it then, but on Halloween of 1983, they were walking on stage to play their last show ever. By 83, the worm had started to turn in the hardcore scene. Tribes were taking root subsets of the larger scene. Skinheads, gang bangers, straight edge kids, college kids, horrorcore kids, goths, even Rusta folks, Nefarians, you name it. The spirit of hardcore allowed entry for one and all, provided you had the steel and an open mind. The irony, however, was that the tribalism was demolishing the hardcore spirit, extinguishing its flame of individuality. Glenn Danzig didn't know about all that. He could just sense that things were different. And when he looked out onto the audience from the stage, things were starting to look a lot more like high school than they were the hardcore scene. This dude didn't like that dude because that dude rocked his hair this way. And then the other dude wore the wrong colored laces in his boots. But that dude had the wrong braces holding up his Levi's. And those dudes over there from the suburbs didn't drink. But the drug dealers were owed money from the gangbangers who hated the Rastafarians. Who were now hanging out with the Hare Krishnas, who nobody liked, not even the Goths, who were disliked by nearly everyone and blah, blah, blah. They looked up at Glenn, anxious for the band to start their much anticipated annual Halloween show in Detroit at Greystone Hall, 1000 strong. In the crowd, Glenn could feel their eyes, all them eyes on Overload, staring him down, burning into him. Ghouls. Fucking ghouls, he thought. Behind him, his bandmates, Jerry only and his big little bro Doyle. The two them, hulking goth versions of Paul Newman's Hanson Brothers, Jack, Don Schnapps, Eddie Van Halenris and Gene Simmons. Correspondence courses. Too dumb to see the irony in the comic book characters they'd turned themselves into or too jacked on the crowd to care. And their new drummer, Brian Damage. Keats, drunk behind the kit for his first gig. This was now too much for Glenn. What the hell had happened? How had he ended up here? In the beginning, the Misfits were supposed to be a rallying aural assault for all the kids who, like Glenn, couldn't fit in. My mirrors are black for you. Glenn wore black and created the Misfits in his image to reflect back onto the world, the alienation that the world made him feel. The Misfits is a band, and Misfits fans were supposed to feel the same thing. But now this. This was something else. Bigger, stranger, monstrous. An abomination. A monster. Monster of his own creation. Not by design, by mistake.

[Narrator / Radio Broadcast Voice]

Ghouls, some say they appear to be in a kind of trance.

[Jake Brennan]

From the opening riff of Night of the Living Dead, the crowd erupted more than just dancing. Bottles were thrown at the band and the audience spat up on stage, rushed the stage, overtook the stage, slamming into Glen, Jerry and Doyle before diving off into the pit. On the dance floor, the audience swirled themselves into a massive cyclone of a pit fury. Glenn was outside of himself. He could taste it. Fear. And Jerry was loving it. Doyle couldn't decide if he was more into playing or throwing shoulders into unsuspecting stage divers who had the misfortune of coming his way. The new drummer, Brian Damage, couldn't keep up Sutra's the furious energy and pace bass of the band's set. He dropped the beat one too many times in those first few songs. Doyle made an executive decision on the fly, dropped his guitar, rushed the drum kit, grabbed Brian and literally threw him off stage. He pointed to Necro's drummer and Fred Todd. Swallow, who had opened the show, was standing on the side of the stage. You're up. Swallow got behind The Kit and the Misfits continued with a mid set lineup change without missing a beat. It was the last strawford, Glenn. This was a circus. This wasn't nihilism. The crowd, the different sex warring amongst themselves. Stupidly chic wasted an endless parade of stage dires and slam dancers avoiding the coming apocalypse instead of taking it head on. The song the band was playing broke down unceremoniously. Glenn knew it. Then he was done. He grabbed his mic and shot shouted, this is our last show ever. The band then launched into the next song of the set. But Glenn was gone. On stage, sure. Still there, yes, but purely going through the motions. Mechanical, soulless. Good, he thought. Just like the crowd. He floated. He looked down at the crowd. He could see them now, morphing, changing.

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[Jake Brennan]

Shape shifting into an amorphous blob. The sound of the band slowed in his head to a dirge. Swallow's hi hat was replaced by the chirping peepers. Doyle's feedback swirled itself into sharp Hitchcockian staccato psycho strands. Jerry's bass plodded big, thick, heavy soled Frankenstein steps rhythmically timed to the beat of the slow moving crowd now pushing its way onto the stage. Ghouls. Sweet soulless conformist ghouls, all wanting him to play the part of the brooding punk rock frontman clad in black hardcore Elvis cast a star in their own private Halloween party.

[Narrator / Radio Broadcast Voice]

Since the brain of a ghoul has been activated by the radiation, they appear to be in a kind of trance.

[Jake Brennan]

The fear flooded back. But there was no barricading himself in up there. No bedroom to hide in. Just an open stage that was now being. Being flooded by ghoulish conformist zombies. The death in their eyes was evident. They grabbed Doyle first. He swung his ax with precision, braining them back off of the stage. But they kept coming. More of them with every swing. They grabbed at his biceps, pulled at his thighs. One grabbed him by the back of his head with both hands and tore into his cheek with his teeth, ripping the flesh from the young guitar's face, consuming it on the spot with the blood dripping from the ghoul's mouth. The other ghouls smelled the feed and pulled Doyle down off the stage into the pit and tore him limb from limb. On the other end of the stage, Brother Jerry was in shock. The ghouls took advantage of his state and pummeled him from all angles, ripping into his skin and tearing out his innards. Feasting on him on All Hallows Eve. Right out in the open in this Punk rock Public square. Todd Swallow dropped his sticks and made for the exit backstage, but was tripped up immediately and dragged off into the dark. His screams could be heard throughout the entire concert hall. Sheer terror. The ghouls did not stop. Coming from the stage, coming from Glenn, like entranced soldiers taking to a hill. Zombies crawling over one another, moving slow like molasses toward their feast, fighting their way to the top of the heap. The ghouls, conformists all marching through to once and for all, exterminate he who shall not be conformed to to this world. He who shall not be transformed by the renewing of his mind. The mind. He knew it all along. The damn conformist. He's with the bodies of men from Earth. He's with the faces of the ones he loved. Glenn grabbed Doyle's axe and hacked his way through the coming ghouls to the backstage. He swung with wild violence, braining one, decapitating another. And once inside the backstage stage, alone with that familiar alienation, he began the familiar routine of barricading himself in stacking furniture against the door, hacking nails into ripped up plywood across the doorway. And the ghouls did not stop. He could hear them outside. He could also hear sirens and the growing sound of gunfire. A blaze of bullets from outside, no doubt authorities there to save the day. And more guns. The sound of bullets flying everywhere. And. And soon the sound of the gnawing ghouls trailed off. Now he could hear men, humans, coming for him, to help, to save him. He began ripping apart the makeshift barricade, wanting with every fiber of his being to be out of that room and amongst humans, to connect, to be safe. The men on the other side rattled the door in an attempt to get into whatever was on the other side, making its own rattle to them another ghoulish death rattle. Glenn finally, finally got the door open. And there they stood, the authorities. Cops, riot gear, shotguns raised, pointed straight at Glenn Danzig, dressed head to toe in black devil lock, heavy eyeliner, skin tight shirt with a pentagram drawn on his chest, Looking every part, the ghoulish zombie. The authorities took one look at him, pulled their triggers and blasted him away.

[Narrator / Radio Broadcast Voice]

The ghoul can be killed by a shot in the head. Kill the brain and you kill the ghoul.

[Jake Brennan]

Evil is as evil does. And who but him could write this book of cruel Such a disgrace. I'm Jake Brennan and this is Disgrace Foreign.

[Jake Brennan (Ad Read Voice)]

Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes [e-mail] if you're listening as a Disgraceland All Access member, thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by by going to Disgracelandpod.com Membership members can listen to every episode of Disgraceland ad free. Plus you'll get one brand new exclusive episode every month, weekly unscripted bonus episodes, special audio collections and early access to merchandise and events. Visit disgracelandpod.com membership for details, rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter and Facebook Disgracelandpod and on [e-mail] Disgracelandpod Rocka Rolla.

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[Jake Brennan]

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