An Open Letter to Glenn Danzig
Photos by Craig Hlavaty
First, I would love to extend my most bountiful praise on you for starting the Misfits, then Samhain. Both were really kick-ass bands, and made good T-shirts that scared countless school administrators. I, like many others thoroughly enjoyed the first two Danzig albums. Especially the self-titled one and the one that came after whose name escapes me. You know the one I mean - the one about nude she-demons and snakes. That one.
But Tuesday, I was troubled and saddened by your performance at the House of Blues. To use the baser terms of our troubled times, this show “blew nuts.” No, I’m not speaking about the opener, the venerable Dimmu Borgir. Their wall of sound and grotesque keyboards won over this dirty indie soul, even if they looked like they stepped out of a 1999 copy of Hit Parade.
Would you play your 1988 self-titled debut in its entirety to celebrate its 20th anniversary? Maybe even do the Misfits’” Halloween” for the reverent crowd, all decked out in sweaty, beer-soaked Crimson Ghost T-shirts?
No. No, you did not.
Instead, you proceeded to almost make a mockery of us, bellowing from the stage like some sort of third-rate tribute band frontman. Were you sick? Like, fever-sick, with a runny nose, cough and itchy throat? Or were you “sick,” as in “I’m gonna wake up out of the chihuahua purse I sleep in and make these people wish they never came here tonight” sick? For shame, good sir.
What is that you were so scared of, o “Evil” Elvis? That your fans would document temper tantrum after temper tantrum, haughtily throwing your thinning hair back and wildly flailing your pale beefy arms like some sort enraged personal trainer? Don’t take your technical problems out on us. I mean all we did was show up and give you money, right?
By the time “Mother” came around, I couldn’t stop laughing and miming each one of your stage moves with my friend Maggie. Each knee-up howl, pelvic thrusting and Danzig-style embellished movement became hilarity. You stopped being that morbid cat who toured with Black Flag and wrote songs for Roy Orbison, and became instead a gum-smacking goombah from a softcore Cinemax sex thriller, where some stripper with a heart of gold steals your diamonds.
Do us a favor and get right with the metal gods and find that sinister spark again because we miss that. Or maybe you’d rather just tie your jet-black mane back into a sensible ponytail and start selling your own line of fitness equipment shaped like skulls and gargoyles on late-night infomercials after Showtime at the Apollo.