1987. A hell of a good year. At least for me. And for the horror genre. Freddy Krueger was hot. Evil Dead 2 blew everyone away. Horror movies were coming out on a steady basis and most of them were at least mildly enjoyable. And in horror fiction, writers like John Skipp and Craig Spector were turning the genre on its ass.
It's difficult for me to convey to younger readers how exciting those times were. This decade has been eventful, sure. A lot of very cool things have happened. But as far as I'm concerned, there has been nothing as exhilarating as the so-called Splatterpunk era was.
I know, I know. That label was a joke. But like just about every other joke, there are layers of truth behind it. These guys, Skipp and Spector (along with several others) broke molds and shattered the conventions in publishing.
It seemed like the majority of the characters in horror fiction had been upwardly mobile types. Moderately successful, suburban or rural individuals. Mr. and or Mrs. Normal caught up in some sort of supernatural nightmare. Finally there was horror fiction about people like me and the friends I grew up with. Post-hippie, burnout, disillusioned, disenfranchised and drowning our dreams in gallons of beer. Contempt for the values of our parents and for the conventions of society.
The fiction of John Skipp and Craig Spector was for those of us that saw Night of the Living Dead when we were kids. But Dawn of the Dead wasn't made yet. For those that loved Frankenstein and Dracula, but also Alice Cooper and Black Sabbath. We wasted our minds and our youth in grindhouses and drive-in theaters. But we also loved Robert Bloch and Richard Matheson, as well as Stephen King and Peter Straub. Rock and Roll was the religion and our communion was made in the form of gore movies. Finally there was horror fiction tailor-made exactly for us.
I first read the names Skipp and Spector in the terribly-missed Twilight Zone Magazine and their first true novel (after the Fright Night novelization, which I didn't read until quite some time later) and I embraced it with eager enthusiasm. It fulfilled the promise I had heard about the two maverick writers and I instantly wanted more. Their next novel, The Cleanup, was just as good as their debut.
The protagonist of The Cleanup is one that I and many of my former associates could easily relate to. Billy Rowe is a frustrated musician, a midweight alcoholic and a guy on the losing end of a relationship. Downtrodden and bitter, he lives in a squalor of an apartment with the rent dangerously in arrears. He is at a crossroads. He could get his act together and regain his self-respect, if not his lover, or he can lose his place to live and possibly wind up on the street. He witnesses a brutal murder from his Bowery balcony, which instigates an emotional upheaval in his existence. Not only that, Billy Rowe is visited by a most unusual stranger. It seems that Billy is special. Billy has powers that he has hitherto been unaware of. A greater force has plans for him. Billy Rowe is given the power to change things. Not by any simple ballad or rock opus. No, Billy now has genuine power to clean up his apartment, the streets and his own life. Now all the world has to fear is...Billy Rowe.
The Cleanup works as a straight horror yarn, but it also is a good example of the maxim that power inevitably corrupts. It's a morality play and it's a statement about the fallibility of the human condition. But you know what? The Cleanup is just a whole hell of a lot of fun. The book is jam-packed with insights, some hilarious, some acutely sad and others that simply hurt the soul. Skipp and Spector are like the guys I used to know. The type that liked to catch a righteous buzz and talk. Talk about everything and anything. Cynical, sure, but also with a fading sense that things were still possible. Maybe the 60's were and are over, but hope is still not lost.
Yes, I'm nostalgic about the 80's. My wife doesn't like to hear that, but it has nothing to do with what I have now or who I was with back then. It has everything to do with the state of the horror genre and the joy I got from being a part of it. It also has a lot to do with youth. I had mine that and I was still naive enough to feel immortal. And John Skipp and Craig Spector remain a beacon of those lost days.
What kills me is this: Small press publishers are reprinting all kinds of books in Ultimate, Essential and Classic editions. Why not the works of John and Craig? Spector's own Stealth Press began to reprint them all, but it ended up folding. I think Stealth came just a bit too soon. Had Craig tried it just a half-decade later I think it would have been a lot more successful. Once again ahead of the curve.
It's difficult for me to convey to younger readers how exciting those times were. This decade has been eventful, sure. A lot of very cool things have happened. But as far as I'm concerned, there has been nothing as exhilarating as the so-called Splatterpunk era was.
I know, I know. That label was a joke. But like just about every other joke, there are layers of truth behind it. These guys, Skipp and Spector (along with several others) broke molds and shattered the conventions in publishing.
It seemed like the majority of the characters in horror fiction had been upwardly mobile types. Moderately successful, suburban or rural individuals. Mr. and or Mrs. Normal caught up in some sort of supernatural nightmare. Finally there was horror fiction about people like me and the friends I grew up with. Post-hippie, burnout, disillusioned, disenfranchised and drowning our dreams in gallons of beer. Contempt for the values of our parents and for the conventions of society.
The fiction of John Skipp and Craig Spector was for those of us that saw Night of the Living Dead when we were kids. But Dawn of the Dead wasn't made yet. For those that loved Frankenstein and Dracula, but also Alice Cooper and Black Sabbath. We wasted our minds and our youth in grindhouses and drive-in theaters. But we also loved Robert Bloch and Richard Matheson, as well as Stephen King and Peter Straub. Rock and Roll was the religion and our communion was made in the form of gore movies. Finally there was horror fiction tailor-made exactly for us.
I first read the names Skipp and Spector in the terribly-missed Twilight Zone Magazine and their first true novel (after the Fright Night novelization, which I didn't read until quite some time later) and I embraced it with eager enthusiasm. It fulfilled the promise I had heard about the two maverick writers and I instantly wanted more. Their next novel, The Cleanup, was just as good as their debut.
The protagonist of The Cleanup is one that I and many of my former associates could easily relate to. Billy Rowe is a frustrated musician, a midweight alcoholic and a guy on the losing end of a relationship. Downtrodden and bitter, he lives in a squalor of an apartment with the rent dangerously in arrears. He is at a crossroads. He could get his act together and regain his self-respect, if not his lover, or he can lose his place to live and possibly wind up on the street. He witnesses a brutal murder from his Bowery balcony, which instigates an emotional upheaval in his existence. Not only that, Billy Rowe is visited by a most unusual stranger. It seems that Billy is special. Billy has powers that he has hitherto been unaware of. A greater force has plans for him. Billy Rowe is given the power to change things. Not by any simple ballad or rock opus. No, Billy now has genuine power to clean up his apartment, the streets and his own life. Now all the world has to fear is...Billy Rowe.
The Cleanup works as a straight horror yarn, but it also is a good example of the maxim that power inevitably corrupts. It's a morality play and it's a statement about the fallibility of the human condition. But you know what? The Cleanup is just a whole hell of a lot of fun. The book is jam-packed with insights, some hilarious, some acutely sad and others that simply hurt the soul. Skipp and Spector are like the guys I used to know. The type that liked to catch a righteous buzz and talk. Talk about everything and anything. Cynical, sure, but also with a fading sense that things were still possible. Maybe the 60's were and are over, but hope is still not lost.
Yes, I'm nostalgic about the 80's. My wife doesn't like to hear that, but it has nothing to do with what I have now or who I was with back then. It has everything to do with the state of the horror genre and the joy I got from being a part of it. It also has a lot to do with youth. I had mine that and I was still naive enough to feel immortal. And John Skipp and Craig Spector remain a beacon of those lost days.
What kills me is this: Small press publishers are reprinting all kinds of books in Ultimate, Essential and Classic editions. Why not the works of John and Craig? Spector's own Stealth Press began to reprint them all, but it ended up folding. I think Stealth came just a bit too soon. Had Craig tried it just a half-decade later I think it would have been a lot more successful. Once again ahead of the curve.
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