Both Trick and Treat Simultaneously

In 1988, German power metal powder keg, Helloween, delivered an intricate yet vitriolic assessment of modern bourgeois culture with the video interpretation of “I Want Out.” Inspired by Rousseau and other 18th Century political theorists, this articulate creation denounces virtue as a synthetic trait born from society whilst addressing the acute awareness of, and regard for, oneself in relation to others as a deeply detrimental psychological deformation. There is also a watermelon. Let us view this theatrical masterpiece together and achieve enlightenment.



Press play…now.

There seems to be an excessive amount of waiters meandering about an empty restaurant. And if they aren’t catering to the feather-haired gentleman in the aquamarine jacket, what the hell are they doing? This place is overstaffed and the manager needs to punch someone’s timecard post haste. The dude at the table is obviously hungry. He opens his mouth and exposes a long, barren hallway; a gateway to his soul perhaps. I hope you’re ready for a wild ride ‘cause there ain’t no turning back!

Nothing like singing while you’re being stuffed into a creepy wooden coffin. He’s probably not that concerned, however, as there is no dirt in sight—nor is there a jackhammer to pierce the abandoned warehouse’s concrete floors—and it does not appear to be an airtight receptacle. I believe a third grader with a learning disability constructed that thing in the shed out yonder. Seriously, once these bullies leave, he could punch through those rickety old planks and run like the dickens.

Okay, in which socket is this guy plugging his electric pink Flying V amongst the desert ruins? And is that a “Frankie Say Relax” shirt under his black trench coat?

0:49 — Yes, I do believe that was a watermelon flying across the screen.

They want out. They want to stick their heads out of the windows of moving cars like Labradors. They want to prance about the flatlands with red capes, jump out of the shallow ends of swimming pools, and stand in front of factories. They just want to live.

Reversing down the hallway. It’s all over. No, wait; we’re going back! Now the band members are circled around Kai Hansen, pushing and shoving him. Wasn’t trapping him in a casket enough? This guy must be a real prick. I told you he’d escape from that paltry piece of shit.

Up the esophagus again. He belches, dabs the corner of his mouth with a napkin, and—really? Again? The first two times blew my mind, don’t get me wrong, but isn’t this just a bit gratuitous?

Fans? Concert scene? What? Why?

3:13 — Yes, I do believe that guy is toting a vacuum cleaner. Look carefully. I thought it was a rubber snake at first, but it is in fact a vacuum.

I swear on all that is holy, if they do the trippy camerawork with the mouth and the hallway again… There’s the watermelon! It breaks! And so?

With those two simple words, Helloween invites the viewer to ponder the notion of a truth inside of the evolving self; a declaration of man's existence in which he defines himself and the world in his own subjectivity, wandering between choice, freedom, and existential angst, yet at the same time recognizing the absurdity of trying to find meaning in the universe. Well played. Kinda makes you want to eat Basmati rice and read The Myth of Sisyphus, doesn't it? Well played indeed.

Leave Room for Dessert

The second inductee into my hedonistic hair metal heaven is “Cherry Pie,” Warrant’s epic and ethereal endeavor capable of defining an artist. This masterpiece is so aurally rich, narratively complex, and thematically expansive that it would take something on the order of a master’s thesis to fully stake out its parameters. Nevertheless, I will attempt to analyze the significance of the aforementioned video that has solidified Warrant as the voice of a generation.


Right from the onset, you know this is going to be one of those videos filmed in a room with white walls, white floors, and white ceilings, giving the impression that the band is performing in purgatory. Soon we are introduced to America’s second favorite glam rock groupie, who, instead of expiating her sins, is roller skating through purgatory in an apron. A myriad of scintillating baseball metaphors for sexual relations follows as a slice of pie is dropped in Bobbie Brown’s crotch. The symbolism is profound. Brown kicks her legs in the air on a couch shaped like a pair of lips as the drumheads become—wait for it—wait for it—cherry pies.

The band dons firefighters’ apparel and sprays down Ms. Brown with a fire hose. She continues to dance and frolic, eat cherries and lick her fingers. Ahead of their time, Warrant utilizes thrilling visuals and Matrix-like special effects to enhance the concept of the video and deep lyrical content:

Put a smile on your face ten miles wide…

“Cherry Pie” makes for a delicious and elegant dining experience, but may I recommend a fine wine to enhance the taste? Jani Lane’s diatribe on Heavy: The Story of Metal is one of my favorite things in the world. It makes me laugh. It makes me weep. It makes me want to donate half my paycheck to the suicide prevention charity. The first time I saw it, I immediately began writing a script surrounding the last days of Jani Lane, a role Philip Seymour Hoffman was born to play (good call, right?). Then he signed up for Celebrity Fit Club and lost 23 pounds. The movie is going to be so much more badass…


For some, "Cherry Pie" is a place where the penitent are purified from venial sins. For others, it is a more permanent state of punishment and torment. For me, it's not "Heaven," but it's angelic in comparison to their cover of "We Will Rock You."

Ballad of William Bailey

When I open my eyes the only thing certain is W. Axl Rose. That inimitable voice instantly transports me to the days of my youth, before the definitions of basic words in the English lexicon (fun, happiness, problem, life, etc.) were flipped upside-down, erased, and surreptitiously rewritten while I slept. Now I’m being whisked away to a state of temporary euphoria as Slash’s massive solo at the end of “Rocket Queen” embraces me like a warm blanket. There’s a likelihood that I’m dreaming…and I’m not ruling out the possibility that I’m dead and this is what believers in the paranormal refer to as an “out-of-body experience.” I don’t really feel anything and I can’t seem to move my extremities under my own will, though it wouldn’t surprise me if I’m simply not trying hard enough. Ideally, I’ve always fancied the idea of “November Rain” playing as my soul departs from its external shell and ascends to the afterlife, but it’s highly plausible that The Man Upstairs prefers Appetite for Destruction, a divine selection with which I’d have no qualms.
For whatever it’s worth, I owe a lot to Guns N’ Roses for who I am today. Whether or not that’s a good thing is still under debate; however, I’d rather be in my current position in the universe than a god amongst men in an alternate reality who was never exposed to GN’R. I remember the first time I saw the video for “Welcome to the Jungle” like it was yesterday. I was eight years old and it changed my life. The sight of five longhaired, tattooed rebels making beautiful noise I never before thought possible awakened me to the fact that there was much more to the innocent world in which I existed. I became aware of a counterculture that rejects the societal norms being instilled in me by my parents, teachers, priests, and various other authority figures. From that moment on, Axl was my hero. I no longer dreamed of being a policeman or the starting shortstop for the Phillies. My sole aspiration in life was to be the lead singer in a Rock and Roll band. Though that’s the polar opposite of my current career path, I still fantasize about wailing into the microphone before a packed house of screaming fans. Today, however, if I were to step on stage in front of 18 mentally challenged third-graders and sing, speak, or even stand motionless, I would be terrified beyond the realm of human comprehension. My posture and movement would be as rigid as a month-old corpse. I’d be sweating like a whore in church. My heart would be pumping out of my chest as if a handful of cherry bombs were ignited in my aorta. Mutant butterflies would be slamdancing in the pit of my stomach. My breathing would be on par with that of an 85 year-old woman with terminal lung cancer and a deviated septum who was just whacked in the jugular with a ball-peen hammer. My brain would be functioning on the level of a single-celled prehistoric amoeba. Obviously, the aforementioned 1988 music video didn’t propel me on the fast track to rock stardom, but it initiated a passionate love affair with music that still burns strong today. Throughout the journey of life I have experienced so many uptight, closed-minded people who live boring lives and work jobs they despise merely because that is what society accepts and expects them to do. Every time I encounter one of these pitiful creatures, I think, “Damn…if they had only heard ‘Welcome to the Jungle’ when they were eight…”