Murder Death Kill

I had this dream that Freddy Kruger, Jason Voorhees, Michael Myers, and Leatherface started a Garage Rock band and called it Murder Death Kill. They dragged a bunch of instruments and recording gear inside this abandoned house down the street from me to build a studio. People tried to gather crowds to watch them jam, but would end up murdered before a crowd could form. Someone told me they tried to record it once, but when the tape was played back all anyone could hear were the sounds of their murder victims screaming. 

Leatherface played the drums like a jazz percussionist. With his massive fridge like frame balancing on his little stool perfectly erect he tapped away a series of beats that could rival Buddy Rich. He moved around his kit in mathematical precision, bopping his head in random intervals, he reminded me of a muppet. His beats could cut through each section of the band like the rhythm of a chainsaw; steady as a heartbeat, kept in perfect time, but then wild, chaotic, and explosive. His polyrhythmic layering didn’t outshine the rest of the band, but rather complemented each member no matter what they threw at him.

Grooving, almost to himself, Michael Myers, jammed out on an old Rickenbacker bass. His movements were subtle for someone who played with such severe ferocity. He gave a couple of head bumps here, a few pelvic thrusts there, while his bass filled the corners and provided an upbeat backbone to every song. His style was a kind of disco/punk that could keep the most violent roller derby girls on the dance floor. Though he kept to the shadows, his performance was a presence impossible to ignore.

Jason Voorhees strummed a beat up Fender Jaguar with resonate tones that entranced the soul. His melodic off time finger picking reverberated into the streets, spilling into our nightmares. His personal style can be compared to the image and sound of Thurston Morre, Django Reinhardt, and Johnny Greenwood playing their asses off to get out of a bear trap. Jason surrounded himself with a variety of effects petals that reminded me of the stereotypical one man band, but his riffs ebbed and flowed between drum and bass in symphonic harmony.

And then there was Freddy Krueger, whose vocals shattered every expectation. One would think, given the appearance of this particular front man, that you were in for a kind of industrial rip off of every other costumed delinquent capable of nothing more than the typical indistinguishable guttural noise. But, this wasn’t so. When Krueger sang something broke within you. His deep toned melodies combined with an intricate web of complex lyrics plucked the heart stings in all the right keys. He sang with a vulnerable baritone voice that reminded me of Matt Berniger, or Zach Condon, or Moresy. 

It was more than music to these guys. It was more than a life style. They had their day jobs, sure, but when Murder Death Kill picked up their instruments something incredible happened. It was like something more than fear was released. It was more than angst or any other emotion one could use to describe their art. It was exciting. It was like a million souls cried out in terror but then their agony transformed into waves of existential bliss. It was raw. It was edgy, but also sad. It were as though for the first time these undead maniacs could stop the world and finally be understood. 

Freddy knew I was watching them. He paid me a visit late one night and asked if I would design a gig poster for the band. Fearful of his intentions I tried to respectfully decline. I told him that while I was an artist, I really wasn’t that good and recommended someone else. He assured me, it was ok, I wouldn’t end up like the others. Still, I politely refused. He then assured me that if I refused I would end up like the others. What else could I do? 

They set up an old school desk for me to draw in the studio they built in the garage. Sometimes they would play for me. Sometimes Myers and Voorhees would stand silently over my shoulder. I caught a glimpse, out the window, of Leatherface chasing half naked girls with a chainsaw. Krueger spent most of his time in the basement writing lyrics and singing to himself.

My first design ended up being a kind of Chip Kid inspired image of Marylin Monroe’s decapitated head screaming with dismembered hands covering her eyes and ears. This seriously offended them. Voorhees and Myers smashed bottles and debris against the walls while Leatherface forced me into a closet. He banged on the door, laughing, mocking me. They dragged me down to the basement and held the design in front of Freddy who surveyed it while smoking a cigarette. I tried to explain my reasons for the design but that only sent them into another rage, but Krueger offered me another chance.

When Leatherface had finally calmed down I sat on the porch and drank Tequila with him. We drank and drank. We sang Alanis Morresette songs. We pranked Voorhees while Myers lurked in the shadows. We howled at the moon. We laughed. When I asked him what they wanted from this design and what they wanted to accomplish with their music, Leatherface sobbed uncontrollably. He wasn’t much of a conversationalist, but I think I understood him. 

I sat down at my desk and started drawing again. Leatherface sat down at his drums and tapped a quiet kind of jazz number. Voorhees came in and strummed. I heard the bass before I saw Myers standing in the shadows, as usual. Freddy picked up his microphone. They played a cover of I’m On Fire by Bruce Springsteen and made it their own. It was haunting.

Entranced by their performance, I drew, and as I did so, I couldn’t really see what I was drawing. All I could see where the individual marks my pencil made and when I was finished it all came together; a teddy bear floating in a graveyard playing a cigar box guitar. They loved it. Leatherface hugged me. Voorhees shook my hand. Myers gave me a nod. Freddy offered me a cigarette. As I walked home I knew the dream was ending and it saddened me to think my time with them was over. It saddened me to think that I will never hear them play again. 

I awoke in the middle of the night and wrote all of this down quietly laughing to myself, though with a heavy heart. I considered the idea of horror movie monsters assembling in a private place to do something creative. I pondered the idea that they would approach me to make a gig poster for them. I mused over the meaning of the dream and what my subconscious could be trying to tell me. I looked down at the scribbles in my notebook and read this final line.

“I think what they were trying to say was that death wasn’t so bad if we would all just chill out and let it happen.”

I laughed to myself again and fell back asleep hoping I’d see them again. 

Did you hear that?