Hard Rock Zombies (1985)

Hard Rock Zombies is jump-kicking off a series of rock 'n' roll horror movie reviews here at Garbage Day! I consider this particular subgenre is a petri dish smeared with a culture that is more than conducive to producing mass amounts of, well, garbage. After all, what could possibly be worse than movies? Music! Put the two together and you're booked front row center for a two-night engagement at the Suckdome, located in the heart of smoggy Unpleasant Viewingville, USA. After revisiting the nightmare that is Hellgate, I was perhaps hoping to settle down to a nice, crappy movie, something more along the lines of The Paperboy. No masterpiece there, in fact an utter piece of crap, but a piece of crap that does the viewer the service of following one basic premise to an organic, Canadian conclusion.

A Hard-On's Day's Night

One of the things that makes these movies so entertaining is the bands they feature--and in that department Hard Rock Zombies does not fail to deliver. A cliched group of 80's cheese-rockers takes the stage and tears it up in grand we-look-like-early-Dokken-but-

sound-like-Bob-Seger style. "Shake, shake, shake," purrs the smoky-voiced and velvety-mustachioed frontman Jessie (E.J. Curse). "Shake it, baby," he adds. We are not spared one second of the song--it's like one of those music videos before they became cinematic, back when it was good enough to have a band on a stage lip-synching to their record in a venue packed with extras. Are they really gonna play the entire mediocre song? you ask yourself. You bet your leather pants they are! This movie has more padding than a Victoria's Secret Angel bra.

"Sign me arse, guv'na?"

After the show, the band is mobbed by some of the most unenthusiastic fans ever put to film (fortunately, they are willing to let the members sign various naughty parts of their anatomy). One of these methadone cases takes the lead singer aside and delivers a dire warning: Don't play your next gig in Grand Guignol (the oh-so-cleverly-named next town on their tour). Bad shit will go down. But the band is determined to press on in the name of rock 'n' roll, and for that you cannot help but give them mad respect--especially when they roll into Grand Guignol and we see that the town is such a blink-and-you-miss-it Podunk shithole that any band with an ounce of self-respect would avoid it like a groupie with a case of crotch crickets (and perhaps it is this self-loathing, buried so deeply beneath the band's sleek, sexthletic exterior, that I find so endearing--think of a Woody Allen soul trapped in a a Sammy Hagar body). The town, filled with the requisite rubes and yokels, does not take kindly to the band's appearance. But our heroes are unfazed and, determined to let their freak flags fly, stage an impromptu rock parade straight through the center of town. It is here that the talents of one of the band members (who I shall refer to for the purposes of this review as Mr. White Pants) really shine. Mr. White Pants is a skilled juggler, skateboarder, and pantomime. (Again, the viewer is forced to wonder, are they really going to play the entire fucking song? You bet your microphone stand with bandanas tied all over it they are! In the first fifteen minutes of the movie alone no fewer than six have been dedicated to musical numbers that do nothing to advance the plot).

"I like music, skateboarding, and pantomime . . . but my real passion is being a complete cheese-dick."

When the show does eventually go down, it does so in a rather improbable venue--they are booked to play outside of a large, dilapidated house (with only a handful of the local weirdos in attendance). It's clear that the band needs to do two things right away: 1) Fire their manager. 2) Stop sucking. Preferably in reverse order.

Someone throw a bucket of water on these guys!

Fortunately the performance is sabotaged and the band is electrocuted during their performance. Unfortunately, they survive. Fortunately, the young groupie's prophecy comes true and the band members do end up being murdered one by one. Thank god we won't have to put up with any more of their antics. Oh, wait--if this movie is going follow through on the premise put forth by its title (there has been little to indicate thus far that it will) we haven't seen the last of these butt-rockers.

Mr. White Pants, we hardly knew ye.

The problem that a movie like Hard Rock Zombies poses in its scattershot plotting is that it makes writing a structured review a nearly impossible task. It suffers from the same plot problem as Hellgate--it goes off in a million directions, unsure of what type of movie it really wants to be. There's so much that I want to point out, like the ridiculous reveal that takes place forty-two minutes in--that the old man who heads the creepy household is none other than a reanimated Adolf Hitler. Yes, folks, Hard Rock Zombies is also a Nazi zombie flick, and a terrible one at that.

"Once I make sure my head is on straight, I'm going to make this movie suck even harder."

There's also the great ZZ-Top-video-style camera work of the hitchhiking woman that appears at several points throughout the movie (and plays a role similar to the ghostly hitchhiker who seduced Ron Palillo in Hellgate).

"She's got le-yegs!"

And once the band crawls out of their shallow graves (there's seriously only like two inches of dirt thrown on top of these clowns,) they emerge and walk in a sort of rhythmic, jerky shamble, as if marching to some kick-ass Bonham drum beat from the beyond that only zombies of the hard rock variety are permitted to hear.

And what self-respecting cock-rock band's repertoire would be complete without a cheese-dripping ballad? The viewer is treated to the band's latest panty-moistener, "Cassie," named after the frizzy-headed bearer of bad tidings and subsequent love interest of the lead singer. Are they really, truly going to make us listen to the entire fucking song? you, in spite of your dawning realization that they haven't felt the need to rein in their musical numbers in the past so why should they start now, ask yourself. You bet your bottomless can of Aqua Net they are!

Nuts in White Satin.

Odds 'n' ends: Early in the film there's some sort of Were-Woodchuck in a rocking chair that the director is awfully fond of smash-cutting to for no good reason. The gratuitous use of a midget. Creepy old people sex scene where the grandchildren ask to watch, and are allowed. The town hall meeting that abruptly shifts the tone of the film to satire (of the type that falls flat on its face). The band also seems to have two bass players, the lead singer and some dude who just plays bass. There's often no sign of a guitarist.

A Were-Woodchuck armed with a switchblade: The only foe worthy of a flaming hatchet.

To say that Hard Rock Zombies makes The Paperboy look like, say, The Shining would be giving Hard Rock Zombies far too much credit. Hard Rock Zombies makes The Paperboy look like some yet-to-be-made horror movie, tentatively titled The Best Horror Movie of All Time, that will feature well-developed, believable characters, will be beautifully photographed, well-scripted, immaculately paced, and, most importantly, will scare the bejeezus out of any and all who dare to watch, from the nubilest of newbies to the most jaded veteran of the genre. I hate Hard Rock Zombies. There is only one rational way for me to deal with Hard Rock Zombies. I will wait until Tuesday of next week. On that day I will get up early in the morning, put on my best blue sweater, and walk down the suburban street on which Hard Rock Zombies resides. Then, as Hard Rock Zombies is moving its trash cans to the curb, I will get its attention by making the following observation: "Garbage day!" Then, once Hard Rock Zombies looks up and sees me standing in the middle of the street, I will raise the revolver I hold in my hand. Hard Rock Zombies will say "no!" but I will not heed its plea. I will shoot Hard Rock Zombies down. Then I will take a minute to admire the gun in my hand and laugh. There is something funny about this metal object, something funny about what I am doing, something that has to do with something horrible that happened in my past. I will look at the gun and laugh. I will laugh.

We should be so lucky . . .