I’m thrilled to announce that I’m scheduled to appear on Blog Talk Radio’s Whispers in the Dark program, hosted by Viktor Aurelius at 9 p.m. on Thursday, December 18!
As many of you know, I love radio in all of its forms and am looking forward to discussing The Dark Servant and Krampus, in general, with Viktor and his co-host, Jeff Niles. You can participate in the show by calling (347) 884-9923.
Please listen!
Credit: The Rush Limbaugh website.
I like Rush Limbaugh.
Now that I’ve effectively guaranteed that The New York Times will never review my book, allow me to explain why I like the most-listened-to radio talkshow host in the United States.
The short answer is he mentioned my entire name and the title of my book on his show today. I provided neither my full name—Matt Manochio—or the book’s title—The Dark Servant. I was Matt from Netcong, NJ. I encourage you to read the call’s transcript and how Rush came to mention me. Whether my book sells more copies (I know I’ve sold at least one!) because of this, I’ll wait and see.
But there’s a longer answer to why I like Rush Limbaugh. Rush speaks passionately about the lengths people go to achieve success, and he laments when people who are capable of achieving success don’t try because of self-imposed limitations, or because success—however it’s measured— isn’t immediately achieved.
When you’re an unknown author, success rarely comes overnight. It sometimes takes years and several books under your belt. You have to plug away. And even then success isn’t guaranteed. You’ll experience failure in the form of rejection, be it from agents or publishers. But if you’re good enough, learn what you’re doing wrong, and persist you will get yeses. And those yeses matter. My point to Rush was that unknown authors must get blurbs from established writers, most of whom will say no. It’s not personal. It’s time consuming for established authors to squeeze in work they might not enjoy. But authors ask, and that led me to discuss a point Rush sometimes makes: Never be afraid to ask for something because you just might get it.
I asked at least 130 New York Times bestselling and/or Bram Stoker Award-winning authors and had a 6% success rate in getting blurbs: but that 6% accounted for 10 blurbs, an impressive haul that included some respected names. And I got them by asking, always respectfully, never pleading, always professionally.
The impetus for my call was a college professor’s study declaring the American Dream dead, and that upward mobility is an illusion. That’ll certainly be the case if you don’t try. And it will be the case if you abandon your passion. One of the things I wanted to tell Rush was how great it felt to write my book every day after work, not thinking it was something I had to do, but something I couldn’t wait to do. It’s a feeling I can’t describe but it’s something I hope everyone experiences in their life. I might not even sniff a bestsellers list, but I’ve achieved a personal goal, and whether it leads to massive financial success isn’t up to some force of nature. It’s up to me and my ability to tell a compelling story, to hook readers, and to spread the word about what I’m trying to do. If I wanted his listeners to take away anything, it was to at least try, and ask for help if you need to without losing your dignity.
I called Rush’s show and was greeted by the call screener, Bo Snerdley. I explained what I wanted to tell Rush about the blurbs, and told him I would not ask Rush for anything (otherwise authors would call Rush all the time). Bo took my data—Matt from Netcong—and sternly commanded me, I’m paraphrasing, not to plug my book on the air or else I’d come to regret it. I gave him my word I wouldn’t.
Now, Rush isn’t stupid. He sees on the call board that there’s an author on the line and that I’d be a fool not to want to plug my book. But I didn’t, I wasn’t tempted to. Rush sometimes allows authors to give their names and titles. I figured if the call went well, perhaps Rush would express interest. That didn’t happen. He commented on the point I brought up and went to break. That was that. I wasn’t able to plug my book, but I did get through to Rush Limbaugh’s show, which is no easy feat. People try for years and don’t get on. This was my second time trying (the first being last week) and I got through. And I’m certain he appreciated what I was saying. Success!
Rush returned from the break and then proceeded to identify both me and my book. I was sitting on my couch at home and my jaw dropped. It literally dropped. Rush said he appreciated that I was reserved in not attempting to shamelessly shill for myself, and explained that he Googled Matt and Netcong NJ and there I was. I didn’t ask for this nor was I expecting it. But it was a classy thing for Rush to do, and for that I’m thankful.
AC/DC’s Malcolm Young; courtesy: ACDC.com
AC/DC confirmed today that founding member and rhythm guitarist Malcolm Young is ill and will take some time away from the band. But let’s first talk about the band’s quasi-compilation album, Who Made Who.
Who Made Who, by every imaginable standard, is not AC/DC’s best album. The rock ‘n’ roll giants released it in 1986 as the soundtrack to Stephen King’s Maximum Overdrive. It offered one new song (the album’s title) and two instrumentals. Beyond that, it offered nothing but tunes from previous efforts. Many consider it a “greatest hits” album–but not the band. When reviewing AC/DC’s extensive catalog, Who Made Who reads as a footnote.
Not to me.
I was 11 when it debuted and wouldn’t be familiar with the band or album until high school. My introduction to AC/DC has been replicated the world over: I heard You Shook Me All Night Long, loved it, and asked “What band is that?” I eventually found the compact disc (Who Made Who) that had the song. (Had I known any AC/DC fans, they’d have commanded me to instead buy Back in Black, the band’s Sgt. Pepper’s, because it had the same song and nine other classics.)
I probably listened to YSMANL 1,000 times, as well as Shake Your Foundations, Hell’s Bells, For those About to Rock (We Salute You), and Ride On, a song featuring a singer who sounded nothing like the vocalist on the other tracks. Why? Who are these singers, anyway? Who plays the guitar and why is he dressed like a school boy? Where’d they come from? Australia? Really?
These are the questions people ask themselves while discovering their Band.
We all have our Band, the one that rises above all others. There are no ties. Your Band is like what cigarettes are to smokers. You have your brand and you rarely deviate. You might try other smokes, but will always return to that one familiar pack that clearly warns it will kill you one day.
AC/DC’s my Band and they didn’t use chemicals to addict me. It was music, one layer of lead guitar crunching along with rhythm guitar, accompanied by booming 4/4 drum beats and bass lines that sound the same on every glorious damn song they play. Yeah, the lyrics are sometimes oversexed to the point of silliness–but damn fun to sing when sober and nobody’s listening, or when drunk and everyone else is screaming them.
AC/DC fans know lead guitarist Angus Young duck walks around stage while playing a Gibson SG. His older brother, Malcolm, hovers in the back with a yellow Gretsch. Brian Johnson screeches like a Gatsby-wearing werewolf with laryngitis. Cliff Williams hangs back and picks his Fender bass, and lastly, but not least, Phil Rudd’s workmanlike pounding on his Sonor drum kit powers AC/DC’s distinctive sound.
Nothing’s better and louder than an AC/DC concert: September 6, 1996, I saw my heroes live for the first time in Philadelphia (and 11 more times since). I didn’t plan on doing it, but I raised my arms and screamed “Yeeeaaaaah!” when Angus ran onto the stage. It just exploded out of me.
Malcolm and Angus, transplanted Scotsmen, formed AC/DC in Australia in 1973. Brian wasn’t the band’s first singer. That was Bon Scott, the hard-living ladies man who died by misadventure (a pleasant way of saying he choked on his own vomit while unconscious) in 1980. AC/DC fans know all this. They know that Malcolm once took a hiatus from the band to kick the bottle (they also know that his nephew, Stevie Young, filled in for him during the 1988 Blow Up Your Video tour).
The names Simon Wright, Chris Slade and Mark Evans mean nothing to the casual AC/DC fan, but real ones can tick off which instruments those former band members played and when: Wright, drums, mid 1980s after Phil had a falling out with the band; Slade, drums, early 1990s after Wright joined Dio (Phil returned in the mid 1990s); and Evans, bass, mid 70s until being replaced by Williams.
You know you love a rock band when you feel like you know the members even when you don’t. You care about the music they produce, but you care more about the boys, as fans often refer to them. You hope they’re as cool in real life as they are on stage because it sucks when your one encounter with your heroes reveals they’re actually assholes. AC/DC, in my dealings with them as a journalist and fan, couldn’t have been kinder. I met all five when they did a record signing in New York City on the day of their Stiff Upper Lip release in 2000. I remember shaking Angus’ hand and that his palm and fingers were so calloused it was like gripping sandpaper. I informed Malcolm I was going to review the album for my newspaper but told him up front it wasn’t for a big publication. He was cool with it, said you gotta start somewhere, and wished me well. A few years later they played the Roseland Ballroom the night after being inducted into the Rock ‘n’ Roll Hall of Fame and I was literally front row, center, crushed against a gate holding back a horde of fans behind me. I covered for USA Today the boys kicking off their Black Ice world tour in 2008. And a few years after that, Brian came to New Jersey to sign copies of his autobiography. Again USA Today let me check things out, and it was the coolest day of work ever. Brian’s a jovial English chap. He didn’t let me down. See for yourself:
AC/DC fans got a sobering dose of reality this past week. Malcolm may (it’s not been disclosed) have suffered a stroke and it’s limited his ability to play guitar, and that he physically might not be able to record or perform again.
My first thought: I hope he’s okay. My second thought: what does this mean for my Band? It’s still unclear. Their website indicates they’ll continue to record. Brian said the band’s booked for a recording session next month in Canada and they’ll give it a go. Subsequent to that, AC/DC released a statement on its website saying Malcolm would be taking time off from the band. So, I don’t see how you can reconcile the two. Either he’s taking off (which I believe he is) or he’s going to Canada in a few weeks (I’m inclined to think he’s not). And if he’s that sick, he shouldn’t.
Any way you look at this situation, given Malcolm’s health and the age of the band members (Mal’s 61, the rest are in their late 50s or early to mid 60s), AC/DC’s winding down. Brian a few months back spoke of a 40th anniversary tour to accompany a new album, and I was thrilled to hear it, but also cognizant that it likely would be their swan song. Tuns out the swan might’ve already sung.
Angus gets the notoriety because of his onstage antics, but Malcolm’s the backbone and guiding force. He’s irreplaceable. No Malcolm, no AC/DC. I, like many fans, have done a lot of reflecting on what life will be like without our Band.
Would I like a new album and final tour? Of course. Would I rather see Malcolm recover, play with some grandkids, and live another couple of decades so he can reflect on what AC/DC has meant to millions of people?
Yes. No contest yes.
Get well, Malcolm. Whatever happens, thank you. Know that you’ve given us all we could ever ask for and that we’ll all ride on.
L to R: Phil Rudd, Malcolm Young, Angus Young, Brian Johnson and Cliff Williams; and my Band’s CD that started it all for me.
Courtesy: the wonderful Internet
Jeff Strand writes irreverent dialogue, and he stuffs Wolf Hunt—a horror novel (although I hesitate to call it that)—with witty repartees between characters both good (in this case: likeable rogues) and bad (Hitler-level evil).
Two low-rent thugs, George and Lou, embark on a simple task: drive a van containing a man in a cage from one part of Florida to another. Ivan, the imprisoned, is a werewolf (no, really, he is) but George and Lou don’t believe it. Disregard the caged prisoner and don’t go near the cage, they’re instructed. Just deliver him to the mysterious person who, presumably, Ivan wants to avoid. But whatever happens—do not open the cage for any reason.
Naturally, they open the cage, and unleash on unsuspecting Florida a serial killer who can transform, at will, into a furry, quick-healing wolf man who mercilessly toys with his prey before dispatching them in gruesome ways.
Wolf Hunt has all the makings of a horror novel save for thing: it’s not particularly scary, in the sense that the movie Midnight Run isn’t scary. But damn is it a great comedy adventure. That’s what I kept thinking while reading about George and Lou imperiling their own debauched lives to save innocent people as they chase Ivan around Florida’s cul-de-sacs, dive bars, highways and swamps.
Just because Wolf Hunt doesn’t scare in the traditional spooky, there’s-something-stalking-the-woods way, it’s nonetheless disturbing—especially when Ivan attacks an innocent woman in her own home. Ivan’s treatment of his victims makes the reader root all the more for George and Lou to catch the hairy bastard.
I don’t think I’ve ever read a book where the werewolf has the most dialogue. Ivan, who’s no slouch, doesn’t shut up when he’s in his human form, and what he spews are either arrogant or despicable taunts. That bastard!
Strand does something I wish more authors would do: he moves the story along with dialogue that’s rarely bland. You won’t find much overly descriptive third-person narration; rather, you’ll enjoy George and Lou struggling to justify their miserable existences, how they want to get out of their criminal lives, and, most importantly, how they plan on bringing down that goddamn bastard Ivan! The back-and-forth between Ivan and George (who serves as the Alpha to Lou) also entertains. You end up caring about George and Lou and that’s because Strand knows how to develop characters, especially babbling, pretentious werewolves. Those looking for hardcore scares won’t find them in Wolf Hunt, but that’s not to diminish its quality as a fun and entertaining (and fast) read. Fans of werewolves won’t go wrong in adding it to their collection.
Cincinnati-based Samhain Publishing oversees the division for which I write: Samhain Horror.
So, does this make me a horror writer? I honestly don’t consider myself to be one.
What is horror as a genre? Whenever I go into the local Barnes & Noble (sorry, there’s no independent bookstore near where live—gee, why would that be?) I can’t find a horror section. It’s lumped in with fiction/literature. (In fairness, thrillers are treated the same way, but they’re generally easier to define.)
I think true horror can be discerned by Justice Potter Stewart’s method of spotting porn: “I know it when I see it.” (No, I’m not suggesting there’s a moral equivalence here. I simply believe defining horror can be tricky.)
Salem’s Lot? Horror!
(Courtesy: the Internet)
Dead Until Dark? Hor—wait. I mean, there’s a vampire or two in it, but it’s not exactly scary.
Twilight? Not even close to being horror, despite all those pale-skinned blood suckers and shirtless Native American werewolves.
How do you define Mary Shelly’s Frankenstein? Horror or Science Fiction? I’d lean more toward the latter.
The inclusion of mythical monsters or supernatural elements doesn’t necessarily define a work as horror. Then it must be the feelings the stories generate within the reader. We get scared! But thrillers are scary, right? They inspire dread, too. Silence of the Lambs is considered a psychological thriller, and not horror.
Honestly, when someone suggests a book is horror, I immediately think overwhelming blood, guts and gore. But that’s simplistic. While it’s true horror can have heaps of gore, it’s not necessary to scare. (It’s like comedians using profanity to get laughs: Good stand-up comics don’t need to work blue.) Salem’s Lot lacked gore and ranks as one of my favorite books.
So what makes it an absolute horror novel to me?
The book must:
1. Consistently evoke feelings of terror/dread/hopelessness;
2. Convey a sense of ever-present creepiness;
3. Be set no further back than the 19th Century and not in the too-distant future (anything that’s set hundreds of years in the future and involves vampires [Justin Cronin’s The Passage] strikes me more as sci-fi/supernatural thriller than horror);
and contain at least one of the following:
A. Supernatural and/or undead creatures, humans, and/or entities (e.g., werewolves, zombies, witches, ghosts) that are deliberately written to be scary, vicious and predatory and not created to make teenage girls swoon. They’ll kill you if they catch you. (Sure, they might toy with you for a little while. But eventually you’re dead.) Vampires are supposed to be terrifying, dammit—not insipid Robert Pattinsons.
B. Non-supernatural killers (e.g., humans, wildlife, diseases not originating from outer space) tormenting innocent people, with as little police involvement as possible. Too many police officers or mysterious government agents gets you too close to thriller territory for me. Sure, police can be involved, but not in every chapter. It helps if the main protagonist isn’t an agent of the law.
True horror novels, to me, cannot involve extraterrestrial beings or technology, and cannot be set in the old West and/or involve cowboys. Sorry, you’re either too close to science fiction and/or westerns.
We all have our own standards by which we judge things. And when it comes to horror, the aforementioned ones are mine. But when you think about it, in the grand scheme of life this discussion is about as relevant as attempting to determine the greatest baseball player of all time (Babe Ruth).