Crawdaddy! The Magazine of Rock

Coming of age in the mid-‘90s, I held certain truths to be self-evident. Jim Carrey was the funniest human being alive. Home computing technology peaked with Windows 95. The President would never commit perjury over a blowjob. One day I would be able to grow a lengthy, Rasputin-esque beard that would impress all the ladies. Of all these truths, the most obvious to my young, Tarantino-addled mind was the fact that hard rock superstar Glenn Danzig was a total killing machine who could take anyone in a fight, with the possible exceptions of Henry Rollins and Goro from Mortal Kombat.

I can’t tell you why it was so vital to believe some shirtless meathead from New Jersey could stomp out anyone who stepped to his massive belt buckle. I suppose after the collapse of grunge, the arrest of O.J., and the cancellation of Parker Lewis Can’t Lose, there was very little left to believe in. Investing in the idea that the guy who sang “Mother” honestly meant it, that he would trounce any child who walked his way, seemed secure. I know I’m not alone on this. In fact, I’m fairly certain the entire back row of my tenth grade drawing class shared this belief, despite never being able to agree on anything else (especially whether or not Aerosmith had any talent). If that back row was a microcosm of our country’s teenage population at the time (and I suspect it was, despite the weirdo kid from Illinois who claimed the only post-‘70s band he was familiar with was Soundgarden), then most of young America was certain Glenn Danzig really knew how the gods killed.

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