By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Alice Laussade
By Scott Reitz
Put that copy of "The Monster Mash" away, Pops. We hate when backyard haunted house organizers bore kids' ears on Halloween with cheesy sound effects and campy songs. Instead, why not scare the Father, Son and Holy Ghost out of the little buggers? Create a truly haunted house with these discs:
The Misfits, Box Set: Hell, it comes in a coffin! Some might call Danzig's horror punk outfit a bit too campy, but if anyone can listen to "Where Eagles Dare" with its chorus of "I ain't no goddamn son of a bitch" and not be frightened, well, Glenn is just going to have to rape your mother today.
T.S.O.L., Dance with Me: Razor-sharp punk goth with songs about necrophilia and dismemberment. The coda of "Code Blue" ("I wanna fuck, I wanna fuck the dead!") should do wonders to the little girl dressed like Dora the Explorer.
Ministry, The Land of Rape and Honey: Screamed vocals collide with disquieting religious imagery for some of the most unsettling carnage ever committed to disc. Check out "Stigmata," where Al Jourgensen painfully attests, "I'm chewing on glass." Tell the kids he shouted that because he didn't check his candy for hidden razor blades.
Calabrese, 13 Halloweens: Three brothers from Phoenix create garage/horror heaven on this 2005 debut. Both "Backseat of my Hearse" and "Every Day's a Funeral" are blisteringly paced odes to mayhem that owe everything to beer, juvenile delinquency and (presumably) egging people's houses on Halloween.
The Creepniks, Shindig at the Graveyard: If you're looking for local dread, try this shivering shockabilly from Flower Mound's Creepniks, where Elvis and Johnny Cash are reanimated as zombies and tramp all over the graves of etiquette and decorum. "Surfin' With Satan" and "Hellbent Sickabilly" are Texas-infused gothic boogie with more than a nod to the Cramps.
Christian Death, Only Theatre of Pain: As tops on the scary list, this is the record you mother warned you about, filled with enough psychotic images to turn Pat Robertson into a Goth. After this 1982 debut, the late Rozz Williams never moaned as effectively and unsettlingly again. For bonus points, tell trick-or-treaters he's screaming from the grave.
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