I read Stephen King’s Lisey’s Story when I was young. I didn’t get much out of it. The incessant baby-talk (“smucking”, “bad gunky”) felt stickily tiresome, like wading through a saliva-splattered ballpit. The pacing was languid; the plot mushy and oversentimental. It felt like a personal work written for Tabitha Spruce King, with me as an outsider, unwanted and begrudged, sitting at their table and being resented for it.
I read it again now and enjoyed it more. It’s not as inaccessible as I thought. I can better see what King was trying to do. It takes themes he explored at thirty, and lets the (different, dimmer) light of seventy gleam over their cracks and hollows.
The plot basically combines Misery (one of his more successful books) with Rose Madder (one of his less successful). From Misery, we get the idea of an psychopath fan who’s obsessed with a famous writer. The twist here is that the famous writer (Scott Landon) is already dead, and the stalker’s rage and entitlement settles on his bereaved widow, Lisey. That adds an interesting dynamic. In Misery, Paul Sheldon at least had some power. He’s the only one who can write the Misery Chastain romance stories his captor loves, so she’s forced to keep him alive. Lisey Landon, on the other hand, is not her husband. She’s just a person who shared a bed with him. Through the world’s eyes, she’s a person-shaped mirror, a window to her husband. Mirrors cannot create; only reflect. They also cannot die; only be smashed. This heightens Lisey’s victimhood: her husband’s fans and enemies grow obsessed with her, but never actually regard her as a person.
From Rose Madder, he takes the idea of an magickal dreamworld that can be accessed using chintzy artifacts. The otherworldly land of Booya Moon (which Scott introduced Lisey her to while he was alive) is useful. Injuries heal swiftly. It might also be a good place to hide a dead man, or lose an unwanted living one. But it’s ultimately a dangerous place to be. This is because of what lives there: the long boy.
The long boy is one of King’s better inventions; one of his most direct forays (along with “N”) into Lovecraft-style horror.
It is not bound by the same rules as most of the things in Booya Moon. It can reach into the real world somehow (using glass surfaces and mirrors as portals). It has marked Scott as its prey, and has spent a long time searching for him. Occasionally he sees its face in glass, peering around and looking for him.
In the end Scott’s thing had come back for him, anyway—that thing he had sometimes glimpsed in mirrors and waterglasses, the thing with the vast piebald side. The long boy.
Long before we see it ourselves, we hear it, in a second-hand way. Scott knows the sound it makes, and imitates this for Lisey.
Scott says, “Listen, little Lisey. I’ll make how it sounds when it looks around.” “Scott, no—you have to stop.” He pays no attention. He draws in another of those screaming breaths, purses his wet red lips in a tight O, and makes a low, incredibly nasty chuffing noise. It drives a fine spray of blood up his clenched throat and into the sweltering air.
[..]
“I could . . . call it that way,” he whispers. “It would come. You’d be . . . rid of my . . . everlasting . . . quack.” She understands that he means it, and for a moment (surely it is the power of his eyes) she believes it’s true. He will make the sound again, only a little louder, and in some other world the long boy, that lord of sleepless nights, will turn its unspeakable hungry head.
Later (or earlier, in a flashback), Scott is stranded in Booya Moon, and Lisey travels there to rescue him. Here, she briefly sees the long boy in the unflesh.
“Shhhh, Lisey,” Scott whispers. His lips are so close they tickle the cup of her ear. “For your life and mine, now you must be still.” It’s Scott’s long boy. She doesn’t need him to tell her. For years she has sensed its presence at the back of her life, like something glimpsed in a mirror from the corner of the eye. Or, say, a nasty secret hidden in the cellar. Now the secret is out. In gaps between the trees to her left, sliding at what seems like express-train speed, is a great high river of meat. It is mostly smooth, but in places there are dark spots or craters that might be moles or even, she supposes (she does not want to suppose and cannot help it) skin cancers. Her mind starts to visualize some sort of gigantic worm, then freezes. The thing over there behind those trees is no worm, and whatever it is, it’s sentient, because she can feel it thinking. Its thoughts aren’t human, aren’t in the least comprehensible, but there is a terrible fascination in their very alienness . . .
“A great high river of meat” is a vivid phrase. Stephen King should consider writing more words. He can be quite good at them.
But she finally sees the long boy’s face—or mouth, at least—near the end.
Then there’s movement from her right, not far from where Dooley is thrashing about and trying to haul himself upward. It is vast movement. For a moment the dark and fearsomely sad thoughts which inhabit her mind grow even sadder and darker; Lisey thinks they will either kill her or drive her insane. Then they shift in a slightly different direction, and as they do, the thing over there just beyond the trees also shifts. There’s the complicated sound of breaking foliage, the snapping and tearing of trees and underbrush. Then, and suddenly, it’s there. Scott’s long boy. And she understands that once you have seen the long boy, past and future become only dreams. Once you have seen the long boy, there is only, oh dear Jesus, there is only a single moment of now drawn out like an agonizing note that never ends. What she saw was an enormous plated side like cracked snakeskin. It came bulging through the trees, bending some and snapping others, seeming to pass right through a couple of the biggest. That was impossible, of course, but the impression never faded. There was no smell but there was an unpleasant sound, a chuffing, somehow gutty sound, and then its patchwork head appeared, taller than the trees and blotting out the sky. Lisey saw an eye, dead yet aware, black as wellwater and as wide as a sinkhole, peering through the foliage. She saw an opening in the meat of its vast questing blunt head and intuited that the things it took in through that vast straw of flesh did not precisely die but lived and screamed . . . lived and screamed . . . lived and screamed. She herself could not scream. She was incapable of any noise at all. She took two steps backward, steps that felt weirdly calm to her. The spade, its silver bowl once more dripping with the blood of an insane man, fell from her fingers and landed on the path. She thought, It sees me . . . and my life will never truly be mine again. It won’t let it be mine. For a moment it reared, a shapeless, endless thing with patches of hair growing in random clumps from its damp and heaving slicks of flesh, its great and dully avid eye upon her. The dying pink of the day and the waxing silver glow of moonlight lit the rest of what still lay snakelike in the shrubbery.
At the end of the book, the long boy becomes aware of Lisey Landon. She starts seeing it peering in mirrors, uncoiling muddily at the bottoms of glasses, just as Scott did. (Emphasis mine)
“Looks a little like dried blood,” Mike said, and finished his iced tea. The sun, hazy and hot, ran across the surface of his glass, and for a moment an eye seemed to peer out of it at Lisey. When he set it down, she had to restrain an urge to snatch it and hide it behind the plastic pitcher with the other one. […] They both laughed. Lisey thought hers sounded almost as natural as his. She didn’t look at his glass. She didn’t think about the long boy that was now her long boy. She thought about nothing but the long boy.
Like the madman stalking her throughout the story, perhaps the long boy has marked her as a substitute for her husband. The man I truly want is dead and gone…but in his place, you’ll do.
I wonder where King got the idea for the long boy?
Worms as symbols of corruption and decay are too common to be worth discussing at any length. A mindworm or mindsnake is a more specific image, though.
Yes, the brain kind looks like a kind of worm, coiled around and around inside the skull, slippery and wet. Perhaps the metaphor extends further. In the 60s, it was actually believed that planarium worms could encode memories in their bodies, and transfer them to new bodies. In the late fifties, James McConnell of UMich conducted experiments that appeared to show that memory transfer via cannibalism was possible in planarian flatworms.
Chop a worm into three pieces. All three pieces will regrow into new worms, and each of those worms will have the same brain, including (supposedly) the same memories. Do worms store memories outside their brains, somehow? DNA and RNA are fairly informationally dense—the haploid genome of a human being encodes about ~720mb of uncompressed data—and other chemicals and proteins can also encode things. This, as I understand, is fairly well-accepted science.
McConnell apparently figured out something weirder. He used a painful electric jolt to train worms to contract their bodies upon exposure to light. Then, he chopped them to pieces, fed the body parts to cannibalistic worms called Dugesia dorotocephala…and they contracted their bodies to light, too! Confirmation of this has been slow in coming—this the type of science the replication crisis tragically stole from us.
(McConnell, by the way, has one of those all-timer Wikipedia pages. “McConnell was one of the targets of Theodore Kaczynski, the Unabomber. In 1985, he suffered hearing loss when a bomb, disguised as a manuscript, was opened at his house by his research assistant Nicklaus Suino.”)
King, at least, has been struck by the image of a wormlike thing that preys on the psyche and memories and trauma of its victims. Maybe there’s just something viscerally repellant about worms.
In any case, the long boy may not be a worm or a snake. The thing Lisey regards as such might just be an appendage. An adjunct to a large (perhaps vast) body, whose totality we do not see. And furthermore, that it doesn’t eat as much as capture—that its victims might still live on.
Lisey closed her own. For a moment she saw that blunt head that wasn’t a head at all but only a maw, a straw, a funnel into blackness filled with endless swirling bad-gunky. In it she still heard Jim Dooley screaming, but the sound was now thin, and mixed with other screams.
I like the long boy. It will never be as famous as Pennywise or Randall Flagg or [Insert Thinly-Veiled Metaphor for Republican Politician Here] but that’s good. The enemy of darkness is the light, and no horror creature survives too much media exposure. As the century spins on, the long boy will retain its mystery.
(Also, what happens when you chop OpenWorm into three pieces of code?)
In 2003, we enter what you’d call “late Helloween”—the Sasha Gerstner era.
It marks the point where my relationship with this band shifts from “unalloyed love” to an attitude more more careful and critical, more keenly aware of flaws. On paper, albums like 2007’s Gambling With the Devil and 2010’s Seven Sinners are really strong. They have many good parts! So why do I feel at arms’ length from them? They’re really subtly off. Something’s missing; or something’s present that shouldn’t be there. They’re made by a band that doesn’t feel like Helloween anymore.
I don’t listen to modern Helloween as much as the Walls of Jericho to Keeper II classic run, or the renaissance of Master of the Rings to The Dark Ride, but I would say I listen to their newer album harder, trying to pinpoint the source of my emotional discontent.
2003’s Rabbit Don’t Come Easy is easier to discuss. Blatantly weak, it might be the second or third crappiest Helloween album, and that’s a problem, because Chameleon safely locks up the title for first.
Many have described it as another Pink Bubbles Go Ape. Not quite. It has a stupid title, a stupid cover, emerged as a response to a lineup change, and a sense of being an inferior “we have Helloween at home” substitute. But the reason for its issues couldn’t be more different. Bubbles had a singer who didn’t want to be in a metal band and who was trying to change the band into the Beatles. Rabbit was made by the broken pieces of a band, just trying to exist, desperately still trying to be Helloween. “A band trying too hard to be themselves” is implicitly an admission that the band is no longer themselves, which is exactly the case here, as one of the most brutal lineup shifts in the band’s history had just occurred.
In 2001, guitarist Roland Grapow was fired and replaced with Freedom Call guitarist Sasha Gerstner. Drummer Uli Kusch was also fired and replaced with basically half the drummers inside the Schengen Area. Two drummers are credited on the record—Motorhead’s Mikkey Dee, and At Vance’s Mark Cross—and by the time the record came out they were working with a third drummer, Accept/UDO’s Stefan Schwarzmann. The final drummer was the (excellent) Dani Loble, who remains with the band to this day.
Caught by the chaos of lineup changes, dealing with the aftershocks of an experiment that their label hadn’t liked (2000’s The Dark Ride) Helloween overcorrected here, becoming a silly, excessive parody of themselves.
Andi Deris shoulders the bulk of the songwriting. As usual, he’s responsible for both highlights and lowlights. Grosskopf (who never really wrote much of note before then) rallies and delivers what might be the standout song. The other members just kind of futz around. Gerstner delivers some good work. Weikath has no idea what he’s doing.
“Just A Little Sign” and “The Tune” (by Deris and Weikath, respectively) are bland fast songs that wash off me like water. They’re so flowery and trite they make “All Over the Nations” look like Walls of Jericho. Just nothing Helloweeney about them at all. “Something’s growing in my pants / As she looks into my eyes”. Great lyrics to start the album off with. Where’s Mr Torture when you need him?
They also highlight a pretty questionable production job by Charlie Bauerfiend. He overproduces the fuck out of Rabbit, . The guitar tone is heavily-processed and lacks bite. The drums have a fake, digital quality that almost sounds programmed—the kick drums have the overly present, clicky character of early Sonata Arctica.
Other songs, like “Sun 4 The World” tend to be meager, uninteresting, and mired in overbearing production and excessive double-bass drumming. “Never Be A Star” was apparently written in the “Perfect Gentleman” days. Not much to say about it. It’s barely adequate as filler.
“Nothing To Say” is an overlong dad-rock song with a skank beat in the pre-chorus (?!). What the fuck? “Helloween should not play ska” is the type of thought you expect you’ll go a whole lifetime without thinking, and here Michael Weikath is inflicting it on me at the tender age of 36.
He also contributes “Back Against the Wall”: an obvious leftover from The Dark Ride sessions that makes no sense whatsoever. Angsty, dark, mallgothy. It would have been the worst song on The Dark Ride. Here, it’s just a bit below average.
Having complained about Rabbit a fair bit, is there anything good about the record? Yes. Two songs more or less redeem it on their own.
The first is “Open Your Life”. Despite the flawed production and flower metal influences, it’s amazingly catchy. Sasha Gerstner has a writing credit on it. That’s another parallel point that could be drawn with Pink Bubbles Go Ape. The best song on that album was written by the new guitarist (Roland Grapow), too.
The second is Markus Grosskopf’s “Hell Was Made In Heaven”, which has such a crushing heft and energy to it. I think I have listened to this song on its own more than the rest of the songs combined.
Most of the tracks come across as desperate and calculated, bereft of great ideas, but possessed with a burning need to be Helloween. Again, Halloween as a parody of themselves. That said, there are one or two risks here, and these bomb pretty hard. So I’m not sure what they should have done.
One of the things I’d say about Rabbit Don’t Come Easy (and nu Helloween more generally). It sounds heavily like a fan‘s conception of what Helloween should sound like. That’s not a de facto bad thing. It is, however, a dangerous thing. Fans don’t know shit. Fans want a band to freeze themselves in amber, remaining the same forever. A fan of Walls of Jericho wouldn’t have wanted Kiske to join the band. A fan of Keeper of the Seven Keys I and II wouldn’t have wanted Kiske to ever leave, not even when he was clearly poisoning things. Bands that overly pander to their fans risk becoming a nostalgia act, irrelevant and absurd to anyone who’s not a fan.
I won’t say “fuck the fans”. I will say “half-fuck the fans”. Ultimately, the band’s artistic drive should come from within, not from whatever placard-wielding contingency is making the most noise in their fan club or street team. Fans are the result of a compelling creative vision. They aren’t—and should never be mistaken for—the source of that vision. The horse must go before the cart.
The end of an era. Helloween’s Y2K album is the last to feature the second “classic” lineup of Weikath/Deris/Grosskopf/Grapow/Kusch. It marks a turning point: post-The Dark Ride, Helloween becomes, though not bad, more streamlined, less risk-averse, and (in my view) less interesting.
To dispatch with the obvious, no, this isn’t “nu metal” Helloween. It has some downtuned, tonally dark songs, but they mostly seem patterned after Dio/Martin-era Black Sabbath more than, say Korn.
It’s definitely confused. I’ll say that much. The band doesn’t fully commit to their new, dark style, writing a bunch of classic-style songs as well, turning the album into a bit of a patchwork. The Dark Ride is an odd, contradictory amphibian of an album that seems to exist in the sunlight and under the starless sky at the same time, with the tracklisting throwing every tonal mismatch into sharp relief. You have basically the floweriest song ever written under the Helloween imprimature (“All Over the Nations”) right next to arguably the darkest one (“Escalation 666”). “Mr Torture” is a perfect opening, “The Dark Ride” a perfect closer, but otherwise you could jumble the songs at random and get a more cohesive listening experience.
Grapow/Kusch really start driving the band here—to their detriment, as creative conflicts would soon lead to them being ousted (Grapow, 2005: “We weren’t really a band anymore and struggled with tons of issues along the way, it was best for us to leave and aim for new goals.”). They write a ton of songs, and according to Grapow, virtually all the guitar work here is his. At the same time, they were also amassing some songs that never made the album, and were later featured on the debut album of their next band, Masterplan. (You can really imagine “Into the Light” on this album, being sung by Deris.)
Kusch’s “Mr Torture” is one of the all-time Helloween opening songs. Punchy, tight, catchy, accessible, it rolls and bounces along, verses propelled by jagged runs of double-bass, the chorus opening wide up, and the bridge illuminated by a short but flashy Grapow guitar solo that lights the song on fire. Great track.
The lyrics are pretty weird, portraying some kind of…torture entrepeneur? “You can catch him on his website / Has a live chat every weeknight / Cyber-torture soon coming your way!” Well, it wouldn’t be a year 2000 album without gratuitous internet references, I suppose. (Viz Britney Spears’ “Email My Heart”)
Then Weikath’s “All Over the Nations” arrives: a fast, melodic, somewhat generic power metal track, it sounds literally nothing like the preceding or following song. Other than Deris’s vocals and Roy Z’s murky but textured production (which proves to be the glue holding The Dark Ride‘s disparate shards together), you wouldn’t even think this and “Mr Torture” were from the same album. Not offensive, but definitely a bit lightweight and “Helloween done by committee”.
Two things are noticeable about The Dark Ride: first, it’s really, really good. Possibly superior to Better than Raw, which might make it the best Helloween album ever, aside from Walls of Jericho and The Keepers.
Second, the different songwriters are really, really, really not on the same page anymore. Grapow and Kusch want darkness, Weikath stubbornly cleaves to the “happy happy Helloween” template, and Deris has a foot in both camps. Markus Grosskopf sticks to playing bass, and doesn’t write a song this time (although his composition “Deliver Us” appears on various bonus editions, and suggests he was of one mind with the Grapow/Kusch contingent.)
Grapow’s “Escalation 666” is one of the band’s most crushing and experimental tracks. A doom metal paced trudge through some inner mindscape of madness, it’s not a song, it’s a black hole yawning at the album’s core. The chugging, C-standard (I think?) opening riff sounds supernova-heavy, and the dissonant, effects-laden guitar solo reminds me of “Bleeding Eyes” off that first Masterplan album. It’s not the greatest song on the album, but it’s never far from my thoughts.
Andi Deris proves to be hit or miss like usual, writing two certified classics (the piano-driven single “If I Could Fly” and the flighty, foot-on-the-gas adventure of “We Damn the Night”) and two stinkers. “Mirror Mirror” and “I Live For Your Pain” are just chuggy, downtuned nothingburgers with mediocre ideas and no sense of catchiness or energy. Skip-button fodder. Like Helloween trying to be a grunge rock band or something.
His bonus track “Madness of the Crowds” is a fascinating “one idea” type song, pairing quiet verses with explosive choruses (and some intriguing knifing symphonic stabs). “Immortal” is the closest we have to a torch ballad. Not bad, but a bit slender when compared with Kusch’s “The Departed”, which we just heard a few minutes earlier.
The album concludes with Grapow’s “The Dark Ride”, a monolithic speed epic that’s like a tombstone for this era of the band. Beginning with the (somewhat stale) motif of amusement park sounds, it’s a bit long, but when the ideas come, they really come. Grapow really loves octave-skipping tremolo riffs (like in the pre-chorus: “Out of doubt, no hope / Satan feeds our madness”), but so do I. The guitar solo section is just straight-up Yngwie Malmsteen worship. Some of the last he ever did.
This is one of those spikey albums where the flaws are evident but the strengths are so good that even if I’m bitching about it half the time, I still love it. This is an incredibly special and important record to me. One last triumph of power metal before Y2K shut the world down.
