Emergo, Baby! The Tale of William Castle’s Ridiculous, Floating Skeleton

Imagine you’re sitting in a 1959 movie theater. You’ve paid your hard-earned 50 cents to watch “The House on Haunted Hill.” You’re ready for some good old-fashioned scares, courtesy of Vincent Price and his creepy mansion. The lights dim, the projector whirs, and the movie begins. Everything seems normal until, at a critical moment, a plastic skeleton comes floating above the audience. Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Emergo, the most hilariously audacious gimmick in the history of horror cinema.

The Birth of a Gimmick Genius

William Castle, the P.T. Barnum of horror movies, was always one step ahead in the gimmick game. Before “The House on Haunted Hill,” Castle had already experimented with other outrageous ideas. He gave us insurance policies for death by fright and rigged theater seats with buzzers. But Emergo? Emergo was his magnum opus.

Castle’s idea was simple yet brilliant: during a crucial scene in the movie, a skeleton would seemingly emerge from the screen and float over the audience, creating an immersive and interactive horror experience. In Castle’s own words, he wanted to “reach out and touch” his audience. Or, more accurately, he wanted a plastic skeleton to do it.

Building the Skeleton

You might think constructing an airborne skeleton is easy. You’d be wrong. Castle didn’t just grab any old skeleton; he had to ensure it was visible in the dim theater light. The skeleton was affixed to a series of pulleys and wires, which allowed it to glide menacingly over the heads of the audience. This setup was not only mechanically impressive for its time but also required precise timing to synchronize with the movie’s pivotal moment.

However, the execution was far from flawless. Theaters were not built to accommodate Castle’s contraptions. Projectionists had to be trained on how to operate the skeleton, often leading to hilariously unintended consequences. There were reports of the skeleton getting stuck mid-air or crashing into the audience, which, let’s face it, only added to the fun.

The Audience Reacts

Imagine the scene: the movie is building suspense, Vincent Price is doing his thing, and suddenly, a skeleton floats above you. The reactions were mixed, to say the least. Some audience members screamed, others laughed, and a few probably wondered if their drink had been spiked. Castle’s gamble paid off in terms of sheer memorability. People left the theater with a story to tell, and for Castle, that was the real victory.

But not everyone was a fan. Critics were less than kind, calling the gimmick cheap and distracting. Castle, however, was unapologetic. He knew his audience, and he knew they came for an experience, not just a movie. In his mind, the more outlandish, the better.

Technical Difficulties

Emergo was not without its technical hiccups. As mentioned, the skeleton often got stuck or failed to deploy correctly. There were even instances where theater owners refused to implement the gimmick due to the additional labor and potential hazards. Castle had to deal with the logistics of installing and maintaining the rigging in each theater, a task that was as frustrating as it was essential to his vision.

One particularly famous incident involved the skeleton breaking free from its wires and falling into the audience. Instead of causing a panic, it turned into a comedy moment, with the audience tossing the skeleton around like a beach ball. Castle probably would have approved; after all, any reaction was better than no reaction.

The Legacy of Emergo

While Emergo might seem quaint or even laughable by today’s standards, its impact on the horror genre and movie marketing cannot be overstated. Castle’s use of Emergo demonstrated the power of immersive theater and interactive experiences long before they became a staple in theme parks and haunted houses. He understood that horror wasn’t just about what was on the screen but about creating a visceral, shared experience.

Modern horror owes a lot to Castle’s innovative spirit. His willingness to take risks and embrace the absurd paved the way for other gimmicks and interactive experiences. Today, we have 4D theaters, virtual reality horror experiences, and even immersive theater productions where the audience is part of the show. All of these owe a debt to the skeleton that floated over the heads of unsuspecting 1950s moviegoers.

Final Thoughts

William Castle’s Emergo was a stroke of marketing genius wrapped in a plastic skeleton. It was ridiculous, it was audacious, and it was pure Castle. In an era where horror was often confined to the screen, Castle dared to break the fourth wall and involve his audience in the madness. Sure, it didn’t always work perfectly, but that was part of the charm.

Emergo wasn’t just a gimmick; it was a statement. It said that horror could be fun, interactive, and above all, memorable. It invited the audience to be part of the scare, to laugh at the absurdity, and to enjoy the communal thrill of a shared experience. Castle understood that horror is as much about the buildup and the reaction as it is about the scare itself.

So next time you watch a horror movie, think about the plastic skeletons and the crazy ideas that paved the way for today’s immersive experiences. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll wish a skeleton would float over your head, even if just for a moment.

William Castle, we salute you. Emergo forever.

Steve Albini Is Dead and Your Band’s Next Record Probably Just Got Worse: A Tribute to the Godfather of Grit

Steve Albini: The Unlikely King of the Indie Castle

Today, we say goodbye to a titan of the music industry, though he’d probably hate that description more than a drum machine at a punk show. Steve Albini, the man, the myth, the legend—who preferred to be known as just some dude who records bands—has left the building. And by “the building,” I mean the earth, and by “left,” I mean he died, which is incredibly rude because who’s going to complain about everything now?

Steve Albini was not a man made for the modern era, a time where music producers are expected to be part DJ, part public relations wizard, and part Instagram influencer. Albini was none of these things. Instead, he was a straightforward, often abrasively honest man who looked like he could fix your car just as well as he could record your album. That is if your car was a 1980s preamp or a reel-to-reel tape machine.

Who was Steve Albini, Anyway?

For the uninitiated—or those who think that music history started with Auto-Tune—Steve Albini was a recording engineer, music journalist, and the frontman of bands like Big Black and Shellac. But calling him a “recording engineer” is a bit like calling Michelangelo a ceiling painter. Albini was a craftsman with a philosophy as stark and uncompromising as the records he produced. He worked on over 1,000 albums, including some that people other than just record store clerks might have heard of, like Nirvana’s In Utero, Pixies’ Surfer Rosa, and PJ Harvey’s Rid of Me.

The Myth of the Albini Sound

One common myth is that there’s an “Albini sound.” According to Albini himself, that’s a bunch of baloney. He claimed he just recorded bands the way they sounded, but you could always tell when a record had been “Albinized.” It had a certain rawness, like it was recorded in a garage (a very well-mic’d garage with perfectly tuned acoustics, but a garage nonetheless). His recordings were the antithesis of polished, overproduced sludge that often climbs the charts. If you wanted to hear every string scrape, drum hit, and vocal nuance (including out-of-tune ones), you went to Steve.

Albini vs. The Music Industry

Steve Albini’s relationship with the music industry was, to put it mildly, contentious. He famously described major labels as “a trench of sewage” that bands “have to wade through.” He wasn’t a fan of the mainstream music scene, which he often saw as a machine that chewed artists up and spit them out, without even the courtesy of brushing its teeth afterward.

He was a champion of the DIY ethic, long before it was just a cool hashtag. Albini wrote an essay in 1993 titled “The Problem with Music,” which lambasted every corner of the music business. This essay became the indie musician’s bible, manifesto, and perhaps their first real glimpse at the dirty underbelly of the record industry beast. It inspired a generation of musicians to say, “You know what? Maybe we don’t need that major label deal.” Ironically, this DIY icon recorded some of the biggest bands on the planet. But hey, even a guy who hates the system has to pay the bills.

The Problem with Music, 1993

Nirvana and That Whole Thing

You can’t talk about Albini without mentioning In Utero. This was the album where Nirvana, fresh off the glossy, radio-friendly Nevermind, decided they needed something grittier. Enter Albini, who probably had “grittier” as his middle name (it was actually (None), but who’s checking?). The sessions for In Utero were famously contentious, with stories of label execs freaking out over the raw, unpolished sound Albini was known for.

But despite the push and pull, the album was a masterpiece of raw emotion and is often cited as the truer sound of Nirvana. Kurt Cobain himself picked Albini because he wanted someone who wouldn’t sugarcoat the band’s sound for mass consumption. Albini delivered, and how. The album was like a sonic middle finger to the polished grunge scene that Nirvana had accidentally spawned.

The Legacy of a Curmudgeon

Steve Albini was a curmudgeon, sure, but he was our curmudgeon. He was one of the last bastions of a fading ideology that music should be raw, unadulterated, and real. He didn’t just record bands; he captured moments. The sweaty, beer-soaked fervor of a live show, the imperfections that make music human, and the energy of a band playing right there in your room—this was what Albini was all about.

His legacy is not just in the records he left behind, but in the countless bands and musicians he inspired to go their own way, to eschew the trappings of fame for the sake of artistic integrity. Steve Albini showed us all that you could succeed in music on your own terms, and that perhaps, in the end, the only person you have to please is the guy staring back at you in the mirror (unless you’re trying to sell records, then maybe try to please a few other people too).

Steve Albini was a contradiction wrapped in an enigma, all while wearing a flannel shirt and probably thinking about how to perfectly mic a snare drum. He was one of the true characters in an industry that increasingly favors characters over character. He will be missed, not just for his skills behind the mixing console but for his unwavering commitment to music as an art form—not just a commodity.

As we say goodbye to Steve Albini, let’s crank up a record he worked on—preferably something loud and a bit rough around the edges—and remember the man who made an indelible mark on the music world by stubbornly refusing to do anything the easy way.

The Birth of the Desert Music Festival: Desolation Center’s Mojave Exodus

Mojave Exodus flyer, 1983

When LA’s Punk Scene Outsmarted the LAPD with Desert Gigs

In the gritty underbelly of early 1980s Los Angeles, the punk scene was alive with the sound of mohawks, leather jackets, and a visceral distaste for the mainstream. Amidst this cultural tumult, Stuart Swezey, deeply embedded in the anarchic spirit of punk and influenced by the burgeoning performance art scene, was growing frustrated with the oppressive oversight of club owners and constant interference by the LAPD, led by the notorious Chief Daryl Gates. Fueled by a radical vision, Swezey began to dream of something different—a concert series free from any external control, where music and freedom could meld in their most unfiltered form.

This vision led Swezey to create Desolation Center, initially staging guerrilla music events in the abandoned warehouses of downtown L.A. Despite these efforts, the relentless police disruptions persisted, pushing him to seek even more secluded venues. This series of underground, off-grid events would eventually influence major modern festivals like Burning Man and Coachella, setting a precedent for liberating music experiences from conventional restrictions.

The Genesis of Mojave Exodus

The Mojave Exodus was a series of legendary music festivals organized by Stuart Swezey in the Mojave Desert in Southern California in 1983. Inspired during a road trip through the Sonoran Desert, Swezey envisioned hosting punk shows in the desolate landscapes of the Mojave Desert, far from the reach of city authorities. He was particularly moved by the music of bands like Savage Republic, whose soundtracks seemed a fitting complement to the barren desert backdrop. Swezey contacted Bruce Licher of Savage Republic and proposed a desert concert. Licher was enthusiastic and suggested a dry lake bed he had previously used for a film project as the venue. Opting to sidestep formal permissions, they planned the event on this unclaimed land.

To address the logistical challenge of transporting attendees to the remote site, Swezey decided to include transportation in the ticket price. On April 24, 1983, attendees gathered in a downtown L.A. parking lot where buses transported them to the desert venue. The journey itself became part of the event’s allure, with a sense of adventure and uncertainty adding to the overall experience. Participants did not know where they were going until they arrived, a tactic that heightened the anticipation and sense of mystery surrounding the event.

The event, shielded by school buses arranged to block the desert winds and employing impromptu solutions like socks over microphones, was a success, marked by a palpable sense of freedom and absence of police interference.

The Minutemen at the Mojave Exodus, 1983. Photo by Bob Durkee.

European Influences and Unique Venue Experiments

Buoyed by this success, Swezey quit his sales job and traveled to Europe, where he connected with members of the German industrial band Einstürzende Neubauten. Upon returning to L.A., Swezey received a call from the band, taking him up on his offer to organize a desert show. Scouting locations, he settled on a canyon near Mecca, California. The event quickly scaled up, requiring double the buses to transport an eager audience. This show featured performances that harmonized with the desert setting, including industrial sounds amidst bonfires and sunset.

The crowd at Desolation Center’s second desert concert, the Mojave Auszug, 1984. Photo by Scot Allen.

Encouraged by the success of these shows, Swezey continued to push the boundaries of venue and genre. His next venture took place on a whale-watching boat off the coast of San Pedro, featuring performances by the Minutemen and the Meat Puppets. This unique setting attracted a full capacity crowd, further demonstrating the punk community’s resilience and innovation.

Joy at Sea show, 1985
Joy at Sea, 1984. Photo by Ann Summa.

The Lasting Legacy of Desolation Center and the Future of DIY Events

Swezey’s ventures culminated with the Gila Monster Jamboree in 1985, a desert festival that showcased the evolving punk scene with performances by Sonic Youth, Redd Kross, and the Meat Puppets. The event, infused with the communal use of LSD, mirrored the spirit of the 1960s counterculture, yet through a distinctly punk lens. However, this event also brought legal challenges; Swezey was fined by the Bureau of Land Management for trespassing, a situation he resolved with minimal consequences through a benefit concert.

Sonic Youth live at Gila Monster Jamboree, 1985. Photo by Alan Peak.

Despite the creative success of these events, the tragic death of D.Boon from the Minutemen marked a turning point for Swezey, leading him to withdraw from event promotion and eventually pivot to publishing with his imprint, Amok Books. Nevertheless, Swezey’s legacy continued through his documentary about the Desolation Center, which encourages a new generation to explore innovative, off-the-grid event planning.

The Cultural Impact and Its Ripples

The Mojave Exodus was a catalyst that ignited a trend. The idea of taking music to unconventional spaces where the environment itself interacts with the sound opened up new possibilities for what a music festival could be. This concept directly influenced the creation and ethos of later events like Burning Man and even aspects of Coachella, which embraced the blend of music, art, and community in a festival setting. The Mojave Exodus demonstrated that music, when paired with unique settings and a willingness to break from tradition, could create profound experiences that resonated far beyond the actual performance.

The legacy of Mojave Exodus has been captured in various forms over the years, including documentary films and oral histories. Stuart Swezey himself directed a documentary titled Desolation Center, which provides detailed insights into the planning and impact of the event, featuring interviews with performers and attendees. This documentation has helped cement the Mojave Exodus’s place in music history as a pioneering event that challenged conventional notions of what a concert could be.

Echoes in the Desert

Mojave Exodus stands as a testament to the power of innovation and the enduring spirit of punk. It was not just the first of the Desolation Center events but a declaration that music could be an immersive, communal, and transformative experience. The legacy of this desert concert continues to inspire festival organizers around the world, reminding us that sometimes, the best way to move forward is to strip things back and start in the middle of nowhere.

Nabokov’s Secret World: Exploring His Passion for Butterflies and Literature

Vladimir Nabokov and wife Vera
Carl Mydans Time & Life Pictures/Shutterstock.

Nabokov’s Dual Fascinations

Vladimir Nabokov, renowned for his literary classic Lolita, led a life as vivid and complex as his prose. Beyond his narrative genius, Nabokov harbored a profound passion for lepidopterology—the study of butterflies. Believe it or not, this pursuit was a serious scientific endeavor that also paralleled and influenced his literary work.

Nabokov: The Scientist and Lepidopterist

In the 1940s, while teaching literature at Wellesley College and later at Harvard, Nabokov also served as a curator of lepidoptery at the Museum of Comparative Zoology at Harvard University. During this period, he engaged deeply in the study of butterfly migration patterns across the Americas, making groundbreaking contributions to the field.

Vladimir Nabokov 1958
Carl Mydans Time & Life Pictures/Shutterstock

Nabokov’s research particularly focused on the evolutionary history and migration patterns of the Polyommatus blues, a group of butterflies. He proposed that these species had migrated from Asia to the New World in a series of waves. Though initially met with skepticism, his theories on their transcontinental migration were later validated by genetic studies long after his demise, affirming the scientific foresight and depth of his work.

It wasn’t until the development of molecular phylogenetics, particularly advancements in DNA sequencing technologies, that researchers could begin to test Nabokov’s theories accurately. In 2011, a team of researchers published a study in the journal Proceedings of the Royal Society B, where they used genetic data to trace the evolutionary and migratory history of the Polyommatus blue butterflies.

Their findings confirmed significant parts of Nabokov’s hypothesis. The genetic data showed that the butterflies indeed appeared to have migrated from Asia to the Americas via the Bering Strait, much as Nabokov had proposed. The study highlighted that this migration occurred in multiple waves, corroborating Nabokov’s idea of a complex, multi-wave migration process.

Vladimir Nabokov 1958
Carl Mydans Time & Life Pictures/Shutterstock

The Intersection of Science and Literature

Nabokov’s scientific rigor permeated his literary creations, influencing his narrative structures and thematic explorations. The meticulous attention to detail and the intricate patterns observed in his study of butterflies found echoes in the complex character developments and elaborate plot constructions seen in his novels. His ability to intertwine scientific observation with literary creativity is particularly evident in works like Ada or Ardor, which frequently references lepidopterological concepts.

Nabokov’s Legacy and Influence

The synthesis of Nabokov’s literary flair and scientific acumen provided him with a unique perspective that enriched both fields. His dual legacy continues to influence contemporary writers and scientists, illustrating the profound connections between the arts and sciences.

For those interested in a deeper dive into how Nabokov’s scientific interests influenced his literary output, Nabokov’s Blues: The Scientific Odyssey of a Literary Genius by Kurt Johnson and Steve Coates offers an exhaustive look at this unique interplay. This book not only details his contributions to lepidopterology but also how his scientific mindset shaped his approach to literature.

A Renaissance Man of the 20th Century

Nabokov’s life and work exemplify the Renaissance ideal, bridging disparate worlds with grace and mastery. His journey as both a scientist and a novelist challenges the often rigid boundaries between disciplines, encouraging a more holistic approach to learning and creativity. Through his example, Nabokov remains a testament to the limitless possibilities that arise from a life driven by diverse passions and relentless curiosity.

Great Moments in Self-Destruction: William S. Burroughs

William S. Burroughs, in Paris. 1962

Welcome to the first episode of “Great Moments in Self-Destruction,” where we celebrate the adventurous train wrecks of literary history. Today’s special: William S. Burroughs in Tangier, because nothing screams “genius at work” like fleeing to a lawless city to indulge in every possible vice while pretending to write a novel.

Ah, Tangier in the 1950s—the Disneyland for degenerates. It was the perfect storm of exotic locale meets minimal oversight, where Burroughs could really nurture his morphine addiction and still call it “research.” This is where he pieced together Naked Lunch, a novel that reads like someone ate a dictionary and threw it up on a typewriter. The man wrote on anything he could find—napkins, hotel bills, possibly even the back of his own hand during a blackout.

The result? A disjointed masterpiece that makes you feel like you’re navigating a labyrinth blindfolded. Naked Lunch‘s creation is legendary: it’s a collection of paranoid scraps that somehow coalesced into a narrative, if by narrative we mean a loosely connected series of hallucinogenic freakouts. Imagine the literary equivalent of throwing a typewriter down a flight of stairs and then trying to sell the results as a novel.

And let’s not forget the Interzone, Burroughs’s fictional stand-in for Tangier, which he populated with every sketchy character he met in the city’s underbelly. Because when life gives you a melting pot of international misfits, the obvious thing to do is turn them into material for your next drug-fueled fever dream.

For those morbidly curious about how a human car crash can turn into literary gold, check out Barry Miles’s Call Me Burroughs and Bill Morgan’s The Beats Abroad. Both books dive deep into how Tangier turned from a personal dumpster fire into a beacon of Beat generation brilliance—or at least something you can sell to impressionable college students as brilliance.

So, here’s to William S. Burroughs, who taught us that you don’t need to make good life choices to make good art—just really, really questionable ones.