Originally published in Bleeding Skull! A 1980s Trash-Horror Odyssey.
There are many ways to rock. However, if you are unable to master rock’s most formidable weapon, the Cat Scream, there is no hope. You might as well call Chip Z’Nuff and inquire about cat scream lessons because NO ONE WANTS TO HEAR YOUR SONGS IF YOU CANNOT DO THE CAT SCREAM. But before you snort ten lines of coke in rageful frustration, check in with Billy from Rocktober Blood. He might be able to help:
“I want blood! I want hot, steaming pussy blood ALL OVER MYYYAH FAAACE!
If Rocktober Blood were nothing more than Billy and his band playing songs called “Rainbow Eyes” and “Watch Me Rock,” I would be happy. I’m not happy. I’m ecstatic. Although two-thirds of this film completely waste my time, the final third has enriched my life in more ways than I care to reveal. A man, his killings, his women, and his songs. They say it’s the “ultimate rock total blood and gore show!” It is not. But the credits roll with a cat scream that lasts for exactly 45 seconds.
Billy’s band sounds like Rob Halford and Randy Rhoads meeting up to cover lost Spinal Tap outtakes, only better. Billy is also a crazed killer. He takes out his producer and manager and other rockers during a recording session and leaves girlfriend Lynn for dead. Twenty of the best minutes you’ll ever see are now over.
Two years later. Billy has been “executed for killing 25 rock ‘n’ rollers,” or so says Rick Righteous, coke-sniffing “MVTV” host. The Rock is ditched and the focus moves to Lynn’s day-to-day life as lead singer of Headmistress. This equates to montages of partying, taking baths, walking in a forest, working out, and being frightened by Billy. Yes, he’s back. And yes, the explanation for his return is hilariously stupid. You can clean your bathtub or make dinner until the final ten minutes, when Headmistress plays a concert while Billy gorges women on stage. A security guard wears jogging shorts.
After one viewing, Rocktober Blood appears to be a total shitter. There’s barely any bloodshed until the end. The entire film was comprised of montages. The actors do not pause for punctuation. The ending was most likely achieved by running out of film. But then, a week later, you catch yourself singing “I’m Back” while waiting in line at the grocery store. You go home and watch the film again. This happens often. Five more times. Twenty more times. Whatever it takes to truly appreciate that golden half hour of cardboard coffins, ass close-ups, and non-dedicated performances of atrocious metal songs. This film is here to rock your balls and your hot, steaming pussy blood.