John Carpenter played at the Carnegie Music Hall on Sunday and I was so happy to be there. I bought my solo ticket a few months ago and I was legitimately looking forward to going alone, sitting alone, and not talking to anyone.
YOU KNOW HOW IT IS.
In case you don’t know, John Carpenter is basically a god. Not only did he direct my favorite horror movie of all time—“Halloween”—but he also composed its theme. Going to horror conventions isn’t my cup of succulents, so when there was a chance to see him in this kind of setting, I was all for that.
Chooch and I fought the entire way there over whose phone needed charged more and I think Henry wanted to just push and roll me out of the moving car by the time we got to Homestead. I made him drop me off a little bit down the street so people wouldn’t think my DADDY and BROTHER had driven me there. Big Trouble in Little Chevy Cruze.
Once all the ladies at the door finished gushing over my raygun purse (I HAVE AWESOME PURSES, it’s the only interesting thing about me) I went to the makeshift bar area, made no eye contact with anyone, bought my traditional sippy cup of wine, stood in the slow-as-fuck merch line for a poster, and then found my seat in my favorite spot: balcony right, second row near the end. The view is perf.
I was familiar with most of the movie themes played that night, but JC and his band also performed some tracks from his non-movie albums as well, and I was into it. Those tracks were just as dark and sleazy, like cruising in Christine through the fog to the porn shop after doing a fuck-ton of cocaine and stabbing your dealer in the throat, and now your heart’s EKG is tracing geometric Trapper Keeper designs because coke and murder.
There was no opening band, but I think the dream line-up would have been Goblin, Angelo Badalamenti, and John Carpenter. RIGHT!?
Every so often, John would fork his fingers and make the “I’m watching you” gesture to some random blob in the audience and I SHIT YOU NOT he did it to me, I don’t give a fuck what that mousey bitch in front of me thought. He looked right over her dumb face and jutted his fingers at ME and I was all, “I SEE YOU TOO, JOHN CARPENTER!!!!”
I tried to share this memory with Henry when I got home that night but he just rolled his eyes, probably because he was jealous. He knows how much I love old guys.
I’m not even going to pretend to be anyone but That Guy who was there primarily for dem Michael Myers vibes tho. And when that jam was finally plucked away on the keyboard by the very tips of John Carpenter’s finger tips, I felt seized by extreme adoration and amazement.
The night was loaded with moody, synth-driven 80s instrumental rock that gave me chills even though it was 99 degrees in that theater. I half expected to go home to my art-deco house—you know, the one with random glass block windows and pastel abstract art prints—and finding a black-gloved killer waiting to spring out from my closet and stab me to death on my waterbed, getting blood spatter all over my rad shoulder-padded blazer.
What a dream. John Carpenter, you and your band are too fucking cool for slasher school.