In the early-1990s, while walking down Hollywood Boulevard as a cluck from Colorado, I remember coming across a videotape of The Misfits playing live from 1983 and thinking “dude, no fucking way.” I’d never seen actual footage of them, but perpetually carried one of their sadistic Elvisy horror-themed songs stuck in my head (particularly “Queen Wasp”). I wanted to see their devil locks, the face paint, those signature Crimson Ghost insignias and battle ax basses and the basement crowd reacting to one of their purportedly awful performances. Danzig the former grave robber. “Skulls.” Green Hell. Only and Robo and Doyle and Mr. Jim (god bless him). Ed Wood and Plan 9 From Outer Space. All that stuff. I bought it. And everything was as I’d hoped it would be, from the shit-quality to the clam notes to the indecipherable lyrics from a lurched over Danzig. I brought it back to the 303 and impressed would-be Fiend Club members. There’s something irretrievable about this kind of history that gives you a pang of inflated significance.