It's A Dead Man's Party: The ultimate Halloween playlist

If Halloween is a celebration of dionysian decadence, “Highway To Hell” is the season’s rallying call: Bon Scott sounds absolutely delighted to be indulging in every excess he can imagine, along with a few he has yet to conjure. Satan himself doesn’t surface in “Highway To Hell,” at least not in the biblical sense. This is all about sins of the flesh, transgressions manifested by an irresistible Angus Young riff. Eternal damnation never sounded so good.

“Come To Daddy” is hardly the apotheosis of the work of Richard D. James, the electronic composer and DJ who pioneered IDM under his stage name the Aphex Twin. It’s almost the flipside of his quietly thoughtful records, a grotesque, gnarled near-parody of big beat delivered at a breakneck speed. The Chris Cunningham video containing a cavalcade of children wearing James’ face emphasizes the unease that lurks underneath the cacophony, but even as an audio track “Come To Daddy” sounds unhinged: it’s uncut paranoia.

The cornerstone of goth, “Bela Lugosi’s Dead” manages to sound as vampiric as the song’s namesake: it’s a song that’s difficult to imagine being played at dawn. Much of this is due to the ominous rumble of Peter Murphy, whose voice gets swallowed with its own reverb, yet the skeletal guitar of Daniel Ash creates its own graveyard chill, while the rhythm section of David J and Kevin Haskins maintain a dramatic tension that remains unresolved over the length of nearly 10 minutes.

Jaunty and insouciant, Burt Bacharach’s theme to the cheapo drive-in staple —a 1958 sci-fi flick about space invaders starring a young Steve McQueen—reduces the existential extraterrestrial threat to something as dangerous as a temporary interruption to a frat party. The wailing sax, bossa nova beat, handclaps, collegiate harmonies, and flamenco guitar place this firmly within the late 1950s. But all those period signifiers are also why it’s such a good time: it’s the sound of a B-movie incarnate.

Shel Silverstein updated the legend of the New Orleans voodoo priestess to suit the 1970s, maintaining the witchery and adding a good dose of hippie freak humor. It was an ideal combination for Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show, but country maverick Bobby Bare bettered their version in his loose-limbed, swampy take. Recorded live in the studio, this is funny and funky, highlighted by the banshee wail of Marie Laveau performed by none other than Silverstein himself.

Black Sabbath, the fathers of heavy metal, essentially invented the genre with this eponymous early song. Drenched in occult imagery, the song is filled with blackness and fire, all presided over by a smiling Satan. Ozzy Osbourne wails like he’s been damned to hell but it’s the slow, heavy sludge of Sabbath that conveys a sense of overwhelming, suffocating gloom.

The message Blue Oyster Cult intends to deliver with “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper” is an acceptance of mortality, a coming of terms with the idea that death comes to all living things. What they wound up with is a record that conveys an enormous sense of dread. Maybe it’s because “Buck Dharma” Roeser is a chillingly impassive singer, maybe it’s because their minor-key 12-string guitars chime like the bells at the gateway to hell, but “(Don’t Fear) The Reaper” creeps like death itself at your doorway.

Many of his peers delivered monster songs that verged on the fringe of camp. Not David Bowie. “Scary Monsters (And Super Creeps)” is a cacophonic rush of cloistered energy brought down to Earth by a heavy, ominous backbeat. Bowie sings of frights and horrors, spooky images turned truly nightmarish by the careening guitar of Robert Fripp, whose atonal squalls sound like a killer on a rampage.

Alice Cooper—aka Vincent Furnier—presented himself as a refugee from old horror movies, a stance which allowed him to create something as absurdly grotesque as “I Love The Dead.” He’s not singing about zombies, he’s not singing in the abstract: he’s created an anthem for necrophiliacs. Thanks to the pomp of Bob Ezrin’s production, it becomes clear that Alice intends “I Love The Dead” as a joke but thanks to his ghoulish delivery, it still sounds plenty creepy.

Raised on the dregs of junk culture, spending as much time listening to trashy rockabilly records as they did flipping through old EC comic books, the Cramps personified rock and roll sleaze. In other words, they were fated to cut a record like “I Was A Teenage Werewolf,” a scuzzy 45 that seems to stem from the idea of “what if Elvis howled at the moon?” The primitive thud dressed in fuzz and echo has a kinetic kick, the kind of record that only seems to come alive at the stroke of midnight.

On the surface level, “Bad Moon Rising” appears buoyant, thanks in large part to the rockabilly swing Creedence Clearwater Revival effortlessly achieves. The bright sound disguises the dread John Fogerty places at the heart of the song. Fogerty lists all manners of ominous bad weather—hurricanes, earthquakes, floods—all suggesting the end is coming soon. That apocalyptic note is what lingers long after all the chicken-picking guitars have been plucked.

Never one to pass up clever ideas, Bo Diddley heard Sheb Wooley’s “The Purple People Eater” and decided to recast it as some kind of Abbott & Costello meeting of the stars. Here, Bo encounters the Purple People Eater and gives chase, eventually getting spooked by the monster so he heads back home only to find the creatures took his baby. It’s a riotous tale delivered as an easy-rolling blues-shuffle, grabbing all its energy from Bo’s vigorous delivery.

Will Smith always manages to avoid rapping either the name Freddy Krueger or the title in “A Nightmare On My Street,” but there’s no denying that the 1988 track is a send-up of the horror film series. New Line Cinema certainly thought so, suing DJ Jazzy Jeff & the Fresh Prince in a matter that was settled out of court. Set that unpleasantness aside and “A Nightmare On My Street” is an unabashedly goofy time capsule capturing the brightly-colored pop-rap of the late ’80s and the gloomier horror that functioned as a counterpoint.

Perched at the precipice of psychedelia, “Season Of The Witch” is a slow-burning folk-rock masterpiece, one that may or may not feature instrumental contributions from Jimmy Page and John Paul Jones, musicians who would later indulge in the occult during their time in Led Zeppelin. Certainly, this deliberate, creeping song conveys a feeling of impending doom, one that’s drifting like a mist over the hillside. As Donovan piles up bad omens, the song’s swirl encompasses circular guitars, howling organs and galloping bass, all creating a spookiness that doesn’t quickly dissipate once the song is finished playing.

An early example of Duran Duran’s mastery of mood (not to mention evidence of their debt to Roxy Music), “Night Boat” creeps into focus slowly. Once it takes shape, it’s hazy and ominous. Nick Rhodes’ synthesizers tangle Simon Le Bon’s keening loneliness, tension cascading as the wait for the conclusion stretches out. It’s a tense, cinematic affair, qualities that are emphasized in its accompanying video, which capitalizes on that sense of dread by effectively turning it into a zombie movie.

Ever since he fronted the psychedelic legends the 13th Floor Elevators, Roky Erickson sounded otherworldly. He either sounded possessed or seemed to exist on another astral plane, one that suggested that it wasn’t beyond the realm of reason that he could wander with the undead. On “I Walked With A Zombie,” Erickson sounds neither frenzied nor contemplative: he presents the unknown as a matter of fact, which winds up as unnerving as a more impassioned treatment.

Dutch hard rockers with a penchant for the tasteless, Golden Earring delivered something truly garish with “Twilight Zone”: a midnight ride through the heart of darkness, all set to a thumping Eurodisco beat and dressed in tacky arena-rock guitar. The minor-key riff meshes with the overwrought delivery, each emphasizing the ugliness of the other, a combination that should be repulsive but winds up intoxicating. It indeed is a passport to another dimension of sorts.

“I Put A Spell On You” is the cornerstone of horror rock and roll, although Screamin’ Jay Hawkins didn’t initially intend it to be a goth classic. Hawkins wanted to make a ballad but in a drunken session, he and the band turned it into a guttural, spooky epic. Soon afterward, he tailored his image to suit the record, becoming famous for popping out of a coffin in concerts, and others flocked to the song, turning it into a modern standard. Still, this original reigns supreme, as it captures Screamin’ Jay Hawkins sounding utterly possessed, as if he’s in the midst of conducting a voodoo ceremony.

Michael Jackson designed “Thriller” as a lightweight epic, a song designed to turn nightmares into dreams, or at least an appealing diversion. “Thriller” spins familiar horror movie tropes—it’s midnight, filled with evil monsters lurking in the dark—into floor-filling fun, its campy aspects highlighted by a knowing monologue from Vincent Prince. If familiarity has somewhat dampened its appeal, there’s no denying that it’s the blockbuster among Halloween songs, the one designed to crush all the other creatures.

Mike Oldfield created the musical themes for “Tubular Bells” independent of William Friedkin’s adaptation of William Peter Blatty’s . The filmmakers distilled refrains that kept circling through Oldfield’s 1973 debut album, narrowing on the essence of the music: it’s inherently unsettling and spooky, a spectral melody to haunt your very bones. That quality is evident on either side of Oldfield’s album yet it becomes almost unbearable when edited to a tight four-minute single.

The apex of early Ministry, “Every Day Is Halloween” found Al Jourgensen turning to Wax Trax! to deliver a track pitched halfway between synth-pop and goth. Jourgensen sings about all manners of goth life—wherever he goes, people ask him “Why are you dressed like it’s Halloween?”—but the sound of the record is unexpectedly buoyant, the drum machines and synthesizers battling the minor key hooks and ultimately winning.

Through the kind of serendipity that only happens in show business, and both somehow debuted within a week of each other in September 1964, so it’s difficult to view one without the other. Where the Addams Family was steeped in the gothic sensibility of Charles Addams, The Munsters was a very Hollywood creation, a deliberate satire of family sitcoms that played to conventional beats. It also had a theme song that rocked, capturing the hot rod energy of Southern California in a way that still resonates today.

David Johansen sings “something must’ve happened/over Manhattan” at the start of “Frankenstein,” the heaviest and scariest song on the eponymous debut from New York Dolls. The wall of noise and sleaze doesn’t suggest the titular monster. In the hands of the New York Dolls, “Frankenstein” sounds like Godzilla: big menacing sludge ready to consume the east coast.

A New Wave staple, “Dead Man’s Party” is bright and garish, the clattering percussion vying for attention with blares of horns and chicken-scratch guitar. As the record stretches out over six minutes, Oingo Boingo introduces new freakish elements to the mix, each exaggerated vocal or synth accentuating the strangeness of the zombie bash. “Dead Man’s Party” can be intense but its length is also part of the point: you’re trapped in a party and can’t get out.

Ozzy Osbourne may not have been as immersed in the occult as his Black Sabbath bandmate Tony Iommi, yet he had a flair for bringing the dark arts to life. “Mr. Crowley,” an ode to notorious English occultist Aleister Crowley, isn’t as mired in murk as Sabbath; it opens with a synthesized fanfare straight out of a slasher film. That comic book flair, ratcheted up by a ripping Randy Rhoads guitar solo, is the key to its appeal: he’s embracing the outlandish aspects of the occult, turning into something of an oversized legend himself in the process.

Writing a theme song to a movie as silly as is a tricky assignment, so no wonder rockers Lindsey Buckingham and Huey Lewis passed on the task. Enter Ray Parker Jr. The slick funkster came up with the ingenious idea of crafting the song as an advertisement for the Ghostbusters business, devising the indelible hook of “Who you gonna call.” The chorus is a clever callback to the film but, more importantly, it’s a joyously goofy rallying cry ideal for parties.

The granddaddy of all rock and roll Halloween records, “Monster Mash” wasn’t the first ghoulish rock novelty, nor was it the last, yet it was the quintessential entry in this subgenre. Credit should go not to Bobby “Boris” Pickett—an actor who also could do a killer Boris Karloff impression—but to producer Gary S. Paxton, who gave this silly song a crack studio band featuring pianist Leon Russell and slathered it with spooky sound effects that make it not just an enduring seasonal classic but the record that defines its own realm.

Originally released as a B-side in 1968, “Careful With That Axe, Eugene” came to life when Pink Floyd played it in concert, which allowed the group to stretch out its ominous soundscape. The version they released on the appealingly indulgent Ummagumma double-LP eclipses the original version by building up the drama slowly, then shifting in intensity after the titular is whispered then followed by a blood-curdling scream, all leading to a shape-shifting swirl that’s among the most nightmarish music they made.

Raised on trash, the Ramones were destined to create a B-level tune for a B-movie, so we have “Pet Sematary,” a goofy song for a goofy movie. It’s a bit too heavy, slow and clean to be prime Ramones, but in this context the overproduction is kind of endearing. The big sound highlights how silly a song built upon the line “I don’t want to be buried/In a pet sematary” is and also showcases Joey Ramone doing his best ghoulish oversinging on the long fade, a piece of flair well-suited to a film based on a pulpy Stephen King book.

Arriving early on in , Time Warp essentially serves as the song that gives away Richard O’Brien’s game. He’s created a rock opera out of detritus of pre-British Invasion pop culture, marrying sci-fi fantasies with dance crazes. The step-by-step instructions on how to dance the “Time Warp” make it ideal for parties but it’s the parade of creatures embracing their inner freakiness that still makes the record sound so potent.

Cut at the peak of the Rolling Stones’ fascination with the occult and Satanism, “Sympathy For The Devil ‘’ does the impossible: it manages to avoid descending into silliness or caricature. Some of that is certainly due to the bustling rhythms and busy piano from Nicky Hopkins, an arrangement that builds tension that’s released by a razor-like solo from Keith Richards. Much of the credit belongs to Mick Jagger, who lists a cavalcade of evil across the years in his lyrics in a way that creates a sense of foreboding. This isn’t a celebration, it’s a bubbling cauldron of paranoia.

Jumpin Gene Simmons—not to be confused with the Gene Simmons from Kiss, who indeed took his stage name from this Mississippi singer—delivered something of a marvel with “Haunted House”: a novelty song with an R&B swing so big that the lyrics about aliens and ghouls could almost seem incidental. The fact that “Haunted House” works as its own jumping little number doesn’t erase that it’s the best of the post-”Monster Mash” creature rockers: it’s as funny as it is infectious.

There’s a manic, unnerving energy to “Halloween,” an early masterwork from Siouxsie & the Banshees. The nervy, relentless beat tangles with live-wire guitar, a sound that’s infectious and spooky enough even without Siouxsie’s spirited wail commanding all the attention. The Banshees create such a visceral rush that it’s easy to excuse the perhaps overly literal “Trick or Treat” chorus: the group has wound up conjuring the darkest elements of the holiday.

Proto-punk garage rockers from the Pacific Northwest, the Sonics were rougher and tougher than such peers as the Kingsmen. Everything about them sounded wilder: the rhythms were manic, Gerry Roslie shredded his vocals, guitarist Larry Parypa seemed on the verge of breaking his strings, and saxophonist Rob Lind added another level of nervous energy. All of this is captured on “The Witch,” their 1964 debut single that sounds so frenzied, it seems dangerous. This isn’t a cartoon witch, it’s one that sounds like it’s ready to cast a spell to wreck your life.

All the more frightening due to its cloistered incoherence, “Death Valley 69" is an early Sonic Youth cut—they’d yet to be anchored by their rock, drummer Steve Shelley—showcasing Lydia Lunch, one of the linchpins of No Wave. Together, the pair sketch a horrifying, messy and electrifying impressionistic portrait of Southern Californian nihlism, pegging the treacherous landscape to the year of the Charles Manson murders. It’s a high concept but it scars because it hits the gut, not the head.

Jerry Dammers wrote “Ghost Town” as the Specials’ protest song against Thatcherite policies: it conveys the doomy wasteland of Britain in the early 1980s. “Ghost Town” may be inextricably tied to its era but its gloom floats outside of time, suggesting an eternal sense of dread and decay. All these years later, it still sounds haunted and spectral, as scary a record as ever produced in the rock and roll era.

Something of a proto-goth, British rocker Screaming Lord Sutch was an oddity in the time before the Beatles. Styling himself as Jack the Ripper and often performing after rising out of a coffin onstage, Sutch embraced horror movie tropes way before Alice Cooper. Thanks to troubled genius Joe Meek, he also created one of the great horror rock and roll records with “Til The Following Night,” a single filled with burbling beakers, howling winds, screams and creaking doors—all setting the stage for Sutch’s vampiric routine. It’s a scream, as it were.

David Byrne doesn’t need to sing that he’s tense and nervous. The itch guitar of Jerry Harrison and Byrne’s vocals play off of the tight funk created by Chris Frantz’s drums and Tina Weymouth’s roaming bass to convey a sense of internal anxiety, suggesting that this early Talking Heads number is peek into an unsettled mind. Years later, the combination has lost none of its potency.

A precursor to “Monster Mash,” “Dinner With Drac” rocketed into the Top 10 in 1958. A rock and roll novelty in a time rife with them, “Dinner With Drac” played upon the “Cool Ghoul” persona John Zacherle adopted as a DJ and television host of Shock Theater. All that, along with a friendship with Dick Clark, explains why Zacherle got a shot at having a record on Cameo Records, but “Dinner With Drac” is a hoot on its own terms: an over-the-top collection of corny, gory jokes that still can earn a ghoulish chuckle.

Phil Everly planted the idea of a dance craze called the “Werewolves Of London” inside the head of his bandleader Warren Zevon, who let the notion simmer until it became this gloriously absurd shuffle. Here, the changelings aren’t scruffy beasts: they’re smooth swingers enjoying a pina colada at Trader Vic’s, flaunting their perfect hair at the classic Los Angeles watering hole. This sense of humor gives the slick L.A. groove an enduring kick.