November 01, 2012

Monster Mash, Dissected

I have listened to "Monster Mash" on a continuous loop every Halloween since 2009. You can mash 445 times in the 24 hours of October 31st. What follows is a fully-formed analysis of this "sad ballad" [Bader, 2011] now bursting forth from my Pickett-addled brain. I have seen the world of this song and, at the end of the day, it is good.


I was working in the lab late one night 
...because he has no friends or family to go home to. Or he did once and his workaholism and scientific obsession have driven them all away. His lab and the cold, lifeless tools and creatures therein are now his only friends.
When my eyes beheld an eerie sight 
This archaic phrasing shows that the scientist has lost all touch with regular people and the parlance of the times. He now hides in the ivory tower of his education, ne'er deigning to visit the plebs.
For my monster from his slab began to rise
His monster? So, he does have a living friend, kinda. This monster may be more fiend than friend, however. The ensuing interaction might turn lethal and finally, ironically end this scientist's now gutter-dwelling excuse for a life.
And suddenly to my surprise
This can't be good.

He did the mash 
He did the monster mash 
The monster mash
This repetition is deliberate. Clearly, the scientist is either hallucinating or in such shock that he has regressed to his nursery-rhyming youth, back when his parents were alive to love him.
It was a graveyard smash
This man's own creation takes joy in desecrating the memory of the dead. To what extent is he his master’s monster?
He did the mash 
It caught on in a flash 
Dancing mania. Now the scientist has lost bodily control and is rationalizing his fit as a growing trend in the vacant laboratory.
He did the mash 
He did the monster mash 
More repetition. More evidence of regression.

From my laboratory in the castle east 
He lives in a castle, then. He must have inherited the manor from his parents, much like Bruce Wayne. But unlike Mr. Wayne, the scientist has unleashed his monster to dishonor the graves of his parents. Also, this guy is too busy spazzing out to fight crime, as if he would even want to.
To the master bedroom where the vampires feast 
Evidently guests do come to the house, only to be bitten by a horde of vampires that lurk in the bureaus. The scientist has gone from ungrateful loner to second-degree murderer.
The ghouls all came from their humble abodes 
This castle overlooks a literal ghost town. The denizens, long dead, now linger on in shapeless decay, attracted to the rare and sullen goings-on of the decrepit castle like moths to a flame.
To get a jolt from my electrodes 
Perhaps electroshock therapy is the only way out of all this.

They did the mash 
They did the monster mash 
The monster mash 
It was a graveyard smash 
They did the mash 
It caught on in a flash 
They did the mash 
They did the monster mash 
This may be premature, but I think things are looking up. The congress of ghouls and vampires in the laboratory is an impromptu community. Though none of these dancers have souls, this is the most social contact the scientist has had in years. Robot chicken soup for his soul!


The zombies were having fun 
When zombies are the life of a party, you know something's off. I'm concerned that there isn't enough room in this laboratory for all these dancers. On the other hand, this castle has probably never been up to the fire code.
The party had just begun 
The guests included Wolf Man
The local werewolf feels the need to affirm his masculinity.
Dracula and his son
Ah yes, the first evidence of relationship in this tale, besides the subtextual references to the scientist's former family. Presumably, Drac was feasting with the other vampires in the master bedroom, instructing his son in the family business—an attempt to connect with him during weekend custody—when he decided they could do for some dancing. I haven't heard of too many father-son dances, but hey: different strokes for different undead folks.

The scene was rockin', all were digging the sounds 
Lingo like this tells me that the scientist is picking up on the language of the people of 1962. Perhaps there is hope for him!
Igor on chains, backed by his baying hounds 
So the scientist has had an assistant all along who has now stepped out of his master's shadow and is pursuing a solo career. Let's hope he's more successful than Garfunkel, and also that the agitated dogs don't jeopardize the safety of this party.
The coffin-bangers were about to arrive 
Necrophiles or more grave-desecrators?
With their vocal group, "The Crypt-Kicker Five"
Giving The Backstreet Boys a run for their money, no doubt.

They played the mash 
They played the monster mash 
The monster mash 
It was a graveyard smash 
They played the mash 
It caught on in a flash 
They played the mash 
They played the monster mash 
What started as one monster's sad shuffling is now a hit single being played by a live band. I take back what I said before. This is now a legitimate party.

Out from his coffin, Drac's voice did ring
Was he hiding from his son in there?
Seems he was troubled by just one thing
That he doesn't have full custody?
He opened the lid and shook his fist 
"When I was your age..."
And said, "Whatever happened to my Transylvania twist?" 
Oh dear. He's remembering the one party he attended in college with the cool kids and the dance they did. It's 1962, Drac. The kids don't do the Transylvania Twist anymore. Also, Transylvania Twist would be a good name for a Halloween cocktail.


It's now the mash 
It's now the monster mash 
The monster mash 
And it's a graveyard smash 
It's now the mash 
It's caught on in a flash 
It's now the mash 
It's now the monster mash 
Okay, no need to rub it in. Drac is behind the times, but that's no reason to embarrass him in front of his son.

Now everything's cool, Drac's a part of the band 
That was fast.
And my monster mash is the hit of the land 
I don't know if the scientist's claim to ownership of his monster's song will hold up in court.
For you, the living, this mash was meant too 
I appreciate that!

When you get to my door, tell them Boris sent you 
Okay, let's not go too far here. No one is coming to your door. We've established that your castle is on the edge of a ghoul-infested village. Also, Boris? The only Borises I know are Nikhil Iyengar and Boris Yeltsin, and I don't think the first president of the Russian Federation is in the habit of hosting parties where the living can mingle with the dead. Then again, he did ensure the average Russian would forever live with the death of both communism and nascent capitalism.

Then you can mash
Then you can monster mash
The monster mash
And do my graveyard smash
He's really harping that this song is his.
Then you can mash
You'll catch on in a flash
Yes, thank you. I too have confidence in my ability to learn quickly a dance crafted by an oversized lab rat.
Then you can mash
Then you can monster mash
And that's what it's all about. Much like the hokey pokey, the monster mash has become a way for a man to turn himself around. Most of his new friends lack souls, but they're a good start. He is now eagerly awaiting living persons to knock on his door and enter.