Wings Over the Pyre

07:33 am - Shock and Horror

There’s a thesis boiling around in the back of my mind, not fully formed yet, but the general outline is fairly clear.

There’s a direct parallel between the role of “horror writer” and that of “shock jock.”

Is that a shocking thought? I’m not sure that it isn’t, in a real sense.

Ultimately, both roles are performers of an artistic act, one with the same ultimate end: societal catharsis. The horror author writes about horrible things, terrible things, things polite society frowns on and certainly wouldn’t relish being put in the place of: serial murderers, rapists, occultists, demons, prisoners, people under duress in the most terrible ways. The shock jock exposes ideas and stances society finds difficult to rectify with the trappings of polite society: political extremism, casual cruelty, sexual perversion, personal disregard. In both cases, the actor puts themselves into the place of an Outsider, one who indulges and pursue those things deemed beyond the ken of the culture.

You didn’t think shock jocks were adopting a role? Absolutely, perhaps shockingly, true. Like the author, they make a character, one designed to resonate with themselves, because if it doesn’t it comes off as fake and weak. Like the author, they pick a story and stick to the narrative, because all good, believable communication is a story, of sorts. It starts here, and proceeds inexorably to there, with twists put in not to confound the reader but to reassure them. The monster isn’t invulnerable; it shrinks from garlic. The shock jock doesn’t kick kittens; they like fudge brownies. The end of the story is in sight from the start, in some sense, but contains new elements accumulated along the way. The vampire is staked with wood from the tree over it’s coffin. The shock jock says reprehensible things but his guests smile and laugh.

At the end of it all, the audience comes away with a sense of relief, of release. The threat is destroyed. Things were said that would be awkward to explain in polite society. It’s much easier to listen to Howard Stern ask a porn star to show him her boobies — and not only ask but get away with it and see the boobies — than to go out approach an attractive woman and ask to see her breasts. It’s safer to tune in to a guy saying all those things you wanted to say about those Self-Righteous Other Political Party Fuckers and nod sagely as you drive down the road. It’s faster to identify to others who are in your social phile by saying, “I listen to Operation BSU!” than to overtly espouse the opinions you hear there; there’s a sense of deniability.

I think it’s a necessary social outlet, a valve to allow the audience, the listener, the public, to explore ideas that aren’t “safe” in a controlled environment. For those two hours, they can be there with Jenna Jameson watching her grind against another woman at their say so. For two hours, they can talk about vivisecting Korean hookers with a sly grin and a wink at the non-extant camera.

Horror authors and shock jocks have a common ancestor, after all: the shaman and storyteller, the one who sat in the shadow by the fire and told scary stories about the Time Before Justice, who gathered the news of enemy tribes and described their horrors to a willing audience, who lived as Outcasts and Outsiders themselves, for the most part. They provided an outlet for their people and a time, for a moment, where the audience could be the Great Destroyer as well as the Preserver.

Maybe this is a little high-minded for someone trying to make their way into the fold, but it’s been lurking in my brain for a while.

Current Mood: thoughtful