It feels like just yesterday an upper echelon in the realms of horror journalism tried getting me cancelled for stating that Silver Bullet (1985) was the best werewolf movie ever made. I was accused of likely also enjoying Monster Dog (1984) – the verdict? Guilty as charged. Let’s be real – if you came here for highly intellectual waxing on elevated horror flicks, you’ve come to the wrong place. I’m a Hell Comes to Frogtown (1988) stan, need I say more? Now, back to the matter at hand – shitty werewolf movies. I love them. There is only one subgenre I dig more – heavy metal horror. What were to happen if you blend the two, you ask? A slightly obnoxious albeit totally hilarious straight-to-video flick called Hard Rock Nightmare (1988).

If you’re anything like me, you’ve likely seen your fair share of rock n’ roll horror, so ya probably got this mixed up with the Canadian Jon-Mikl-Thor-fights-the-devil MASTERPIECE that is Rock N’ Roll Nightmare (1987). The titles are very similar, though the content varies greatly (ie: no devil, just werewolves). Hard Rock Nightmare‘s working title was literally Wolves, Sex, and Rock – which tells you pretty much everything you need to know about this film. Guess my job here is done, eh? Enjoy the movies, guys!

I kid, I kid. Y’all know this is about werewolves and heavy music, but you might not know the whole dealio in between. Much like every other rock n’ roll horror, the protagonists herein are a rock n’ roll band called the Bad Boys. Led by a heavily traumatized leather (jacket only, unfortunately) clad rocker Jim (Martin Hansen), the remainder of the band follow him to the source of his trauma – the cottage where he killed his grandfather as a child because he was convinced the old man was a werewolf. Why would he go back to the scene of so much distress it has literally mangled his entire adult existence? Who cares! We get to see all these dollar-store-beauties get bonked by a blood hungry werewolf that seemingly only spawns when coitus is about to commence. Forgive the minor spoiler, but the first kill occurs in the middle of a groupie giving a handjob to the sound guy. I mean, I get it – ya gotta start somewhere, right?

Now, I’ve talked a lot about how shitty the wolf looks in my beloved Silver Bullet; I’ll be honest, the wolf here ain’t much better. It sure as shit doesn’t look like a black bear though, so that is most definitely worth its weight in gold. Lots of gnarly close ups of its yellowed eyes, elongated fingers, razor sharp claws – the works, y’know? Regardless, I personally found the focal point not to be the wolf at all, but the dialogue. I live for these near bottom of the barrel horror flicks pumped out to make a buck in the late ’80s because they don’t shy away from how stupid they actually are. I am fully convinced this may be the most quotable movie of all time. Hell, David Lee Roth even gets a namedrop or two – while I’m on the subject, that groupie chick aforementioned? She claims the guitarist of The Bad Boys is sexier than DLR. To this, I say “BITCH, GET A GRIP!”

Aside from its highly quotable nature, there is several other things Hard Rock Nightmare is deserving of high praise for. Firstly, the drummer – I swear to Bon Scott, this motherfucker is twirling those sticks in his fingers the entire movie. Not exaggerating in the least. Look behind the folks in frame, you’ll see that stick goin’ at it in the background. It is an absolute cinematic marvel. This dude should’ve played in a band, even if he can’t play drums. Make him the Sid Vicious of drummers, I don’t give a shit! The man’s got talent! And if you’ve ever wanted to see a dude twirl his drumsticks while clad in nothing but lace lingerie, this movie is for you.

If gratuitous drum twirling wasn’t enough to tickle my fancy, this flick is chock-full of all the dumb, sleazy shit that I live for. You’ve got hot chick butts walking to heavy metal riffs; You’ve got a purple lit fog sequence in a tour bus that needn’t be there; Sex is referred to as ‘boinking’; Pea soup barf!; Dick punching; Unironic riffing on Friday the 13th (1980) – KILL! KILL! KILL!; Baseball bat versus werewolf (*side eyes Silver Bullet*); and a bit of a Scooby Doo ending. Cherry on top is the comically stoned chick that attempts to feed the werewolf a candy bar. Perhaps this is a tad narcisstic of me, but I legitimately feel like this movie was plucked entirely from my own brain and I wanna shove myself into a locker for having not seen it sooner.

I could flesh out the purpose of the film a little more, but is that even necessary? Of course the existence of werewolves is constantly questioned throughout the film, that is a huge part of what makes these movies. I really don’t care, and you probably don’t either. We watch these movies for entertainment – like junk food for the brain! I can also say with confidence that this is one of the better rock and roll horror flicks. A lot of ’em are a little dry, but this baby is anything but. I had fun the entire time, despite having difficulties breathing from laughing so hard because some of the shit that happens in this movie is so incredibly dumb that I can’t believe it exists – Imagine the chaos of Hard Rock Zombies (1985) minus the nonsensical plotline. I mean, what kinda movie follows up praise for The Partridge Family with a vehemently stern “SHUT UP!” Pure gatekeeping despite everyone wearing not-tight-enough-jeans and having pretty bad hair. Can’t complain, though. Hair comes and goes, but wolves, sex, and rock? That shit is forever, baby!