So this past Christmas, my son received a gift that I think I was more excited about than he was. When I say excited, I mean more thrilled than anyone’s ever been about anything. Now before you go asking what it was that Santa brought him, know that this particular gift was from my mother-in-law and my issues with the big guy in the red pajamas are still ongoing as he again was a no show this past year. When my son opened that little wrapped box, his face lit up, but when he revealed the contents to be tickets to Monster Jam, I was absolutely over the moon.
See, my favorite song as a kid was Bobby “Boris” Pickett’s 1962 hit “The Monster Mash“. When I say favorite, I mean I played that song on repeat for entire years of my childhood, regardless of the season. I always dreamed that one day, I too could party with monsters and dance the night away, leaving my loneliness and abusive parents behind me. To give you an idea of the depths of my infatuation, I called my childhood home “Castle East” and would tell everyone that my bedroom is the place where the vampires feast. I named no less than 5 pets “Igor” as I grew older, and whenever my son and I are doing anything together, I’m constantly saying, “I wonder what Dracula and his son are up to.” He used to laugh when I’d say that, but he soon came to realize I wasn’t joking. I am into this song.
At last, with this one gift, even though it wasn’t meant for me, my life finally made sense. Truly, I had found what I was put here on this planet to do. My chance to hang out with the likes of Dracula, Frankenstein, the Wolf-man, and maybe even the Creature from the Black Lagoon had arrived. I envisioned a night of bone-chilling jams, ghostly grooves, and perhaps a choreographed Thriller-esque dance number with the undead. It was going to be wonderful.
This past weekend, the big day finally arrived after weeks of waiting. My son and I drove into the city, parked in the stadium parking lot, and excitedly ran for the front gate, our arms full of gear and snacks that were promptly confiscated by security as we entered the arena. I didn’t even care. I ran to the closest concession stand and bought an official “Monster Jam” hat and matching T-Shirt. My son got a big foam finger, proudly stating that he was a fan of “Zombie”. We made our way to our seats and sat munching on popcorn awaiting the start of the show. That’s when the first truck pulled out onto the mud filled floor.
Soon a second truck pulled out, giant wheels throwing mud behind it as it raced across the arena, quickly followed by another. I waited for the spooky drivers to exit their vehicles to start the macabre dance of my dreams, but as we sat there, more trucks filled the arena. Just trucks. Big, loud, muddy trucks.
“Start the dancing already!” I shouted. But my voice was silenced by the roaring sound of engines. I looked around to see no one in the crowd getting into the music that was being utterly negated by the giant trucks at center stage. I was dumbfounded. When would we be permitted to jump into the mud and jam with the monstrous drivers of these lame trucks?
So we waited. At a few points my son and I were each fast asleep waiting for the monsters to exit their trucks and delight us with their fanciful dances. As we yawned, the trucks whipped around, sometimes shedding their plastic outside shells to reveal very human looking drivers. Had we been had?
After three hours of waiting, sitting through truck after truck driving over ramps and soaring lazily through the air, a voice on the loudspeaker thanked us for coming out and the trucks all disappeared into the guts of the arena. I hadn’t even seen one monster, let alone gotten to jam with one, and the show appeared to be over.
“BOOOOOOOOO!!!!” I shouted. “How dare you waste our time like this?” I tried to lead the crowd in a chant of “DANCE WITH US” but my boisterous attempts were only met with confused looks. I didn’t know what had gone wrong, but that’s when I looked down at the program that we had purchased for thirty dollars at one of the booths. The trucks were the entire show?
I looked at the names listed on the program. They were so promising! Creatures called Monster Mutt and El Toro Loco lurked within its pages. Hell, there was even a Unicorn! Apparently though, each truck was driven by a man, small and slight, with no obvious musical talents or penchant for dancing, clad in a fire retardant suit because their frail bodies couldn’t take the heat of any actual flames that refused to engulf their vehicles.
I was a fool. I looked down with tears in my eyes at the five names I had circled on the program that I was most excited to get jiggy with. All five were lies, hokey symbols of the creatures they were meant to represent. I felt downright stupid for setting my expectations so high, but I’ll share with you my five most anticipated dancing partners.
5. Gravedigger
What I Expected: An enigmatic figure in a tattered cloak, lurking in the shadows with a shovel slung over his shoulder. He’d tell tales of cursed cemeteries and forgotten souls while moonlighting as a kick-ass bassist. I was ready for a creepy yet oddly poetic interpretive dance about life, death, and which crypt had the best acoustics.
What I Got: A neon-green monstrosity with giant tires, flames painted on the sides, and a name so edgy it belongs in a Hot Topic clearance bin. Sure, it drove around in circles for a bit and jumped into the air before landing and breaking its axle, but where was the somber graveyard ambience? Where was the existential dread? Instead, I got a fireworks display and a kid screaming, “Do a backflip!” followed by immediate disappointment.
4. Megalodon
What I Expected: The prehistoric terror of the deep! A massive shark with rows of jagged teeth, ready to leap out of a tank and perform synchronized swimming stunts to Jaws-themed techno beats. Imagine the drama of a 50-foot aquatic beast thrashing to the rhythm of underwater dubstep.
What I Got: A truck that looks like someone glued fins to a Hot Wheels car and called it a day. It zipped around the muddy track while the announcer yelled something about “shredding” the competition. No water. No techno. Just a land shark with hydraulics. Megalodon deserved better, and so did I.
3. Kraken
What I Expected: A massive, tentacled beast rising from a foggy stage, swinging its appendages to some killer drum solos. The Kraken would be the headliner, performing a nautical-themed power ballad while I screamed, “Release the Kraken!” at the top of my lungs. Bonus points if the beast could muster some pirate sounding vocals.
What I Got: Another truck, this one with some squiggly octopus art slapped on its sides. It didn’t even crush anything in an octopus-like fashion—not a single sucker-shaped tire mark in the mud. The only thing Kraken managed to drag down was my spirit.
2. Zombie
What I Expected: A horde of decaying party animals groaning in unison as they shambled onto the stage. They’d do a ghoulish dance routine, maybe toss in a zombie rap battle for good measure. I’d even practiced my best zombie shuffle to join the fun.
What I Got: A truck with foam zombie arms flapping around like inflatable tube men, at least until they fell off the hood one minute into its drive. The only “dance” it did was a wheelie, which, while seemingly impressive to some of the crowd, lacked the undead charm I’d been promised. I’d give it a 2/10 on the apocalypse scale, which is what I use to measure anything fun I do.
1. Bigfoot
What I Expected: The legendary Sasquatch himself! He’d burst onto the stage with his mighty roar, maybe wielding a guitar made from a tree trunk. Bigfoot would lead the crowd in a primal chant, uniting man and beast in an epic jam session that blurred the lines between myth and music.
What I Got: Bigfoot is the original monster truck, which, in fairness, should be iconic in its own right. But there was no roaring, no chanting, and in fact the truck didn’t even show up. Bigfoot’s driver couldn’t be bothered to make the appearance. The picture in the program was just a really big truck with a blue paint job. Bigfoot? More like Big Letdown.
Instead of mingling with classic movie monsters, I got mud, boredom, and enough noise to rattle the fillings in my teeth. When we got home, I researched the history of monster trucks. Though the history only goes back forty years or so, the “sport” has drastically changed from where it began. If the trucks had been crushing disabled cars like days of old instead of just doing jumps and revving their engines, perhaps I would have been entertained enough to forget my expectations for a moment. But given the show that was actually presented to me, more or less a motor-cross exhibition with bigger tires, I had no choice but to spend the night mourning the dance party that could have been.
So, to all future Monster Jam attendees: if you’re looking for a monster mash, you may sadly be regulated to the sweet sounds of Boris Pickett’s library (for anyone with good taste in music, see Monster Swim, Transylvania Twist, and Monster Holiday for more of Bobby’s genius works). But if you’re into oversized tires, very loud noises, and boring aerial stunts, then by all means, enjoy the jam. Just don’t expect Dracula to show up with a mic.
Hiram Glassman
