Chinatown is its usual dark self, neon light illuminating small patches of Arch Street, bits of trash collecting along the sidewalk. The Trocadero, one of Philly’s go-to concert spots, is teeming with bodies. A group of 30 smokers stand outside its doors, chattering and inhaling long drags. Everything about the scene would be normal... if the smokers weren’t all dressed as zombies. Gut dripping, blood-soaked zombies. And they are here for their prom.
Inside the Troc, the spectacle is even stranger. The fast flashes of a strobe light reveal lacerated limbs and oozing wounds. Zombies twist in their brain-stained ball gowns and ripped tuxedos, raising their arms in a sort of homage to the classic zombie pose. A zombie Viking leans against a column, slurping his zombie punch, while a ‘70s-style tuxedoed zombie bobs his fro nearby.
The band onstage is playing the Ramones’ “Hey Ho, Let’s Go,” and zombies jump enthusiastically. As the song dies down, an MC appears on stage to toss prizes into the crowd. “Now, what I want you to do is pretend these are brains!” he yells. The zombies let out screams of pleasure, surging forward, arms outstretched and bloody fingers spread.
Despite the way it looks, the undead have not all risen up to eat the living. So how did these zombies come to gather on a Sunday night? It is thanks to Melissa Torre, Robert Drake and Dave Christman, (a.k.a. Dave Ghoul), the organizers of the Zombie Prom, as well as the Zombie Beach Party and the Zombie Easter Crawl.
According to Christman, the whole thing started five years ago when Melissa heard about the first ever zombie crawl in Minneapolis. She pitched the idea to her friend Robert, and in turn Robert recruited Dave. As to why they decided to hold the crawl on Easter Sunday, Christman says it was for two reasons: first, Jesus is the most famous person to be resurrected (in zombie speak, the first undead). The second is that the ever-poppin’ South Street is usually deserted on the holiday, so it makes it easier to organize a pub crawl.
Tattooed Mom, a casual, punk rock bar, is “ground zero” of the Easter crawl, which usually includes four bars. The Easter crawl concludes at Fluid night club, where Psydde Delicious runs an amateur punk rock go-go night every Sunday evening. Up to a certain point in the night, zombies get into the club for free, and Christman says this informal after-party has become “the second mainstay of the event.” For those who have never heard of Delicious, he’s another Philly legend — he sells handmade corsets by day and runs parties like “Fast Cheap and Out of Control” by night.
Christman explains that the Zombie Beach Party premiered last year as a “sort of nice in-between event, to promote the prom and the crawl.” Smaller than the other two events, the Beach Party drew about 200 people to the Trocadero.
In contrast, this year’s Zombie Prom had roughly 900 attendees, and Christman is proud to confirm that the number of zombies grows each year. The first Philly Zombie Crawl was held in 2006, and the first prom in 2007, and the two have drawn both the masses and notable zombie icons, such as George Romero (of Dawn of the Dead fame) himself.
When asked about the source of his own zombie interests, Christman explains, “I’ve always been drawn to horror.” Growing up, he would spend Saturday mornings watching horror host Dr. Shock and Channel 48’s “Creature Double Feature.” In his teens, Christman worked in various haunted houses, but it wasn’t until about 12 years ago that he decided to make horror his profession. Billed on the Zombie Prom website as “Philly’s own horror king and Zombieologist,” he now runs Grendel’s Den Design Studio, which specializes in macabre web and graphic design. He also helps run HorrorFind Weekend, one of the largest horror conventions on the East Coast. “It’s not turned into a case of ‘gee, now this thing I love is no longer a hobby,’” Christman says, “I love the fact that I’m doing what I want to do.”
As for zombies in particular, Christman explains that he has always been attracted to the “voodoo aspect” of zombie lore — the idea that the dead could be resurrected and controlled by someone else. “Here’s this means of bringing someone back from the dead and making them do your bidding — a horrific idea on the receiving end!” The movie that really got him hooked on the zombie world was Return of the Living Dead, a zombie horror/comedy released in 1985. According to Christman, it was the “very first zombie film where the need to eat brains shows up.”
Regarding the Philadelphia zombie fan base, Christman admits there isn’t exactly a “zombie community.” However, he laughs, “a lot of [zombie] stuff is coming out of Philadelphia. As to what to credit that to, I have no idea. I would love to pat us on the back for it, but that’s just too much hubris.” Christman also calls Philly the East Coast’s “quirky, weird town.” “If there’s going to be something weird,” he says, “it will probably come out of Philly.”
While Christman is on stage at the prom, zombies mill about everywhere. In the front of the Troc, a man stands near the makeup artists, clutching a skull. Inside the skull is a spongy looking brain, and descending from the base of the skull is a tube that resembles vertebrae. A skeleton beer bong. In true Philly fashion, Ryan, the owner of the contraption, is sipping a can of PBR. His right eye is completely obscured by an oozing, bubbled mess of what appears to be flesh.
Ryan is standing with two similarly grotesque figures, Colin Hagerty and Clinton Graybill. Both Colin and Clinton work for Eastern State Penitentiary, and each has some claim to zombie fame. Colin explains that he once won “Best Zombie” at a festival in Monroeville, Pa. For those unacquainted with zombie culture, Monroeville (specifically, the Monroeville Mall) is the location of George Romero’s Dawn of the Dead, a zombie cult classic. Clinton boasts, “I’m actually the number one zombie in America.”
The men continue to sip beer and growl until, as in all good proms, the night culminates in a crowning of the Zombie Prom King and Queen. Amanda Bowers, a pale, thin woman wearing a bodice with a painted-on skeleton, accepts her crown calmly. She’s from Lancaster, Pa. and didn’t come intent on winning the title. “I like zombies,” she says, “I just came here to have fun.” The Zombie King is a bit more high profile than his newly crowned female counterpart. Eric Morgan stands somewhere above seven feet tall (the stilts help) and he is dressed as Zombie Hulk — which, as Christman later adds, really marks Eric as a nerd among nerds (Marvel once put out a limited “Marvel Zombies” series). Eric is a costumer for low-budget horror productions, so finding an outfit for the prom wasn’t difficult for him. As the new Zombie Prom King and Queen, Amanda and Eric will lead next year’s Easter Zombie Crawl.
In addition to this honor, the King and Queen are given “Dead Babies,” grotesque dolls crafted specially for the prom by Anders Eriksen. Eriksen is best known for making high-quality replicas of the razor-tipped gloves worn by Freddy Kreuger in A Nightmare on Elm Street.
Following the crowning of the King and Queen, The Young Werewolves take the stage. They are a Philly-based group comprised of Nick Falcon on guitar, Dana Kain on bass and Jonny Wolf on drums. The crowd goes wild when the Werewolves launch into the Zombie Prom theme song, fittingly titled “Zombie Prom.” The Werewolves have a self-described “simple sound,” made unique by the “round robin vocals that [they] incorporate into [their] sets.” They play modern rock with a dash of “punk, garage, surf, goth, rockabilly, bebop, swing and jump blues.” When asked what it’s like to play for a crowd of zombies, the Werewolves respond “horrific and terrific.”
The crowd is, indeed, horrific and terrific. Joe Coen, a large man wearing what he calls a “Mexican tuxedo” — the snakeskin pattern on the jacket is white and shiny — boasts that he’s been to every Zombie event since 2004. He also explains his “zombie drill,” the plan he has for when the zombies rise and attack: first Joe will grab his 12-gauge shotgun. Then, he will head over to his buddy Erik’s house, because Erik has a larger arsenal. Following this, Erik and Joe will motorcycle to the Tyler Memorial Arboretum, where they will be totally enclosed and ready for attack. After this, they will wait for the zombies.
Standing near Joe in the front foyer is Nikki DuBan, a makeup artist from Eastern State Penitentiary’s “Terror Behind the Walls.” She has her kit spread out on a small cocktail table, its contents including a box of quick oats, a squirt bottle of red liquid, hand sanitizer, hairspray, cotton balls, various makeup brushes and containers of colored goop.
DuBan is liberally applying oatmeal to Ann Lam’s arm, which, she explains, gives the wound a lumpy look. As the oatmeal dries, DuBan paints it black and red, leading all observers to gag at the sight. DuBan explains that a lot of the prosthetics she uses to simulate wounds are made mostly out of gelatin, glycerin and zorbitol. “All edible,” she says, “but I wouldn’t recommend you try eating it.”
Despite a constant demand for makeup this evening, DuBan says it isn’t too much pressure — she and the other “Terror Behind the Walls” makeup artists have only two hours each night to do makeup for 150 actors. There have, however, been some awkward requests at the prom, one man even asking her to make him look like Patrick Swayze. Must it even be said? Too soon.
Whether or not someone knows what makeup they want, Nikki has three questions that she asks all of her clients: “Are you allergic to anything?” “Are you vegan?” (a question addressing the use of gelatin) and “How do you want to die?”
Many people have been transformed by DuBan’s skilled hands, and the Prom is filled with increasingly grotesque characters.
While these costumes and the Prom itself have gained some notoriety, Zombie Proms and Beach Parties are not the only zombie-related things to recently emerge from Philly. Quirk Books, a small Philadelphia publishing company, released the now famous Pride and Prejudice and Zombies in April of this year.
Jason Rekulak is now Associate Publisher of Quirk, and is the mastermind behind the book. Originally, Jason made two lists — one of the titles of books now in the public domain, and the other of some things that could enhance the classics, such as monsters, monkeys and robots. He then started drawing lines between the two lists, and when he hit Austen and zombies, he knew he had a winner.
Jason called up Seth Grahame-Smith, a writer whom he’d worked with previously, and asked him to pen the book. “When we signed up the book nobody expected it to be this huge phenomenon,” Rekulak says. He was initially afraid that “the Austen fans wouldn’t like the violence, and the zombie fans wouldn’t like long passages from Austen,” but he’s been surprised to find that there’s more overlap between the zombie and Austen fans than he ever could have imagined.
The way Jason sees it, both groups are attracted to fantasy, and for those few Austen fans who think the book is a disgrace to her legacy, Jason’s reply is “well you ain’t seen nothing yet.” Based on the success of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, as well as the Twilight and vampire craze, Jason predicts an influx of zombie books in 2010. And don’t think zombies are only for the sci-fi nerds — Penn’s own Michael Gamer teaches a course on Austen, and has arranged for Rekulak to speak to his class this month.
It’s approaching midnight, and back in the front foyer the makeup artists are packing up. However, zombies are still lumbering through the doors, tiaras askew and flesh wounds prominent. It turns out that the undead are very much like the living in some ways — the line for the women’s restroom is still 10 zombies long, and many zombies have had a little too much to drink. Two zombies lean against a wall — one, a visibly intoxicated woman wearing a low-cut blue ball gown, cannot seem to keep her massive breasts inside her dress. Thus, she clutches them, one in each hand, as she makes out with her towering zombie lover. This confirms that, not so far from humans, even zombies need to get some. Additionally, intense PDA is always awkward, even if you’re sort of dead.
Back on the street as the clock strikes 12, zombies are lumbering off into the darkness. Their tattered gowns and tuxedo tails flap in the light breeze, and if you flare your nostrils enough you can almost smell their rotting flesh. For now, the zombies head home to sleep the sleep of the undead. In a few months, they will rise again.
