If concerts were still a thing, and you and I went to one, we should probably have that pre-show conversation before we get out of the car. No, not the one about what song we hope they open with, nor the one about how many people you're going to hook up with in a drunken haze, but the one where we nail down our rendezvous point when the show's over. My vote's the port-a-pottys near the trees, but if you want to meet near the homeless guy in the wheelchair, that works too.
Assuming, you know, neither one of us gets murdered by a satanic cult. Or Republicans.
When the flick begins, even though it feels like a decade later, we're told it's 1988. Three sexy ladies are heading to a metal show somewhere in the Hoosier state, when news breaks that a satanic cult has once again murdered innocent people. Death count is now at eighteen. The girls blow it off, but when they meet some potentially sketchy dudes pre-gaming it outside of their date rape-y van, not only are freak flags flying, but red ones are, too.
In a move that almost jettisoned me from my couch, the girls are into these dudes, and these bootleg Jack Black-types get the invite to Daddy's house in the middle of nowhere. Daddy's big ass house. Uh, y'all sure about that?
From there, the shit hits the fan, though in a way that many of you will probably see coming a mile away. Me, I wasn't thinking with my big head, and what goes down next totally knocked me on my ass. No, it wasn't an unnecessary shower scene set to Quiet Riot's Bang Your Head, though that would have been (pathetically) appreciated, but instead a fairly grisly murder. Yeah, turns out the darkness that was summoned was like legit evil, where I was hoping it was a collective name given to Dadarrio's boobs. Though let's be honest, they're more like the sun.
