Big Rock Beat: A Wacky Zany Romp (Special Warfare Book 3)

It's 1967, the summer of love, ten years after legendary B movie director Landis Woodley's cult horror classic Cadaver. Now Woodley is shooting a rock-and-roll movie, complete with beach bunnies, hot rods, monsters, and rock bands. And as usual, money is tight.Producer Sol Kravitz introduces Woodley to Tijuana financier Hector Diablo, who invests a huge amount of money in the movie with the proviso that James Dean's death car, which he has rebuilt and named The Impresser, has a starring role.But something else is attached to this movie. Something that's not in the script. Sol is the first to die. Then others. And payback's a bitch.At the Publisher's request, this title is being sold without Digital Rights Management Software (DRM) applied.

From Publishers Weekly

Ex-rocker and current L.A. deejay Kihn brings back the resourceful hero of Horror Show for another goofily entertaining movie-and-rock romp, this one set in 1967. B-movie director Landis Woodley hasn't made a picture in 10 years when Sol Kravitz hires him to direct a dubious low-budget rock-and-roll flick?beach bunnies, racing cars, drugs, monsters. Landis's cousin, Beau, lead guitarist with a San Francisco band bumming around L.A., is swept into the movie, as are an uptight, ambitious young actress, an aging cheesecake starlet and a drug-soaked Bela Lugosi look-alike. Financing difficulties develop between Sol and investor Ernie Shakleford, owner of Shang-a-Lang Records, which drive Sol and Landis into the lethal embrace of Hector Diablo, a handsome devil who makes macabre conditions on his loan to bail out the production, now shooting. Landis and Sol are forced to take on his sinister nephew Johnny Immaculata as a producer, and to use James Dean's "death car" (reconstructed) in the movie. But there's worse to come. Sol is the first man murdered as the plot twists and loops around the wacky denizens of Kihn's Hollywood?many of whom survive the curse, and two of whom (the epilogue hints) will return in a sequel to this giddy exercise in pulp fiction. Copyright 1998 Reed Business Information, Inc.

From Booklist

B-movie director Landis Woodley is revered in Japan, but nobody in Hollywood will return his phone calls. So when he gets a chance to write and direct a rock-and-roll movie titled Big Rock Beat, he doesn't hesitate, despite serious misgivings about the shady financing behind the production deal. When the film's producer is found dead in the movie's setpiece--James Dean's Porsche Spyder, salvaged and rebuilt--Landis is forced to deal directly with the mysterious moneyman El Diablo. Kihn's sequel to his widely praised debut, Cadaver (1996), offers the same quirky humor and an entertaining cast of characters, including a Bela Lugosi^-like smack addict, a pure-hearted ingenue, and a talented musician who receives good advice from the ghost of Brian. Former rock musician Kihn makes good use of his background, and this is perhaps the only novel to ever feature a death by guitar (the victim is impaled on a Gibson Flying V). Short on plot but long on attitude, this lighthearted spoof should appeal to fans of Tim Burton's movie Ed Wood. Joanne Wilkinson

From Kirkus Reviews

The sequel to Kihn's 1996 debut novel, Horror Show, a satirical romp based on the film Ed Wood, which was followed by his Banshee novel Shade of Pale (1997). The hero of Horror Show was schlockmeister Landis Woodley (Ed Wood), the world's worst filmmaker, who brought in his masterpiece, Cadaver, in three days and under budget, using real corpses from the Los Angeles Morgue as standup zombies. Now, ten years have passed since Cadaver, with Landis pining away in his crumbling Hollywood mansion. It's 1967, the summer of love, and Landis's old producer buddy Sol Kravitz shows up to lure him into directing a rock-bottom schlock musical on an atomically small budget. Kravitz has fallen in with Ernie Shackleford, president of Shang-a-Lang records, who wants to feature his talentless rock bands in the movie. The film's star is aging Yvette Love, whose z-cup bra outbusts Jayne Mansfield, Mamie Van Doren, and Marilyn Monroe combined. Second leads go to Gayle Mimi (formerly Gayle Ann Perko), making her film debut, and overaged teenager Tad Kingston, 31, whose hair does most of his acting. No sooner does Landis sign on than Hiroshi Watanabe (a name taken from Kurosawa's Ikiru) offers him a much grander salary for doing a monster movie for Toyo films in Japan. Meanwhile, fresh from San Francisco is Landis's cousin, very long-haired Beau Young, whose Stone Savages rehearse on San Franciscos Haight Ashbury. Thus Beau and the Stone Savages join the fun and frenzy. Beau courts Gayle but is seduced by Yvette. The money falls through, and Sol winds up dead in the flame-painted Porsche Spyder that James Dean also died in and which is to be featured in the film. Landis must take off for Japan. Lovers of rock music will find this almost as much fun as the prequelthough less fantastically over the topor fresh. -- Copyright ©1998, Kirkus Associates, LP. All rights reserved.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

ONE HOLLYWOOD 1967 "Cut!" Landis Woodley shouted, but the actors wouldn't stop moving. "Hey! What are you guys doin'? I said, 'Cut!' "They lumbered toward him, a pack of zombies, mindlessly placing one stiff leg in front of the other. Relentless, in the finest B-movie tradition.Pissed off, Landis fumbled with his megaphone. He brought it up to his mouth so hard it smashed his lip. Blood started to flow. He shouted into the suddenly red mouthpiece. "Cut! Cut!" The broadcast words sounded shrill.But the zombies continued to come.Landis looked over to where his cameraman should've been. The space was empty. The unmanned camera whirred, film turning."What's goin' on here?" he asked, unaware that the megaphone was still pressed against his bloody lip.Landis backed up, stumbling over the cloth-backed director's chair with his name on it. The zombies took another step. Landis dropped the megaphone and ran, the living dead behind him.A startled security guard raised his head from his desk as Landis passed; an empty bottle of wine stood like a small green monument next to his hand."Hey, Mr. Woodley! Where'reyagoin'?"Landis's voice sounded like a piston engine. "Something went wrong! They're after me!" he shouted. "They're comin' to get me!"The guard smiled ruefully. "Ain't nothin' but the devil, lookin' to collect his debt. Happens every damn day. Be a man. Accept your fate.""This is not my fate," Landis said.The guard snorted. "What script are you workin' off? Mine says it right here: scene sixty-six, the devil gets Landis Woodley." The guard held up a typewritten sheaf of papers. Landis tried to read the title but couldn't.Footsteps sounded down the hall."You always knew how to scare the shit out of people," the guard said.Landis sprinted through the door into the cool, cruel LA night. A few feeble stars twinkled above him, a raw moon hung low and chafed in the sky. He ran to his car and jerked the car door open. A black shape, like a negative space in the shape of a human being, sat in the driver's seat.Landis recoiled in horror when he saw the black hole behind the 'steering wheel. The void reached out to him.Something said, "Give it up, Landis. The devil always wins."Landis Woodley screamed as if he were already in hell. The spent, humid air from his lungs filled the night. He gagged between screams, choking back acidic bile.* * *Landis woke himself up, the sweaty sheets wrapped around his body like pythons. His mouth was full of vomit. He rolled over and spit it out onto the floor.The darkness became less sinister around him. He gradually began to understand.It had been a dream. A nightmare."Jesus H. Christ. That was too much," he said, gasping. The clock showed 4:51 A.M.He sat up, disoriented. Slowly he rose and went to the bathroom. The taste in his mouth threatened to make him sick again, so he brushed his teeth and rinsed several times.He staggered back into the bedroom.The open window showed Los Angeles below, and to the south a fierce blanket of diamonds. He walked across the room unsteadily and fished a cigarette out of a rumpled pack on the dresser.* * *Landis washed his face with cold water, crunching three aspirins between his teeth. The sour taste made the glands on the sides of his neck tingle and he gulped some water to wash it down.In the mirror he looked bad, much older than his thirty-six years. He felt older too. The time he'd spent locked in this house, drinking alone, pounding on his noisy Underwood typewriter, had aged him. Now the receding hairline was dotted with liver spots, and the baggage he carried beneath his eyes couldn't be ignored.Lack of money accelerated the aging process.Landis juggled his finances until his fingers were bloody. Borrowing from one person to pay off another, always desperate to stay one step ahead of the creditors, he'd lost track of himself.He spent his days cranking out an endless stream of stories, novels, and screenplays. The stories he sold to men's magazines. The novels, which all featured tough private eyes and dames with long legs, were essentially genre crap. He'd make a few hundred bucks and move on.The screenplays were different. Those he cherished. The thought of going back into production on one of his scripts nourished him through the unending drought.But now Landis was near the end. He owed too much money to too many people. His problems were escalating, his stomach lining was failing, and he drank and smoked excessively. If things didn't change soon, he'd lose everything.He needed a gig.* * *Landis cracked open a can of tomato juice and splashed it into a plastic tumbler with two fingers of vodka. A generous shot of Tabasco followed. Sipping from the bitter brew, he walked out onto the verandah of his house.Dawn was dissolving the night sky to the east. In a few minutes, orange shafts of light would slant between the hills and the first birds would sing.Somewhere in the valley below, in the vast sea of asphalt and concrete, a pair of headlights found Landis. They separated themselves from the mass and turned into his canyon. He followed with bloodshot eyes as a car began the twisting ascent up the only road that led to his house."So, the devil wants his due," Landis said. He chuckled and coughed. "Take a number."The car stopped in front of his house, which was built down from the street into a steep ravine. Landis knew who it was.A dog barked in the distance. Landis heard the door of a brand-new 1967 Ford Thunderbird convertible slam shut with a throaty crack.Sol Kravitz had arrived. Copyright © 1998 by Greg Kihn

About the Author

Greg Kihn is the author of Horror Show and Shade of Pale. He is the drive time disc jockey at KUFX in San Jose, California.

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