The Secret Life of a Satanist By Blanche Barton Introduction What Manner of Man is This? One couldn't dream of a more diabolical-looking man. With his head shaven in the tradition of carnival strong men, and a black, Mephistophelean beard tracing up thinly around his lips, Anton LaVey's appearance is decidedly barbaric. His amber eyes look more leonine than human. The small gold ring in his left ear conjures childhood images of gypsies and pirates. Many would see him as their nightmarish vision of the Devil himself. My impression of Anton LaVey matured slowly, over a period of some 10 years before I ever met him. My father (a dyed- in-the-wool Satanist if ever there was one, though he emphatically denies any theistic label) raised me on generous portions of Kipling and London, with enough Robert Louis Stevenson thrown in to instill me with an early fascination with the hidden and the fantastic. By the age of 13, I was already a jaded occult connoisseur. I pored over all available magical texts ancient and modern, from Albertus Magnus to Diary of a Witch, and could feel only disdain at their flaccid meanderings. It's not surprising then that for a long time I resisted reading The Satanic Bible, saving myself from certain frustration. During my sexually and intellectually seething adolescence, I had my own ideas about Satan -- thoughts that surely no living soul could understand but me. I was wrong. When I finally cracked open LaVey's now-infamous book, I felt a thrill of satisfaction. There were others like me out there, and they called themselves Satanists. I read Burton Wolfe's The Devil's Avenger to find out whether this strange, bald-headed man wasn't just posturing -- mouthing-off from a cloistered tower, play-acting his cynicism. But knowing more about LaVey only made me more curious for answers to my questions. The High Priest of the Church of Satan doesn't look much different than he did in 1967, when he burst into international prominence by performing the world's first public wedding. With so few new photographs released during LaVey's ten-year media hiatus (roughly from 1976-1986), I can be forgiven for expecting to see a paunchy, balding, good-natured fellow by the time we finally met. LaVey is not paunchy, nor is he good-natured. The intervening years have served to accentuate the angles of his face, making him look more severe than ever. He is also more cynical, bitterly misanthropic, and violently determined in his role as founder of the Church of Satan. This book attempts to peek into the world of a heretic. Not a cardboard devil or the comfortably menacing fiction that religionists have, for centuries, earned their living denouncing from every pulpit. If LaVey were a cooperative scapegoat, he would be an inarticulate, posturing dilettante who could be trotted out on talk shows, righteously set upon and vanquished. He has not obliged. Nor is he a pretentious self-proclaimed evocateur who can be safely snickered at for spouting what he claims to be the Dark Prince's given word. Anton LaVey is a complex, and in many ways a frighteningly deceptive man. "No one in the world is more justified in being cynical and bitter than me," says LaVey. "Everyday I think less and less of what others are going to think." It's this "justifiable bitterness" that spurs expressions of biography, LaVey has become increasingly reclusive and fiercely protective of what he has achieved. He prefers to limit companionship to that of his daughters, a few close, Cerberean friends and professional associates. After finally being granted an initial interview with LaVey in 1984, it became clear to me that if I wanted to more thoroughly explore this Black Magician's heart and mind, I would have to become woven into the fabric of his everyday life. And so I did. He needed a Girl Friday and seemed satisfied with my enthusiastic determination. Over time, it became my role to arrange interviews with reporters, students and members; iron out travel itineraries; generate informational literature; handle correspondence; straw boss; and generally keep complications to as dull a roar as possible. Along the way, I watched, I listened. To Stories, jokes, long-neglected tunes, movies that contained the germs of LaVeyan Satanism. And, as unobtrusively as possible, I began to take notes. Upon first meeting Anton LaVey, many are disarmed by his good-natured wit, extraordinary talent and almost self- deprecating manner. Those who have the opportunity to be around him for any length of time eventually see a seething, brutal side to LaVey. There is, at times, an almost unbearable oppressiveness to his intolerance and anger. Here is a man who can spend hours delighting in playing forgotten songs, or playing with an animal, yet will become monstrously callous when he feels the need. LaVey is idealistically against hunting and would be the first person to stop to help an injured animal along the road, yet put a nickel in him and he will enthusiastically advocate putting a bounty on selected humans. He speaks with such fervor one doesn't need to question his sincerity. LaVey can appear infirm one minute and possessed of a madman's supernatural strength the next. Well-trained in firearms and judo, I've seen him deal swiftly and savagely with rowdies who have dared to approach him. On the pistol range, I once made the mistake of bringing up a subject I knew produced a violent reaction in LaVey. Answering my question with barely controlled rage, he hit a perfect bull's eye 200 feet away. He prefers to work his 14-foot bullwhip to siphon off pent-up aggressions, snapping the end off a cigarette just as skillfully as he did when he learned fancy whip cracking from Col. Tim McCoy 40 years ago. With all the elements of daring, mystery and intrigue, Anton LaVey seems less like the neurotic, cramped contemporary than an imposing, complex fictional character out of the pages of Jack London or Somerset Maugham. The idea behind starting the Church of Satan was not to gain millions of dependant souls who needed activities and organized weekly meetings to keep them involved. LaVey started an organization for non-joiners, the alienated few who felt disenfranchised because of their independence, and who pridefully adopted Satan, the original rebel, as their patron. LaVey wanted to make Christianity, which he sees as fostering stupidity and dull complacency, obsolete. The gulf between our social evolution and our scientific and technological advances was getting dangerously vast. LaVey wanted to give us tools for a revolution against artificial "morality" before the intellectual cramping became fatal for us all. In Satanism, Anton LaVey provided Christianity's coup de grace. Yet despite his influence, LaVey, for the most part, has been ignored by the avatars of our media-centric culture. Visit the "New Age" section of you nearest bookstore. You'll see the entrepreneurs who have taken up LaVeyan ideas, slapping a more palatable name on them to their critical and literally "Satanic" influences in the modern world, plainly drawing from LaVey's philosophy, routinely give not so much credit as a notation in their in their bibliography. And then there are Johnny-come- lately pseudo-Satanic groups, some claiming to have taken over where the Church of Satan left off," but most, as LaVey says, still afraid of the dreaded "S" word. You can't avoid seeing, on book racks or on talk show panels, an impressive range of Satanic "experts" (usually claiming affiliations with law enforcement, academia, or counseling centers) who adroitly spin their heads around avoiding confrontations with real Satanism. Christian alarmists tremblingly hold aloft tattered copies of The Satanic Bible into the eyes of television cameras while muttering inane and unsupported balderdash about bloody sacrifices and unspeakable crimes against children. Knowing Anton LaVey as long as I have, my mind whispers a question: is ate a pro-Satanic backlash? At these times I get the idea Anton LaVey must be the most dangerous man in the world. The outsider, the alien, will always receive a meager amount of credit. LaVey knows that's an inevitable consequence of being an accuser -- people don't like to hear what you have to say. Still, maybe we're due for a renaissance of the brutal, principled film noir anti-hero. In this new Satanic world of his own making -- expect that the Devil will get his due. Chapter One Satanists Are Born, Not Made If the Gods have any sense of the dramatic, it should have been a dark and stormy night on April 11th, 1930—the night Anton LaVey was born. Somewhat prophetically assigned by birth the sign of Aries (symbolized by the horned ram), Anton LaVey is a mixture of French, Alsatian, German, Russian and Rumanian stock. Even at birth, his overabundance of silky black hair and strange amber eyes hinted at his Mongolian heritage and his Gypsy blood. Throughout his life he has been mistaken for a Latino, Prussian, even an Oriental, because of this unusual blending. Though born in Chicago in the shadow of where the black, trapezoidal-shaped John Hancock Building now stands, his parents relocated to the San Francisco Bay area soon after his birth. Tony, as he would be known in his younger years, spent much of his boyhood in adjacent towns, where he had the freedom to explore the ranging, undeveloped swamplands that have since been developed into tract homes and shopping malls. Augusta LaVey and her husband Joe, a liquor distributor, raised Tony as they would any other bright, even-tempered boy, attempting to instill useful middle-class values without pressing any particular religious dictates on him. By the time he was seven, he grew absorbed with tales of the supernatural and occult which would obsess him for the rest of his life. Unable to fully understand what he read because of his younger age, he consulted his maternal grandmother, Luba Kolton (born Lupescu-Primakov, from a Gypsy father and a Jewish mother), who regaled Tony with the mysteries of her Transylvanian homeland—superstitions passed from generation to generation and incorporated in the greatest vampire legend of all, Dracula. Dogs baying when their masters died, fears that having your picture taken would rob you of your soul, what it meant when a bird flew into a house—all these were night-fears that threaded through Grandma Kolton’s stories. Accounts of bloody battles fought against Turkish and Russian invaders, between Hungary and Rumania over the rights of rule, spurred Tony’s imagination. His grandmother also digressed about the eccentrics in his own family—her late husband, Boris Kolton, a Trotskyite and lifelong iconoclast from the ancient Togarma Tribe in Georgia (from whom Togare, the famous Eurasian wild animal trainer, took his name), and her brother who traveled with carnivals and circuses from the Black Sea to Hungary as a bear trainer. Young Tony soon allied himself much more with the personalities he read and heard about than with any of the boys who were expected to be his peers. Not entirely satisfied by his grandmother’s stories, Tony started exploring the foundations of the apocryphal tales she told him. Spared a highly religious, superstitious background, Tony began an autodidactic tour through the darkest realms of occultism. He avidly read anything he could find on the subject—classic ghost and horror stories, Bram Stoker’s Dracula, Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein, and the most popular expression of the dark side of its time, Weird Tales magazine. By the age of 12, Tony had already skimmed, and been disappointed by widely-circulated grimoires like the Albertus Magnus and Sixth and Seventh Books of Moses. He found Montague Summers’ and Arthur Waite’s magic treatises laden with useless obfuscation and concentrated on the real magic of hypnotism and stage effects. After devouring Dr. William Wesley Cook’s Practical Lessons in Hypnotism, Tony was quickly able to apply its methods with great success. Looking back on childhood explorations, LaVey recalls, “I looked through all the grimoires and all I saw was junk. Casting a circle to protect yourself! When I started devising my own rituals, out of frustration with all I had seen, I shaped a glowing pentacle to attract these forces. Then I found [William] Mortensen [photographer who wrote The Command to Look]. And I realized this is magic. This is what I’ve been looking for. But it can’t be. This is just a little book on photographic techniques. I went through squabbling within myself. But finally realized this was real magic. I realized this as real magic. I relied more on fiction for magical truth. Lovecraft, Hodgeson’s Carnacki, Long’s Hounds of Tindalos—that’s where I found food for thought that I couldn’t find in the so-called ‘dangerous’ dark books of magic. “Hadn’t anyone called forth the demons before as their friends? I thought surely they had. It makes one believe that people probably were doing it on a carefully guarded underground level—and maybe they didn’t let it out because they were getting results.” It became increasingly clear that Tony’s interests were not the same as the average boy’s. He was never much for sports, which stigmatized him as “unhealthy.” But he never had any trouble making friends and his home was always full of kids expecting Tony to devise some interesting activities for the day. He organized mock military orders and secret societies but got disgusted because the other boys broke character or lost interest too easily. More often than not, his interaction with other boys parasitically drained LaVey. “They’d come over to my place, enthused as hell about what I was doing, bust up my stuff and then go home.” LaVey didn’t find his inability to fit in particularly distressing. “I never was a ‘rebel’ because I was never a part of anything to rebel against. I was never accepted by groups in the first place.” Nor did Tony have a need to be particularly rebellious toward his parents, though he never felt either of them had the capacity to understand him. “My mother was sort of a flibbertigibbet type—always had to be rearranging the furniture, or worse, had to move us to another house for some petty reason or another. I hated being moved around so much but my father was not the kind of man to kick up any fuss. People called him a real prince. To me, they both seemed rather indecisive people, who never had many opinions about anything. From a young age, they followed my advice on things like what kind of cars to buy, anything that involved an aesthetic eye. They pretty much let me do what I wanted, except my mother always cautioned me not to hurt my hands—you know, ‘play nize, don’t fight’—because of my music. Of course, as I got older, I didn’t tell them much about what I was doing because I didn’t want them to worry.” From the time LaVey began school, complications began. School was a place for Tony to escape from. He was never happy being “one of the guys” and found he was much more intensive in his studies whenever he cut school so he could study the things that interested him most. While most boys looked forward to summer, Tony didn’t. I would mean an intrusion on his long, liquid days alone. The streets would again be filled with loudmouthed kids who would expect him to join in their baseball and football games. He waited for the days to grow short again, when they would return to their confining classrooms and he could resume his studies elsewhere. He was delighted with his solitude, and the few friends he accepted into his world were, like him, outcasts. Huey Long, Rasputin, Sir Basil Zaharoff, Milton, London, Nietzsche, Capone and other “de facto Satanists” who practiced or wrote of rational pre-Church of Satan seminars, nascent imagery is often all one needs for a strong influence. “You don’t need to know all about their lives, be a scholar about everything they ever wrote or did. Fictional characters, like Ming the Merciless, weren’t nearly as important to me as a person who actually lived. If I appeared different it’s because I was different. My first expression of that ingredient surfaced in an image of existing outlawry. I was derisively labeled a pachuco or hood because I wore a hat and zoot-style clothes because they were the only clothes I felt comfortable wearing. I wasn’t trying to be different—just doing what came naturally.” He recalls an incident with another boy and a bird in his backyard when he was 11 years old. Impulsively shot the boy in the back with a b.b. gun as the boy was about to fire his own gun at a bird sitting on a branch all of ten inches away. The intrepid hunter dropped hid gun with a howl of pain. This was Tony’s first lesson in “Good Sportsmanship.” He got hauled down to the police station for a big lecture on how only a coward shoots another boy in the back, and after all, “it was only a bird.” There were plenty of adventures available to a boy during the thirties. When the Golden Gate Bridge opened as the engineering marvel of the century in 1937, LaVey was one of the first to stroll from one end to the other, when pedestrians were allowed free rein before opening it to cars. LaVey recalls, “It was a thrill to be one of the first people across the Golden Gate Bridge. Of course, there were a lot fewer people then so it was fun to be on this wide expanse where cars were supposed to be. Not like it was when they closed the bridge to cars for a few hours during the 50th anniversary celebration in 1987. The planners didn’t anticipate the crowds. 800,00 people packed on there—so thick you couldn’t see the roadway. They flattened the natural arc of the span. It would have been quite a celebration if it had collapsed.” Since he was there when it opened, Anton appropriately drove his ’37 Cord across the Bridge on its 25th Anniversary celebration and in the early morning of its 50th. Tony’s musical training began early. After entering a music store when he was five and plucking out a tune on a harp (!), his parents recognized his talent and left musical avenues open for him. For the time he was young, LaVey learned to play musical instruments that required specific techniques. He learned the difference between playing a trombone and a clarinet, a plucked instrument or one you play with a bow. Consequently, he had a hunger to play orchestral arrangements, encompassing several instruments blending the way he heard them in his head. Drawn to the keyboard because of its scope and versatility, Tony learned to play a piano simulating the inflections of other instruments. He toyed with many instruments to know how they should sound, and today can pick up most any instrument and play it. “Especially with modern synthesizers, you should know how to play acoustical instruments first,” says LaVey, “to get the technique right, so you can evoke and translate them to a keyboard instrument.” Even on the violin as a kid, Tony was lucky enough to have a teacher who took the time to write out orchestral arrangements for him. “I remember him writing out an entire arrangement for Tchaikovsky’s ‘Marche Slave’ so I could play it on the violin.” Having prodigiously played bass drum (the cannon part) for the 1812 Overture when he was nine years old, LaVey went on to become second oboist with the San Francisco Ballet Symphony Orchestra when he was 15. “I just like the sound of the instrument.” He spent a short time teaching accordion door to door when it was a very popular instrument for parents to “encourage” young boys to learn. Though he barely knew the instrument when he began, LaVey kept one week ahead of his students while he learned it. “When I applied for the job, this guy handed me an accordion and miraculously I fumbled my way through ‘Sorrento’—which happened to be his favorite number. By lesson number six, I was ripping through ‘The Sabre Dance’ and shaking the bellows for ‘Lady of Spain.’ Almost like Dick Contino.” From his childhood, LaVey admits much of his success comes from simply being in the right place at the right time. Already having visited the 1933-34 Chicago “Century of Progress” World’s Fair when he was only a few years old, his parents took him to the World’s Exposition in San Diego. The buildings and zoo built for the 1935 event are still standing as one of that city’s major tourist attractions. Tony also visited the New York World’s Fair in 1939, though he wasn’t as impressed with its famous trilon and perisphere as he was by the beautifully-colored lights playing on San Francisco Bay at the other less publicized World’s Fair that same year on Treasure Island. Tony discovered new fascinations at the 1939-40 World’s Fair on San Francisco’s man-made Treasure Island, constructed from fill specially for the event. Though he was just a schoolboy, he dressed in adult-looking hats and jackets – no one questioned why he was allowed to roam about the fair alone. In Sally Rand’s Nude Ranch on the “Gayway” fun zone, he stood watching the topless cowgirls spin lariats and pitch horseshoes for at least twenty minutes before anyone showed him the door. “I guess they thought I was a midget. A slightly older friend pulled the same thing and got away with it, but unexpectedly spied his bare-ass Sunday School teacher among the girls. To this day he claims that moment as his Christian disillusionment and Satanic epiphany.” Being naturally fascinated with places where other people didn’t go, Tony wandered to the outer edges of the island, on the windward side. His explorations paid off. He found a life-size model of a tenement set up in the Federal Building, one of several examples of the work the government had accomplished through agencies like the WPA, CCC, NRA, TVA, etc. This peculiarly evocative exhibit was supposed to show the horrendous squalor of tenement living, and how slum clearance was changing all that for the betterment of society as a whole. The actual exhibit was preceded by a screening of One Third of a Nation, an early-30’s movie showing the deplorable conditions which a large portion of Americans were faced with at that time. After the film, the visitor was ushered past a detailed stage set graphically showing those very conditions described in the movie. The rooms were crummy and unkempt, with dirty laundry piled in a basket, flowered wallpaper stained and peeling, and half-broken furniture cluttering the dimly-lit flat. Sounds of an elevated railway and someone coughing consumptively from an imagined next room played over the loudspeakers. Tony experienced a thrill of voyeuristic pleasure, like legally breaking into someone’s house. Entranced by the total environment before him, he learned an important method of magic and evocation. Not every part of a cold water flat could possibly be included in the small amount of space available, but it evoked all that wasn’t there nonetheless. Tony discovered that the entire object does not have to be included but enough of the right cues must be presented so that the viewer’s (or participant’s) mind can be allowed to fill in the rest. He was so entranced by a scaled-down replica of Chicago that it inspired him to build a miniature city in his bedroom. This early practical knowledge of experiential evocation combined with techniques of sensory projection he refined through the years led Tony to develop androids, and rituals for the Church of Satan. As World War II began, LaVey acquired an interest in military weapons, logistics, and uniforms. He spent hours at the library, poring over texts on navies, ordnances and armies. LaVey gathered information on airships – the Hindenburg, Graf Zeppelin, the Shenandoah, the Akron, the Macon. (Many years later, LaVey would contribute to Michael Mooney’s book and subsequent film, The Hindenburg.) Jane’s Fighting Ships, the naval munitions catalogue began in 1897 by Fred T. Jane, was a primary sourcebook. It contained advertisements for cannons, torpedoes – anything a country needed to wage war – from the world’s leading munitions-makers like Krupp and Vickers. Tony decided he must have a copy and began saving any spare change to put toward the $20 purchase price. “It seems that if you want to start a war,” LaVey thought, “you can buy an army or navy to do it. Look, here’s this guy, Francis Bannerman, who buys an island along the Hudson River and stocks a castle with enough weapons for the annihilation of the whole world. If there’s a conflagration somewhere he supplies whichever side has the money to buy his stocks of armaments. It’s so cut and dried. The warlords order enough equipment for an army or navy from Bannerman’s Arsenal, and just like that gain control over the destinies of millions of people. For these munitions-maker it’s just a commercial proposition. Whole populations are engaged in wars on the assumption that there’s one side against another side. Yet here are these arms-outfitters, right in the middle of it all, even in places where people are fighting on behalf of an ideology, and they’re selling armies and navies over the counter to the enemies trying to overthrow the very countries in which they, the arms-people, are living.” In high school, Tony decided, though he had a consuming interest in many things military, he definitely didn’t want to participate in the required gym classes or ROTC courses. In honor of the French Foreign Legion, he donned a French kepi (straight from Bannerman’s catalogue), which he alternated with a leather flying jacket and white silk scarf, or an Afrika Korps hat. He had no patience for his less-dramatically oriented school chums. When he rode the school bus, LaVey has said he felt he was imprisoned with “a cage of barbary apes.” When Tony was made to go to gym class, despite his vehement protests, he learned to feel only contempt for the towel-snapping, fun-loving young jocks he was expected to jostle and joke with. As with many young men who find themselves unusually well-endowed, Tony felt self-conscious undressing in front of other boys. He grew to detest the “latent homosexuals and gung-ho types” he had to rub bodies with in gym. Their nudge- nudge stares and chiding asides only reinforced Tony’s awareness of his “difference.” Though he was deemed a freak by his classmates, Tony considered himself “an island of sanity surrounded by the noise and savagery of cretin-like teenagers constantly charged up with energy repressed at home.” He hated team sports and felt running around a track was a colossal waste of time that no animal would subject itself to. But then, thought Tony, animals have better sense. Tony wanted to study judo but there were no such classes offered. Instead, LaVey convinced a doctor to write him a note to excuse him from gym, so he spent his ROTC and gym periods in a special room resting with other non-athletic boys. Luckily there was a young, well-built school nurse to keep LaVey occupied. Apparently she had a penchant for looking at young boys’ privates. If he complained of an ailment, he was instructed to take off his pants, no matter what the problem seemed to be. “I don’t know if she did it to other boys; I was too embarrassed to ask anybody else.” She always sneaking peeks in her purse mirror while pretending to inspect her lipstick. Had tail removed. Extra vertebra removed near the end of Tony’s spine which formed prehensile tail, a caudal appendage, which seems to occur about one in every 100,000 births. Never gave him much pain until puberty. “Started giving me a lot of trouble around 11 years old or 12. Had it drained a couple of times. I had to learn to sit sideways.” Then it became re-inflamed, terribly painful. “They took me in to the emergency room one night – they had to drain it again. There was a cold snap on. It was during the war and no rooms were available at the hospital. The doctors didn’t want to risk a general anesthetic and send me home in the cold, so they only gave me a local. I bit through the rubber pad I was laying on and bent the steel bar on the side of the gurney.” Young LaVey’s major male role models were his uncles. Masculine archetypes of the 30’s and 40’s, Tony was inspired and encouraged by each. Through one uncle who had a ship which was recruited for Coast Guard Reserve submarine patrol during the war, Tony enhanced his love of the sea. LaVey remembers being fascinated by submarines, considering himself singularly blessed when he watched the U.S.’s largest submarine surface practically underneath him. And the China Clipper, the legendary Pan Am aircraft which took off from San Francisco Bay made Pacific runs, one of which LaVey was able to go on. When one of LaVey’s uncles was hired, in the spring of 1945, as a civilian engineer to rebuild air strips for the Army in Germany, Tony went with him. The uncle had been recently divorced and so had been issued a family visa to accommodate his wife. Young LaVey was provided an opportunity to accompany him in her absence. It was during this trip he saw confiscated Nazi schauerfilmen (horror films) at a command post in Berlin. The German interpreter explained that the films were more than fictional accounts but rather symbolic or thinly disguised portrayals of an occultic Nazi mindset. Rumors of a Black Order of Satan worshippers as an integral element of the Third Reich could not help but fuel LaVey’s interest. Tony was impressed by the cinematographic techniques of Weimar and Nazi period films as The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari, M, Hitlerjunge Quex, Morganrot, and the Mabuse films. The brooding lighting and strange, haunting angles had a dramatic impact on LaVey. Decades later, he would reproduce those elements in the expressionistic films planted the seeds in LaVey for what he would eventually develop into his “Law of the Trapezoid.” Equally thrilling to young LaVey was an opportunity to play the cinema organ at the dome in Brighton. In North Africa on VE Day, he even had a chance to visit Legion headquarters at Sidi bel Abbis in Morocco – “not to mention picking up a Legion kepi and an Afrika Korps cap firsthand.” In his eclectic reading, Tony discovered three men he considered were truly applying the Devil’s tools to their benefit: Rasputin, Cagliostro and Sir Basil Zaharoff. Rasputin was born Gregory Efimovitch in 1871, in Petronovskoye, Siberia. When he joined a religious sect in 1904 called the “Khlysty,” he adopted the philosophy shared by the Marquis de Sade: “Sin that you may be forgiven.” At night in the woods outside his village, he would gather young girls around the fires with him, telling them, “A particle of the Supreme Being is incarnated in me. Only through me can you hope to be saved; and the manner of your salvation is this: you must be united with me in soul and body.” Speaking such ideas, burning incense and further heightening his witches to a fever pitch, he would lead orgiastic revelries until dawn. He eventually drew the attention of the czar’s court, which he utilized by casting his Svengali-spell over the czarina. She became convinced Rasputin (whose name was either a play on rasputny, Russian for “debauched,” or rasputi, which meant “crossroads” – a term applied to the village from which he came, and its inhabitants) was the only one capable of curing her afflicted child. Thus, from meager beginnings, Rasputin was able to become the most influential man in pre-Bolshevik Russia. Count Alexander Cagliostro claimed to be 5,557 years old – a friend to the Queen of Sheba, Cleopatra, and a score of other powerful women of history. This 18th Century magician said he had learned powerful secrets of performing miracles, curing ailments, and prolonging life through these intimate associations from his past. The denizens of the royal courts he visited couldn’t buy his potions fast enough. Cagliostro was everyone’s darling, his attentions curried by emperors, Cardinals, queens and even the Pope until he was finally discovered to be nothing more than a common back-country Italian, uneducated and swindling. Those who had been taken in by him, enraged by their own naiveté, convicted Cagliostro of heresy and left him to die unmourned in prison four years after his imprisonment. But it was Sir Basil Zaharoff that became a main focus in LaVey’s life, so much so that, many years later, he opened The Satanic Witch with an homage to Zaharoff as one who knew how to use the power of women to his advantage. LaVey’s grandson, born in 1978, was named “Stanton Zaharoff” in his honor. He was the most successful and cynical arms merchant of all time, supplying weapons for the Boer War, the Russo-Japanese War, the Balkan Wars, and World War I. Again, though born in poverty, Zaharoff grew to influence kings and parliaments, and eventually became a Knight of the British Empire. Yet, in McCormick’s biography, Peddler of Death, Zaharoff summarized his philosophy thus: “I made wars so that I could sell arms to both sides … I sold armaments to anyone who would buy them. I was a Russian when in Russia, a Greek in Greece, a Frenchman in Paris.” Zaharoff used any nefarious tactics he could devise to orchestrate his desired ends. He used bribes and tricks to beat out rival war merchants. He planted rumors to set friend against friend, and used the charms of beautiful women to tempt or defeat those he wished. Planting news stories to inflame people to a war-like pitch, assassinating opposing officials when necessary, Zaharoff manipulated battles once the wars began. To insure that the battles raged and more money was spent for armaments, millions of young men’s lives could be lost. LaVey’s respect for Zaharoff grew even stronger when he discovered that, even after Zaharoff’s death, those who tried to expose his manipulations or criticize him lost their jobs, suffered ill health and even death, as if Zaharoff were reaching out from his grave to exert his continuing influence on the earthly plane. From all descriptions, Sir Basil looked a lot like LaVey in his youth. At Zaharoff’s estate in the south of France, Chateau Balincourt, he had a black-draped Satanic chapel hidden within its walls. A blue twilit grotto far beneath the castle, where swan boats could flat in under the castle by way of a disguised tunnel, was used as a trysting place. These were true black magicians to LaVey – not the supposed “evil ones” who were tortured and burned at the stake. Zaharoff, Rasputin, and Cagliostro were Satanists LaVey could respect and emulate. As Tony became more and more involved in the lives of magicians and the literature of the occult, the farther he felt from other boys his age, and the more irrelevant his required schoolwork became. Following in Zaharoff’s footsteps, LaVey wished to combine gentility and ruthlessness in the same young man. He studied judo at the Duke Moore Studio in San Francisco, earning several degrees by the end of 1946. He found judo much more satisfying than the established American ideal of “scientific boxing.” When overly-aggressive young boys were laid flat by Tony’s perplexing maneuvers, he was called a “sneaky Jap” and accused of not fighting fair. LaVey began to revel in confusing people’s narrow notions. The same year he became second oboist for the San Francisco Ballet Orchestra, Tony dropped out of his junior year of high school. He let his hair grow longer, began wearing leather jackets and zoot suits, and hung around disreputable pool halls, finding camaraderie in gamblers, pimps, prostitutes, hustlers and pool sharks. “They told me that a proficiency at billiards was indicative of a misspent youth.” Tony delighted in the incongruities: painting, studying magic and philosophy, playing classical music, yet acting, looking and thinking like a common hood. During time spent on the East Coast, young Tony had a chance to make regular trips to Steeplechase park where he got a taste of earning money from understanding human foibles. He noticed many of the men would gather around what came to be called the “Blowhole Theater,” a spot where unsuspecting girls walked across a hidden puff of wind where there skirts would blow up over their heads, exposing their legs and underwear (or lack of same). A row of seats were set up so the men could get a good view without standing all day. One day a man leaned over to Tony with a rather distressed look on his face and offered him a quarter to sit in his seat while the man was gone to the bathroom. LaVey happily complied. After that Tony made his pocket money by looking available whenever one of the “audience” members started looking nervously around. He’d step up and offer, “Save your seat for a quarter, mister?” Tony learned new lessons from the underworld “businessmen” in newly established Las Vegas when he accompanied and assisted his father’s brother, Bill LaVey’s business there after the war. The emerging gambling capital was just a tiny oasis in the middle of the desert. Bill had provided good raw alcohol to Al Capone’s distillers during Prohibition in Chicago and renewed old ties after the war, having enjoyed a prosperous wartime business manufacturing aircraft landing gear and patrol boats. Bill became involved with Bugsy Siegel in developing the Flamingo for Meyer Lansky. As Tony sat with his uncle in gambling joints and nightclubs, Siegel lieutenants like Al Greenberg and Moe Sedway had their own interests to advocate to an impressionable LaVey – how everyone is on the take, no matter what high or low position they may hold. “Everything is a racket, including the church. The superior man recognizes these facts and lives accordingly. The fool continues to go straight for God and country. The crafty man figures out how to work the rackets himself so he doesn’t wind up a slave to the crooked politicians and bosses. He refuses the life of the millions of people in offices and factories tied to the routine of going to work at eight o’clock every morning, stagnating at a deadly dull job, having lunch at the time they are told, coming home at five every evening, and for all this drawing a wage that is only enough to sustain their humdrum existence.” LaVey was impressed by these outlaws who survived outside the system by exploiting men’s natural foibles and vices. He considered them rough-hewn versions of Zaharoff, with philosophy and conviction behind their actions. Tony understood, also, that these men often killed each other, and that the only ones who were really remembered by the general public were the ones who died a death gory enough to hit the papers. But Tony wasn’t disillusioned by that, nor by his uncle finally serving a sentence for tax evasion in the federal penitentiary at McNeil Island. They were still surviving in the way they chose; that was the most important thing. Had circumstances been only slightly different, Tony might well have become involved in the rackets himself. As LaVey has grown older, his admiration for these Satanic practitioners has not faltered. Rather he has found the most discouraging aspect of forming friendships with these jaded older men was that most of them died in the 1950’s and 60’s. Left alone, LaVey had to create/discover new compatriots. “Not many people were born in the same year I was, so it’s hard for me to find people with my orientation or knowledge, as far as music movies, memories – all those things that make up a person’s past. I guess that’s why I seemed to gravitate to companions who were older than I was when I was a young man – I was hungry for this past that I’d missed. Or, on the other end of the spectrum, I’ve gravitated to people much younger than myself, who are attracted to this lost knowledge I now carry. My world was that of the late 30’s and early 40’s. My crystallization came during the film noir period right after the war – that weird twilight era. Is it any wonder I am the way I am? Saturn was predominant during which I achieved my maturity. My memories stretch back to that Antediluvian world before the war. All those memories of my childhood and young adulthood are reflected in who I am, what I am, what I’ve begun. The movies that portrayed my role models were American film noir, with the hard-boiled anti-heroes that actually had deeper feelings and loyalties than the acceptable people.” LaVey still concentrates on playing and promoting his kind of music – “Gal in Calico,” “For Sentimental Reasons,” “Nature Boy,” “All Through the Day,” “Either It’s Love Or It Isn’t,” “The More I See You,” “In Love In Vain,” “I Wonder,” “Temptation,” “Prisoner of Love,” “Golden Earrings,” “I Remember You.” As LaVey’s revived influence spreads, more early, straight recordings are being resurrected of what he likes to label “bombastic music.” By the time LaVey was 16, he was forming definite ideas about women as well as magic and true power. His sexual explorations stretched back to when he was about five years old when he remembers a little girl coaxing him back into her bedroom at her birthday party. Her mother came back and scolded her for leaving her guests and the distraught dear peed her panties. LaVey admits the experience was enough to have started him off on a distinctly fetishistic sexual path. Matters got worse when he was about 11, earning extra change picking up empty bottles around an outdoor dance pavilion. One day while reaching far back under the structure, he discovered a hole fortuitously positioned right underneath the ladies’ restroom. It was actually a gap between the floor and the front of the commode through which an observant boy could get a front-row peek at any girl who happened to sit down there. Tony made sure he was front and center whenever he spied an interesting woman going to relieve herself. LaVey had already established his own ideas of sexiness and developed a fixation for actress Iris Adrian, the archetype of the plump, blonde, gum-snapping, B-movie chorine. He decided that Hollywood was all backwards because the prettiest girls were always cast as walk-ons. (LaVey was to subsequently number Miss Adrian among his personal friends.) Unfortunately, because LaVey was already developing a decidedly sinister look, most girls he went out with had to meet him “around the corner” so her parents wouldn’t see the kind of boys their daughter was keeping company with. LaVey found his earliest romantic experience a bitterly painful one and, feeling betrayed and doomed because of his differentness, he decided he would either join the Foreign Legion or the circus. Somewhere he would find or make a place where he would fit in. Recognizing his increasing stigma, LaVey left home in search of adventure and soon found the perfect showcase for his marginal attributes. Chapter Two Never Help a Midget Move an Elephant Tub After talking to a young man in a pool hall who had worked for the Clyde Beatty Circus, Tony LaVey became intrigued with the lifestyle and possibilities. In the spring of 1947, he signed on as a circus roustabout and cage boy, responsible for feeding and watering the big cats. He developed an immediate rapport with the lions and tigers, discovering he usually felt more comfortable and relaxed around the big cats than he did walking down city streets or any place where humans gather. It wasn’t long before Beatty, increasingly aware of LaVey’s affinity for the big cats, began to confer the tricks of his trade. Tony was soon following in his great uncle Lazlo’s footsteps (who had traveled with a circus in Russia and Hungary). He learned the motions and mechanics of Beatty’s act—the use of the whip, stick, revolver and chair (which is used to imitate an open mouth; anything open will work, like a hat shoved into a lion’s face to make it back off). Tony was able to put a cat through a hoop, do rollovers—and after a short time, 17-year old LaVey was handling eight Nubian lions and four Bengal tigers in the cage at once to the musical strains of Beatty’s ubiquitous “Paso dobles.” “You never teach cats ‘tricks’” says LaVey, “you just find what they like to do then build an act around that. Cats love to go through hoops, get on their ‘personal’ pedestal, all that stuff they use in standard acts. That’s why the word ‘trainer’ is more appropriate than ‘tamer.’ You work with the cats, rather than trying to break their spirit or tame them.” When Beatty scheduled a “double date performance” (a Saturday children’s matinee or a charity performance preceding the usual nighttime show), LaVey often performed alone with the cats in the big cage. “When I was under canvas,” LaVey remembers, “I let my hair get pretty shaggy. I wore black pants with full-cut red shirts and black leather boots—actually the show’s uniform colors. Audiences must have figured me out as some kind of Mongolian tribesman. I felt right with the image and took pride in it. It seemed to work with both the cats and the audience. Once people see an image like that, they don’t forget. It was the only way circus people remembered or recognized me when I went back to visit now and again, up into the 1960’s.” Somewhere there are films floating around of Anton LaVey working the cage. Says LaVey, “A guy named Tom Upton was around then. He spent most of his time filming all the circuses. All the circus people knew him; he was welcome on any lot in the country. All you had to do was look in his direction and he’d regale you with films and stories. Always wanted to get people together to watch his movies. The performers loved him. He’d set up his projector backstage and run it for the performers. He was a short fellow, rather round and had a spheroid little wife named Crystal. Must have shot thousands of reels between the late 30’s and mid-‘60’s. Some of our early members who were around got to seem some of his stuff. He brought them over and showed them to us a few times. Sure enough, there I was, leaping and jumping around the cage with my Mongolian hair flying. In order to help the lions and tigers feel more comfortable around him, reducing the risk of injury, Tony began initiating an intimacy level beyond friendship, so the big cats would accept him more as a part of their very existence. When he fed them, Tony put his own hamburger down on the ground beside their food, mimicking their growling noises as he ate. When practicing with the cats in the cage, he’d crawl through the sawdust behind them. LaVey even began sleeping in their cages with them once in awhile. “I really miss having a big cat around, after 20 years of my life spent in intimate contact with them – from 17 to 37, when Togare went to the zoo. There’s nothing like it. Once you’ve established a rapport with a cat, they’ll never forget you. A young black leopard I worked with on the Beatty show named Zombie remembered me 13 years later when I happened to see him in a little traveling circus. When I moved toward the cage, this (by that time) old, moth-eaten leopard lifted his head and started making these friendly chirruping noises of recognition. I looked closer and sure enough it was the same cat I’d worked with long before.” As friendly as LaVey got with the cats, though, he admits he’s gathered his share of close calls and has scars on his hand and chest to remind him that nothing can protect you from unintentional mishaps or an over exuberant lion. “I’ve caught a claw or been knocked to the ground. It happens to every trainer once in a while. Lions are incredibly powerful creatures. All they have to do is brush you while they’re running through their paces; that’s enough to knock any man down. They’re fantastically fast, too. The instant you hit the ground, one of them is on top of you, and there you are on your back in the sawdust with the lion hovering over you, breathing hot breath down your throat and as you look up, the jaws staring you in the face seem to be as big as a whale’s.” What possessed LaVey to risk his life, not only during the circus performances but when sleeping and eating with the tigers and lions, and later choosing to live with a leopard, then a lion in his home, risking an attack every day? “I learned so much in the cage,” explains LaVey. “Even getting knocked down taught me great lessons. That’s when you really learn power and magic, even how to play God: when you’re lying in the sawdust with a lion breathing in your face. You know that the natural instinct of the beast is to sink its teeth into the playful fellow creature on the ground, not realizing that its skin is tender and its bones can be crushed – that it can’t withstand clawing and biting like another lion. So, lying there knocked down, you have just one defense left: willpower. Any good cat trainer has to learn how to use it, how to charge himself full of adrenaline, to send out gamma rays that penetrate the brain of the cat, so that it will hold off chewing or clawing you while you grope around for your stick. Then, when you get your hands on it, you’ve got about one second to whip across the lion’s nose and jump to your feet while the lion is distracted. And if you can’t teach reach the stick, you have to do it by giving the cat a solid punch on the nose.” After a while, Tony’s creative drive led him in other directions within the circus community. As LaVey explains, “There’s always something to do in a circus – people ’double in brass,’ usually having two or more alternate jobs to do, unless they have a real specialty act.” Animal training was thrilling, but Tony knew he could never find complete fulfillment working an animal act all his life. It seems inevitable that Tony’s extensive musical talents would not go unnoticed, or not utilized, by the other circus performers – and indeed they weren’t. Tony had taught himself piano over the years by listening to a song on the radio or phonograph and diligently picking out the notes and chords until he could play it with ease. While he was on the road with the Beatty show, Tony asked the circus calliope player, an alcoholic who leaned on the keys more than he actually played them, if he could practice for half an hour, just to keep from getting rusty. (“Fred had callouses on his elbows from playing so hard.”) The calliope player refused, and LaVey, angered by the boozer’s petty power trip, cursed him. A few nights later, he had fallen ill and couldn’t be revived for the evening’s performance. Tony volunteered to play, though he wasn’t at all sure he could even play the calliope. But, never one for taking a cringing approach, LaVey started right off with the galloping Lone Ranger theme from Rossini’s “William Tell Overture.” LaVey was an immediate success with both the audience and the other circus performers. Beatty gave the drunk “professor” a sabbatical and made Tony the regular calliope player. When the Beatty show entered the next town, LaVey was at the calliope which was perched on a flatbed truck, acting as Pied Piper to lure adults and children to the circus grounds. Wherever Tony went, flamboyant handbills advertised him in the most extravagant terms possible. While many of the fantastic-sounding instruments on LaVey’s handbill were nearly extinct, Anton (as he asked friends to now call him instead of his childhood nickname) mastered each of them, or an equivalent. True to his own hype, LaVey learned that he could indeed stir or soothe both humans and animals with his music – how certain chords and cadences would effect the audience, the animals and the performers. Anton found that the jungle cats performed best to dominant cords and barbaric beats. The big cats liked minor chords emphasized but LaVey varied the chords, appropriately alternating major and minors. Elephants liked a predominance of dominant majors with a ponderous beat which best matched their slower gait and metabolisms. Seals and dogs (which are, according to LaVey, very much alike), seemed to respond best to major chords with no minors thrown in. When LaVey stuck to the bright dominant major chords, the dogs and seals were easiest to work with. The other performers in the circus were grateful and perplexed by LaVey’s unusual abilities to add special life to their acts with his music. In addition to working with bandmasters like Vic Robbins, Merle Evans, and Henry Keys, Anton would subsequently perform mood-setting, emotionally-charged music to accompany some of the world’s most famous circus acts: the Hannefords’ riding team, the Concellos, Harold Alzana, the flying Wallendas, the Cristianis, and others. Through the years, LaVey has been gratified to receive supportive letters and membership inquiries from the children, grandchildren, nieces, and nephews of these performers, who had heard of LaVey from their illustrious relatives telling tales about him over the dinner table. One of Anton’s favorite circus characters was Hugo Zachinni, known as the Human Cannonball. Though his actual billing read “The Human Projectile,” common parlance seemed to like the sound of “Cannonball” better and that is what stuck. Zachinni was once a devout Catholic but had become disenchanted, eventually becoming such a militant atheist, he would take any opportunity to talk about what a racket organized religion was. “Whenever anyone would ask about the cannon, he’d launch into a tirade about the crooks that run the churches whenever he’d gather a good tip. Then his wife would come running out and accuse him of having ‘too much-a wine.’” Zachinni was pleased he and his brother, Edmundo, had found a way to capitalize on the public’s lust for violence by inventing and patenting a device for shooting a man out of the barrel of a cannon, which earned them a small fortune. Actually, a rather eclectic fellow, Zachinni was a fine painter and taught fine arts classes until his death. Many of his paintings wound up in major collections. LaVey also recalls Zachinni’s dismay over the consistent mispronouncing of his name. “People used to come up to him and say, ‘Oh, Mr. Zuchinni…’. He’d say, ‘Yesterday I’m-a Zachinni, today I’m-a zuchinni, pretty soon I’m-a gonna be squash.’” Anton had a run-in with a midget on the Beatty show. Instructed to run across the lot for a spike, he saw a midget under a semi-trailer, struggling with a big elephant tub – the decorated hollow pedestals elephants perform on. LaVey tried to help him and the midget cussed him out and kicked him in the shins. He found out later that it wasn’t a good idea to try to help a midget do anything physical because you might get kicked in the balls. Among the other interesting people LaVey met during his time in the circus, was Weird Tales writer Robert Barbour Johnson (“Rubberbubber Johnson” as he introduced himself). He and LaVey struck up a friendship that would last until many years after the Church of Satan was officially formed. At the time, along with a writing contract with Blue Book magazine (five circus stories a year), Johnson was working as an animal trainer himself. Johnson was always fascinated by the magic and synchronicity found in mundane life, yet took the wildly outrageous in his stride. Though never publicly known as an artist, the paintings Johnson did of circus and carnival scenes, with its unusual use of lighting and texture using the minutest specks of paint, will hopefully be exhibited one day. LaVey has many memories of their years together, and loves to recount stories of their expeditions. Then at one point, LaVey simply didn’t hear from him anymore. “Johnson always wanted to disappear, just walk off the edge of the earth somewhere, like Ambrose Bierce or B. Traven. I guess that’s what he finally did.” Not long before Clyde Beatty died of stomach cancer, he came in and listened to LaVey play the theater pipe organ at the Lost Weekend, a nightclub where he was working in San Francisco in the early 60’s. He nursed a 7-Up, just listening. It was one of those drizzly winter off-nights when only a handful of regular customers made him appear even more a stranger in their midst. Anton played the act: “The Jungle Queen,” “Espana Cani,” Ravel’s “Bolero” – All the rest, ending with the ominous closing chords of Puccini’s La Boheme. No one else besides Anton knew who the stranger was, but one of the owners who was tending bar discreetly caught on. After about an hour and a half, the great Clyde Beatty quietly said his goodbye, got up and walked out into the foggy night. Chapter Three Mister, I was Made For It “Here they are, the creatures of the night, body snatchers, Dracula’s pets. Come in and see the fiendish animals. Bone gnawing, horrible creatures on the inside. Captured just four miles from Dr. Frankenstein’s castle and brought here alive and breathing. Grave robbers. The devil’s disciples of the animal world. Creeping, crawling graveyard pests, a menace to the peace of the dead. Alive on the inside in a well-lighted arena for you to see and study. Battlefield pests, feed on dead and dying soldiers…” – suggested spiel for grind show exhibition of an armadillo, Don Boles, The Midway Showman. After traveling with the Beatty show through California, Oregon, Washington, Nevada, Arizona, and New Mexico, the circus season ended in October, 1947, and Anton was ready to move on. Life as a lion trainer and circus musician was lively enough, but he suspected there were still horizons to explore, seamier ways of making a living. He’d head from his circus cronies about the differences between working the carnival circuits and working in a circus. Circus people considered what they did real art, dazzling family entertainment compared with the cheap tricks and “mitt camp” aspects of the carnival. Circus people think carnies are sociopaths, drifters, marginals trying to run away from the law or some nefarious activity or other – trying to get lost. Carnies think circus people are wage slaves and prima donnas, that they only need skills not street smarts, that they’re just performers, and have no need for real mental acuity. This was enough to encourage Anton to get off-season work with various west coast amusement facilities such as The Pike Amusement Park in Long Beach, California, where he played the steam calliope across from Professor Theobald’s flea circus. Professor Theobald was a rather eccentric German gentleman who enjoyed rolling up his sleeves and letting his fleas feast on his arms for their dinner. He blustered against LaVey’s noisy calliope, complaining that the music upset his tiny performers: “Please! It disturbing my fleas; they will not performing right.” “He’d plead with me to play more softly. You can’t play a calliope softly; it’s either loud or not at all. I could never get through to him, much as I sympathized.” There were plenty of interesting characters for LaVey to meet on the carny circuit: Francisco Lentini made something positive out of having three legs, using his third leg for a stool when he went fishing and always dancing with the prettiest girls on any dance floor, inventing a unique waltz that made the center of attention. “He was the only person I ever saw who danced in 5/4 time – Tchaikovsky could’ve written some great stuff for him.” Though Lentini didn’t mind being born with three legs, he was rather self-conscious about a little finger-like appendage that grew out of his third leg and always wore extra long socks to cover it. Anton also like the Human Ostrich, Jacob Heilberger, who had mastered his stomach reflexes so well that he could regurgitate objects at will. He was a highly cultured Jewish engineer, educated at Berlin University, who had fled Germany when the Nazis came to power. Disguising his brains and education, Heilberger horrified audiences by swallowing live mice, golf balls, and eggs that hatched into live chicks, jumping out of his mouth. Of course, there was the sex show which was presented in the guise of an educational hygiene lecture to avoid getting harassed by the local clergy or shut down by the cops. Dr. Hart played the sex doctor (later to become “Dr. Elliot Forbes”), assisted by pulchritudinous girls in scanty nurses’ uniforms who pointed out various parts of the anatomy on oversized charts. Usually there were Kroger Babb films or Army training films on the dangers of V.D. shown, complete with decaying noses of men in the advanced stages of syphilis, which Anton delighted in accompanying by playing “Claire de Lune” and other classical pieces. By the time the film was over, many of the men who had been suckered into buying a ticket had already slunk out the side of the tent, leaving their snow cones and popcorn uneaten beneath the seats and swearing off sex forever. Anton went on to work the biggest traveling shows on the Pacific Coast, carnivals like Craft’s 20 Big Shows, West Coast Shows and Foley & Burke. They’d set up next to circuses in big cities like L.A. (in smaller cities, some carnies would show up to be part of the midway independently), at county fairs, on rodeo lots, dirt lots, football fields … they mostly brought sparkle and excitement to thriving farm communities like Modesto, Turlock, and Redding, and rustic backwater towns with names like Crow’s Landing, Ceres, Atwater. LaVey played either a calliope, Wurlitzer band organ or Hammond along every midway, providing music to keep people moving among the various attractions; his beloved “shit-kicker,” “aircraft plant,” “shipyard” music – “Roly Poly,” “Detour,” “Sunflower,” “No Vacancy,” “Dear Okie”—in addition to more mainstream standards. LaVey experimented with the various sound effects built in to the band organ, for use on the midway or merry-go-round: drums, gong, trolley bell, tambourines, bird whistles, horses’ hooves, horns … all add that jangling, off-rhythmic quality to the music associated most with the combined midway smells of popcorn, sawdust and cotton candy. The bally platform, sporting exaggerated paintings of what could be seen and experienced inside the tent naps, provided an excellent viewing place from which Anton could witness yet another side of human nature. Though the carnivals were small, the gaudy canvases, impelling music, and grotesque exhibits combined to draw hundreds of curious folks from the surrounding countryside. They all came, dressed up in their Sunday best, hoping to see something spicy, hoping to win something special, hoping to see something they would never forget. LaVey was also recruited to play for the traveling tent show revival meetings on Sunday, "Circuses and carnivals used to be considered the work of the Devil in the 19th century, when shows traveled in wagons and disapproving clergymen had real power. Then evangelists wised up that they could take advantage of carnival organists and crowds gathered by the