CRADLE OF FILTH

Revolver and Dani Filth and Paul Allender sign up to tour Tinseltown’s haunted sites. Who knew their guide would be the driver from hell?

By Dan Epstein
Photo by Zach Cordner

For a city that was mostly poppy fields and orange groves a mere century ago, Los Angeles boasts an enormous amount of allegedly haunted properties. This is especially true of the Hollywood and Beverly Hills areas, where many deceased showbiz legends of yore are said to still walk the earth; here, too, supposedly wander the tormented spirits of the many Hollywood has-beens and never-weres driven to suicide by their expensive habits or the fickle nature of fame…

Spooky stuff, with a residue of decadence. And it all sounds tailor-made for Cradle of Filth’s Dani Filth and Paul Allender, who have arrived in Hollywood to spend a few days doing press for Thornography, the black metallers’ scarifying new CD for Roadrunner. Rather than making them sit through yet another interview, we at Revolver thought it might be fun to invite the visiting Englishmen to join us on one of the many “Haunted Hollywood” tours that crisscross the area on a daily basis, especially since the vocalist and guitarist are no strangers to eerie settings or paranormal experiences.

“I used to live in a haunted house,” reveals Filth, as we wait outside the band’s West Hollywood hotel for the tour limo to arrive. “It once belonged to Matthew Hopkins [the 17th-century English witch hunter and torturer who dubbed himself “the Witchfinder General”], and it was quite creepy. When I was on tour, my wife woke up one night, and all the windows in the room had been thrown open! It happened a few times. We don’t live there anymore,” he laughs.

“I think most houses in England are haunted, actually,” adds Allender. “I remember when I was putting a studio into my house, my son was sitting on the step going into the studio, and he was gibbering and talking to himself. My wife said, ‘What are you doing?’ And he said, ‘Oh, I’m talking to Granddad!’ Well, his Granddad is dead, you know? And he’s pointing at the chair sitting in the middle of the room, saying, ‘He’s there now.’ My son is laughing, like someone else is talking to him. That was weird—but it was very cool!”

The website of our particular tour promises visits to such famous sites as the Chateau Marmont (where John Belushi took his fatal overdose), the Viper Room (ditto for River Phoenix), and the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel, which is reputed to be the most haunted building in Hollywood. What the website doesn’t mention, however, is that our driver/guide will be someone who could easily pass for Anthony Kiedis’ retarded younger brother—a fact we ascertain immediately upon piling into his white 1961 Cadillac limo.

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!” the driver howls, in the first of what will be many unconvincing outbursts of “evil” laughter. His doughy, streaked-blond surfer-dude appearance is rendered even less imposing by the Groucho Marx glasses-nose-and-moustache combo that is perched upon his face. “So, I hear you guys fucking rock, man,” he says to Filth and Allender. “I take it you want to go over to Sharon Tate’s house? The Tate murders? You wanna see the Menendez House, the Menendez murders? I’m just gonna hit on the death thing. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, that’s fine,” shrugs Allender.

“Will we be hitting any haunted places?” Revolver asks.

“Well, you know, anything can be haunted at any time,” says the driver. “Even this car—just think of it as being ‘Re-possessed’!”

“Ugh,” responds Allender, unable to muster even a courtesy snicker for the lame joke.
His car audibly groaning under the strain of his six passengers—Filth, Allender, their manager, Fay, a minder from Roadrunner, and Revolver’s writer-photographer duo—the driver steers the Cadillac up Doheny Drive to Sunset Boulevard. He points out the Key Club, which was built on the site of 1980s hair-metal haven Gazzari’s. “You guys ever played up here on the Strip?” the driver asks. “I hear you guys are pretty fuckin’ kick-ass! So, you guys like this tour? What do ya think about it?” At this point, we have spent the less than five minutes in the car.

“It’s okay, so far,” says Filth, clearly bemused by the driver’s verbal diarrhea.
“All right, so you guys ready to have some fun?” the driver continues. “You wanna hit some cemeteries? I’ve got shovels back there. With all the celebrity bodies, we could be making a killing. An arm and a leg!”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” mutters Allender under his breath.

Our first stop is Greystone Mansion, a 50-room house built in 1928 by local oil mogul Edward Doheny. Unfortunately, it’s late afternoon, and the lavish grounds that are open daily to the public—and where Guns N’ Roses filmed their “November Rain” video—are now closed, so we have to content ourselves with looking up at the manor through its iron gates. “Edward Doheny’s son was shot and killed here by his chauffeur, who some say was also his lover,” our driver explains. “They said it was a ‘homo-cide’!”

“Ugh,” mutters Allender, shaking his head.

“We take offense to that, because me and Paul are actually gay,” says Filth.

“Huh?” responds our driver, who for a brief second actually seems at a loss for words.

“We’re gay,” says Filth, before dissolving in a fit of laughter. “No, we’re not. But if we were, we’d take offense.”

The driver begins rummaging through the trunk of the Cadillac, then emerges wearing a top hat and a ratty velvet cape, with a Phantom of the Opera half-mask wedged behind his Groucho spectacles. He’s brandishing a blood-red walking stick with a filthy-looking livery cap dangling from the end of it. “Okay, now look at this,” he crows. “This is the fuckin’ chauffeur’s hat, dude! The motherfucker who killed Doheny! Just remember, any inanimate object can be connected to the person it belonged to.” He shakes the cap on the end of the cane. “You feel that vibe? WOOOOO!!!”

After a brief detour to Ozzy and Sharon Osbourne’s house—where the only haunting is being done by swarms of elderly, camera-toting tourists—the driver steers us back toward Sunset.

“Right here is the home where Frank Sinatra died,” announces the driver. “I guess you could say he went from here to eternity!”

“Did he get murdered?” asks Allender.

“No, heart attack,” answers the driver.

“Right,” says Allender, profoundly unimpressed. “Next!”

We pass the Beverly Hills Hotel and head uphill for a few blocks on Benedict Canyon, but by now, the Cadillac is sputtering and coughing like it’s contracted bronchitis.

“The spirits have really gotten into this car!” the driver announces. “We’re coming in for an emergency landing!”

“This is great,” laughs Filth, as the car comes to a stop. “Who’s idea was this, anyway?”

“Um, Revolver magazine,” I answer, more than slightly embarrassed by how half-assed this tour is turning out to be.

“Oh,” he says, frowning in mock disappointment. “I thought this was for Vulva magazine!”

“All right, look straight dead ahead there, up on the hill,” says the driver, pointing out a large house about a mile away from us. “That’s where Sharon Tate and all her friends were murdered. Not that house, but that’s the property. That’s where they died—right there! Yeah, so there you go, guys,” he continues. “I hope you enjoyed the tour! Fuck, man, it’s been good!”

We remind him that we’ve paid for a two-hour tour and have thus far barely passed the 30-minute mark.

“All right,” he says. “I think the problem is we’re running out of gas. Why don’t we turn around and go get some gas?”

But with no nearby driveways or intersections available, the driver decides to make an ungainly three-point tour in the middle of Benedict Canyon, with cars speeding at us in both directions. “Fucking hell!” cries Allender, as an SUV screeches to a halt a mere three feet from his side of the Caddy. “I think I just wee’d in your car, mate,” laughs Filth.

Amazingly unscathed by that boneheaded maneuver, we continue cruising through the side streets of Beverly Hills, our driver pointing out such distinctly unscary places as the residence of Michael Caine, a British actor who is still very much alive. “This tour should be called the Living Trip, shouldn’t it?” cracks Allender. “The Possibly Dead Soon Tour…”

After turning right onto Wilshire Boulevard, the driver suddenly realizes that the nearest gas station is actually behind us. What follows is easily the scariest part of our entire tour—a three-point turn across six lanes of rush-hour traffic.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” cries Allender, as a cacophony of car horns pierces the air around us. “We’re going to get mauled!”

Miraculously, the Caddy coasts into the gas station without sustaining any damage. “Love that turning bit—that was cool!” laughs Filth.

“So, can you guys help me out with the gas?” asks the driver.

A full tank, a couple more hair-raising turns, another breakdown, and several cases of severe carbon monoxide poisoning later, the Caddy finally ferries us to Westwood Memorial Cemetery. Hidden from the street by a movie theater and an office building, the modest burial ground is home to the remains of Marilyn Monroe, Dean Martin, Rodney Dangerfield, and Natalie Wood, but Filth is most fascinated by the grave of Heather O’Rourke, the child actress who played Carol Anne in the first two Poltergeist films. “Carol Anne! Carole Anne!” he calls out. While he’s doing this, the driver strolls off across the grounds and disappears.

“That’s it. He’s just going to leave us here,” laughs Filth.

“Is this thing on?” asks Allender, pointing to Revolver’s tape recorder. Assured that it is, he grabs it and barks “What a wanker!” directly into the microphone.

Twenty minutes later, the driver reappears without explanation and begins to start up the Caddy. We climb back into the car and prepare to leave, but the driver’s mind is suddenly on other things.

“Where’s my hat?” he cries, visibly upset. “What happened to it?”

“It’s under that tree,” says Filth, pointing to the top hat lying amid the roots of a nearby trunk.

“What?” screams the driver, his voice rising hysterically. “How the fuck did that happen? Who put it there?”

“Ghosts?” offers Filth.

The driver leaves the car and slams the door behind him. “You’re crap, mate!” Filth laughs. The driver successfully retrieves his hat, but instead of coming back to the car, he then spends several minutes looking up into the tree.

“Fuckin’ hell,” spits Allender. “What’s he looking up that tree for?”

“He’s scaring me now,” Filth admits.

“I don’t know, man,” says the driver, when he finally returns to the car, hat firmly reunited with head. “That’s some pretty weird shit!”

“Yes, you are,” mutters Allender.

“Are we going back to the hotel?” Filth asks.

“Yeah, we’re going back,” the driver answers. “What the hell else do you want to do?”

“Can we break down somewhere, please?” laughs Filth. “D’you think you can arrange that?”

Sure enough, within minutes of turning back onto Wilshire, the Caddy once again gives up the ghost. The tour’s been pretty much of an all-around disaster by this point, so we decide to cut our losses and call for a cab. “Well, you did get your full two hours,” says the driver, helpfully.

As we wait for the cab to arrive, he hands Filth and Allender his business card. “Here, you guys check out my card, if you wanna shoot me an email or something. Gimme a call next time, so we can hang out! I’m gonna pimp this car out, put a kickin’ stereo system in it, and we can do it again. You guys are great, man!”

“Well done!” laughs a relieved-sounding Allender, as our cab pulls away from the curb. “That was very, very different! He was telling me how he was going to pimp his car all out. It’s like, maybe you should just worry about putting petrol in it, first!”

“The best thing about that guy was that he was so unashamed,” marvels Filth. “We almost crash, we break down, he asks us for gas money—you half expected him to park on someone’s grave!”

“That was incredible. It really was,” says Allender. “It just better not be coming out of our fucking album-promo budget, do you know what I mean? I can just see it: ‘Sorry, we can’t push your album to radio—we already spent your budget on that really crap and expensive haunted tour!’”