King Diamond and the Art of Theatrical Terror in Metal! It’s Halloween, and that can only mean one thing: the skeletons are itching to dance, the ghouls are lacing up their boots, and the goths are quietly judging your costume choices. So naturally, the question arises — what does one write about on All Hallows’ Eve? Surely, something suitably spectral.
Initially, the pen hovered toward Uncle Alice — yes, that Alice Cooper — the patriarch of shock rock, master of mascara, and supplier of adolescent nightmares since the Nixon era. But then, with the faint echo of falsetto wails bouncing in the skull, the real spectre of Halloween emerged: King Diamond. With all due respect to Alice, he can step politely aside tonight. This one belongs to the King.
A Haunting We Shall Go:
Because, you see, when one invokes the name King Diamond, those in the know will immediately conjure up a few very specific images:
- A face painted like a demonic Victorian theatre mask
- A voice that shrieks like a banshee left on the boil
- Albums that read like Hammer horror screenplays, all bloodied lace and crumbling gravestones
Back when King first started painting his face, the trend hadn’t caught on yet — not in the unholy tsunami it would eventually become. Sure, KISS had already slapped greasepaint on and called it branding, but their makeup had more to do with comic books and glam than with horror cinema and necromancy. King Diamond, however, wasn’t interested in superheroes. He painted himself like death itself had a cabaret act. His look changed frequently, but never lost its funereal flair — unmistakably him, even when you didn’t want it to be.
More impressively, and perhaps more crucially to his legacy, King Diamond didn’t just write songs. He wrote stories — ghastly, interconnected narratives drenched in blood and moral decay. These were concept albums, yes, but not the kind that involved knights, dragons, and virgins in distress (looking at you, power metal). No, King went full Grand Guignol. Abigail, Them, Conspiracy — each one a horror opera in corpsepaint.
While others flirted with darkness, King married it in a black chapel at midnight. Even Alice Cooper, for all his gravitas and eyeball eyeliner, didn’t maintain such rigorous narrative continuity. King Diamond became a brand of horror-metal storytelling no one else dared match — and if they did try, they failed with flair.
So who is this cadaverous crooner, really?
Born Kim Bendix Petersen on 14 June 1956 in Denmark — a place that apparently breeds good pastry, quality black metal, and people who enjoy long walks in cemeteries — he began his career not as a vocalist, but as a guitarist in a little-known band called Brainstorm between 1974 and 1976. However, once he left the band, his guitar gathered more dust than applause. According to King himself, he still composed primarily on guitar, even if he didn’t wield it onstage anymore.
King Diamond
It was during the Brainstorm years that “King Diamond” was born — not out of any profound mythological origin, mind you. When asked where the name came from, he shrugged and admitted he couldn’t remember. That’s peak King right there — conjuring mystique by accident.
After Brainstorm, he moved to Black Rose, this time as the frontman. That’s also where he began his infamous face painting — allegedly inspired by Alice Cooper after seeing the Welcome to My Nightmare concert. So yes, Alice was the spark, but King lit the full inferno.
Interestingly, despite what his face might suggest, his look owed more to theatrical horror than to KISS-style kabuki. Alice painted around the eyes. King painted everything, and more importantly, wore it like he meant it. The result was more Hammer Horror than Hanna-Barbera.
Now, let’s talk sound. Black Rose’s work — particularly as heard on the compilation King Diamond and Black Rose: 20 Years Ago – A Night of Rehearsal — was far from what you’d call “metal” by today’s standards. It leaned closer to hard rock, with shades of Kansas and Deep Purple more than the chilling occultism he’s famous for. There was no sign yet of the theatre of the grotesque he would go on to master. His voice, while strong, didn’t yet have the spectral shriek that would become his trademark.
After Black Rose crumbled, King drifted briefly into a band called Brats — which, appropriately, ended in a messy split. One half of the band — including King and guitarist Hank Shermann — went one way. The other half — guitarist Michael Denner and bassist Timi Hansen — went the other. But as in all good horror films, no one ever really escapes. They reconvened soon after, this time joined by drummer Kim Ruzz, to form a new entity: Mercyful Fate.
And lo, in the year of our Lord 1981, Mercyful Fate was born — horns, corpsepaint, and all. By 1982, they’d dropped their self-titled debut EP, known colloquially as Nuns Have No Fun. Charming, right?
Musically, the EP didn’t quite fall fully into black metal territory. It was aggressive, yes. It had falsettos that could shatter a stained-glass window. But it was still rooted in heavy metal, with thrash undercurrents rather than true second-wave black metal misanthropy. Still, it was enough to confuse the critics and horrify the clergy.
So why does everyone lump Mercyful Fate in with black metal?
Well, there are reasons — some of them more idiotic than others. For one, their sound was raw and ferocious. For another, the lyrics waded into occultism and Satanic symbolism, which, in the Reagan-Thatcher years, was enough to earn you a government watchlist. And finally, let’s not forget the most laughably shallow reason: because King Diamond painted his damn face. That alone was enough to convince some hollow-headed scene gatekeepers that Mercyful Fate were the harbingers of darkness.
Truth is, Mercyful Fate weren’t quite black metal, but they lit the torch for others to follow — and boy, did they follow. King’s use of corpsepaint (a term coined much later) and his theatrical performances inspired a generation of bands who took his aesthetic and amped it to nihilistic extremes. Mayhem, Darkthrone, Immortal — all owe some unholy debt to King Diamond’s ghostly grandeur.
Even if King Diamond never sat on the commercial throne of metal royalty, he ruled something far more potent: the theatre of darkness. His commitment to storytelling, to character, to turning every performance into a séance… it wasn’t just music. It was ritual.
And that, dear readers, is why this Halloween, I raise a goblet of dry ice and goat blood not to Alice Cooper — much as I love the man — but to the King. Because in the catacombs of metal history, only one name echoes with such operatic dread:
King. Bloody. Diamond.
King Diamond Official Website