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Lost Angels
Lost angels are victims of the rigors of love in the City of Night. Los Angeles is where love is found, earned, stolen, sought, regained . . . and ultimately lost again. Schow features an Introduction by Richard Christian Matheson and an Afterword written especially for this edition. Also includes a brand-new short story, "Calendar Girl".
Paperback
First published March 6, 1990
About the author
David J. Schow
200 books149 followersDavid J. Schow is an American author of horror novels, short stories, and screenplays, associated with the "splatterpunk" movement of the late '80s and early '90s. Most recently he has moved into the crime genre.
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Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews
January 12, 2019
David J. Schow was known as the "Father of Splatterpunk," as the cover of this collection from 1990 proudly proclaims. It contains five stories, including the excellent Red Light which won the World Fantasy Award in 1987 for best short story. It's a nice variation of Leiber's classic, "The Girl With the Hungry Eyes." Brass is a good story of a haunting, and the poorly titled Pamela's Get is an excellent reality-questioner. I did not care for the longest story in the book at all, The Falling Man, which struck me as an incoherent mess. My favorite was the last story, Monster Movies, a very touching romance about recovery and perseverance with no supernatural element at all and violence of the emotional kind. All of the stories have a very 1980's flavor of me-first hustling philosophy and sex-as-commodity that's a little jarring today, but they're accurate representatives of their era; horror wasn't always a small-press niche, and Schow was one of the best of his generation.
May 2, 2019
So, I must admit to being a bit wary - as Schow is considered the "father of splatterpunk" - simply because splatterpunk isn't my cup of tea. I've read some very well-written splatterpunk in my time, and it's a completely valid genre, but it's just not my preference, and I think I've also read stuff which claims the splatterpunk title, but turned out mostly to be an excuse for bad writing and graphic violence.
But this. THIS COLLECTION. I'm assuming the majority of Schow's work falls in the splatterpunk vein, given his title. But this collection is filled with marvelous stories of depth and emotion. My favorites were "Monster Movies," "Red Light," and "Pamela's Get." It should be noted: this is a review of the used paperback, which doesn't include "Calendar Girl."
Knowing that most of his work falls in the realm of splatterpunk, I'm not sure if I'll seek it out. This collection, however, was amazing, and certainly makes me more likely to, eventually.
But this. THIS COLLECTION. I'm assuming the majority of Schow's work falls in the splatterpunk vein, given his title. But this collection is filled with marvelous stories of depth and emotion. My favorites were "Monster Movies," "Red Light," and "Pamela's Get." It should be noted: this is a review of the used paperback, which doesn't include "Calendar Girl."
Knowing that most of his work falls in the realm of splatterpunk, I'm not sure if I'll seek it out. This collection, however, was amazing, and certainly makes me more likely to, eventually.
May 4, 2023
Bei racconti, molti parlano di lutto e perdite,non sono troppo horror o splatter come ci si potrebbe aspettare dall'autore, ma tutti sono spiazzanti.
July 8, 2026
★★★★★
There are books that define a genre, and there are books that embody its spirit. For me, David J. Schow's Lost Angels falls firmly into the second category. It is not The Kill Riff. It lacks the singular emotional engine, the focused rage, and the devastating character study that elevated that novel into something approaching greatness. Yet judging Lost Angels solely against The Kill Riff feels unfair, because Schow is attempting something entirely different. Where The Kill Riff is a sniper round, Lost Angels is a shotgun blast fired from a speeding vehicle at midnight.
The novel is chaos by design. What fascinates me most about Lost Angels is how completely it embraces the ugly glamour of late twentieth-century excess. The story feels soaked in neon, sweat, addiction, violence, and bad decisions. Everyone seems to be spiraling toward destruction, yet they continue moving forward with the confidence of people who either do not see the cliff edge or no longer care. That atmosphere is increasingly difficult to find in modern horror.
Contemporary horror often feels obligated to explain itself. Characters pause to analyze trauma. Narratives frequently step outside themselves to reassure readers that the author understands the moral implications of every event unfolding on the page. Lost Angels comes from an era when horror simply opened the cage and let the animals run. The brutality is not there for shock alone. It is part of the environment. Violence exists because violence exists. Human beings make terrible decisions because human beings make terrible decisions. The novel trusts readers to navigate the darkness without a guiding hand. That confidence creates a strange authenticity.
For readers who grew up before every moment was documented and every mistake permanently archived, the novel captures a feeling that is difficult to articulate. It reflects a world that felt larger, more dangerous, and often far less supervised. Freedom and recklessness shared the same bed. Sometimes that produced unforgettable experiences. Sometimes it produced nightmares. Schow understands both. The result is a novel that may never reach the emotional heights of The Kill Riff, but still stands as a remarkably pure expression of splatterpunk's DNA. It possesses the same appetite for excess, the same willingness to offend, and the same refusal to soften its corners for broader acceptance.
It is beautiful wreckage. Not because it is perfect, but because it remains unapologetically itself. Modern horror occasionally captures pieces of what Lost Angels accomplished. Very few manage to recreate its complete commitment to momentum, danger, and emotional abrasion. Reading it today feels less like revisiting a novel and more like opening a time capsule from an era when horror was still willing to draw blood and smile while doing it.
There are books that define a genre, and there are books that embody its spirit. For me, David J. Schow's Lost Angels falls firmly into the second category. It is not The Kill Riff. It lacks the singular emotional engine, the focused rage, and the devastating character study that elevated that novel into something approaching greatness. Yet judging Lost Angels solely against The Kill Riff feels unfair, because Schow is attempting something entirely different. Where The Kill Riff is a sniper round, Lost Angels is a shotgun blast fired from a speeding vehicle at midnight.
The novel is chaos by design. What fascinates me most about Lost Angels is how completely it embraces the ugly glamour of late twentieth-century excess. The story feels soaked in neon, sweat, addiction, violence, and bad decisions. Everyone seems to be spiraling toward destruction, yet they continue moving forward with the confidence of people who either do not see the cliff edge or no longer care. That atmosphere is increasingly difficult to find in modern horror.
Contemporary horror often feels obligated to explain itself. Characters pause to analyze trauma. Narratives frequently step outside themselves to reassure readers that the author understands the moral implications of every event unfolding on the page. Lost Angels comes from an era when horror simply opened the cage and let the animals run. The brutality is not there for shock alone. It is part of the environment. Violence exists because violence exists. Human beings make terrible decisions because human beings make terrible decisions. The novel trusts readers to navigate the darkness without a guiding hand. That confidence creates a strange authenticity.
For readers who grew up before every moment was documented and every mistake permanently archived, the novel captures a feeling that is difficult to articulate. It reflects a world that felt larger, more dangerous, and often far less supervised. Freedom and recklessness shared the same bed. Sometimes that produced unforgettable experiences. Sometimes it produced nightmares. Schow understands both. The result is a novel that may never reach the emotional heights of The Kill Riff, but still stands as a remarkably pure expression of splatterpunk's DNA. It possesses the same appetite for excess, the same willingness to offend, and the same refusal to soften its corners for broader acceptance.
It is beautiful wreckage. Not because it is perfect, but because it remains unapologetically itself. Modern horror occasionally captures pieces of what Lost Angels accomplished. Very few manage to recreate its complete commitment to momentum, danger, and emotional abrasion. Reading it today feels less like revisiting a novel and more like opening a time capsule from an era when horror was still willing to draw blood and smile while doing it.
Displaying 1 - 4 of 4 reviews