Hair metal played by demons, come to town to Pied Piper all the kids into the theater. The music's awful, of course, but the intense devotion of these kids to a band their patents hate is actually fairly plausible. The band's hair, clothing, footwear, and performance are also, sadly, true to the era. Everything else about Black Roses is just ... awful. The acting is abysmal, with everyone involved hamming it up to absurd levels. Vincent Pastore, in one of his earliest roles, plays the definitive "not in my house!" dad, who is subsequently sucked into a speaker in the only scene with special effects to be worth a damn. Because, holy hell, this might be one of the worst-edited movies ever. Body doubles whose bodies looks nothing like the ladies they're portraying, demons that look more like bargain-basement Godzilla than anything from the depths of hell -- the usual. The film is so absolutely, resolutely bad, it's excellent. There's blood galore, from deaths that are resolutely improbable outside the demented mind of the screenwriter, if not outright impossible because of the laws of physics. It's deserving of greater renown than what it has. The musical aspect is probably the least important bit of its appeal. Despite the minor inclusion of a member of Vanilla Fudge, the band might as well be standard Hollywood central casting. Certainly, thanks to lyrics and costumes of a homoerotic bent, it deserves inclusion with the second installment of A Nightmare on Elm Street as a pure camp classic.