In honor of Peter Steele, who died ten years ago today.

Type O is what you might call a cult favorite, especially among the goth subculture. Outside of their core of diehard fans, people might know them as that band who looked sort of like vampires and sang about Halloween and girls with dyed black hair. That’s only to be expected, since the band took nothing seriously, least of all themselves. Clever irony, acidic sarcasm and relentless self-depreciation filled everything from lyrics to interviews. Casual fans talk about them almost like they were a novelty act, but it has always been my contention that Steele was as much of a musical genius as anyone else you care to name, capable of some breathtaking songwriting.

This song has always been a favorite of mine. (The lyrics are typical Steele, tongue-in-cheek, about being tormented by a succubus.) The severely downtuned guitar chords ringing out over the soaring keyboard/organ starting at 1:40; the lush, mournful vocals in the final minute and a half; it’s all so transcendentally beautiful that I don’t even mind the slow, spoken section about halfway through.

I truly miss this man.