Shut Up and Give Me the Mic

by Dee Snider

  I later found out when I finally joined the band that Keith Angel (who was no longer in the band at the time) had told Jay Jay, “This asshole Danny Snider [my name at that time] is out there and wants to sing for the band.” Jay Jay assumed that Keith knew me (he didn’t, but in hindsight he had keen intuition) and wrote me off before he even heard what I had to say. Where are you now, Keith Angelino?

  It would be almost half a year before I heard from Jay Jay French again.

  THERE CAME A DAY when I realized that I had not been in a band, or sung, for close to six months! This was not a good thing on so many levels, the biggest one being getting out of shape vocally.

  The voice box is a muscle, and like any muscle, if you work it regularly, it grows strong, but too hard it can get sore, and you can strain or permanently damage it. But if you don’t work it out at all, it atrophies and grows weak. Not having sung for such a long time (for a singer), I knew I was ill prepared if the opportunity came along to play with a band. I needed to work my voice out.

  I’m not exactly sure how I found the band—probably in the classifieds of the local rock paper or hanging on the board at some music store or rehearsal studio—but they not only needed a singer, they needed a bass player as well. Rather than wander into this band of aliens alone, I put in a quick call to my Heathen bass player, Lee Tobia. I told him I was just looking for a band to rehearse with to keep my chops together and asked if he wanted to audition with me. He was in between bands himself and needed to “work out,” too, so we went to the audition together. I don’t remember how good or bad the band was (I know I wasn’t impressed enough to say “Wait a minute, I’ve found my next band!”), but it didn’t matter, I just needed a band to rehearse with so I’d be ready when opportunity came. Years later, I would become a student of Tony Robbins’s (that’s right, the man is amazing), and he would verbalize what I instinctively knew: Luck is preparation meeting opportunity. I needed to be prepared because I knew opportunity was coming. Don’t ask me how.

  Lee and I aced the audition (of course) and were accepted into the band. When we asked the band’s name, we were told that they would share that information with us once they were sure we were definitely the right guys. Why? Because the name was so good, theywere fearful we might steal it and use it with another band. Neither Lee or I had ever experienced something like this. It must be one hell of a name.

  After several weeks of rehearsing (there were never any gigs or even talk of booking gigs), Lee and I were asked to stay after rehearsal for a band meeting. The guys sat us down and told us they were finally sure we were the right singer and bass player for their band (shows how little they knew) and were ready to share their top-secret name with us. (Drumroll, please.)

  “This.”

  “This what?” Lee responded.

  “This,” they replied.

  “This?” I chimed in, confused.

  “Yeah. Just This,” retorted one of the rocket scientists posing as a band member. “Like ‘this rocks’ or ‘this rules’ or ‘this is the best’!”

  “What about ‘this sucks’?!” I shouted in disbelief.

  Needless to say, Lee Tobia and I weren’t welcome in This anymore. I wonder what laboratory the former members of This are working in?

  BY MID-JANUARY OF 1976, I had been let go from Korvette’s department store and started work at Double B Records & Tapes in Freeport, Long Island. Double B was a local distribution company, acting as a middleman between the record labels and stores. I was hired to man the 8-track section (remember those? Anyone? Anyone?) of the warehouse—not a very big department—filling store orders, then bringing them to shipping to be packed up and sent out.

  I was being trained to replace the guy currently filling the orders. Once I was ready, he was going to leave, and my boss, Zeke, was set to go on a long-overdue vacation. As I filled the orders, I imagined how cool it would be when one day some kid was pulling orders for my albums.

  Zeke was a complete asshole (as opposed to the partial assholes I had worked for before) with a squeaky high voice to match. He was a yeller and dogged my ass relentlessly.

  One day I was on the pay phone just outside Zeke’s office, and he overheard me talking to my This band members about rehearsal that night.

  When I hung up, Zeke called me in. “What’s this about a rehearsal?”

  “Yeah, after work. It’s with my band.”

  Zeke moved in for the kill. “Work comes first; your band is second. I need you to work late tonight. You can’t rehearse with your band.”

  Can’t rehearse? I never worked overtime. The prick had given me overtime just to fuck with me. I said nothing and left his office. Nothing was more important to me than my music. I knew my days at Double B Records & Tapes were numbered.

  WITHIN A WEEK, AT the end of January 1976, I received invitations to audition for two bands. Man, I’d love to see my horoscope for that week. One was my old high school buddies’ fifties band the Dukes. They had become quite a club staple, working regularly with a big following. I had sung in choir with the vocalists in the Dukes, so they knew I had the chops for the doo-wop that was the cornerstone of their show. I love fifties music, so I was pretty excited to get the call.

  The second call was from . . . Jay Jay French of Twisted Sister! After several months of going it on his own (and the breakup and reformation of the band for a third time), Jay Jay had been convinced by numerous people that the band really needed a singer/front man.

  Remember why I said I left my killer band Harlequin to join the lesser band Peacock? To develop my performing and singing chops and be seen by people. Well, it worked.

  Peacock’s club booking agent, Kevin Brenner of Creative Talent Associates (CTA), whom I virtually never saw, had noticed me. As the longtime agent for Twisted Sister, he not only told Jay Jay the band needed a front man, he suggested Jay check out “Danny Snider.”

  “Danny Snider?” Jay Jay replied. “That guy approached me to join the band months ago.”

  You know how when you have never heard a certain word or seen a certain thing before, and after you do, it seems as if you’re hearing or seeing it everywhere? That’s kind of what it was like with Jay Jay and me. After I introduced myself at the club that night, it seemed Jay was constantly hearing my name.

  Long before Kevin Brenner brought me up to Jay, a barkeep named Phil Zozzaro, whom everyone called Wha,1 from one of the clubs both Twisted Sister and Peacock played, was constantly telling Jay Jay about this kid who sang for Peacock. “You gotta check him out, Jay Jay! The kid’s amazing!” Thanks for that, Wha.

  DO YOU KNOW WHAT LSD is? No, not the hallucinogen. Lead Singer Disease. Oh, it’s real, and all front men have it. I won’t deny it. Of course we do. Front men have chosen a profession where we are expected to stand in front of a crowd with only our voice and personality to entertain with. We have no guitar or drums between us and the audience, no buttons, knobs, pedals, or screws to futz with when the music stops or the crowd gets antsy. We’re out there with our dick in our hands. All we’ve got to protect ourselves is the massive ego it takes to get up there in the first place. It’s that we’re so full of ourselves that makes us believe people will actually want to listen and watch us do the things we do. Front men are fucked in the head by definition.

  It’s been said that most people are more afraid of public speaking than they are of dying. We are the nuts who choose the former as our livelihood. Of course we’re fucked-up. You need us to be! Our band members want us to be cocky, egotistical, and defiant onstage, but then “lose the ’tude” the minute we get offstage. Ha! It doesn’t work like that. It’s not a switch we can just flick on and off; it’s who we are. It’s what makes us tick. It’s what makes us rock. I appreciate your (the band’s) frustration, but the “ego-less front man” is a mythical creature, like a unicorn or Bigfoot. They don’t exist.

  The point is, all bands hope against hope that somehow they can manage without a front man. Maybe one of th
e guys in the band, one of the musicians, can handle the job and they’ll be able to get by without one. While it can happen, and there are some great guitar or bass-player/vocalists, keyboard or even drummer/vocalists, the terrible truth is LSD is contagious. Eventually, whoever that “lead guy” is, will catch it and become just as bad as any other front man. It comes with the territory.

  After dealing with two nightmare lead singers, Jay Jay was hoping that maybe he could make a go of it without one. He even brought his childhood friend Eddie Ojeda into the band on guitar and vocals. Eddie’s got a great voice . . . but he’s not a front man. Jay Jay tried to do it without one, but he couldn’t, so he made the call. Maybe this Danny Snider won’t be like the others. Fat chance.

  It didn’t take me long to choose between the Dukes and Twisted Sister. I knew the whole fifties thing was just a craze; there was no future in recording old songs (Sha Na Na had already milked the hell out of that cow), and I would have to cut my hair! Deal breaker. I saw a real future in Twisted Sister, so I jumped at the chance to audition.

  There was one problem. I had just finished training at my job, the guy I was replacing had left, and my boss was scheduled to go on vacation the week Twisted Sister wanted me to go away with them to audition. Wait a minute! I was looking for a way to get even with Zeke the Asshole. Problem solved! I quit my job without notice and left that prick hanging (no pun intended). It not only destroyed his vacation, but had him pulling 8-track tapes himself while he looked for a replacement for me. Payback’s a muthafucker!

  6

  this is twisted sister?

  My audition for Twisted Sister was not going to be typical. The band had a long weekend of shows booked in a club at an upstate New York ski area called Hunter Mountain. Jay Jay had made a deal with the Turtleneck Inn to spend the week there. The plan was for me to drive with the band to the club, audition, and, if all went well, rehearse with them during the week for the weekend shows. I don’t know if they were confident I would pass muster or just hopeful, but I readily agreed to the plan. I had never lost an audition in my life, but I still brought money for a bus ticket home. The last thing I wanted was to be stuck for a week with a band that didn’t want me and then have the long drive home with them as well. Besides, Queen (when they were still metal) were playing while I was away, and having not missed any of their previous tours (this was before they broke big—I’m an original fan! Queen II is the best), I wasn’t going to blow the audition and a chance to see my then-favorite band in concert.

  I felt everything I’d done in my life up until that point had led to this audition. I was ready.

  On February 1 (my dad’s birthday), the night before we were supposed to leave, a major ice storm hit the region. I was sure my big audition would be postponed, but despite all travel in the area being disrupted, the plan remained the same. Kenny Neill, the original Twisted Sister bass player, was going to drive the band station wagon (they had a band car!) from his home in Upper Montclair, New Jersey, out to Long Island (normally a three-hour drive; with the weather it must have taken him at least four) to pick me up at my parents’ house in Baldwin, then we’d drive and pick up the new Twisted drummer, Kevin John Grace (drummer number two, for those keeping count), a couple of towns over from me in Levittown. Next we’d get Jay Jay in Manhattan, then head to the Bronx to pick up guitarist Eddie Ojeda. Only then would we all head upstate to Palenville, New York, to the Turtleneck Inn. Sounds easy enough.

  I had seen photos of Kenny Neill and he looked like a pretty wild guy, but the person who arrived to pick me up was anything but. Looking and sounding incredibly normal (and a bit nerdy; sorry, Kenny), he seemed extremely mature. All of the members of the band (besides Kevin) were three to five years older than me. It doesn’t seem like much now, but when you’re twenty, that’s a significant difference, and I think it played a role in some of the problems that developed between the guys and me later.

  Still, I was superexcited and loaded my bag into the car to begin my adventure. On our ride, I quickly found out that Kenny was a recovering alcoholic (a bit more rock ’n’ roll) and attending several AA meetings every week. I was amazed that he was able to work in a bar/club environment and control his disease. He did, and never fell off the wagon during the couple of years we worked together. To the best of my knowledge, Kenny is now around thirty-five years sober. Good on you, Kenny.

  When we got to drummer Kevin John Grace’s house, he seemed young (maybe even younger than me) and came out to the car wearing glasses and galoshes! I had seen a photo of Kevin; he looked great and didn’t wear glasses (or galoshes). I guess he took them off for the band stuff. Not that there’s anything wrong with needing them (all of Jay Jay’s sunglasses are prescription), but the effect of the glasses, the galoshes, gloves, and winter coat was . . . very dorky. This was thee Twisted Sister and I was driving in an olive-green station wagon with two nerds! Next stop, New York City to pick up the local legend Jay Jay French.

  To most Long Island kids, Manhattan is pretty intimidating. This was the midseventies and New York was anything but “the safest big city in America.” It was the exact opposite. This was the Manhattan portrayed in Serpico, The French Connection, and Death Wish, when Harlem was Harlem and Forty-Second Street was filled with hookers, sex shops, and XXX theaters. Pre-Disney. Manhattan in those days was riddled with “bad areas” and you needed to know your way around to avoid potential problems. I had rarely been there except for parades with my parents, occasional school trips, and a couple of concerts. On one of my more recent visits, the guys in Harlequin and I had nearly gotten jacked by a gang one night in Central Park, after a Uriah Heep concert (back when they literally used to stop anyone from entering the park at night because it was too dangerous). I was not a NYC fan.

  Jay Jay lived on the Upper West Side, where he was born, raised, still lives today, and, I’m sure, they will carry his body out of one day. Hey, nobody gives up a rent-controlled apartment in New York City. In 1976, this was the lower edge of Harlem and not a safe place.

  The three of us arrived at Jay’s place and parked the car. To the best of my recollection, Kevin stayed with the car to watch our stuff (what he would have done if someone tried to rip us off, I don’t know. Hit him with a galosh?), and Kenny and I headed upstairs to get Jay.

  Jay answered the door wearing glasses, overalls, a sweater, and white Capezio dance shoes. What the hell was going on!? This was not the tall, cool glitter rocker I had met six months before! He was doing some last-minute packing for the trip and invited me into his room to talk.

  While I waited for him to get ready, I was introduced to a level of pornography I had never before experienced. This was the seventies, and my exposure was limited to Playboy and Penthouse magazines; porn was not my thing. It was Jay Jay’s. He had imported porn magazines with photo exposés that were staggering to a twenty-year-old bumpkin from Baldwin, Long Island. I’ll never forget the one with a beautiful, blond (Swedish?) woman who, after a long day at work, comes home . . . to do five guys at once. The shot of her with one guy in each hand and the other three in each of her orifices mystified me for a long time. I had so many questions. Talk about your first impressions.

  Our next stop was the Bronx to pick up Eddie Ojeda. Now, if New York City was intimidating, the Bronx was a whole other level. I’d only seen it portrayed in movies like Fort Apache, the Bronx and heard about it in terrible stories on the news; never in a flattering light. I was more than a little nervous to go there.

  Eddie Ojeda is Spanish/Puerto Rican. Growing up in lily-white Baldwin (we had three “Negros” in the whole school), I didn’t really know any Hispanic people (I did have one Mexican friend named Carlos), but again, I had seen their portrayals on television and in films. Not so flattering.

  When we arrived at Eddie’s family’s apartment building on Jerome Avenue, the place was buzzing with activity. Just like in the movies. We pulled up in front and Jay Jay jumped out to go inside to get Eddie. I was amazed
at how casually this bizarre rocker/farmer/dancer (Jay was now wearing a fur-trimmed coat) walked through all the commotion in front of the building and went inside. Fearless. As we sat and waited (forever), it seemed emergency sirens were constantly going off. So far this experience was doing nothing to dissipate my fears or preconceptions.

  Suddenly I heard someone screaming. I turned and saw a woman burst out of the front door of Eddie’s building, with her hands covering her face and blood pouring out. What the fuck!? Police and emergency vehicles arrived, all hell was breaking loose . . . then Jay Jay and Eddie casually walked out of the building, chatting and laughing as I sat in shock.

  Sporting a “disco haircut” and wearing a long, herringbone tweed coat, Eddie did not look rock ’n’ roll, but he seemed pretty cool. I quickly impressed him by asking if his last name was actually pronounced O-hey-da (three years of mediocre grades in Spanish, finally paying off), and he proceeded to reinforce every stereotype I had about Puerto Ricans.

  Before we had driven a block, Eddie asked if we could pull over at a check-cashing place so he could get some money. He used the money to purchase a bottle of booze at a liquor store conveniently located next door, then drank it with a brown bag around it! Are you kidding me!? Could he have been any more ethnic? This was atypical behavior for Eddie, and to this day he cracks up when he thinks of how it must have looked to a twenty-year-old, culture-shocked kid from the suburbs. Thanks, Eddie.

  Now that we had the whole band, we began our supposed two-hour drive upstate to the Turtleneck Inn. The operative word being supposed.