Shut Up and Give Me the Mic

by Dee Snider

  9

  the demolition squad

  Over the next few months, the new and improved Twisted Sister started to come together. I say started because I feel that we were constantly mutating and developing. We always had the master plan in place, but we were forever modifying, refining, and adjusting.

  The tristate club scene was just a necessary means to an end. Given the choice of having day jobs and working on our music careers at night in some rehearsal studio, we opted to make our living as a cover band, develop our performing and playing chops as we did, and focus on our original music on our two days off each week. At least the first two parts of that plan worked smoothly.

  Our CTA booking agent, Kevin Brenner, started calling us the Demolition Squad because no matter whom he booked us to open up for, we ultimately would dominate, steal their crowd, and blow them away. Soon no bands wanted us to open for them. We didn’t fight fair. From day one, Twisted Sister believed in winning at any cost, and we were not ashamed to use every cheap trick in the book. While other bands focused on musical virtuosity, we gave the drunk, stoned, desperate-for-a-good-time, young rock audience exactly what they wanted every night . . . a riotous party.

  I remember the night the truth of live performing fully hit me. We had been working our asses off for weeks, and screaming my lungs out every night in smoke-filled clubs had finally caught up with me. We were playing a club in East Quogue, Long Island, called the Mad, Mad Hatter on a Saturday night. Saturdays were always the best night of the week to play, and the place was crowded. We hit the stage and I started to sing our opening song, only to find that I had a five-note range (instead of my usual twenty-four-to-thirty-two-note range). I couldn’t sing!

  I turned to Jay Jay with a “What the hell am I gonna do?” look on my face. It was the first song of the night! I had at least thirty more to go! Jay Jay shrugged; he didn’t have the answer. I couldn’t just stop and say, “Hey, folks, I can’t sing tonight, sorry.” So I did the only thing I could think of . . . I went fucking nuts! Up until that night I had always been a mover, but now I took it to a whole new level, and the audience loved it! They didn’t care that I couldn’t sing for shit, as long as I could rock, and that I did!

  DEE LIFE LESSON

  The show always comes first; accuracy and quality a distant second. You can always play and sound good on your records.

  I guess this is a lesson Led Zep had already learned.

  Meanwhile, things had gone from bad to worse for Suzette and me. By worse I mean I was more obsessed than ever. She was pretty much all I could think about. Every spare moment I had was spent on the phone with her or going to see her. I listened to songs like “She’s the One” by Bruce Springsteen and “I Wish I Was Your Mother” by Mott the Hoople over and over because they reminded me of her. When she came to shows to see me, I couldn’t stop looking at her. I would make her sit near the stage just so I could keep an eye on her; I was sure somebody else was going to come along and take her away. I was a jealous maniac.

  And speaking of coming to shows, Suzette was now coming with me to virtually every gig, five nights a week. She was fifteen and still in high school!

  If you are wondering how her parents let this happen, so am I. I’ve given a lot of thought to it. Putting the cosmic “we were meant to be together” (which we were) shit aside, I showed up at a transitional time in the Gargiulo household. Suzette’s parents were divorced; her dad lived a couple of hours away. He came by faithfully every weekend to take his kids out and give them the weekly child-support check, but he never came in the house (at that time the divorced couple weren’t getting along) and didn’t want to know what was going on there. Each week he and the kids would go to dinner and a movie, and then he’d take them home.

  Meanwhile, Suzette’s mom and her longtime post-divorce boyfriend, Tony the Goombah, broke up shortly after I entered the picture. His threatening my life on that first date was pretty much his exit speech. The lack of a father figure in the house (Suzette’s mom’s neighboring sisters were both divorced, too) who would be far more critical of what was going on with his daughter (moms are way too trusting) further assisted me in my mission to make Suzette mine.

  To make matters worse, Suzette’s mom, Jeanette (may she rest in peace), was still relatively young (thirty-eight), attractive, and vital. She had gotten married young, had four kids in pretty rapid succession, been through a divorce, and just broken up with a longtime boyfriend. The last thing she wanted was to stay at home and be a mom. Jeanette wanted to party, and she did. So when her oldest, mature and together, honor-student daughter told her she was going out each night, Jeanette gave her $20 (in case she got stuck somewhere and needed a cab home) and let Suzette do her thing.1

  Suzette would hang with me in the dressing room before shows, in between sets, and after shows (and do her homework) and watch me from the side of the stage during my sets. At one point, the guys in Twisted actually sat me down and told me I had to stop singing every song to her. Unaware I was doing it, I would just stare at Suzette throughout the entire set. I was insane for this girl.

  At the end of each night, I would drive her home, she’d sleep for a couple of hours, then get up and go to school, starting the whole cycle over again. This went on for about a year! As I look back on it now, it seems incredibly perverse and fucked-up! I swear, I took care of her, made sure she ate and helped her with her homework. Oh my God, that sounds even worse!

  This insanity aside, something more was at work here than just berserker testosterone obsession. Initially, unbeknownst to me (to the fullest extent), Suzette was not only an aspiring fashion designer, but she had a passion for makeup and hair as well. She was gradually working on my stage look. Aware that I was a know-it-all asshole, she slowly but surely got me to experiment. I’ve already said that I was concerned about taking things too far and having people think I was gay, but Suzette would ease me into going further with my makeup.

  One night she suggested I wear lipstick.

  “No way!” I said.

  “Oh, come on. Just put on a little gloss. Look, it’s clear.” With that she pulled out of her bag a foot-long tray of cheap lip-glosses, with about a dozen different colors in it. Starting with a completely transparent gloss, the lip-gloss colors in the tray gradually got darker and darker until they reached a bloodred.

  “Okay,” I acquiesced, putting on the Vaseline-like, clear gloss. It essentially looked as if I had licked my lips; not bad. Besides, I couldn’t be gay. I had this hot piece of ass hanging on my arm to prove it.

  Eventually the clear gloss ran out, so, what the hell, I went with the slightly tinted “natural” lip gloss. It was practically the same thing. And I knew I wasn’t gay.

  I’m sure you can see where this is heading. Week after week, another lip gloss shade ran dry, and I’d move to the next darker shade, repeating my new mantra, “I can’t be gay. Suzette’s my girlfriend,” until I was finally wearing the bloodred lipstick at the end of the tray . . . and there I have been ever since.

  Suzette did the same thing with nail polish. “Why don’t you wear nail polish?”

  “I’m not a homo,” I responded like a typical ’70s-era suburban moron.

  “Of course you’re not. Just try some black. It’s cool. Please,” she pleaded.

  “Oh, all right.” Black was pretty cool.

  Well, black led to blue, which led to purple, which led to red, which led to the color I wore onstage for thirty years, pink. That’s pretty much how my makeup developed, and my hair gradually went from brown to screaming blond. That girl could get me to do anything. But to tell the truth . . . I liked it.

  With my trophy girlfriend by my side, I became fearless. I rapidly developed a face full of makeup, and I was taking more chances with what I was wearing. Trips to shops like Ian’s in the West Village would reap postglam clothes and cool boots, but Frankie’s (Frankie was the maven of Ian’s, known for his one-size-fits-all shoehorning of plus-size people into
pint-size clothes) stuff was pricey. Shopping at “Big & Scary” women’s stores scored jaw-dropping (for all the wrong reasons) blouses at the right price. A much better bang for the buck.

  One night, early in our courtship, Suzette came to a club to see me. As usual, she looked devastating. The girl knows how to dress! With the tightest jeans (did she put them on or “apply” them?) and platform shoes, she was wearing the sexiest, fringed, turquoise knit top. I loved it. With it offset by a glowing tan, a killer rack, and a slammin’ body, she looked amazing, and I let her know it.

  A couple of weeks later, she was coming to a club to see me, and knowing how much I loved her in that turquoise knit the last time, she decided to wow me again. When Suzette arrived at the club, she walked in and looked up on the stage . . . to find me wearing the same exact shirt! To make matters worse, I spotted her in the crowd and started wildly pointing to the tops we were both wearing, as if she didn’t notice her towering boyfriend onstage in the spotlight. I was so excited. She covered her face in embarrassment and hid in a corner!

  At the end of the set I bounded offstage and over to her, compounding the fashion faux pas and humiliating my date on a whole new level.

  “You bought my shirt! Why did you buy my shirt?” she cried.

  Confused, I responded, “I told you I loved your top. Remember? I said, ‘Where did you get that top?’ ”

  It has to be more than a coincidence that a short time after that night Suzette started designing and making clothes for me. She would never have to worry about her boyfriend wearing the same clothes as her again.

  BY THE END OF the summer of 1976, only six months into the band, we all knew this was the group that was going to take us to the top, and we understood what we needed to do to get there: original material, followed by a demo tape and showcases for record companies. We decided we would achieve this more quickly if we shared a house.

  The idea was simple: we didn’t have a lot of spare time, so living together would help us maximize our work time and get closer as a band. We all had this vision of a “rock ’n’ roll think tank” where our creativity and camaraderie would flow freely.

  Sure it would.

  Only our bass player, Kenny, opted out of this idea. I don’t know if he saw the inherent problems or just needed his privacy (he was a quiet, quirky guy). Either way, he assured us that when he was needed, he would be there. So, Jay Jay, Eddie, drummer #3, my old pal Don “Fury” Mannello (we needed a fifth roommate to make a house financially doable) moved into a ridiculously nice house in the upscale neighborhood of Old Harbor Green in Massapequa, Long Island. I have no idea how we ever got this house. It was a beautiful split-level home with four bedrooms, three baths, living room, dining room, den, library, finished basement, maid’s quarters, and an in-ground pool with cabana. It was amazing! With its being right across the street from the Harbor Green Yacht Club and down the block from Carlo Gambino, the head of the Gambino crime family, they should have had no reason in the world to let a bunch of rocker dirtbags like us rent the place. They must have been desperate.

  We moved in . . . and the yearlong wasting of time began. Sure, we worked up a handful of new cover songs for our club gigs (something you had to do to keep your shows fresh, so people would keep coming to see you), but as far as original music goes—our reason for getting this house together—we created one song. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  The house became what you would imagine a rock band’s house to become, but that wasn’t the problem. After working the ridiculous hours we worked (on average, leaving the house at 5:00 p.m. for a gig and getting home around twelve hours later), Tuesday through Saturday, the last thing we wanted to do on Sunday was rehearse. I could barely speak by the end of each week, and we all needed a freakin’ day off. That left Monday.

  Though we felt like and acted like rock stars, we weren’t, and we each had plenty of personal responsibilities that needed to be taken care of. By the time we woke up in the afternoon, we only had a few hours to run around doing stuff. One thing would lead to another, and we’d virtually never get any original-music work done.

  I REALLY LOOKED UP to Jay Jay French when I first joined the band. He was almost three years older than me, more experienced, cooler, and generally seemed to have it together. I needed and wanted his approval.

  One day, Jay Jay showed the band a chord progression and melody he was working on for an original song. It was great, and this was exactly the reason we had moved in together. To encourage a close, creative environment where we could exchange musical ideas and develop them into the songs that would define our band. Awesome! Now, I had virtually no songwriting experience (except for the little songs we all make up in our heads and think are incredible), but I wrote lyrics to Jay Jay’s song. I was very nervous as to how they would be received.

  When the band finally found time to get together and rehearse again, I anxiously approached Jay. “I’ve got some words for your song.” Jay Jay peered down at me (we’re the same height) through his thick prescription glasses, the way only an astigmatic man can, and said, “Whadaya got?” While the band looked on, Jay Jay played his song and I sang, reading the lyrics off a sheet of paper. My face was burning, I was sweating, and I know my lyric sheet must have been shaking.2

  When I finished the song, at first Jay Jay said nothing. He took the lyrics from me, glanced at them, and said condescendingly, “They’re about you and Suzette. That’s cute.” Then he turned away without another word. Cute?!

  I was devastated. I had humbled myself before Jay Jay, baring my soul and he had the audacity to be dismissive with me?! Embarrassment turned to humiliation, and humiliation to anger. In that instant, our relationship was forever changed. My former mentor, Jay Jay French, was added to the growing list of people I had to prove myself to. Along with my parents, teachers, ex-bosses, ex-girlfriends, friends, coworkers, and every other asshole who had mocked, dismissed, or shot down my dreams, now my bandmate—a guy on my own team—was officially an enemy of the state. Years later when I told Jay Jay about this pivotal moment in our relationship, he didn’t even remember it. Which is the way it usually is. The “crushee” gets crushed and the “crusher” doesn’t even know the significance of what he or she has done. It’s like some tank running over a hybrid car. That was the end of my ever trying to write with Jay Jay French.

  AROUND THE SAME TIME, I came face-to-face with the reality of the commitment I was going to have to make to achieve my goals. My voice problems were getting worse, and having exhausted medical solutions, I decided to see a voice coach. Maybe a coach could explain what was happening.

  I’m not sure who recommended Katie Agresta (probably Kevin Brenner), but she was considered to be a miracle worker with rock singers. Many vocal coaches won’t even consider working with rockers—they don’t think what we do is real singing—but Katie was building a real name for herself. Cyndi Lauper, the then Janis Joplin–esque former singer of a Long Island–based cover band called Mister Magoo, had gone on to form her band Blue Angel and was starting to get some recognition for her amazing vocal chops. Katie Agresta was her voice coach. That was good enough for me.

  I took a train to Manhattan to meet with Katie for the first time. She listened to my voice, but it was the answers I gave to her questions that told what my problem was. How many hours a night did I sleep? A few. What did I eat? You know, fast food and stuff. What did I drink? Coffee, chocolate milk, and iced tea. Katie had heard enough. On the upside, I didn’t have issues or the negative effects of drugs, smoking (other than inhaling it all night in the clubs), or alcohol to deal with. But I didn’t sleep enough or eat properly, and I drank too much dairy. She explained that I couldn’t expect to have a voice every night if I didn’t rest it enough, refused it the right fuel to perform, and smothered it with dairy products. I couldn’t believe it. I knew guys who smoked, drank, got high, barely slept, and virtually didn’t eat, and they sang like birds every night. “Some people can get away wi
th that,” Katie replied, “You can’t.” Shit!

  As strong a guy as I’ve always been, as physically fit as I pride myself on being, my vocal cords have always been my weak link. Now, even without partying, I was faced with the reality that, if I was serious about going the distance, I was going to have to further restrict my fun and dedicate my life to being a rock singer. Added to Katie’s list of musts were vocal warm-ups and warm-downs throughout the night, no excessive talking before, during, and after shows, and drinking hot tea with honey and lemon onstage instead of a nice, cold, refreshing drink (which locks up your vocal cords). Basically no fun at all.

  I looked at the lifestyle before me and knew what I had to do. I was committed to making it, and there was virtually no sacrifice I wasn’t willing to make.

  10

  so this is christmas

  At this point in Suzette’s and my relationship, I finally figured out something discouraging. She wasn’t into me. It took me weeks to fully realize it, but by then I was so committed to winning this girl’s heart, there was no turning back.

  Apparently, my She Digs Me meter was way off.

  Why was she smiling so broadly at me at that first show? Suzette explained that she and her best friend, Wendy, had met these two guys, borrowed other people’s proof of age (thank you for that, Cousin Felicia), and come to the club to see the “girl groups” Bonnie Parker and Twisted Sister. When she walked into the club, Twisted Sister was onstage, and from a distance she thought we were just that, girls. Once she got up close and saw what we really were, she couldn’t stop smiling. I was a freak! Though she did think we were great.

  Then why did she give me her phone number that night? Because she was afraid not to. When I asked her why she didn’t just give me a wrong number instead, she said she thought about it, but choked. What about coming to see me the following week at another club? Well, after speaking to me on the phone every day, she thought I was a nice guy (the only thing I actually had going for me) and felt bad saying no when I invited her.