Shut Up and Give Me the Mic

by Dee Snider

  The “tattered look” of the You Can’t Stop Rock ’n’ Roll tour had gone down well (and inspired many other bands) and taken a major step closer to the ultimate look for Twisted. I always had a lot of rules as to what was and wasn’t acceptable for Twisted Sister costumes. Suzette would often come up with new ideas that I would reject out of hand, but slowly I would come around to her wisdom (much the same process that got me to wear more makeup).

  Suzette’s concept for Twisted Sister’s next costumes was to take the tattered look to a whole new level. As huge fans of Mad Max and The Road Warrior (aka Mad Max 2) movies, Suzette saw an opportunity to introduce elements of postapocalyptic style into the outfits. Wait’ll they get a load of me!

  THE DEMO PROCESS FOR the next album was identical to all previous ones. The songs I’d been working on during the recording of You Can’t Stop Rock ’n’ Roll, along with two songs Eddie and I wrote (yes, Eddie had finally written some guitar riffs for me to work on) and a couple of fan favorites from the club days (“Rock ’n’ Roll Saviors” and “You Know I Cry”), were rehearsed in their most basic form (intro-verse-chorus-verse-chorus), then recorded as demos. The versions of the songs were truncated because we always had so many more than we needed—only ten to twelve would be chosen for the album. We didn’t want to waste time fully arranging all of them.

  Once a demo was finished, we would give the tape to all the interested parties (band, crew, management, record label, and our producer), then vote for our favorite tracks. The ones with the most votes would be the songs for the record.

  As a songwriter I was hitting my stride. I knew some really strong songs were on the new demo. Particularly, “We’re Not Gonna Take It” and “I Wanna Rock.”

  “I Wanna Rock” was inspired by the galloping rhythm of many Iron Maiden songs. I thought if I could combine the metallic drive of a Maiden song with the anthemic feel of many of my songs, I would have a winner.

  One note: When I originally wrote the song, I envisioned the “gang (chant) vocals” being sung on the word rock, as in “I wanna rock!” When we were working up the songs for the demo, I was explaining it to Eddie Ojeda.

  “Oh, you mean like ’I wanna rock! Rock!’?” Eddie asked.

  That was a much better idea! “Yeah,” I replied, taking full credit, “like that.” Thanks, Eddie.

  I’d been sitting on the chorus for “We’re Not Gonna Take It” since 1979. I knew the hook was a killer, but try as I would, I could not come up with a suitable verse and B-verse (the second, different part of a verse). I’m a huge fan of the English band Slade (as are many other prominent hard-rock and metal bands) and their incredible rock anthems. Most of you will know them best for the Quiet Riot smash hit “Cum On Feel the Noize” and follow-up, “Mama Weer All Crazee Now.” No, Quiet Riot didn’t write those songs, Slade did.

  Slade songs are usually uniquely comprised of a hook (catchy repeated melody and lyric) for the verse, a hook for the B-verse, and a hook for . . . the hook. Jim Lea and Noddy Holder are amazing songwriters! “We’re Not Gonna Take It” is a full-on Slade-inspired romp. All of my anthems are. Thank you, Noddy and Jim, for the inspiration and songwriting lessons. I couldn’t have done it with -out you.

  Credit for the crowning touch on the song has to go to my drummer, A. J. Pero. I had the idea of starting the song with a drum cadence, like in a marching band. When I asked A.J. to come up with something, he created a hell of an identifiable beat! The minute people hear those drums, they know what song it is. More cowbell!

  Many years after I’d written the chorus to “We’re Not Gonna Take It,” I was riding in a van on tour with my band Widowmaker (more on them later). My guitarist Al Pitrelli was driving, and we were discussing song plagiarism. Over the years, many songs have been ripped off both unintentionally . . . and intentionally. We were running through different songs that had been “appropriated” (i.e. George Harrison’s “My Sweet Lord,” taken from the Chiffons’ “He’s So Fine,” and Bon Jovi’s “Who Says You Can’t Go Home,” borrowed from Sam Cooke’s “Cupid [Draw Back Your Bow]”) when Al says, “And, of course, ‘We’re Not Gonna Take It’ is ‘O Come, All Ye Faithful.’ ”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t know ‘We’re Not Gonna Take It’ is ’O Come, All Ye Faithful’?” asked Al.

  As I sat there dumbfounded, Al sang, “O come, all ye faithful—We’re not gonna take it.”

  Holy shit! I sang in the church choir until I was nineteen years old. I must have sung “O Come, All Ye Faithful” hundreds of times. Somehow the first six notes of it infiltrated my psyche and were transformed into “We’re Not Gonna Take It!” Thank you, God!

  Elton John once said that his biggest hits were based on the chord patterns of church hymns. He says the comfort and familiarity in them connects with the listener. I guess he’s right.

  ONE MORNING DURING THE demo process, I was having coffee in the dining room of our home and listening to the basic tracks of the new songs, without vocals. Vocals were always the last thing added, and I was studying the tracks in anticipation of recording.

  The minute I pressed PLAY on the portable cassette player, baby Jesse Blaze came running in, wearing only a diaper, planted himself in front of the boom box, and started headbanging incessantly for the entire tape! I’d never seen anything like it. The kid was glued to the music and would not stop until it was over. He loved it. I took that as a good omen.

  FROM THE MINUTE TOM Werman arrived on the scene, things began to degrade with the band. The majority of us had accepted the reality of a world filled with shades of gray, but Mark Mendoza was still very much living in an unrealistic world of black and white. He refused to accept that any compromise needed to be made, under any circumstances, and the fact that he was being outvoted on the issue of production—something he’d always been actively involved in—set him on a path of constant passive-aggressive resistance. Oh, but it was okay for me to tour with Krapus for the greater good, right?

  We sent Tom Werman a demo tape of close to twenty songs of new material. These were the songs that would become our multi-platinum Stay Hungry album. “We’re Not Gonna Take It,” “I Wanna Rock,” “The Price,” “Burn in Hell,” and every other track on that album were on the demo tape we sent Tom Werman, in a totally recognizable form.1 We were excited to have him hear our new stuff.

  The first day of preproduction, Tom Werman handed me a tape, saying, “Here are some songs I think you should consider covering.”

  Slightly taken aback, I asked if he had listened to our new-songs demo.

  “Yeah, it’s good,” he said dismissively, “but I think you should listen to these songs.”

  Not wanting to be accused of being closed to Werman’s ideas—especially the very first day of preproduction—I took a look at the tape. Listed on it were three songs by the heavy metal band Saxon. I was totally confused. “These are Saxon songs.”

  “I know,” replied Werman. “They’re great songs.”

  “They are great songs. We’ve toured with Saxon. They’re a great band.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “We tour with them! We can’t be playing Saxon songs when Saxon are playing them at the same show!”

  “That’s just in Europe,” Tom countered. “Nobody knows them over here.”

  “We tour in Europe and our fans know them! It would make our band a joke. We can’t record songs by Saxon!” I was dumbfounded by the man’s inability to grasp the situation.

  Werman gave me a dismissive shrug (he was dismissive a lot) and said, “All right, I’ll give ’em to some other band to have hits with.”

  Journal entry: Day 1 of preproduction with Tom Werman.

  Things are not going quite as well as we had hoped.

  The next hurdle was getting Werman to put the right songs on the record. He was adamant about including “Don’t Let Me Down” (“‘Don’t Let Me Down’ is a hit,” insisted Tom) and the two songs on the tape that I had decided no
t to use for this record, “Captain Howdy” and “Street Justice” (these were meant to be a part of a “rock opera” I was developing). Those three songs are the only songs from the Stay Hungry record we never played live (until recently). They are the least popular songs from that album.

  On the list of songs Tom Werman did not want on the record? “We’re Not Gonna Take It,” “I Wanna Rock,” and “The Price”—our three biggest songs!

  Using our traditional voting process to pick the songs from our demos, these three songs were the top picks by everyone else who voted. Still, Tom didn’t want them. Werman insisted “The Price” was a typical ballad; “I Wanna Rock” was just a “Molly Hatchet thing”; “I’ve done that already. Dump-dada-dump-dada-dah”; and “We’re Not Gonna Take It” was too singsongy—“Nah-nah-nana-nah-nah,” he sang mockingly. This A&R man turned producer, who said he wouldn’t have signed our band and didn’t want the songs that would become our biggest hits on the record, was in charge of steering Twisted Sister’s ship and was getting five figures and four points on the record to do it?! What the fuck!?

  At one point I literally got down on one knee next to Werman’s chair and pleaded with him to put those three songs on the record. I promised him they would be more impressive when they were finished. Finally he caved.

  “Oh, all right,” Tom said indifferently. “If you really have to have them.”

  “Thanks, Tom,” I replied, fighting the urge to blow this condescending, arrogant piece of shit right out of his seat. As I struggled with that feeling, the first of what would become ongoing stomach pains dug into me. I knew then that recording our album with this man was going to be a constant battle and it was up to me to fight.

  Mark Mendoza, the band member who usually handled the studio duties and was the bellwether of Twisted Sister’s sound, had washed his hands of the situation. He didn’t agree with our using Tom Werman (who did?) and spent little time in the studio with the man. So, instead of my working on material for our next record during recording (as I always did), I was forced to stay in the studio most of the time and make sure Tom Werman didn’t completely screw things up.

  If Mark had continued to handle the production, I would have written a very different follow-up record to Stay Hungry. It would have been written when the band was still struggling, a much better place for great metal to be written than from a plateau of comfort and success. I truly believe the band’s entire career arc would have been different, and way more in line with how it should have been. Shoulda-woulda-coulda.

  The rehearsals themselves went exactly according to Tom Werman’s prime directive: “I don’t create anything, I just tell you whether I like it or not.” Song after song, we’d play something, ask Tom what he thought, and nine times out of ten he would say “Fine.” On occasion he would say “I don’t like that.” The band would come up with an alternative way of playing it, and Werman would say “Fine.” You gotta love that creative process!

  THE FIRST DAY OF recording basic tracks, at the Record Plant in New York City, we met Werman’s secret weapon. Geoff Workman, Tom’s engineer, was the guy who did push the buttons and get the sounds. Anything good about the sound of our Stay Hungry record is thanks to Geoff Workman.

  Geoff had been legendary producer Roy Thomas Baker’s engineer on all of the first five Queen albums, the first four Cars records, and two Journey albums. Geoff then went on to coproduce, with Journey, Journey’s multiplatinum Departure record. The guy had mega-experience and chops.

  For me, Geoff Workman was the only bright spot in the entire recording process. He was patient, tireless, and a funny SOB. I remember, the first few days of recording, Geoff labeled everything in the studio that was his. GEOFF’S PEN, GEOFF’S TAPE, GEOFF’S ASHTRAY, GEOFF’S COFFEE MUG. At one point, Geoff hung a sign from the ceiling, suspended over his chair (also labeled), that read GEOFF’S AIR. Funny shit.

  Geoff chain-smoked Gitanes cigarettes, drank a magnum of Johnnie Walker Black on ice a day, and pretty constantly—discreetly—snorted cocaine, but I didn’t care. The guy was always even tempered and not a “shape-shifter” (someone whose personality changes when he or she gets high). If only the same thing could be said for Tom Werman.

  AS SOON AS BASS and drum tracks were laid down in New York, the band headed to the West Coast to finish tracking the record (guitars and vocals), record overdubs, and mix. Tom Werman’s choice was Cherokee Studios, so that’s where we set up shop.

  For the first time, Suzette and Jesse were able to accompany me, and we moved into the Oakwood Apartments in Burbank. The Oak-woods are legendary, furnished rental units (complete with bedding, kitchen appliances, and utensils) that have housed so many “entry-level” musicians and actors. I remember being blown away by how nice they were. At that point in my career, it was living the high life! (“Look, this switch turns on the gas fireplace!”)2

  It was great having my wife and son with me. I almost felt like a “real dad,” working all day, then coming home to my wife and kid. On my days off, we would go to family-type places, such as Knott’s Berry Farm, Universal Studios, and Disneyland. On our visit to Disneyland, things began to change forever.

  Suzette, fifteen-month-old Jesse, and I were having a great time at the park . . . when someone recognized me. Keep in mind, Twisted Sister was not really famous yet, other than within the hard-core heavy metal scene. But some headbanger spotted me and asked for an autograph and picture. Sure.

  As I signed and posed, other people started to notice. “Hey, that’s that guy from the MTV commercial!” Now they wanted autographs. Okay. Quickly, more and more people started to gather around for autographs and pictures. After I signed for several minutes without my even looking up, a deep male voice said to me, “Make it out to Lashonda.”

  I lifted my head to see a large black man standing in front of me. “Your name’s Lashonda?”

  “No! That’s my two-year-old daughter.” He laughed. Then he leaned in and asked, “Who are you?”

  What!? I was spending my family time signing autographs for people who didn’t even know who I was? And speaking of family, where the hell were Suzette and Jesse?

  I looked around to find the crowd had literally pushed my wife and son away, who were now a good distance from me. I made my apologies to the disappointed crowd (“Where’s he going? Who was he?”) and ran to Suzette and Jesse. The crowd followed. We quickly headed onto a ride. When we got off at the other end, people were there waiting for us. Most of them didn’t even know who I was! That is the insanity of celebrity. People are obsessed with anybody who is anything, even if they’ve never heard of or seen the person before. Imagine what it’s like when they actually know you? (I would soon find out.)

  I grabbed Suzette and Jesse, and we quickly exited the park, vowing not to return, unless it was for a parade in my honor. (That never happened, and I’ve been back to Disneyland and Disney World many times, in disguise.)

  Regrettably, that day set a new standard for our family extracurricular activities . . . which essentially became none. My notoriety continued to increase, causing me to become more and more reclusive. For practically my entire life I’d wanted to be famous, and now I was beginning to discover the downside. The saying “Be careful what you wish for . . . because you might get it” rang in my ears. I finally understood.

  32

  the guarantee

  Recording with Tom Werman continued to be torturous. I fought a constant battle to keep the integrity of our band intact from someone I knew was not a fan of my band or even heavy metal.

  Tom Werman drove an expensive Porsche, with the custom license plate 33 RPM, which represented the rotational speed of a long-playing record. Cute. Every day he would pull up to a reserved spot in front of the studio, park his car, then laboriously set the car alarm, put on a car cover to protect his “baby” from the sun, and run a cable lock under the vehicle to secure the cover. It probably took him ten minutes each day to complete this task.

 
; Now, sometimes Werman would drive me so crazy I would have to leave the studio to get away from him and go outside for some air. One time, while I was out, a devilish idea struck me. I went over to Tom’s beloved Porsche and rocked the car, setting off the alarm. I then ducked into the alleyway alongside Cherokee Studios and waited.

  In a flash, Werman burst out of the front door of the building, looking around frantically. Seeing no suspicious activity, he must have assumed a passing truck or something set off his alarm. Tom then went through the lengthy process of undoing the lock, taking off the cover, opening the car (the whole time with the alarm screaming), resetting the alarm, relocking the car, putting the cover back on, running the cable lock back under the car, and securing the cover once again.

  Once he was sure his baby was all right, he headed back into the studio. I’d wait a minute or so until I was sure he’d be settled in the studio, sitting comfortably in his chair, then I’d dart out and shake his Porsche, setting off the alarm again. Back into the alley I would duck, and moments later Werman would come bursting through the door, cursing and fuming, and start the entire process all over again. It was great!

  DURING MY FRUSTRATION OF recording with Werman, Geoff Workman was my only solace. The guy would make me laugh, deflect Werman for me, and figure out ways to get what my band needed for the record. Workman believed bands didn’t need producers, they needed an objective additional “band member” to help them get what they instinctively knew was right. Geoff was a smart man.

  One day I was particularly down and feeling beaten by Werman. The daily battle with the guy was really getting to me. Tom wasn’t in the studio at that moment and Geoff asked me what was wrong.

  “Tom’s destroying my band’s album.”

  “Don’t worry,” Workman replied without a hint of a smile, “it will be fine. This record will go at least platinum, or I’ll quit the business.”