Shut Up and Give Me the Mic

by Dee Snider

  When we did get some interest from smaller labels to put out the record, Elektra held steadfast to their demand of full reimbursement. They would rather have nothing than something. I just couldn’t understand the position they were taking. Finally, after months of struggle with the company, someone gave me the answer, off the record. They told me that Dee Snider’s career seemed dead, but he might resurrect himself. The company view was, it’s better to write off a half-million-dollar loss than to take a chance, let the record go, and have it be a hit for another label. That would be career suicide for whoever released me.

  That I could understand. They were right. I don’t do dead well.

  While I struggled to salvage something from the now nearly three years of effort and hundreds of thousands of dollars of my own money spent (on top of Elektra’s half million), Suzette and I were forced to reevaluate our housing situation. Buying another house was now out of the question. All Suzette’s efforts in this area were for naught. It was August and we had to move out by September. Our only choice was to rent a house in Florida until I figured out what the hell I was going to do. I was at the end of my rope . . . when Ric Wake stepped in.

  IN THE EARLY AND mid-eighties Twisted Sister recorded our demos at a studio in Merrick, Long Island, called Bolognese. Owned and run by an accordion-playing limo driver named Lou Bolognese, it did the trick for our pre-album recording.

  Upon returning to Bolognese Studios to demo the songs for our Come Out and Play record, there I met a young English house engineer named Ric Wake. A nice kid, he was an aspiring producer and had signed a draconian employment contract with Lou Bolognese to both “assist” in the studio (read: do whatever work needed to be done, from engineering to cleaning the bathroom) and mix twelve-inch dance records for the local club scene. In exchange, Ric got to live in the boiler room with his hopeful future manager, Dave Barrat, practice his craft during studio downtime, and make something like $100 a week. Ric and Dave were so broke they used to share a chow mein dinner “special” at the local Chinese takeout each night, grabbing as many free bags of noodles and packets of duck sauce as they could. That was their meal for the day.

  One day during a quiet moment in recording, Ric asked if I would listen to a song he had recorded. He had written it, sung all the vocals, played every instrument (except the drums), recorded the tracks (with the help of engineer Bob Cadway), and mixed it, all during downtime and overnights at the studio.

  I was blown away with the kid’s work.

  A week or so later, I arrived at the studio to find Ric extremely shaken. When I asked him what was wrong, nearly in tears he told me how he had asked Lou Bolognese to release him from his indentured servitude—I mean, employment contract—and Lou had threatened to break his legs. Ric was terrified.

  Now, to young English Ric and his pal Dave, any Italian American with a Brooklyn accent had to be in the mob. When Lou threatened them, they took it dead seriously. Not only did I know real mobsters—which Lou was not—but I also knew Lou was in discussions with Island Records, a subsidiary of Atlantic, to distribute his dance records. Lou was hoping to make the giant leap from accordion player to record mogul. I’ll bet that would have been a first.

  I walked into Lou’s office and sat down. Lou was happy to have the attention of an actual rock star.

  “Did you threaten to break Ric’s legs?” I said. Why pussyfoot around?

  Lou was taken aback. “Dee . . . when I told Ric I’ll ‘break your legs,’ I didn’t mean literally, I meant figuratively.” Pretty eloquent for a “mob guy.”

  “So, Ric can leave if he wants to?”

  “Of course. He can leave whenever he likes,” replied Lou, from the corner I had put him in.

  I moved to lock the deal. “That’s good, Lou, ’cause I don’t think Island Records would like to hear someone they’re considering doing business with uses threats of violence to get what he wants.”

  “Believe me,” Lou said, panicking, “the kid misunderstood my intentions. He can go anytime.”

  I left Lou’s office and told Ric the good news. He couldn’t believe it.

  “Believe it,” I said, “but leave as soon as you can, before he changes his mind. You did sign a contract.”

  Ric and Dave packed up their stuff as quickly as they could and were out that night.

  A week or so later, I brought Ric to Cove City Sound Studios, a major Long Island recording studio, owned by Billy Joel’s sax player, Richie Cannata. I recorded there from time to time. I introduced Richie and his partner, Clay Hutchinson, to Ric, telling them what an amazing talent he was and how they should give him a shot. On my word (and hearing his great-sounding tracks), they let Ric work in the studio for free during the overnights (usually three or four in the morning until 10:00 or 11:00 a.m.).

  Ric immediately began secretly working with another artist signed to a terrible Lou Bolognese contract, Leslie Wunderman, aka Little Leslie Wonder. Within the year, Ric had recorded a full album with her, Leslie had got out of her deal with Lou, and Ric got record mogul Clive Davis to sign her to Arista Records. Leslie’s new stage name (which she gives me undeserved credit for) was Taylor Dayne. Her first Ric Wake–produced album, Tell It to My Heart, had four Top 10 songs and went double platinum in the United States (plus worldwide acclaim). Ric Wake’s producing career was shot out of a cannon.

  Ric Wake was/is one of those loyal people who never forgets what you do for them. This is rare and amazing, but not the reason I helped him. So few people ever gave me or Twisted Sister a hand, I vowed to help other struggling artists whenever I could. I do not want others to go through the hell I did. It beats the joy out of you.

  I WAS SO DEVASTATED by the destruction of my career and personal finances by Elektra Records, I was practically catatonic. Ric Wake now lived in a huge, custom-built home only a few miles away from me. Since first meeting at Bolognese Studios, we had become close friends (and still are).

  Ric came over to my house to have a talk with me. “You are going right back into the studio and starting work on a new band and album.”

  I stated the obvious: “But I don’t have any money or a record deal.”

  “Don’t worry about that. You can record in my studio for free while we put together a new band and get you a deal.”

  Ric was now the co-owner of Cove City Sound Studios, and a powerful and influential person in the music business. Since his success with Taylor Dayne, he’d produced multiplatinum records for Mariah Carey, Celine Dion, and Jennifer Lopez, and he still always credits me with giving him his start. Now he was returning the favor.

  Still, I was defeated and packing up the house with Suzette for our move to Florida in weeks. “Ric, I appreciate your offer, but I really don’t feel like recording.”

  “I don’t give a shit what you feel like doing. You’re going back into the studio. You are not giving up!” Ric was not taking no for an answer. He could see how beaten I was and was forcing me back onto the proverbial horse.

  So, shortly after moving out of our house on Long Island and getting situated in a nice rental house Suzette had found in Coral Springs, Florida, I flew back up to New York and began work on new music for a new band and a new label. Of which I had none. It was heading into 1991 and I was starting completely over.

  The first order of business was to get me free from my deal with Elektra Records. They didn’t actually drop Desperado; they shelved the record and suspended my contract, preventing me from recording for anyone else. My lawyer, who represented me when I signed personally for the Winterland deal and my Elektra contract with the words “commercially viable,” had been working for months trying to get me cut loose from Neglect-tra (a name Joe Lynn Turner of Rainbow—another Elektra Records victim—came up with), but to no avail.

  Twisted Sister’s longtime entertainment lawyer, and now mine, was Clay Knowles, a former guitarist from a band with Twisted’s first bass player, Kenny Neill. He had been representing the band since their earliest
club days, and Clay proudly displayed on his office wall the double-platinum Stay Hungry album we presented him. It shone alone.

  Ric Wake was connected with the most influential shakers and movers in the music industry and insisted I finally meet his attorney, Bobby Flax of Grubman, Indursky & Schindler, the most powerful law firm in the entertainment industry.

  “This guy will be able to help you,” Ric promised.

  I couldn’t see how, since Clay Knowles had exhausted every possible avenue (at great expense to me) trying to get my situation with Elektra straightened out.

  When Ric and I walked into the law offices of Grubman, Indursky & Schindler for our meeting with Bobby Flax, I was nearly blinded by the wall-to-wall platinum and gold albums of virtually every major artist in the music business. At their peak the firm represented a large percentage of the top recording artists in the world. Amazing. My lawyer’s only success was Twisted Sister.

  Ric was warmly welcomed. Why shouldn’t he be? Ric had produced some of Grubman, Indursky & Schindler’s biggest clients, and they represented Ric as well. Notoriously, Grubman, Indursky & Schindler (along with most of the other major entertainment law firms) were also on retainer by every major record label. That meant they were negotiating for both sides on most deals, playing each against the other, but ultimately beholden to whoever paid them the most. It was as incestuous as it could possibly get!

  Bobby Flax asked me to explain my situation to him—which took me all of about three minutes—then he picked up the phone and dialed from memory.

  “Steve? It’s Bobby.”

  He listened for a second, then replied, “She’s good. How’s Mindy?”

  Who the hell was he talking to? And on my dime?!

  “Sure, sure. We’ll do dinner with the girls next week,” Bobby continued his casual conversation. “Listen, I’m sitting here with Dee Snider and I need to get him out of his deal.” Bobby listened again. “Sounds fair. Have your secretary write something up and fax it over for signature. I’ll see you Thursday on the links.”

  With that, Bobby hung up and nonchalantly turned to me. “You’re free to record for whoever you want, and you can use the original Desperado masters or rerecord the songs at a rate of five thousand dollars per track, with a two-point override.”

  What?! I was out of my deal and could use the original tracks at an affordable rate? Was he kidding me?!

  He wasn’t. With one short call to “a friend” he had solved all my problems—as a favor to Ric!

  I was stunned. I had wasted almost a year and spent thousands of dollars trying to get loose from Elektra’s stranglehold and blown the only interest in Desperado there was from a couple of indie metal labels. They both fell by the wayside because they couldn’t come close to paying Elektra’s demand for half a million dollars for me and my band. They sure as hell could have afforded $50,000, but now those ships had sailed.

  Free of the Elektra albatross from around my neck, I started over. I hoped to use the guys from Desperado as my new band—they, too, had gotten killed by the whole mess—and both Bernie Tormé and Marc Russel signed on immediately. Unfortunately, Clive Burr wouldn’t be involved if there was no paycheck. In fairness to Clive, not everyone is willing or can afford to work for free.

  With drummer Joe Franco taking Clive’s place, we began writing and demoing songs in hopes of landing a new deal and getting our musical careers back on track. Bernié Torme and I worked on songs transcontinentally, while Marc Russel moved to the States and took up residence in Ric Wake’s house. Yet another generous gesture on Ric’s part. I was back in business.

  AS THE WEEKS AND months dragged on, with absolutely no money coming in, I had to draw on the profit we had made on the sale of the house to keep the family afloat. The money we had hoped would be used to buy a new home for the five of us was slowly being eaten away. The lifestyle change and the move to Florida had certainly reduced our monthly nut, but not enough. Yet I still firmly believed I was a rock star and what I was experiencing was just another temporary setback, soon to be rectified. I really needed to get a clue.

  Suzette and I didn’t take to life in Florida immediately. After the first month we wanted to run back to New York screaming. The second month, we seriously considered taking our own lives. By the third month, we were starting to adapt, and a full six months in, our blood thinned, and we were full-blown Floridians.

  Our home life was amazing. While I was spending a lot of time in New York, whenever I came back to Florida, it was like going on vacation. Suzette and the kids would pick me up at the airport in her hot-pink Jeep (rock stars gots ta have their cars) and whisk me home for day after day of retirement-like living. Suzette and my relationship just kept getting stronger, despite continuously growing financial concerns.

  The need to batten down the hatches and find ways to live more economically seemed to be bringing us closer. Even my loss of popularity and recognition had an upside: I was able to relax and we started acting like a normal family for the first time. I know that may sound humdrum to most of you, but believe me, a degree of normalcy in an abnormal life has advantages. It was a screaming bright lining to a steadily darkening cloud.

  TRY AS RIC WAKE might—and using all of his considerable influence—he could not find a taker in 1991 for a new Dee Snider project. Despite that hair bands and heavy metal could not have been more popular, to the industry my career couldn’t have been deader or my value less. Ric—a huge believer in his ability to judge talent and songs, and in Dee Snider—refused to give up. In a last-ditch effort to get me a deal, Ric started his own record company, Esquire Records, to put out my album.

  I could not have been more blown away by this insane gesture. The idea of someone raising the capital, opening facilities, hiring staff, and setting up distribution just for me still has me shaking my head in disbelief to this day. But that’s what Ric did.

  When I was finally ready to begin recording a new album, the project had another huge setback when Bernie Tormé was admitted to the hospital because a black spot was discovered on his lung during a routine chest X-ray. When Bernie awoke—in an oxygen tent—from his biopsy, through the tent he heard his doctor say, “I’ve got good news and bad news.” Uh-oh. Those are words you never want to hear in a hospital.

  The good news was the spot on Bernie’s lung wasn’t cancer, it was just a spot. The bad news? They had punctured Bernie’s lung during the biopsy. As a result, Bernie had a long hospital stay ahead of him, followed by more recuperation and an extended period of being unable to fly. The pressurized cabins of airplanes might cause his lung to collapse again. Bernie Tormé could not be a part of my new band. Were we living under a black cloud or what?!

  Upon the high recommendations of a number of people I respected, guitarist Al Pitrelli was enlisted to replace Bernie. Al had worked with quite a number of major and minor artists, most notably Alice Cooper during the Trash album and tour (and since with Megadeth and the Trans Siberian Orchestra), and had everything we needed for the type of band we were putting together, except one: his personality. I found Al to be an arrogant, self-important SOB, and I predicted to Marc Russel and Joe Franco that he wouldn’t last six months with me. I was wrong. Al Pitrelli lasted for two records and tours, would later help create and record the Van Helsing’s Curse project with Joe and me, and remains a good friend to this day. Sorry, Al; I misjudged you.

  The music of my new band consisted of Desperado-era Tormé/Snider outtakes, some rerecorded Desperado Ace album tracks, a cover of a classic Howlin’ Wolf song (“Evil”), and a couple of Pitrelli/Snider originals, including what would become our first single and video, “The Widowmaker.”

  The song title was taken from an ill-fated Luther Grosvenor aka Ariel Bender (Spooky Tooth, Mott the Hoople) and Bob Daisley (Rainbow, Ozzy Osbourne) band of the same name. Oddly, the father of my bass player, Marc Russel, had been the tour manager for the original Widowmaker.

  When wrestling with a name for the new band,
Ric Wake said, “Why don’t you use the name of your song and call the band Widowmaker?”

  We explained that there had already been a band called Widow-maker.

  “I never heard of them,” said Ric. “Were they popular?”

  “No,” I replied.

  “When were they around?”

  “In the mid-seventies.”

  “That’s like twenty years ago!” Ric exclaimed. “Who gives a shit?!”

  In fact, virtually nobody cared but Marc Russel, who was taught to play by the Widowmaker bassist, Bob Daisley.

  “My dad will ‘take the piss out of me’2 if I’m in a band called Widowmaker,” Marc complained. “I can’t do it.”

  I thought for a minute, then responded, “What if I get Bob Daisley’s blessing?”

  Marc said that would make him feel a bit more comfortable, so I got Daisley on the phone.

  “Hey, Bob, this is Dee Snider. How would you feel about me using the name Widowmaker for my new band?”

  “I don’t give a shit,” Daisley replied. “We did fuck all with it!”

  Blessing received.

  We weren’t the first to recycle a band name. Irish guitar god Gary Moore had a band called Skid Row long before the American band of the same name, and there was a Trixter before the New Jersey band of the same name started singing “Give It to Me Good.” We weren’t the first and sure as hell wouldn’t be last.

  Widowmaker was born.

  With the album-cover artwork would come the next indignity. I was informed that due to the lyrical content of the CD, the complex cover design (better in concept than execution) that I had worked so hard on with Esquire Records’ art department would need to have a PARENTAL ADVISORY label on it. I couldn’t believe it.