Mustaine

by Dave Mustaine

  Juan, ever the agreeable fellow, laughed and walked up to the blonde. I saw them chatting, saw Juan gesture in my direction. I held up my glass (which was filled with Coke—uppercase “C”) and smiled. The blonde gave me nothing in return. Moments later Juan was back, chuckling.

  “She said if you want to meet her, you should come over yourself.”

  Fair enough. One thing I didn’t lack, when it came to women, was confidence. So I walked over and started to introduce myself. “Hi, my name is Dave.”

  The blonde cut me off. “Yeah, I know who you are,” she said coolly. The fact that she seemed disinterested only heightened my interest. Funny how that works, huh? I cut straight to the proverbial chase.

  “Look, I’m really attracted to you, and I’d like to spend some time with you. But I’m helping out a friend tonight who’s trying to stay sober, and I have to hang with him.* Can we get lunch some afternoon?”

  Diabolically smooth fucker that I was, I knew this would work. It implied compassion and responsibility as well as honesty and integrity. I had made it clear that I found her attractive but that I was also willing to wait for her. I did not reveal my ulterior motive: to see her in the light of day, at a sidewalk café, beneath the brilliant truth of the warm California sun. Even if you hadn’t been drinking, a girl could look pretty good through the smoky haze of Filthy McNasty’s at two o’clock in the morning; then you’d see her in the glare of daylight, with the pancake removed, and you’d swear she was a different person.

  If that sounds shallow and inconsiderate, well, I plead guilty. I was doing the beauty pageant thing, interviewing contestants for the title of Miss Right. In reality, of course, they were all merely competing for the title of Miss Right Now. Before I’d even officially broken things off with Diana, I’d begun seeing a girl named Leslie. And while seeing Leslie, I lusted after the blonde at FM Station.

  She told me her name was Pam, and we agreed to get together soon. One lunch date, then another, and pretty soon I’d begun to fall for her. Pam was one of those gorgeous California girls—long and lean, with skin that needed no spackle—who are even more beautiful in the naked light. She was just a normal suburban girl from Upland, California, with a backstory not as hard as some, but hard enough. Her father had died of cancer when Pam was growing up, and she had assumed the role of surrogate spouse to her mom and surrogate parent to her little brother. To a degree, Pam became the family breadwinner (or at least one of the breadwinners), which led to a distorted sense of self. Her mom eventually got married again, to a guy who seemed at first like Prince Charming but turned out to be something less. Long story short: Pam had her share of heartache before I came along, and while we fell in love rather quickly, I’m not at all sure she knew what she was getting into.

  Sure, she knew about Megadeth, and she knew who I was. But she wasn’t a groupie or anything like that. Pam doesn’t even like heavy metal (Megadeth included). Never has. I get into my car now, and if Pam has been driving, the radio is sure to be tuned to some country station. I was put off by it, at first, because I just presumed that country was crap. But a lot of country now is really anthemic pop, and some of it’s not bad at all. I mean, it’s so heavily influenced by the Mutt Lange school of production that it all sounds kind of like Def Leppard. Heavy ballads, voices Auto-Tuned to perfection. Technology has made it so that anyone can sing like Mariah Carey.

  Regardless, I liked Pam enough not to care in the least about her taste in music. At the same time, I was not exactly committed to this new relationship. We came back to my apartment one night after having dinner at a place called Chin Chin. I’d been wining and dining her, taking her to the most expensive restaurants I could find.

  Pam wasn’t feeling well and excused herself to use the bathroom, then came out looking haggard and pale. She said she needed to rest for a while. I didn’t know it at the time, but she was suffering from an esophageal hernia. All of a sudden there was a sound at the door. The sound of a key entering a lock.

  Oh, shit . . .

  Moments later, in walked Leslie, who, of course, had a key to my apartment.

  I didn’t really even like Leslie very much. I’d met her through my bodyguard, and she was cute and available and into me in a big way. But we weren’t exactly kindred spirits outside the bedroom. In fact, even that aspect of our relationship wasn’t all that great. I would have been perfectly content to see her go. But not quite in this manner.

  Leslie took two steps into the apartment, saw Pam on the couch, and turned around and walked out, slamming the door behind her.

  Don’t ask me why, but I ran after her. My default mechanism was to lie and cajole and try to get by on charm. And I was very good at it. In a rare moment of sanity, though, I stopped short of actually confronting Leslie and thought about Pam.

  You fucking idiot! You have someone upstairs right now you actually care about. Why are you chasing this woman?

  I also realized that the woman upstairs might be turning my apartment upside down, shredding my clothes, tossing stuff out the window. In my experience, women did that kind of thing when they discovered you’d been screwing around on them. So I raced back inside, ran up the stairs, and Pam was gone. In a matter of minutes, I’d managed to lose two girls. Not that I grieved for long. There were a few more phone numbers in my book, an endless supply of one-nighters to be had on the road. Or at home, for that matter. But that’s part of the sickness, isn’t it? In treatment or not, I was capable of hurting people.

  A strange thing happened, though. I missed Pam. While out on tour with Megadeth, I called and apologized.

  “Let’s try again,” I suggested. “We’ll take it slow.”

  That didn’t happen—the slow part, I mean. We began dating again, and within a few months I had decided that I wanted to marry her. I hadn’t voiced that sentiment, but I felt it nonetheless. It wasn’t just that I was attracted to Pam. I felt a connection to her that I’d never felt with anyone else before. It helped, too, that my mother had given Pam her stamp of approval. I knew they got along pretty well, but it wasn’t until Mom passed away in 1990 that I found out how much she liked Pam. Mom and I had reconnected in a really positive, grown-up kind of way during the last couple years of her life. She had always been a big supporter of mine, regardless of what I put her through, but with forays into sobriety came a desire to make her life easier. Simultaneously, Mom was warming up to the fact that I’d become successful. No matter how much her religion told her to shun me, she couldn’t do it; I was her pride and glory. She used to buy everything with checks so that people would see her last name, and they would ask her, “Is that your boy?” And she would just beam and nod.

  During the ceremony, down by the sea. Pam was radiant. I wrote the song “The Hardest Part of Letting Go Is saying Goodbye” for her. She said she didn’t like it.

  Rust in Peace was released in October of 1990; shortly thereafter I took Mom to Europe so that she could visit the place of her birth: Essen, Germany. It was a great trip, one she’d always wanted to make, and I’m happy we were able to do it before she died. The funeral service was a little weird, in part because of tension between me and David Ellefson’s girlfriend (and future wife), Julie. I was still furious over her role in my falling out with Doug Thaler; complicating matters was the fact that Julie had dated Ron Laffitte prior to his becoming our manager.

  The service was memorable in other ways that were less unsettling. My sister Michelle, for example, chose this occasion to pull me aside and share something my mother had said.

  “You know, David . . . Mom was very fond of Pam.”

  This was not a small thing, since my mother disliked almost everyone I had ever dated, including Diana. “You two are always fighting,” she would say. “Why do you bother?”

  I was serious about my kickboxing training and my body started to reflect that.

  Photograph by Ross Halfin.

  A fair question, and in the end one I could not answer. Mom was sma
rt that way. I married Pam because I loved her, of course, but also because of the resounding final endorsement I received from my mother.

  Megadeth went out on tour not long afterward. It was a lengthy tour, ending in April with several shows in Japan, followed by a pair of performances in Hawaii. This was by design. I thought it would be a cool way to end the tour: travel all over the world, work our asses off, and finish with Hawaii. Then, after the last show, spend four or five days chilling out, relaxing on the beach, having a good time. By the time we got to Hawaii, Pam was already there. She did not know that I had purchased the most perfect strand of pearls I could find while we were in Japan. Neither did she know that I had called my business manager and asked him to find a pear-shaped diamond and have it placed in a setting, surrounded by other diamonds.

  Pam knew nothing except that we were going to have a nice Hawaiian vacation. Then I got on the phone and began making calls: my sisters, Pam’s family, John Bocanegra, my sponsor in AA.

  “Pam and I are getting married,” I said. “Please come. Oh, and keep it quiet. She doesn’t know yet.”

  When I got to our hotel room, Pam was in the shower. She walked out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, wearing no makeup, looking more beautiful than ever, and smiled at me.

  “What are you doing next Saturday?” I asked.

  Pam shrugged. “I’ll be here with you. Why?”

  I tried to maintain a poker face but found it impossible. I began to smile. “Well, I was just wondering if maybe you’d want to get married.”

  She started crying, then regained her composure enough to say yes, which was a good thing considering how many plane tickets I’d already purchased. And then we embarked on the challenging task of finding a size 1 wedding dress in Hawaii. It’s true that some islanders of Asian or Filipino descent are rather petite, but it’s also true that many of our Tongan and Samoan friends are not. Hawaii just happens to be one of those places with an indigenous population that is naturally large. There just aren’t a lot of size 1s walking around.

  But we found one, thank God, and it was actually a beautiful dress, one that fit Pam perfectly. The same could not be said of my tuxedo, which, from a distance, appeared to be cut from Reynolds Wrap. But really, who gives a shit? No one looks at the groom anyway. Nick Menza’s girlfriend, Stephanie, was maid of honor. My best man was John Bocanegra. Now, one would think I would have asked David Ellefson to handle that task, but I didn’t. The truth is, I was closer to John at the time. If I had gotten married when I first met David (and what a disaster that would have been), then yeah, chances are he would have been my best man. But as things took place and the band evolved, our friendship ebbed and flowed. I don’t know if this hurt David or not; maybe so. I suppose it says a lot when you get passed over in favor of an ex-convict. But there you have it. I felt, at that moment in time, as though I owed a great deal to John Bocanegra. He was best-man material—in a very rock ’n’ roll sort of way.

  When the wedding ceremony began, I had no idea how it would turn out—we were totally flying by the seat of our pants. But the limo pulled up, and Pam got out, and she was absolutely stunning. Like nothing I had ever seen before. That may sound strange, considering we’d had many romps in the hay. I had seen Pam dressed up, and I had seen her naked. But never had I seen her like this; she was . . . angelic.

  Wow! Mom was right.

  Admittedly, as Pam walked across the grass, I felt a fleeting moment of anxiety. But as she took my hand and looked into my eyes, the fear faded away, and in its place I heard another voice, this one more like mine:

  “You know what? It’s about time. This is the best woman on earth for you.”

  Just for the record: it was a sober ceremony. There had been no drug use at all in Japan. I was in a clear-headed, healthy place. A place of optimism. I knew exactly what I was doing.

  After the ceremony, we got in the limo and drove back to the hotel, with “The Living Years” by Mike and the Mechanics providing a soundtrack for the ride. This may not sound particularly metal, but I absolutely love that song. I love the melody and I love the sentiment. I know it’s a song about fathers and sons and the damage done when the two fail to communicate. Distilled to its essence, though, it’s really just a song about love. And the importance of telling those you love exactly how you feel.

  That night we went to a big luau, and while there we began talking with an elderly couple who had been married for more than fifty years. At one point I found myself chatting privately with the husband, a quiet, thoughtful man old enough to be my grandfather.

  “How do you do it?” I asked. “I mean . . . half a century?”

  The old man smiled. “It’s simple. Never go to sleep mad at your wife.”

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  I laughed so hard I almost choked. “Come on, man. That’s not possible.”

  He looked at his own wife, sitting just a few feet away, chatting amiably with other guests. “Sure it is. No matter what she does, no matter how mad you get, just give her a kiss before you fall asleep.”

  God knows, Pam and I do not have a perfect marriage. But we’re still together after nearly two decades. Throw out the nights when we’ve been separated by work and travel, and I can count on one hand the number of nights I’ve fallen asleep without giving her a kiss good night.

  What can I tell you? The old dude was right.

  Chapter 13

  I Pray the Lord My Soul to Keep

  During an encore I always hold my guitar above my head at the very end.

  Photograph by Ross Halfin.

  “I’m tired of the tour, I’m tired of Megadeth, I’m not having any fun . . .

  and you don’t want me to drink, so I’m

  taking Valium instead.”

  At some point you have to take ownership of the things people are saying about you, especially when they’re essentially correct. Such was the case with my attitude toward Megadeth being classified as a “political” band. I’d been uncomfortable with the label when we first started out, but with Rust in Peace and Countdown to Extinction, it became increasingly difficult to deny that, at the very least, I was aware of what was going on in the world; consequently, observations and opinions, sometimes not very subtle ones, occasionally found their way into the lyrics of Megadeth.

  The concept of Rust in Peace, for example, sprang from a bumper sticker I saw one day while driving on the freeway. I forget the precise wording, but it was something like “May all your nuclear weapons rust in peace,” and immediately I had this image in my head of a pile of warheads sitting in a field someplace, covered with graffiti. Not exactly a hawkish sentiment, right? And yet, I’ve been accused at times of being a right-winger. I’ve also been perceived as an environmentalist, which is not exactly consistent with traditional Republican values. The truth is, I consider myself to be “political” only in the sense that I am a citizen of the United States of America and thus free (maybe even obligated) to speak out about things that pique my interest.

  And so you have an album like Rust in Peace, which includes songs about global warming and environmental impact (“Dawn Patrol”), POWs (“Take No Prisoners”), and, of course, religion (“Holy Wars . . . the Punishment Due”).

  I think that most people who are familiar with Megadeth’s music would say that I am a politically active artist (working for MTV as a “correspondent” during the 1992 presidential campaign probably solidified that reputation), but I’m not easy to pin down or classify, and I hope that I never am. I look at it this way: if Clint Eastwood had a party named after him, that would be my party. Okay, I know, Clint was an elected official, a Republican mayor of Carmel, California. But I’m not talking about Clint Eastwood the citizen. I’m talking about the characters he’s played, from the Outlaw Josey Wales to Dirty Harry to the aging, avenging gunfighter William Munny in Unforgiven. The kind of man who loves his country, stands up for people who can’t defend themselves, and really doesn’t g
ive a flying fuck what anyone else thinks of him. You may not always agree with this guy, but you have to respect him.

  I am not a registered member of either of the two main political parties, and I suspect that will never change. I think of myself as nonpartisan: I am generally distrustful of professional politicians, so when I enter the voting booth I tend to go with whomever I perceive as the lesser of two evils. In 1990, when Bill Clinton ascended to the top of the Democratic heap and challenged Bush the elder, it was really easy for me to vote for Clinton. My feelings about Al Gore were a little more complicated. Given my sentiments on environmental protection, it was hard for me to discount the man; at the same time, I was an outspoken opponent of the Parents Music Resource Center, founded by Gore’s wife, Tipper. I was a supporter, if not necessarily a fan, of George W. Bush, primarily because I admired his handling of 9/11, and I did not disagree with our involvement in Iraq. Besides, there was no way I would ever vote for John Kerry, an elitist, who had been rude and condescending when I tried to interview him for MTV. I knew he had no chance to be elected president—people see right through that smug shit.

  It’s pretty simple for me, really. I want to be able to carry a gun; listen to whatever music I like; eat, drink, and be merry; and not hurt anyone else (the exception, obviously, being self-defense). It’s the abbreviated Sermon on the Mount: treat other people the way you want to be treated.

  IF METAL FANS were put off by the lyrical themes of Rust in Peace, you’d never know it. The record was Megadeth’s biggest success to date, selling more than a million copies and earning the band its first Grammy nomination. Not that I really give a shit (okay, maybe a little), but it also received virtually universal critical acclaim. By just about every conceivable standard, Rust in Peace was a watershed event for Megadeth. Funny thing was, it didn’t start out that well. We recorded at a place called Rumbo Recorders, which was owned by the Captain and Tennille, of all people. Imagine that! Megadeth tracking in the very same place where “Muskrat Love” was recorded. I was skeptical about Rumbo offering the right atmosphere, a feeling that was exacerbated one day when I walked in and saw our producer, Dave Jurdin, eating a chili dog and smoking a cigarette at the controls. The place just reeked.