“Bullshit! Doesn’t work.”
But then I looked at the commitment I made, and I realized that faith can inspire miracles. Those dudes who walk on burning coals? Or the guys who use their bellies as chopping blocks (on which some machete-wielding ninja hacks a watermelon in half)? How do they do that?
Faith.
For me it’s faith in God. Faith in Jesus Christ.
I don’t want to paint with too broad a brush. If rehab has taught me anything, it’s that every situation, every person and experience, is unique. All addicts are not the same. What works for most people might not work for me. (Shit, after seventeen trips to rehab, that’s screamingly obvious, wouldn’t you say?) For me, only one thing worked: establishing a relationship with God. That changed everything.
See, there are three different types of drinkers: the moderate drinker, the heavy drinker, and the alcoholic. If you are not an alcoholic, given sufficient reason, you can get sober. I think I was an alcoholic because of the cocaine. You take that out of the mix, and things are different. Really, though, it comes down to this: I no longer wake up in the morning with drugs or alcohol on my mind. For a long time, I couldn’t say that. I lived for the next drink, the next line of cocaine, the next balloon of heroin. No more. I can’t explain it, and I know that there is no shortage of critics who will call me delusional or, worse, a liar. I don’t care. I know how I feel. I don’t walk around during the day thinking, God, I can’t wait until five o’clock so I can uncork that bottle of wine. The craving is just . . . gone.
They say God sends people to AA, and AA sends them back to God. If you really have a spiritual awakening, why put a limitation on that? My experience has been extraordinary. I know that, and I don’t expect everyone to buy into it. You fuck up seventeen times, well, there’s bound to be some skepticism. The thing is, it’s been a great ride. I love my life; I love what I’ve accomplished and created. I’ve seen the error of my ways and what drinking and drug use has done to me and my family, and what it’s done to my career and my body. Drinking and doing drugs, for me, makes about as much sense as pissing my pants on a winter’s day: it’ll feel good for a little while . . . until that cold wind begins to blow. And then it won’t feel so great.
But you know what? I also wouldn’t want to have missed out on the experience I’ve had, so long as the outcome remained positive: going from being someone who was brought up in a stifling atmosphere of perverse religiosity to hating God and then coming full circle and believing in God again. It’s been rewarding and fulfilling in ways that are hard to fathom, unless you’ve been through a similar experience. I went from being a homeless kid to a self-made man, to a self-made millionaire, to . . . someone who now realizes that there is no such thing as “self-made.”
Anything about me that’s good is a result of some higher power. Now that I recognize that, it’s like I finally fit into the picture—without having to hammer the edges into the frame.
Chapter 17
Megadeth: Reborn
Shawn Drover, James MacDonough,
me, and Glen saying good night.
“We will be back!”
When I walked out of La Hacienda, I was convinced that Megadeth was finished. I had neither the energy nor the inclination to resurrect the band in some new shape or form. It was, once again, just me and Ellefson. And frankly, my focus was elsewhere: on my health, my family, my spirituality. I had no idea whether I’d ever be able to play guitar again at a level that would make performing a viable option. Sure, I was getting better, improving every day through exercise and physical therapy. But to play the sort of blistering solos that had become a trademark of Megadeth? The kind of dancing fretwork that had made me famous? Man, that was a long way off.
Rather than put everything and everyone on hold until I figured out what I wanted to do with the rest of my life, I called David and suggested we get together. We met at a Starbucks in Phoenix. There was a tone of finality to the discussion, but it was completely amicable. David was like my littler brother, and even though we had drifted apart in recent years—I wanted to do something for him.
“I’m quitting,” I told him. “And I want to turn everything over to you. I want you to be executive producer of the archives. I want you to oversee the estate.”
I don’t think David was surprised by my decision to leave the band. Certainly, he seemed genuinely appreciative of my candor. I believe he felt this was a generous offer. I also think he understood exactly what it meant. I was not giving David permission to add new band members; nor was this tacit approval of touring and recording under the Megadeth brand. That could not happen without me. Megadeth was my band, and even though I no longer wanted to be part of it, I wasn’t about to let it evolve into something I never imagined, something I could not control. I simply wanted Junior to have something to do on a day-to-day basis, something that would generate a tidy income and other opportunities.
“Thanks, man,” he said. “I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
We had another cup of coffee and talked about old times for a little while. Then we stood up, hugged, and went our separate ways. I figured it would be weeks, maybe months, before our paths crossed again.
Wrong.
Five hours later, I was confronted by David in a public parking garage while I was with my son, Justis, who was only eleven years old at the time. I was completely shocked by this encounter, and I have no idea what provoked David’s anger. Regardless, his behavior was wildly inappropriate.
“If you’re moving on with your career, then I’m moving on with mine!” he shouted, tossing in a few F-bombs and other epithets for good measure.
At first I tried to reason with him. Justis was frightened and confused by the intensity of the encounter, and I wanted more than anything else to just defuse the situation and get him out of there. Then I looked at Ellefson.
“That’s it,” I said calmly, trying very hard to resist the urge to hit him. “We’re done.”
I got in my car, turned the ignition, backed out, and drove away, leaving him in the rearview mirror.
ON APRIL 9, 2003, I played guitar in public for the first time in seventeen months. The occasion was a benefit show at a place called Nita’s Hideaway in Phoenix, to raise money for the family of a former Megadeth roadie named John Calleo. John had also been my personal assistant during the Youthanasia tour, but we had sort of lost contact over the years. He was a sweet and fun-loving guy who never really gave up the rock ’n’ roll lifestyle; the heart disease and kidney failure that ultimately took his life probably had as much to do with continued self-abuse as it did with any congenital abnormalities. Still, it was hard not to like John, and it was impossible not to feel for the wife and eight-year-old daughter he left behind.
I’d been making slow, steady progress with my hand, which, as it turned out, had also sustained some ligament damage related to years of ferocious guitar playing. But that felt better now, too. The sabbatical that had been forced upon me, it seemed, generally had been a good thing, leaving me healthier than I’d been in years. When I was invited to play at John’s benefit show, I didn’t hesitate to accept the offer.
I won’t deny a bit of anxiety. Hell, when you haven’t performed in nearly a year and a half, there’s bound to be some rust. I didn’t know what to expect. Didn’t know how I’d play or how I’d feel about playing. And this was an unusual sort of gig: an acoustic set of just four songs in a very intimate setting, before just a couple hundred people (including my godfather, Alice Cooper). The set list was carefully chosen, though I can’t say for sure how many people understood what I was trying to say. I opened with “Symphony of Destruction,” primarily to give my fingers an appropriate workout and to demonstrate to myself and the audience that I was up to the task. Then came “Use the Man” and “Promises,” the former because it so clearly spoke to John’s drug use and demise, and the latter because I wanted to let his wife and daughter know that if John could promise an
ything, it would be to meet them in the afterlife. Finally, I closed with “A Tout le Monde.”
A tout le monde (to all the world)
A tout mes amis (to all my friends)
Je vous aime (I love you)
Je dois partir (I must leave)
After singing the last line, I stood up; walked offstage; offered my condolences to John’s wife, Tracy; and headed for the back door. To my surprise, I ran into David Ellefson on the way out. We hadn’t talked in many months—specifically, not since that night in the parking garage—so there was a bit of awkwardness in the encounter. Circumstances, however, dictated politeness above all else. Shit, we had gathered to honor and support a former member of the Megadeth family. A bit of perspective was in order. So we shook hands, chatted very briefly, and went our separate ways.
It was almost like the argument had never happened, perhaps because it seemed so surreal. David has neither the disposition nor the tools to be a fighter; it goes against his nature. He is fundamentally a laid-back, nonconfrontational sort of fellow, which is why his outburst had been so startling. When we were kids, just starting out, David was not the kind of guy you wanted in your foxhole. A great partier and musician. But a fighter? I once watched an asshole in a UCLA letterman’s jacket shove a slice of hot pizza into David’s face following a dispute over a parking space. David didn’t even react, just stood there as the cheese scalded his cheeks like molten lava. It took me all of about two minutes to kick that guy’s privileged ass all over the asphalt. That was the difference between me and David.
The inevitable bolt of lightning didn’t strike until a few days after the benefit show, when I picked up my guitar and started playing a little bit and thinking about how much I had enjoyed being back onstage, playing my music. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to get that feeling back. This was no simple task. My retirement had not been a minor matter. I hadn’t just slipped quietly away with a promise to return when I felt better. Oh, no. I had quit. And because I wanted to leave honorably, I had called a lot of the people with whom I enjoyed endorsement contracts and told them of my intentions. I didn’t have to do that. I could have just kept all the gear and let the money continue to trickle in. But I didn’t. Instead, I sold a ton of equipment to pay off my debts. I didn’t want to be one of those musicians who leaves vendors holding the bag. I had people who had shipped stuff for me and who believed in me: lighting companies, sound companies. Everything was gone now, so when I decided to come out of retirement, I was pretty much starting from scratch.
Fortunately, since I hadn’t destroyed any of those relationships, there was no shortage of companies eager to support my comeback. Pretty soon I had all the equipment I needed, a fistful of new endorsement deals, and a rehearsal space in Phoenix.
All I needed was a band.
The initial plan was to record a solo album. I hired some studio musicians—including the well-traveled drummer Vinnie Colaiuta, most notable for his tenure with Frank Zappa and the Mothers of Invention—and went to work in the fall of 2003. Business, however, always gets in the way of the music. The solo record was interrupted while I helped remaster the entire Megadeth back catalog. By the time I got back to the solo project, in the spring of 2004, EMI had begun seriously pressuring me to put out another album under the Megadeth brand. It was the label’s contention that I was contractually bound to release another Megadeth record before turning to solo ventures. Rather than get embroiled in an endless, expensive, and ultimately futile legal dispute, I decided to simply take the songs I had written and recorded and release them as the latest, and probably last, Megadeth record, the aptly titled The System Has Failed.
But then I had an idea. If Megadeth was going to be reborn, with a new record and even a tour in support of that record, then why not reconvene the most successful Megadeth lineup? Commercially and creatively speaking, I thought this was a great idea.
The first person I called was Nick Menza, who jumped at the opportunity.
Okay, we’re off to a good start. One down, two to go.
The next call went to Marty Friedman. I’d always liked Marty, admired his playing ability, and even though I was extremely disappointed by his departure and the manner in which he tried to exercise undue creative control during the recording of Risk, I harbored no personal animosity toward him. On some level you had to admire Marty. He had the guts to live out his fantasy. The guy had always said he wanted to live in Japan, play more mainstream music, and teach others how to play the guitar. And that is precisely what he had done. More power to him. I didn’t want to drag Marty away from all that for any great length of time. My plan was to reunite the Rust in Peace–era Megadeth for a very specific window. I’d give these guys the opportunity to go into a studio and retrack The System Has Failed, replacing and hopefully improving stuff already done by session players. We’d sell a bunch of records, go out on tour, and then everyone could go back to their previous lives. For me, that meant focusing on solo work.
Unfortunately, this idea didn’t generate the excitement and enthusiasm I had anticipated; instead, it mainly opened old wounds and provoked prickly discussions about money and control. In other words, the same old story.
My initial conversation with Marty went something like this:
“Hi, Marty.”
“Hi, Dave.”
“Hey, I’m sorry about everything.”
“Yeah, me too.”
Small talk, blah-blah-blah.
I told Marty about the new record and the proposed tour, and then I asked if he had any interest in getting together. Marty hesitated, then fired a series of questions that I wasn’t prepared to answer.
What was the marketing budget? The touring budget? The recording budget? How much money would he get paid? Did I have the specific dates?
My head was spinning.
Whoa, dude. Slow down.
I couldn’t believe he was asking me this shit less than two minutes into our first conversation. I was like, you know what, Marty? This is stuff you don’t need to know. You don’t need to know what the recording fund is because you didn’t record the record. You don’t need to know the touring fund because you’re going to be a hired gun.
So it started to sour with Marty right away. Then I called up Ellefson. Basically, here was my pitch:
Hey, Junior. I just want to let you know that I’ve decided I want to play again, and I’m going to be going out on the road. And I want to talk to you about going out with me. I’ve written a new record, it’s almost done, so you don’t have to worry about any of that shit. It’ll be coming out soon. If you’re interested, we’re mixing it in Nashville; you can go out there and try to beat what we already have. If you can, we’ll use it. If not, no big deal; you can still go out on tour.
And just like Marty, David launched into a litany of inquiries. Without delving too deeply into the mind-numbing minutiae of Megadeth’s accounting practices, let’s just say that David sought something akin to a full partnership in this venture. Well, that just wasn’t going to happen. I’d put together the entire project. I’d written every song, produced the record, conceptualized the tour. I needed a backup band, and I thought it would be nice to assemble the old Megadeth gang. But it was all much more complicated than I had expected.
“Junior, I don’t have the answers to any of this stuff yet,” I explained. “And frankly, if I did know, I wouldn’t be comfortable telling you all of it. That’s a lot of information to give the bass player for a single tour.”
And that’s all it was: one record, one tour. It was not a reunion. I tried to make that as clear as possible.
As quickly as my hopes had risen, they were dashed. It took only a few more phone calls and uncomfortable conversations to reach the obvious conclusion: there would be no reconvening of the old Megadeth; it was time to move on. I thought that was the end of it. Imagine my shock when, in early July of 2004, Ellefson filed an $18.5 million lawsuit against me in Manhattan federal court.
The lawsuit claimed, among other things, that I had cheated David out of publishing and merchandising royalties and failed to make good on a promise to turn over control of Megadeth to him following my retirement. I had never made such a claim, and the agreement David signed—a legally binding contract—spelled out the terms of our separation in great detail. In his lawsuit, however, David claimed that he had changed his mind shortly after signing the separation agreement, and therefore the contract was invalid.
When I heard about Junior’s lawsuit I was so pissed I could barely see straight. It wasn’t just the money; it was the fact that I had been publicly and unfairly attacked by someone I had supported and defended for so many years. The entire lawsuit—the actual document—somehow found its way to the Internet, where it was posted in all its salacious detail. The battle then naturally leaked into the wider universe of heavy metal fandom, with factions forming along these lines:
1) Mustaine is a greedy, egomaniacal asshole.
2) Ellefson is a pathetic, ungrateful asshole.
Among those who took the time to do their homework, the resounding verdict was: number two.
Vindication came not only in the court of public opinion but in the courtroom of Federal Judge Naomi Buchwald, who in January of 2005 dismissed Ellefson’s lawsuit in its entirety. In so doing, she basically declared that the suit had been groundless. Which it was. In the end, David was the person who had to write a check. A big check. My attorney said it was the first time in his twenty-seven years in the business that one of his clients got sued and ended up making money off the lawsuit.
By that time I’d already put together a new version of Megadeth, released The System Has Failed, and gone out on tour. For a while when I was trying to put a lineup together, it looked like at least one member of the old Megadeth would be on board for this adventure. Even as negotiations with Marty and Junior fell apart, Nick continued to express a desire to return to the band. He showed up one day in Phoenix in the summer of 2004 with a U-Haul full of equipment and a drum tech named Sticks. This guy dropped Nick off, then fell asleep in the truck while sitting in the parking lot of a Frey’s Electronics store. This was Arizona, in the middle of the summer, where the temperature routinely soars into the triple digits. Eight hours later Sticks woke up, baked and dehydrated but luckily still alive. I knew then that Sticks wasn’t long for the job. We sent him home shortly thereafter.
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