Mustaine

by Dave Mustaine

  Over the next few weeks two more drum techs came and went, and pretty soon I came to the realization that the problem wasn’t with the drum techs; the problem was Nick. I thought—hoped, really—that Nick had cleaned up his act. But it takes only a short time together in the studio or rehearsal hall for erratic behavior and unreliability to reveal itself. There’s no place to hide under those conditions. The new bass player, James McDonough, was solid, if not particularly enthusiastic. And former King Diamond guitarist Glen Drover was a pro. Nick, however, was the same old Nick. He’d play a song or two, jump down from his kit—“Give me a few minutes, guys; I gotta run down to the AM PM mini-market to get something”—then ride off on his bike, leaving the rest of us standing there, shaking our heads in disbelief. Sometimes he’d return quickly, while other times, “a few minutes” would turn into a few hours. It got really weird and suspicious, especially if you were familiar with Nick’s history.

  One day Glen suggested that we contact his brother, Shawn Drover, to see if he’d be interested in the once-again-vacant drum tech’s job. Shawn had played drums in a band with his brother and had teched for the drummer in King Diamond, so he knew his way around a kit.

  Within minutes we had Shawn on speakerphone, conducting a conference call. I was in the control room with Glen and James; Nick was nearby, laying on a couch, shades covering his eyes, trying to look the part of a bored, disaffected rock star.

  “Hey, Shawn,” I said. “How are you?”

  “Good, man. How’s everyone there?”

  Before I could answer, Nick jumped in. “Who is this fucking guy? I don’t even want to know him.”

  It went downhill from there, with everyone trying to hide their anger and embarrassment. I apologized to Shawn, told him we’d call back later, and then went outside to talk with Glen, who was understandably offended.

  “I can’t play with that asshole,” he said. “If he stays in the band, I’m quitting.”

  What could I say? There was no defending or rationalizing Nick’s behavior. I had hoped that he’d learned his lesson and that things would be different this time around. But obviously nothing had changed. I talked to our manager, and by the end of the day Nick was gone. Now we needed not just a drum tech but a drummer as well. And there wasn’t a lot of time—we were scheduled to go out on tour in five days.

  “How about Shawn?” Glen suggested. “He already knows all the songs.”

  The last time I had heard someone make such a ludicrous proclamation, it was Al Pitrelli. I had called him from Denver in the middle of a tour, just hours after Marty Friedman had quit.

  “Yeah, I’ll be there in two days,” Al had said. “I’ll know all them songs, back and front, and I’ll play ’em with a cigarette hangin’ outta my mouth.”

  “We don’t smoke in this band, Al.”

  “Well, Nicorette gum, then.”

  He was there in two days, all right, but he couldn’t play all the songs. Not even close. There were just too many idiosyncrasies. Granted, drumming was substantially less complex than playing guitar. You could flail about, capture the timing and spirit, hide the mistakes from all but the most discriminating ears. Nevertheless, it seemed a long shot that Shawn would be able to fill Nick’s shoes on such short notice.

  But he did. The guy knew all the songs he would be expected to play on tour. Not perfectly, but at least as well as Nick had been playing. The System Has Failed was released in September of 2004, to a generally favorable critical and commercial response. Considering all that had preceded its release, I was pleased with the way the record turned out. And then we went out and played.

  The first show of the Blackmail the Universe tour was in Reno, Nevada, in October of 2004. Unfortunately no one had arranged for a barricade to be erected between band and crowd. If you think this seems like a small thing, well, it’s not. If you don’t have a line of demarcation at a Megadeth show, you’ll be chasing kids off the stage all night. And that’s exactly what happened. I spent two hours playing guitar with one hand and swatting people with my other hand. By the end of the concert, the entire stage was covered with security guards.

  We got through it safely enough, but afterward, in the dressing room, I noticed that Shawn seemed disoriented. He was dizzy and having trouble breathing. When his condition failed to improve, we had him transported to a local hospital. The diagnosis: vertigo.

  “Has this ever happened before?” I asked Glen.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t think so?”

  Glen shrugged. “Well, he’s only played a couple times before. I mean, in front of people.”

  “What the fuck?!”

  I didn’t know a lot about Shawn. I had presumed that he’d been playing in various bands for years. You didn’t get to be that polished simply by hanging out and playing in your basement. But that’s mainly what Shawn had done. The guy was completely self-taught and utterly devoid of onstage experience. I later learned that Shawn and Glen had grown up in a broken home, and to deal with the pain, they had immersed themselves in music. In the process they’d not only become accomplished musicians but had grown incredibly close. Glen had progressed beyond the basement into the world of professional music. He’d done rather well, too. Shawn, for the most part, had remained offstage, in the shadows, satisfied with jamming and working as a drum tech while occasionally playing with Glen in the Canadian studio band Eidolon.

  And we’d taken this poor guy—overweight, unhealthy, inexperienced—and thrown him out in front of thousands of ravenous, headbanging metalheads?

  We’re lucky he didn’t die.

  But here’s the completely improbable happy ending. Shawn has turned out to be one of the most reliable and resilient musicians I’ve known. Five years after that baptism by fire in Reno, he is still Megadeth’s drummer; only Nick Menza sat at the kit longer. You never know what someone has inside. Talent is only one of the traits required for success, and it’s often overrated. Shawn is a terrific musician. He is a drummer by trade but can also play guitar, just as Glen is a guitar player by trade but also an accomplished drummer. More than anything else, though, Shawn is a survivor, a characteristic that is of no small significance in my eyes. The guy just kept plugging and working, getting better and better, learning on the job, until one day he looked exactly like the person he was supposed to be: the drummer for one of the biggest bands in heavy metal. How can you not respect that?

  Glen and older brother Shawn Drover. They can switch instruments and we did, several times.

  In all honesty, though, I had mixed feelings after that first show. I didn’t know whether this particular lineup would last a week, let alone the many months required to complete a world tour. But Shawn jumped right back on the horse, and it became instantly clear that he was not only talented but a fighter as well. Glen was good, too. And so was James. For the first time in . . . well . . . a long time, playing music was fun again. Being in Megadeth was fun. We toured the U.S. with Exodus, selling out shows almost everywhere we went. Then, after taking a break for the Christmas holiday, we went to Europe and toured with Diamond Head and Dungeon. Everything was going smoothly until May of 2005, when we were scheduled to play shows in Greece and Israel with Rotting Christ and Dissection, both of which had been labeled, accurately or not, as “satanic” bands.

  Now, this obviously presented something of a dilemma for me. When I first embraced Christianity, I felt like I needed to protect myself from being in the wrong environment. Some people get saved and blend into the background, leading quietly dignified, meaningful lives. I couldn’t do that. Too many people knew who I was and how I had lived previously. Fame can be a terrific thing; it can also be a bitch. When Dave Mustaine announces his conversion to Christianity, there’s no shortage of people eager to find hypocrisy in the decision.

  “Oh, yeah, right . . . Mustaine is a Christian. The guy is a fucking drunk and a drug addict.”

  Well, as a
matter of fact, that’s exactly what I was. And what better reason to let God into my life than to atone for all of the horrible things I’d done? I couldn’t change people’s opinions, and frankly I didn’t care to try, but I could exercise a degree of control over my life. I could be a better person. And I could be careful.

  One thing I could do to maintain a healthy lifestyle was avoid playing with bands whose philosophical outlook was an affront to my beliefs. There are degrees to all of this, of course. I have never been the type of Christian who gets in your face and tells you how to live your life. I don’t do any recruiting in the name of Jesus. To each his own, man. But at this point in my life—newly saved—it just didn’t feel healthy to share a stage with a band called Rotting Christ. A band that a few years earlier had been part of a black metal festival known as the Fuck Christ tour.

  I didn’t even know much, if anything, about the music of either of these bands. But I did know that if there was a line in the sand to be drawn, this was it. I wasn’t comfortable playing with a band called Rotting Christ. The name was simply too offensive. Here’s the way I saw it. I’d been around for two decades, sold more than twenty million records. I had earned the right to play with whomever I liked.

  As for Dissection, well, that was a bit more complicated. I checked out their website and discovered that they were from Sweden and one of the founding band members, Jon Nödtveidt, was a bona fide Satanist. Then I found out that he had been trashing me on the Internet in the wake of my religious conversion. I was, he said, his “sworn enemy.” I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t even know this guy and he was declaring war against me. At first I brushed it off as good old-fashioned Swedish insanity. Then I did a little more research, and what I unearthed was disturbing, to say the least. This crazy motherfucker had recently spent several years in prison after being convicted as an accessory to murder.

  Regardless of motive or degree of involvement, this was clearly a bad and disturbed guy, and I didn’t take his threats lightly. I voiced my concern to my agent, who in turn voiced concern to the show’s promoter . . . who promptly booted Dissection off the shows. But that wasn’t the end of it. Two weeks later we were supposed to play at a festival in France with some two dozen bands on the bill—including Dissection. I had no control over this engagement. If we’re headlining a tour and some promoter schedules Rotting Christ or Dissection to open for us, then I certainly have the right to veto that decision. But festivals are sprawling, multilayered events designed to appeal to a broader demographic, and it’s not at all unusual for bands of disparate backgrounds to occupy the same space. I suppose we could have withdrawn from the festival, but I didn’t think that was necessary. At least not until Nödtveidt started spewing nonsense into cyberspace again, this time promising that when Megadeth arrived in France, he would be waiting for me.

  This got my attention. Here was a guy who had already served time in prison, so it was unlikely that the prospect of punishment would serve as much of a deterrent. In this case, my usual arsenal of intimidation—fame, money, power, martial arts expertise—didn’t mean shit. This guy knew what it was like to snuff out a human life. I didn’t. Was I scared? Yeah, somewhat. More than that, though, I was pissed that my agent had gotten me into a predicament where not only was my safety in jeopardy, but I was in the middle of a huge online schism: Dave and his supposed Christian fanaticism (which isn’t fanatical because I don’t push it on anybody) vs. this poor, harmless devil worshipper and the little band he fronted.

  Except, of course, he wasn’t harmless. He was a murderer.

  So we went to France, and I got all prayed up and ready to go. The promoter of the festival hired extra security for the day, and we arrived not knowing what to expect. The first person I ran into was John Dee, who was my manager at the time. John had gotten there early in the day, in time to see Dissection’s performance, and then immediately sought out Nödtveidt. Without identifying himself, John had bumped into the guy, sort of gave him the bully shoulder, just to see how he’d react. Nödtveidt, according to John, was small and unimpressive, and the bump nearly knocked him off his feet. His only response was to look at John and say, “Excuse me, sir.”

  Then he walked away.

  “Where is he now?” I asked.

  “Gone. Took off right after their set.”

  I threw my hands into the air, at once relieved and disappointed. “Are you kidding me? All that worry, all that hassle. And the guy is a pussy?”

  John laughed. “Apparently so.”

  I never did meet Nödtveidt in person. Never got an explanation for his online aggression. Which is probably for the best—it’s pretty clear to me now that the guy was seriously fucked-up. By the summer of 2006 he’d removed himself from the human race, shooting himself in the head during what was rumored to be a ritual suicide. Strange, isn’t it, the way some of my enemies end up? Meanwhile, I’m still here.

  Over the years, more than a few people have leveled charges of hypocrisy at me in regard to the issue of playing with so-called satanic bands. As I’ve tried to explain, this is an area shaded with gray. First of all, I am much more secure in my own faith now than I was in 2002, when I first welcomed God back into my life. My spirituality is largely a personal matter, and one that I generally do not feel compelled to defend or explain. But I figure if you’re going to write a book, you might as well be as candid as possible—you owe the reader that much. So here it is. I never said I wouldn’t play with satanic bands. I’m not stupid enough to deal in sweeping generalities. What I said was this: I wouldn’t tour with satanic bands. A tour is a business arrangement, in which I am an active and willing partner. A festival or single show involving a multitude of acts is completely different.

  Moreover, there is the challenge of defining your terms. “Satanic” is a blanket label applied to almost any metal band with darker overtones. And sometimes the label is misapplied. Slayer is a great example. People might wonder, “How can Dave say one year he won’t tour with any satanic bands and the next year go out with Slayer?” Well, the truth is, when I first got saved, there were things I didn’t know. And it’s like that old saying about when you’re cooking: “When in doubt, leave it out.” There were opportunities for Megadeth to do shows with some other bands, but some of their lyrics and stuff made me uncomfortable. I just wanted to make sure I took my time before I went out and started playing with certain bands. I have a long and sometimes acrimonious history with Slayer and Kerry King. We’ve both hurled our share of insults, dating back to a time when I was anything but a faithful Christian. But Kerry is not a Satanist, and Slayer is not a satanic band. It took time for me to get comfortable with the shadings of these terms and to not necessarily feel threatened by associating with any band with dark sensibilities.

  Now I make my decisions on a case-by-case basis. It’s as simple as that.

  I realize that sometimes religion—or the renunciation of religion—can be a front. I know people who play in satanic bands who really don’t believe in what they are doing. Maybe they’re cynical. Maybe they’re just lost. Sometimes I feel a need to be around the darker bands, if only briefly, just for my own reassurance and edification—so I can be happy I’m not going down that path anymore. I was there, man. I can tell the people who are real and the people who aren’t, and it’s a great for me to be able to say, “Hey, I’m lucky. I got out. I found a better way.” The thing is, most people who become Christians do it the way the dudes do it on TV. Not the radicals, like me—people who really go out on a limb and embrace their spirituality in a different way. You know, there’s a whole movement of kids who are tattooed up and wear black and play heavy music, and they have great bands . . . and they believe in God. And there is nothing wrong with that. In fact, one of the things I’d like to do with the rest of my career is help kids find a safe place to rock out. I wish I had that when I was younger.

  Here’s the thing, though. I spent a lot of time as a new Christian trying to get comfortable in
my own skin. There were times when it felt smooth and right; there were also times when it felt like I was suffocating. It wasn’t until the summer of 2005 that I began to sense harmony between my spiritual and artistic lives. It really kicked in with Gigantour, the annual six-week traveling heavy metal festival I conceived in response to the plethora of festivals that were springing up all over the musical landscape. Gigantour allowed me to stretch as an artist and a businessman. That was my baby, and I loved it. During one memorable show in Dallas, on August 2, a bunch of guys from different acts jammed together on the Pantera song “Cemetery Gates,” in honor of the band’s late guitarist “Dimebag” Darrell Abbott. Over the years I’d had my share of unpleasant encounters with the guys from Pantera. What can I say? I was an arrogant alcoholic and drug addict. It wasn’t hard to push my buttons, and when Phil Anselmo would walk up to the microphone and say, “Fuck Mustaine,” while opening for Megadeth during the Countdown to Extinction tour, well, that hit a button or two. I said some unflattering things about Pantera’s music, and the war was on. But when Dimebag was murdered onstage by a crazy fan in late 2004, it seemed time to put aside all the petty bullshit. I contributed to a eulogy on MTV and later acknowledged Dimebag’s incredible guitar chops and gentle spirit in an open letter on my website. That went a long way toward thawing relations with the rest of Pantera, and playing Dimebag’s solo on “Cemetery Gates” remains one of my fondest Gigantour memories.

  Life is too short to fight meaningless battles. I’d rather just play music and spend time with the people I love and respect. That was the thought that occurred to me as I stood on a stage at Obras Stadium in Buenos Aires, Argentina, on October 9, 2005, at the Pepsi Music Festival. What a night, what a crowd. We hadn’t played in Argentina in several years, and yet here they were, out in force, cheering madly, reciting every word of every song—chanting the fucking guitar parts, for God’s sake! It was like having twenty-five thousand backup singers. I felt like a kid again, like I wanted to do this forever. And so, before leaving the stage and heading home, I leaned into the mike and made a promise: