“I want to thank you again for coming down here and joining us tonight. I hope you had a great time, because we sure did! And we will be back!”
I meant it, too. Megadeth, in one form or another, would endure. And so would I.
Epilogue: Three Boats and a Helicopter
One of my favorite shots. We had never used fire until this tour.
Photograph by Rob Shay.
I’m sitting in a screening room at Fox Studios in Hollywood, watching a rough cut of a Will Ferrell movie. I’m pretty pumped about being here, since it represents another creative avenue to explore. I’ve been asked to provide some original music for the score, so my job is to watch the movie and envision precisely the right type of guitar work for two specific scenes. It’s a trip, honestly, to be invited into this world. I’m a thrash metal guitar player, and we aren’t often welcome in the mainstream. But a big-budget summer movie starring Will Ferrell is about as mainstream as it gets, so I can’t help but feel a surge of excitement.
The movie rolls along, and I’m watching it less for entertainment than inspiration—an odd sensation, to be sure.
“Right here,” someone says. “This is where we need you.”
I lean forward in my seat. Talk about a long, strange, remarkable trip. How on earth did I get here?
Suddenly my attention is diverted. Music floods the screening room, overwhelming the dialogue on-screen—or maybe it just seems that way to me, because I recognize it instantly. They call it a “placeholder” in the movie business, music that will never make it onto the score or soundtrack but is intended to merely fill a spot, to give the actual composer an idea of what is needed. It serves as both inspiration and guidance.
Or, in my case, annoyance.
I turn to my assistant manager, Isaac. Neither of us says a word. But I can tell we’re thinking the same thing:
Metallica? Are you fucking kidding me?!
Isaac has worked with me for a few years now, long enough to know that nothing is more likely to trigger a Mustaine meltdown than an unexpected dose of Metallica. And this is about as unexpected as it could be.
Hear that, Dave? That’s what we’re after! Something that sounds like Metallica but isn’t Metallica. Can you do that? Please?
I let my head hang for a moment, and then I smile. And Isaac smiles. And then we begin to laugh. Sometimes the world is too perverse to be met with anything other than a sense of humor. I realize at this very moment that it’ll never end.
It will never . . . fucking . . . end.
Someday they’ll be lowering my casket into the ground, and they’ll be ready to play me off one last time (“A Tout le Monde” would be great), and someone will have left a Metallica disc in the CD player.
I’M HONESTLY TRYING to be better about all this shit. You can hold a grudge for only so long. It’s just not healthy. Unfortunately, it seems sometimes that the most efficient way to bury a hatchet is to drive it into the back of your enemy’s skull. That’s the way I felt a few months earlier, when I got an e-mail from Scott Ian of Anthrax, which ended with the words, “See you in Cleveland, on April 3, right?”
I had no idea what he was talking about.
“What’s going on in Cleveland?”
Another e-mail soon landed in my mailbox.
“Sorry, my bad. I thought you knew. Metallica is getting inducted into the Hall of Fame, and I thought you would be there.”
“Sorry,” I responded. “I haven’t heard anything. Say hello to everyone for me, okay?”
Now, here’s what really happened. I knew, of course, that Metallica was being inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. That news had been announced in the fall of 2008. I tried to put it out of my mind as quickly as possible, reasoning that even though, if you want to distill it to its essence, it had everything to do with me . . . it really had nothing to do with me.
But Scott’s e-mail, coming as it did near the end of Megadeth’s most recent European tour (with Judas Priest), presented a dilemma. I knew what was coming. Metallica was going to be inducted into the Hall of Fame, and I was going to be invited to attend the ceremony.
As a spectator.
Sure enough, a few days later my manager, Mark Adelman, told me the offer had been extended. The band would pay for Pam and me to fly out to Cleveland and attend a big party on the night of Friday, April 3. The next night we’d sit in the audience, along with the rest of Metallica’s extended “family”—office staff, tour managers, fan club administrators, roadies, whatever—and applaud warmly as Lars and James and the boys were officially enshrined.
“What do you think?” Mark asked.
“You know what I think. The question is, how do we handle this?”
I had a graceful exit: I was incredibly busy. I’d be home in the States for a few days after the Priest tour, then I was supposed to go back to Germany to do some promotional work for Marshall Amplification, and then I had to prepare for a performance at the upcoming Golden Gods Awards. All while recording a Megadeth album. In order to attend the Hall of Fame induction, something else would have to give. Frankly, it wasn’t worth it.
So I bit my tongue and wrote a letter—a press release, really—thanking Metallica for thinking of me, and congratulating them for being inducted, but ultimately expressing regrets that I could not attend.
And that was it.
No venom, no anger.
Not publicly, anyway.
I was walking a balance beam, for sure. I knew that if I revealed my true feelings—that there was no way I was going to sit in the fucking audience when I belonged up onstage with the band I helped create—everyone would just shake their heads and say, “Yup, same old bitter Dave.”
And if I tried to act nonchalant, an equal number of people would say, “Ah, bullshit. He’s not busy. He just doesn’t want to be there.”
A lose-lose proposition, as it’s often been with me in regard to Metallica.
And yet, I couldn’t compromise my principles on this one; I couldn’t deny what was in my heart. Better to just stay away and keep my mouth shut. Take the proverbial high road.
But I couldn’t quite let it go at that. So I reached out to Lars one last time. I sent him an e-mail, asking if we could talk sometime soon. He texted me back.
“Hey, man, it’s a nutty suburban afternoon and I’m out with the kids. Can I get back to you in a couple days?”
Two weeks later he texted me again. Typical rock star timing: one week for each day. So I hit him back: “Yeah, I’m here now. We can talk.”
A few seconds later, my cell phone rang. I was sitting in the kitchen of my house, on the outskirts of San Diego, on a perfect sunny morning. Pam sat across the table so that I could focus on something positive. The conversation was neither heated nor healing. There was no catharsis of any kind. It was almost banal, like neither of us had the energy to work up much emotion. We were both closer to fifty than forty now, on the downslope of life in every measurable way. If it wasn’t quite possible to embrace like the brothers we once were, neither was it worth the effort to fight like warriors.
“I’d like you to be there, man,” Lars said at one point, after launching into the same old tired explanation: that everyone who had been part of the Metallica experience had been invited to the ceremony, but that only those band members who had played “on record” could be inducted into the Hall of Fame.
In my head I could hear the voice of Sir John Gielgud, a graceful butler chastising the self-possessed alcoholic millionaire played by Dudley Moore in Arthur.
“Why, you little prick!”
I’d been on record with Metallica, of course. I’d been on DVD. I had songwriting credits. I had history. But what was the point of flogging that rotted horse? I understand Lars now. Or at least, I understand that he has a purpose in my life, and that purpose is to challenge my humility, to keep me humble and hungry.
“I’d like to be there, too,” I said. “But I can’t. Not like this. We have differen
t ideas about stuff. And since I can’t be there the way I want to, it’s probably best if I just support you guys from the sideline.”
I took a deep breath.
“But I want you to know that I’m proud of you, man, and I really wish you the best.”
“Thanks,” Lars said. “You, too. And I hope you change your mind.”
“If I do, you’ll be the first to know.”
I DIDN’T DWELL on that conversation for long. There was too much work to be done, too many other things to occupy my time. I had to get right back in the studio and put the finishing touches on the twelfth Megadeth album, Endgame. Whether this is an ironically titled project remains to be seen. Creatively and professionally speaking, there are some other things I’d like to do with my life at this point: more film scoring, teaching, solo albums. And I’d like to spend more time with my family, catch up with my kids after all these years. Justis has his own musical interests, and I’d like to help in whatever way I can; Electra, so charming and wise beyond her years, has a burgeoning television career. I’ve missed enough. I don’t want to miss anything else.
But it’s been this way for some time now. Every Megadeth album for the past decade has felt like it might be the last, like I’m wrung out and there is nothing else left to say. The process is utterly exhausting. Then the album is released, and we get to perform . . . and it all seems worth it.
I had no idea what to expect in the spring of 2007, when United Abominations was released. The lineup had been revamped again, with James LoMenzo replacing James MacDonough on bass. Didn’t seem to matter. The songs were strong, the playing tight, and the album took off, selling more briskly than any Megadeth record since Youthanasia. Fifty thousand copies in the first week alone.
Maybe it’ll be the same with Endgame. I like the record (please permit my anachronistic terminology—I am, after all, a child of the vinyl era). A lot. I like the new band, too. Yup, that’s right. More personnel changes, with the awesome Chris Broderick stepping in for Glen Drover on guitar. If you’re keeping track, that’s eighteen musicians who have been a part of the heavy metal warhorse known as Megadeth.
Seventeen who have come and gone. Or stayed.
And me.
I have no animosity toward anyone who played in Megadeth; in fact, I’ve tried to make amends with just about everyone I might have hurt along the way, and I’ve tried to forgive everyone who fucked me over—there is no shortage of either. A couple years ago I flew out to Phoenix to meet with David Ellefson. We hadn’t talked in a while, probably not since his lawsuit was tossed out of court. We went out to dinner, talked about old times and new opportunities, about wives and friends and kids.
“I gotta tell you,” Junior said. “Leaving Megadeth was the dumbest thing I ever did.”
I laughed. “Yeah, I know.”
We all do stupid things. The trick is to recognize your mistakes and do better the next time around. I could have been the biggest guitar player in the world, if only I had been able to handle my fists—and my thirst. But I was incapable of doing those things. All the trips to rehab, the drinking problem, the drug problem, band problems, fighting with people in and out of the music business, problems with my fidelity, my children—I look at all this and I think, I’m capable of so much more.
I’ve had this feeling for a while now that there is something important to be done with the years I have left, and I don’t think it’s limited to going out onstage and banging my head for Megadeth—not that I don’t enjoy it. I think opportunities will be placed in my path, and if I don’t pay attention, I’m going to miss them.
You know that old joke about the guy stranded in the flood, perched atop the roof of his house, waiting for God to save him? He repeatedly turns away rescue efforts based on the belief that God will personally take care of him. The floodwaters ultimately sweep him away and he winds up at heaven’s gate, wondering why God has forsaken him. St. Peter looks at the poor guy and laughs.
“What are you talking about? We sent three boats and a helicopter.”
I feel like the boat has come by for me more than a few times. Whether I deserved it or not, I had success with Metallica. I had success with Megadeth. I had success with Megadeth again after my arm was wrecked. I have a wife who has stayed with me through some very hard times. And I have two healthy, happy children. So at some point you have to wonder: how many times does God have to say, “Dude, I love you,” before I straighten up for good?
I’ve got everything a man could want, and then some.
It’s time.
About the author
DAVE MUSTAINE, widely regarded as the “founding father” of Thrash Metal, almost singlehandedly created the enduring multiplatinum style that launched both Megadeth and Metallica into the public’s consciousness. From 1985’s Killing Is My Business . . . and Business Is Good to the most recent Endgame, with more than twelve album releases with Megadeth, Mustaine has left a legacy of music that has been described as everything from “poignant” to “insightful” to “angry” to “ironic.” Megadeth earned eight Grammy nominations and six platinum certifications. Mustaine lives in San Diego County, California.
An award-winning journalist and bestselling author, JOE LAYDEN has written more than thirty books, including The Last Great Fight, which was named one of the best sports books of 2007 by Sports Illustrated and the American Library Association. He is also the co-author of the New York Times bestsellers There and Back Again and The Rock Says.... He lives in upstate New York.
Visit www.AuthorTracker.com for exclusive information on your favorite HarperCollins author.
Copyright
MUSTAINE. Copyright © 2010 by Dave Mustaine. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
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EPub Edition © 2010 ISBN: 9780061997037
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*Specifically in Shorin-ryu karate. I competed in my first tournament around this time and discovered how challenging the sport can be. I won my first match after my opponent was disqualified for hitting me in the face and groin. Unfortunately, I was unable to continue fighting and had to withdraw.
*The spiritual kind, I mean—chemicals we had in abundance; chemistry we lacked.
*He claimed to have at his house a replica of the obelisk made famous on the cover of Led Zeppelin’s Presence. Looking back n
ow, I totally get it: major-market DJ participates in graft to put an album in circulation. At the time, though, as a kid, it just seemed like the coolest thing in the world.
*This is similar to the injury I would suffer to my left arm many years later, except it was a temporary thing. When the nerve is compressed, it sends a shock wave to the victim, who usually is rendered immediately helpless.
*As it turned out, the same sort of thing happened with Kirk Hammett, who later took my spot on guitar.
‡Whether he was fired or quit remains a point of contention, depending on whom you ask. Certainly Ron would have been fired if he hadn’t left; either way, it was not an amicable parting.
*Interestingly enough, Phil is my friend, too, to this day, and for the longest time I felt terrible about what I did to him.
“What can I do to make it up to you?” I eventually asked him.
“Well, it’s not really necessary, but if it’ll make you feel better . . .”
“It will.”
“I can always use a new guitar.”
So, a couple years ago, I bought Phil a nice guitar, and we’re all cool now. That chapter is closed and I wish him nothing but the best in his life and career.
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