If this had to happen, the timing was actually good. We had already done our coke and heroin and recorded. So we were just chilling. Then the next thing I know there’s thirty-two fucking agents from DEA, IRS, ATF, FBI, local, county, and state at my door, pouring into the place. As soon as they came in they had me in handcuffs. They brought in drug-sniffing dogs and tore down the walls in my house. They searched through every room, every closet. They looked under beds and tore up mattresses and pillows. They were all prepared to run me out of town by throwing me in jail. They had raided Willie Nelson’s place a few days before, so they were on a roll. They figured they could get both of us in one fell swoop. But the more they looked, the angrier they got because they weren’t finding anything. All they got was a fucking spoon in my garbage can that had heroin residue on it and a baggie in a spare bedroom that had traces of cocaine. That’s not what they were hoping to find, but they took what they could get and arrested me and Mikey anyway. The spoon was mine; I didn’t know anything about the coke. The place had thirteen bedrooms, and Patty sometimes came up with Adrienne and stayed in one of the rooms. I didn’t go in there, so I didn’t know.
The police took us outside and held us face down by the side of the road. These metal kids who knew I lived there saw all the lights and commotion, so they drove up and yelled at these cops to fuck off. Then they drove off, so these policemen drove after them and arrested them. They brought the kids back to be arrested next to me and Mikey, and these guys were so happy, thinking, “This is awesome, man! I get to be arrested with Al Jourgensen—that’s cool.” It was totally “Beavis and Butt-head.” The bail was $300,000, which took a while to round up. So I sat behind bars for a month. Nobody fucked with me for a couple reasons. One, if you come into jail with enough tattoos, people leave you alone. They’re kind of like, “Okay, this guy’s been here before.” Like I said, I’d done a lot of one-nighters, so I’ve been behind bars about twenty times. Second, I was dope sick within minutes of getting there. I was puking my guts out, shaking, and swearing. And the guards didn’t give me any methadone. So I was grouchy, angry, and hurting, and some of the inmates were scared of me—or scared of getting thrown up on. Other than the fact the food sucked, though, it wasn’t too bad—not that I ever plan to go back. I spent a lot of time talking to some of the other guys in there. But mostly I kept to myself, reading. Finally Patty showed up with the bail money. She picked me up and had a needle already prepared with heroin and coke in the car. We didn’t even get out of the parking lot. I was already shooting up my speedball right on the prison grounds.
That’s the last thing Patty ever did for me. We got divorced, and I had to give her a cool million in the settlement for her to leave me the fuck alone. I sold the Marble Falls house not just for the money but because after I got out of jail the local cops told me: “We’re going to hassle you every fucking week until you’re gone.” I must be the only person in Austin ever to sell a house at a loss, and I got a good deal on it. I think I actually sold it to former Dallas Cowboys quarterback, who wanted to make it into a Christian bed and breakfast. I was like, “Good luck, dude. The place is fucking haunted. You’re gonna have people staying here who start masturbating with crucifixes, vomit pea soup, and rotate their heads around 360 degrees.”
After I left Marble Falls I rented a place in South Austin. But the rest of the band and my label were cutting me off. Mikey left to try to get his own personal life together. He didn’t come back until 2003, so I was on my own when it came to standing up to the Book Club. They were just giving me enough money to barely get my buzz on for the day. I ended up having to sell a lot of my shit. David Bowie bought my bone dresser, and I sold my artwork and a bunch of guitars so I could keep getting high. I was like, “Fuck Barker. Fuck Sire. They won’t sustain my habit. I’ll find a way to be totally useless.” So I got on a methadone program.
Methadone is the most evil drug ever. Nazis invented it. Urban myth has it that “Adolophine” was named after Adolph Hitler. The Germans scientifically designed it as a synthetic opioid. They figured it would cut costs on the morphine they were using on troops injured on the front. They synthesized it so they didn’t have to conquer regions that had poppy fields. The problem is that it’s even more addictive than morphine. It’s more addictive than heroin. And this caused an even worse recidivism in patients. It actually turned out to be more expensive because users had a constant need for the drug, but it was an accepted way to get off heroin and to make more money. So in 1947 Eli Lilly and Company introduced methadone into the United States and made a fortune. The entire pharmaceutical industry we have today is based on the methadone model. These companies don’t care what their drugs are doing to you as long as they’re making cash hand over fist. As well as being highly addictive, methadone also destroys bone mass by disintegrating your marrow and causes brain damage. And for me it just didn’t work as an effective heroin substitute because I would never do methadone alone. I would shoot heroin, drink whiskey, smoke crack, do LSD, and then the methadone would just keep me from getting sick if I couldn’t find my heroin dealer.
Ministry toured Australia and Japan in early ’95, and that was a real drag and prevented me from meeting my childhood hero, Keith Richards. There’s a reason there’s a saying that you should never meet your idols—it’s usually a recipe for disappointment. Either they’re obnoxious and full of themselves like Robert Plant or they’re right-wing assholes like Ted Nugent. Also, touring for a living doesn’t lend itself to a lot of intellectual development. A lot of these guys would rather watch Friday the 13th than the evening news, even though a lot of the time the two are about equal when it comes to substance value. Having said that, I was psyched when Neil Young asked me to play an acoustic set at his Bridge Benefit in 1994; I really like him. And it was a thrill to meet Billy Gibbons of ZZ Top. But like I said, I blew my chance to meet Keith Richards, even though he was in my home.
The Stones played in San Antonio right before we went to Asia and Australia for a tour in 1995. I knew the plane ride was going to be endless, so I figured I had to go cold turkey for a couple days and pick up my habit again when I got to Australia. I was sicker than shit, lying on my couch, and puking into a trashcan. This lowlife who lived in Marble Falls kept coming by and telling me that he was friends with the Stones’ sax player, Bobby Keys, and that they grew up together. I was like, “Whatever. Can’t you see I’m sick?” But he persisted and said the Stones were playing in San Antonio sixty miles away and wanted to come visit my house. I said, “Sure, whatever. I’m happy for you.” I didn’t believe a word he said because the guy was the local town idiot drunk.
I was kicking dope on the couch—puking, sweating, and shaking—when I heard some people with English accents upstairs making too much noise. I told my assistant to kick them all out because I had a splitting headache from detoxing and had to be on a flight the next day. I didn’t know who these guys were; I didn’t even get up to see them. It turned out it was Keith Richards, Bobby Keys, and Ronnie Woods playing pool at my house, and I never even got to meet them. But as they left I saw a stretch limo pulling out of the driveway, and I was like, “Oh well. I blew that one.”
Even though I prepared for the trip, I was deathly dope sick on both flights over. But I couldn’t say no because we were headlining the Big Day Out festival in Australia, and that was a big deal. It was our first time playing with Rey Washam, who replaced Rieflin. I got sick of Bill’s whining, and I guess he was tired of working with junkies, so it was good fucking riddance. Rey had played in Scratch Acid with David Yow of the Jesus Lizard, and he liked heroin almost as much as I did.
It was a good bill. Big Day Out featured Screaming Trees—and a bunch of other screaming bands—Hole, the Cult, and us, the headliners. To welcome us, the promoters rented a yacht and stocked it full of strippers. There were, like, ten fucking strippers on top of this thing. Mikey and I rolled our eyes, like, “been there done that.” Instead
of enjoying the eye candy, we went downstairs and partook in the arm candy. We shot up for hours, as if to say, “Fuck the strippers. Leave them for the Book Club.” When anyone came up to us we told them to fuck off. And then we got seasick from bouncing around on the ocean with heroin in our systems. We harassed everyone on that tour, especially Courtney Love. The first time I met her I was walking up toward the stage because we had to do some interviews, and the opening bands were on during the day. I saw this chick wearing a revealing minidress and having a cigarette on the side of the stage. She spread her legs, and I could tell she wasn’t wearing any underwear. I was about a quarter-mile away, but I could tell because she had a giant bush that looked like a raccoon. It was black and striped. I don’t know if she did that on purpose or if that was natural. I thought, “Wow, this chick’s got an animal living on her pussy.” It was like Davy Crockett with the coonskin cap. Whenever she came into our dressing room we’d sing, “Davy! Davy Crocket! King of the wild frontier!” I taunted her proverbial beaver: “Don’t worry. I’ll save you. I’ll get your head out of there. You’ll be okay.” She was so pissed. Mikey and I tortured her.
I didn’t feel bad about it though, and I still don’t because that girl’s a cunt. She’s a very conniving, clever person. But I knew that, so her crazy act didn’t throw me. Mikey and I would go to her room at the hotel and knock on the door. When she opened it we’d rifle through her purse to try to find heroin. And we always would. So of course we’d steal it, and she’d stand there cursing at us. Then we’d come back the next day and do it again. Mikey would say, “I’m out of heroin. Let’s go steal some from Courtney. She’s always got heroin. She’s rich. Kurt died and left her a gazillion dollars.” We went to her door, and I don’t know why, but she always let us in. Mikey would walk up, grab her purse, dump it on the table, and everything would fall out. Then Mikey would straggle around that pile for a while, find a little foil of heroin, a few needles, and a wad of folded money. Courtney would whine, “What are you doing? I’m sick of you guys. Between the ‘Davy Crocket’ song and you stealing my drugs and money. I’m sick of it!” We’d reply, “Fuck you. You know what? You’ve got a gazillion dollars. Shut the fuck up! You’ve got a stack of baby pictures of your kid so you can pass them out to prove you’re a good mother. Meanwhile you left her at home, so you’re really just propagating her like she’s a baseball card. You have no fucking voice in the ethical moral ground here. Fuck you.”
One time the guy from the Lemonheads, Evan Dando, tried to stand up for Courtney. He said, “Hey, guys that’s enough. I think you should leave.” He tried to push us out, so Mikey punched him and said, “Sit down, boy!” He didn’t even hit him that hard, but Evan started to cry. It was ridiculous. We were like, “Do you even know what you’re fucking dealing with here? You’re dealing with two junkies who don’t fucking care if they die today or not. We’re happy to fucking oblige you in the dying part.” The only good thing about the kid weeping was that Courtney took her eyes off of us, so we got to go away with the goods after a complete ransack, like Vikings pillaging a village. Maybe she has some maternal instinct after all, because she went to take care of Evan, who was crumpled up in the corner weeping. She stroked his head and said, “It’s okay. They’re horrible people.”
As much as she hated me, Courtney wound up sleeping with me, except I made her shave her giant beaver before I’d get in bed with her. She trimmed it down to sort of a jagged Brazilian landing strip that looked more like a lightning bolt. But it was good enough for me. It only happened once, and it was mainly because she didn’t have any dope. I turned over her purse looking for needles, but there was nothing there. So I said, “Eh, okay. Let’s fuck.” I think she did it out of fear. I didn’t rape her or anything, but she was so afraid of me and Mikey that she probably figured it was better just to fuck me than to say no. And it was very unsatisfying—I think I came, but I’m not sure. After we were done I grabbed her set of clothes that were laid out by the bed and threw them out the window. I didn’t know, but she had to be in this Australian magistrate court at 10 a.m. the next day for disrupting a flight, and now all her clothes were scattered in the parking lot in front of this Hilton. Her handler was so pissed. She stormed at me, pointing her finger, yelling that Courtney had to be in court. I’m like, “Okay, well she’ll have to go naked. The tabloids will love that, which should make her happy.” In the end she missed her court date, and there was a warrant for her arrest.
Even after that episode Courtney and I shot up together a bunch of times. I may have stolen her heroin, but I was polite enough to share it with her. Some things about her were really gross. She had seventeen pictures of her kid, Frances Bean Cobain, in her wallet after Kurt died, and the kid wasn’t with her or anything. It was just a trophy for her, so she could hand out pictures. She’s so egocentric and self-centered, and that’s why Mikey and I tortured her so much. She went on the air afterward in a radio interview and said I was the most hideous and horrific person she’d ever met. I thought that was pretty cool.
We also tortured the Cult. I puked in their dressing room and shoved all their deli tray vegetables up my ass. It was a vegetarian flying ham sandwich! They had a club show between two of the festival dates, and I went into their dressing room to give them shit. Here’s why. That afternoon the band members were on the beach drinking and wearing Speedos. Those are the gayest bathing suits in the world. They’re not even bathing suits—they’re, like, skin suits for your cock and balls. That infuriated me. I went, “The Cult are posers!” You don’t wear Speedos on the beach if you’re in a rock band—especially if you’re these old white, limey guys who have never seen the sun.
When Mikey and I weren’t bothering other people we were beating on each other. “You drank my beer!” “You did the last speedball!” We were like the Gallagher brothers of Oasis but loaded on narcotics. We’d sometimes start swinging at each other for no reason or out of sheer paranoia or boredom. He’d beat me; sometimes I’d beat him down. And it was all provoked by drugs and alcohol—usually drugs.
After the Big Day Out tour we did some dates in Asia, then when we got back to the States we finished Filth Pig back at Chicago Trax!. I had moved back to Chicago for a short while to try to get my shit together. I went back on the methadone program at the suggestion of all these so-called experts. What a disaster that was. Back in the methadone days, users had to get to the clinic by a certain time to get their allotted dose. My girlfriend at the time, Ty Coon, and I would drive there out of hell-bent desperation because we’d run out of heroin, coke, whiskey—whatever. We’d try to make it to the clinic before it closed at 6 p.m. It would be three minutes to six, and we’d be in Chicago traffic, breaking every law of the road, speeding through red lights, swerving through traffic, slamming on the brakes. And then we’d run in, slobbering and panting. They’d give us our little wafers, and we’d go, “Oh, thank you, thank you!” It was just dumb. And I realized this breakneck rush to the clinic was more of an addiction and more of a problem than our actual problems. It’s just gross, and it’s a lifestyle that endangers your humanity and deflates you to the point that you’re like Pavlov’s dog. I knew I had to kick that. I had to kick everything and straighten up my act.
I actually headed on the right path for a while. When White Zombie frontman Rob Zombie broke up with his girlfriend and bassist Sean Yseult, with whom he had started the band, White Zombie started to fizzle. The spark was gone—not that I ever liked Rob in the first place; we hung in different circles. He acted crazy onstage, but he was clean and sober—an artist who lived in his decadent imagination. That’s fine. I like some of his movies. For a while there was some scuttlebutt in the media because we dressed kind of the same onstage and everyone accused us of stealing each other’s looks, but I never cared. I’ve always dressed the way I wanted to dress. Except for the period when I had to be a new wave fag at the behest of management and the label, I’ve always looked like a tattooed
dirtbag with long hair, a bandana, a leather jacket, and shitkicker boots. End of story.
I met Sean toward the end of White Zombie’s career, right before Rob decided to go solo. I was hanging in Chicago with Anthrax, who were playing with White Zombie and Pantera. Because Sean wanted to be as far away from Rob as possible when she was offstage, she and I spent a lot of time hanging out. And then we started dating. I moved back with her to Los Angeles, and we lived together for a while and had some good times. She was kind of like Aimee Mann in that she was good for me, an absolute sweetheart.
There was a funny moment when Rob’s new girlfriend and Sean got into a catfight. I stepped in and broke it up. Rob’s girlfriend was screaming, “Do something! Fuck this guy up!” And I looked at Rob and said, “Do you really want to do this, because I will fucking eat you.” So he backed off, and his girlfriend was calling him a pussy the whole way back to the bus, asking, “Why didn’t you stand up to him?” I was like, “Really? You think Rob Zombie is going to beat up Al Jourgensen? I don’t think so.” It was weird because Rob was kind of taunting Sean by parading his new girlfriend in front of her. So Sean got pissed and said, “Why do I want to date the facsimile—Rob Zombie—when I can be with Al, the original? I had the summer off, so I was doing encores of Ministry songs with Anthrax and traveling around with Sean. After the tour Sean and I took off and drove around in a car for a couple months, then we settled down in LA in an apartment right off Melrose, near the shopping district there. It was a pretty stable relationship, and there was no real drama or arrests—just one near-death experience.
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