Ministry

by Jourgensen, Al

  The worst thing that happened during the Animonitisomina session had nothing to do with music or being dope sick. Before I was with Angie I was dating a girl named Susan. That’s back when I was using. We were both junkies, and we tried to clean up together. She was a real sweet girl, just the nicest person in the world. But things didn’t work out between us because we were different people when we were high. So we split up. She moved to New York, and I hooked up with Angie. Susan was clean for a while when I was working on Animositisomina, then she relapsed. The first time she shot up again she overdosed and died in her bathtub. When I got the news I was beside myself. She was a junkie before she met me, so I didn’t ruin her or corrupt her or anything, but it was such a waste. That was actually tougher for me to take than Tim or Bill dying. But it taught me a lesson: after that I could walk by a crack house, a needle exchange program, or a methadone clinic, and not be tempted to relapse.

  Of course after Animositisomina came out on February 17, 2003, I was obligated to take Ministry back on the road. All I wanted to do was stay home and recover, but the show must go on. We can’t disappoint the little boys and girls who want to mosh and stage dive to “Just One Fix,” let alone the greedy label, booking agents, managers, and tour managers. Dust the cymbal-banging toy monkey off and push him onstage. It’s time to rock! Hello Cleveland!

  Since I was clean, we didn’t have to worry about booking shows near methadone clinics or my network of drug dealers. That was a plus. And it made traveling around the world a whole lot easier because I didn’t have to stop using and get dope sick days before takeoff. But I still hated Barker, and we fought more than ever. First of all, I wasn’t nodding off three-quarters of the time, so I was pissed off at him three times as often. And to see him trying to run the show was a spectacle of pure incompetence. I was furious, which might have made for better shows. My heart sure wasn’t into it, but when I was onstage and screaming, in my mind I was throwing daggers at Barker’s pathetic ass. I thought about fucking up on purpose, like Ray and Dave Davies of the Kinks used to do when they were mad at each other, but the professional performer in me wouldn’t allow that to happen.

  The one good thing about the tour was that my old pal Mikey Scaccia came back, so we could tag-team and bust on Barker together. That was fun for a while but got old fast, and pretty soon we just avoided each other. Any time I was in the same room with Barker my temper would start to rise, so I decided I was better off staying away from him because the money wasn’t falling from the sky like it used to; if I smashed chairs, broke windows, or trashed a dressing room, that was coming out of my pocket, which was something I could no longer afford. Oh, and I started drinking again, which isn’t the doctor-recommended way for an ex-junkie to deal with stress, but it was a whole lot better than being sober in the studio. Besides, I hate doctors. Halfway through the tour I started to feel a little better. Being drunk allowed me to get into the stage persona of “Al Jourgensen” without feeling like a total idiot.

  When we played Europe in 2003 I couldn’t wait to finish the show and head to the nearest bar by myself. We ended the set with “Stigmata,” and I would leave the stage halfway through the song while the rest of the band stayed up there and slogged it out. For them it was a moment of glory. They loved it because they got to be up there without me as a focal point for the crowd, and I loved it because I got to get the fuck off the stage.

  Usually before the show I’d make a mental note of any bar that looked cool, then when I was done singing I’d slam down the mike, leave the stage, and make a beeline for the bar before anyone knew what had happened. All these knuckleheads would spend an hour or two trying to find out which bar I was in. When they found me I was usually drunk and belligerent. I’d refuse to leave, saying in my inebriated state, “I like this bar and I want to stay in this city for a while. Fuck this. Cancel the tour. I’m going to stay in Snordsburg, Austria. So fuck you.”

  After a while my whole entourage got tired of that, especially after the search missions they’d have to undergo to find me. So instead of arguing with me and maybe getting into a fight, they bought this twelve-foot-by-twelve-foot Oriental rug. They’d get a walkie-talkie confirmation of what bar I was at, which wasn’t hard, because I was always close by. When it was time for bus call they’d come into the bar and unroll the rug without saying a word to me. Then our tour manager, Gord Spencer, who was about six-foot-three and weighed 350 pounds, would grab me, throw me in the carpet, and roll me up like a burrito. He’d have a roadie hold up my legs. All anyone could see were hands and feet coming out of this carpet. And they’d walk me back to the bus, unroll the carpet, and drop me off. On that tour I was taken out of twenty-five to thirty places like that. I don’t know where Gordie learned that technique, but having worked with Lynyryd Skynyrd, Mötley Crüe, and Aerosmith, you can bet he’d used it before.

  Even though she wasn’t managing us yet, Angie was on the road with me for that whole tour, which didn’t sit well with Barker. But it’s my band and she’s my wife, so fuck him. Besides, Angie ain’t no Yoko. She has never interfered with the band’s music except to offer her input when asked or provide a background vocal, and she’s as good as anyone can be at making things happen. She’s sweet as pecan pie, but when it comes to business, she’s relentless. She audited every company I ever worked for, and in most cases found money I was owed, stashed away in the corner of some padded account. She put an end to that shit right away. She also discovered that while I was off in a drug stupor, my “associates” were pilfering. Although I can’t talk specifics because of legal contracts. Angie confronted Barker on the 2003 tour, and he didn’t deny anything. He just quit, which is probably the most triumphant moment I’ve experienced since The Land of Rape and Honey went gold. Here’s Angie’s explanation of it all:

  When did you realize that something was awry with Al’s finances?

  It was at the Roseland show in New York 1999. I was walking through the foyer. The place was packed, and the T-shirts were flying off the table. And when I went backstage to hang out with Al and say hi, he was literally begging his tour manager for $200. I could smell the thievery. I was thinking, “Hey, that guy works for Al, and Al has to ask him for money? What the hell is going on here?”

  That’s before you were intimately involved in Al’s life.

  But that’s when I first picked up on it. And I’m like a dog that picks up a scent. After Al and I got married I really started investigating things and asking questions. I contacted Al’s first attorney, Linda Mensch, in Chicago, and I said, “Something’s not right here, Linda.” I didn’t know all the nuances of business like I do now. But I was a journalist and I’m kinda of a forensic freak, so I can find things out.

  What did you do next?

  I hired Linda to do a financial checkup and reach out to Al’s manager, attorney, and business manager and also Barker’s “accountant.” They stonewalled her. She couldn’t get anything out of them. That was a sign to me that something was very askew. So I started doing my own research. I went into the offices of Ministry’s attorney at the time, got some paperwork I was entitled to, and questioned some of the publishing statements I was reading. I’m not an idiot! But their attorney was very condescending to me. All of them were, always. And the best thing people can do is underestimate me and treat me like I’m a moron—just a dumb redhead groupie. I love it when they do that. Go ahead, please, be my guest. Because I’ll annihilate you in the end. And I won’t stop until I do. I’m a pit bull when it comes to injustice, and I’m very protective of Al. I’m like an alpha-female. I always have been, and I always will be. I didn’t like what I was seeing, and I knew something was really, really wrong. And it turns out I was right.

  Who was involved in the financial fraud or duplicity?

  Al has a confidentiality clause in the settlement agreement with Barker, so he can’t talk about it in detail. But I didn’t sign it. Basically, over the years th
ere were a string of agents, managers, business managers, and attorneys and others who had access to Al’s money—there for the taking. When Ministry was in its heyday there was so much money. Lots of money. I’ve seen the tax returns and the checkbooks. Al was so out of it that everyone helped themselves. Some managers took advantage of Al more than others did, but most of them . . . it makes me sick thinking about it. There was so much money there. All they had to do was be fair and they’d still make out like bandits. But everyone was super greedy and wanted more and more.

  Can you name the individuals who were particularly unethical?

  I won’t name them by name, but they know who they are, and they know I know who they are. And I’m still watching them. I understand why they did it. They thought Al was going to die and they wanted to make sure they got all the money—it’s called conversion. It’s not right, but people get greedy when they have an opportunity to make a lot of easy money. I mean, when you get used to having sixteen expensive Italian motorcycles in your driveway and you’re living in an upscale neighborhood in a beautiful house and your kids go to private schools, you’re not going to give that up too readily just because your cash cow is on the verge of dying.

  Al said you audited Paul, and the minute you did he quit.

  No, what happened was that I was trying to get to the bottom of this publishing situation, and I wasn’t getting any straight answers. In 2003, during the European leg of the Animositisomina FornicaTour, it was not going very well at all. It was so Spinal Tap. Everything that could go wrong was going wrong. The bus had no A/C, the brakes didn’t work, our driver was constantly getting lost, Al and I were sleeping on the couch in the upstairs back lounge, we weren’t getting paid shit, and every time we went to sleep we were in Germany and when we would wake up we’d be in Germany, even though we were supposed to be in the Netherlands or some other place. I almost resorted to doing everyone’s charts, it was that bad. At one point I went up to Paul Barker and just said to him point blank, “I know what you did, and I’m going to find the paper trail and I’m going to bury you.” I said, “I will get to the bottom of this. I already know what the answer is; I just need to connect the dots.” I looked him straight in the face, and he didn’t try to defend himself. He gave me a blank stare and didn’t say anything. And a couple months later he quit the band. A few months after the tour Paul came out to the Sonic Ranch studio in Tornillo. He and Al had all their gear laid out, and they split it up. He piled it all in a U-Haul and told Al he was quitting. Interesting. You do the math.

  It seems like Al and Paul had a strange, codependent relationship from

  the start.

  I have a weird compassion for Paul because I share something in common with him—it’s codependency and/or Al-Anonism. He’s an untreated Al-Anonic. That’s a disease too—Al-Anonism—being an enabler, a codependent. As much as an alcoholic or an addict is groomed for the way they act, an Al-Anonic or codependent person or adult child of an alcoholic is also groomed for that, sometimes from a very early age. And I will tell you that, like addiction or alcoholism, codependency kills on a deep spiritual, emotional, psychological, and, sometimes, physical level. Worse than that is that you lose yourself entirely in another person, and you can’t find yourself or think straight. Until I started attending Al-Anon, I was completely guilty of enabling Al with his drinking. Al’s a very forceful character, you don’t get to say no to Al when he really wants something. It’s not pleasant. So for Paul, I think he got caught up in the situation and lost himself. There’s a part of Paul who I think is a good person, but he just . . . I don’t know what happened to him. Once when Paul, Al, and I were at the Gaudi cathedral in Barcelona during a European press trip, Paul was standing in this chapel with me; he showed me the rosary he was holding. So I know that there’s good in him. No one’s all good or all bad. But something happened, and I guess he saw an opportunity. And he saw that Al might not make it and worried about what would happen to him and his family, so he took advantage of the situation and lost himself along the way.

  Al says he never liked Paul and they didn’t even have a good working relationship. Why do you think they stayed together so long?

  Al trusted that man. And Al loved Paul, y’know? When Al loves someone, he really loves them. And he trusted Paul with his business. Al was so generous to Paul that he gave him 35 percent of everything. Paul didn’t start Ministry with Al; in fact, Al was already established by the time Paul came along, and yet Al gave him 35 percent of everything. Paul stuck a knife in Al’s heart. Maybe he should have really just done that. It would have been cleaner, faster, and easier. So when Al says he hates Paul, he hates Paul now. But he didn’t hate him back then. They were bandmates and Al loved him. It’s horrible and it didn’t have to end the way it did. It’s very sad. I’m pretty sure that Paul would like to be able to speak with Al again, especially because there’s been a few close calls in the past few years, but I don’t know if either of them know how to find their way back; so much damage has taken place.

  Did you ever get the money back that was pilfered?

  I’m not at total liberty to answer that question, but in my opinion I feel a cast of thousands pilfered hundreds of thousands of dollars out of Al’s pockets. But in the end, with the help of our awesome attorneys Michael Morris and Stephen Moeller, I got Al all his publishing back and his money to start flowing directly to him, and that’s all that mattered to me.

  Intervention 9

  Mike Scaccia:

  The Final Interview from the

  Architect of Ministry’s Guitar Sound (1965–2012)

  In 1983, while Al Jourgensen was figuring out how to get his soul back from the devil he sold it to when he signed a contract to record synth-pop for Arista Records, something far more sinister was happening in Dallas-Ft. Worth, Texas. Three teenage headbangers and horror fans formed Rigor Mortis, a group influenced by Iron Maiden, Motörhead, and hardcore. The band was fast, tight, and featured the abundant talents of guitarist Mike Scaccia, and if they were based in San Francisco or New York, they might have become as popular as Megadeth or Anthrax. But there wasn’t much of a thrash scene in Dallas before Pantera’s 1990 album Cowboys from Hell, so Rigor Mortis had to settle for cult worship even after their self-titled debut came out on Capitol in 1988. By 1991 the group had broken up, but not before Jourgensen discovered them during Ministry’s 1986 Twitch tour. In fact, Scaccia’s tasteful, energetic guitar playing blew Al away so much that he decided to incorporate metallic guitars in Ministry’s music. Two years later, after recording The Mind Is a Terrible Thing to Taste, he invited Scaccia to join Ministry. The two became fast friends, and Scaccia wrote and played the guitar parts on most of Ministry’s albums. During this time drugs both united and divided the two talented musicians and led to countless scenes of depravity, bouts of fisticuffs, and arrests.

  Once Jourgensen and Scaccia kicked cocaine and heroin, Scaccia returned to the band, and the two set off to burn new trails, playing country-punk with Buck Satan & The 666 Shooters, experimenting with psychedelia and progressive time signatures on Relapse, and toying with doomy dub on From Beer to Eternity. Tragically, Scaccia finished recording his parts for the latter just three days before he suffered a severe heart attack onstage and died on December 22, 2012. The show was scheduled to celebrate the fiftieth birthday of Rigor Mortis vocalist Bruce Corbitt, and it started as a triumphant return to form from a band that had played only occasionally since their last album, 1991’s Rigor Mortis Vs. the Earth. But seven numbers into the set, during the song “Bloodbath,” Scaccia collapsed and was rushed to Harris Methodist Hospital, where he was pronounced dead. An autopsy revealed he had died of previously undiscovered heart disease and hypertension.

  Shortly before his final gig Scaccia entered the studio to put the finishing touches on Rigor Mortis’s reunion album Slaves to the Grave, which turned out to be their swan song. He also conducted his last major interview fo
r Jourgensen’s book. Sadly, what was meant to be a reminiscence about the triumphs and traumas of the past and a peek into the future became Scaccia’s final opportunity to talk about his life of rock ‘n’ roll insanity, the backstabbers with whom he wished he never crossed paths, and his love for the people who were faithful to him to the very end.

  You were in Rigor Mortis when you first met Al.

  mike scaccia Yes, I met him through Skinny Puppy producer Dave Ogilvie, who was a sound engineer for Al for a number of years. I believe they were on the Twitch tour—I had just finished the first Rigor Mortis demo, and we were getting signed by Capitol Records. Dave Ogilvie came to produce our record, and Ministry was on tour and coming through Dallas. Dave said, “You’ve got to meet Al. You guys are like long-lost brothers; you’ll probably be best friends when you meet.” I drove through an ice storm that day, from Ft. Worth to Dallas. It was a nightmare, but when I got there I met Al, gave him the demo, and he became an instant fan of my guitar playing and I became an instant fan of what he was doing. It was way in left field for me, man. I come from a complete guitar-based background, so we hit it off in 1987 right off the bat.

  When did you see him again?

  mc I was going through Chicago, and he took us out to dinner. We spent some time at his house. and he was all excited to play me The Land of Rape and Honey. He said, “Man, I have to thank you. I picked my guitar back up again, and I’m headed in a new direction.” He became our number-one fan; he was so touched by the way that I played that it inspired him, I guess. He played me the album, and I was floored. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, it was so amazing. From that point on we talked a lot on the phone. When I’d go through Chicago he’d come out; when he would come to Texas I would hang out.