The Best in the World

by Chris Jericho

  Third, we needed to solidify our lineup and stick to it. Because of our sporadic tours and lengthy bouts of inactivity in the past, the band was basically just a revolving door of musicians, with Rich and me being the only constants. But with our new attitude, we intended to be working a fuller schedule and wanted to put together the best lineup in Fozzy history.

  The first order of business was to bring back Frank, the best drummer we’d ever played with and the perfect complement for Rich’s heavy groove riffs. He’d been asked to leave the band in 2005 but we were ready for him to come back. However, when he showed up, he looked less like a rock star and more like Bubba Ray Dudley circa 1999. He’d gained a lot of weight, shaved his head, and grown a scruffy beard, but when we read him the new-image riot act he promised to update his look and get in better shape (which he did), so we gave him the benefit of the doubt and signed him up.

  Sean Delson seemed like he was into the new way of doing things, but our second guitar player, Mike Martin, didn’t really show much enthusiasm for our plans and we parted ways. We needed to find a replacement for Mike, but that could wait because the most important part of the new and improved Fozzy had to be the songs.

  I’d been compiling ideas for a few years already and Rich was pleasantly surprised when I sent him fourteen full songs of lyrics a few days after we reunited. I write my lyrics starting with song titles and work backward from there, so when I come across an interesting phrase or sentence in a book, I write it down. Then when my muse visits, I scan through the list and find one that inspires me.

  There was “Martyr No More” (I love the title); “Paraskavedekatriaphobia,” (the fear of Friday the 13th and the best song title Steve Harris never wrote); “Pray for Blood” (my old friend Dr. Luther’s catchphrase when he worked in Japan, which I turned into a tale about tenth-century Vikings); “God Pounds His Nails” (lifted from Stephen King’s The Talisman); and “Broken Soul” (I envisioned it as a thrash song, but Rich had a different idea and it became our first ballad).

  The standard way songs are written is to write the music first and lyrics second, but in typical Fozzy fashion, we did things our own way. Rich used my words to inspire him to create new songs or reworked them into the riffs and melodies he’d already written. After a few months of shaping and reshaping, we decided on the twelve songs that would make up our new record Chasing the Grail.

  We began recording the album while our manager, Mark Willis, searched for a new record deal. All That Remains had been independently released on my own label, Ash Records, and even though it had sold fairly well, we still lost money when our distribution company went bankrupt (leaving me personally in the hole for about seventy-five grand), so we needed a new home. Unfortunately, our name value was pretty much nonexistent after lying dormant for four years, so our options were fairly limited. It was good news when our old friend John Howarth (of Boots fame) came aboard and signed us to his Australian-based label RIOT Records, making us their first worldwide release.

  A few months later we wrapped up the recording and prepared for the release date. We knew the record was amazing but were a little worried. . . . Would anybody care about a new Fozzy album?

  Turns out people did. Chasing the Grail debuted at number six on the Billboard Heatseekers chart, which was the first time we’d ever been on a Billboard chart of any kind. We just missed being on the actual Billboard 200 by only a few hundred units, which pissed me off because if I’d known, I would’ve bought the damn extra 253 copies myself.

  With the record out, it was time to bring in a new guitar player and we had a private audition with only two candidates. Both guys were great guitar players, but as soon as I saw Billy Grey, I knew we had our man. Billy had played in Fozzy years earlier and I’d always liked him. And when he walked into the studio with his multicolored faux hawk, chain wallet, and Chucks, I saw he had the perfect look for the new-image Fozzy.

  Our new lineup complete, it was time to get back on the road and we booked our first gig in almost three years at B. B. King’s in New York City. Our return gig was the place to be in NYC that night as we played in front of an all-star cast, including my wife, Jessica, Bumblefoot from Guns N’ Roses, Steve Brown from Trixter, Eddie Trunk and Don Jamieson from That Metal Show, Ripper Owens from Judas Priest, and Richard Christy from The Howard Stern Show. Vinnie Paul came onstage halfway through the concert to present us with a tray of Jack Daniel’s shots to celebrate our new album’s release, and our old friend Mike Portnoy jammed on Judas Priest’s “Freewheel Burning” with us. He was in town with his new bandmates from Avenged Sevenfold, and all five of them showed up together. I’d been an Avenged fan for years and it was froot to see them at our gig and I was impressed with their bond of brotherhood. It seemed that they went everywhere together like an actual gang, which was something I wanted Fozzy to be.

  Charlie Benante and Frank Bello from Anthrax were also there and they brought their former singer, Joey Belladonna, to the show. They’d been considering bringing him back into the band and wanted to see how they got along and what the vibes were like in a social situation. They stayed for the whole gig, and a few days later Charlie told me Joey had rejoined Anthrax.

  So Fozzy is taking credit for being the heavy metal Cupid that brought Anthrax back together with their long-estranged singer, due to our soothing sounds. Now if we can only get Slash and Axl to check out one of our shows. . . .

  The gig wasn’t our best as we were knocking off three years of rust, but it was a blast to be back onstage with the boys again and felt like home. Plus, the all-star cast and the packed crowd in attendance proved to us what we needed to know—people cared about The Fozz and were stoked to see us back.

  As rock star as it gets backstage in NYC. I think I’m even drinking champagne for extra pretentiousness.

  The next step was to return to our second home, the UK, where we’d always had an amazing fanbase. Our return shows in Nottingham, London, and Glasgow were sold out, which blew my mind, considering there had been such a long absence since our last tour. Then we headed back to Australia, where we also had a great following, and soon after were contacted by TKO, one of the biggest booking agents in the world (they repped The Cult, Buckcherry, and Anthrax among others) to see if we’d be interested in working with them. I called Benante for his advice and he said TKO was the way to go, so we said yes later that day.

  One of the first shows our new agent, Dan DeVita, booked us on was the massive English festival, Sonisphere, which attracted up to 80,000 fans annually and this year boasted one of my all-time favorite bands as the headliner. After ten years of being in Fozzy and twenty-six years of being a fan, I was finally going to be on the same bill with the mighty METALLICA. I had to sit down when I got the news, because I felt like I’d been whacked over the head with the hammer from the Kill ’Em All album cover.

  We’d taken a lot of flak through the years, partly because of the band’s humorus roots, partly because I was a wrestler, and partly because we refused to give up. It pissed a lot of people off that we continued to get bigger, but we didn’t care. The one thing the haters could never question about Fozzy was our passion and love for the music we were playing. And as a result, we’d made it to the point where we were deemed worthy to play on the same bill as METALLICA! Just looking at both of our names on the poster (ours was a half dozen lines underneath theirs, but that’s nitpicking, isn’t it?) made everything we’d gone through worthwhile. Seeing the Fozzy logo on the same placard as Metallica’s gave me all the mental ammunition I needed, to know we could make it to the next level and to tell the haters to eff off. I felt like I did when I got my first magazine cover in Mexico, which verified that I wasn’t “too small” to make it in wrestling.

  As big as Sonisphere was, it was only one show and we were far from the headliners, so we weren’t making a lot of money to play the festival. It’s expensive to tour overseas, so to subsidiz
e the tour, Dan booked a grab bag of other shows for us: smaller festivals, headlining club gigs, and a handful of shows opening for Anthrax. This was different from being one of the many bands playing on the same day as Metallica at Sonisphere; this was actually directly supporting them on their headlining shows. It was surreal to be playing with Anthrax, considering in 1988 I waited outside in the freezing Winnipeg winter to buy tickets to see them open for Kiss on the Crazy Nights tour. Now here I was over twenty years later about to play with them with my own band. Life is pretty rad sometimes!

  Billbo Shaggins and I tear it up in front of a crazy crowd in Sydney in 2010. Later that night, GnR guitarist Bumblefoot jammed with us on “Stand Up and Shout” by Dio.

  The first show we had with Anthrax was in Lucerne, Switzerland, and we had driven in from Germany the night before. When I woke up on the tour bus in mid-morning, the rest of the band had disappeared. Rich (The Duke of Metal) was a sightseeing freak and would convince whoever he could to go along with him to check out a statue or castle with him somewhere. He would also try to convince whoever was around to eat Indian food with him, but I’m not a fan and never went along. On many occasions I sat outside an Indian restaurant eating a peanut butter sandwich watching the guys chow down on tandoori through the window like a vagrant. Then a few hours later, I’d watch them run to the toilet in the dressing room with a case of the drizzling shits.

  Duke texted me that he and the guys had left to take a cable car ride up a Swiss mountain and didn’t bother asking me because he knew I wouldn’t want to go. He was right, as it was a beautiful day and I wanted to find a place to go swimming, which would be a hell of a lot more fun than sitting in a tin box watching trees go by for two hours. Since we were in Switzerland, I figured there had to be a lake somewhere, so I put on a pair of shorts and wandered off into the parking lot. Using the Boy Scout powers I’d learned as a kid, I noticed that one part of the sky was lighter than the other, so that meant there was obviously water underneath it, right? I headed toward the fairer sky (it was a sunny day, so the whole sky was fair) but saw nothing more than brick buildings. Then a guy walked past me, wearing swim trunks and flip-flops, and holding a towel in his hand, and it was obvious where he was going. Accepting that my Boy Scout powers were the shits, I turned around, and followed him. I was literally two steps behind him and I’m sure he thought I was going to kidnap him to use as part of my very own Human Centipede. That actually was my plan, but it was foiled when his pace quickened and he speed walked like Santino over a slight hill and out of sight. I followed him in vain, but when I reached the crest of the hill, I looked down at one the most breathtaking landscapes I’d ever seen.

  In the small valley below lay a beautiful park, lush with green grass and sturdy trees blowing slightly in the breeze. A crystal clear lake flowed freely through the middle of the valley, framed by the majestic silhouettes of the purple mountains surrounding it.

  But it wasn’t just the area that was beautiful; the people roaming all around it were as well. Tall muscular dudes and curvaceous tanned hotties in various stages of undress were everywhere. Some were playing volleyball, others were swimming. Some were catching rays on the beach, others were having a drink beside a big van that resembled an ice-cream truck but served alcohol instead.

  I wandered around in a daze, hardly believeing my good fortune, and laughing at the dumbness of my bandmates. While they’d chosen to see the sights of Switzerland zipping up a cable in a tin can, I was seeing all the sights of Switzerland I wanted to see right here. I found an open square of grass and inhaled the fresh air, listening to all the different languages being spoken around me, a mix of Italian, German, French, and English. The warm sugary scent emanating from the pastry truck that had pulled up beside the bar wafted through the air and I decided that this was the frootest place on earth.

  I had a drink, took a swim in the freezing lake (it was exhilarating), watched a volleyball game (sadly, I wasn’t invited to play . . . #nerd), and sat back enjoying the moment. It’s something I rarely do in a life filled with planes, trains, automobiles, buses, hotels, venues, shows, buses, cars, hotels, and more planes. That’s a mistake.

  Not to get too preachy, but don’t let life pass you by, guys. Sometimes it seems to me we have a tendency to constantly think about the next thing, the next challenge, the possibilities of what might happen the next day, both good and bad. I know because I’m guilty as charged (but damn, it ain’t right) but sometimes I force myself to take a breath and bask in the moment, whether you’re looking at a gorgeous lake in Switzerland or having a sandwich at Subway. Promise me you’ll do the same sometime soon, ya dig?

  I’m glad I did, because I’m going to remember that day and that place for the rest of my life.

  —

  The brightness of the sun began to fade, telling me it was time to leave the oasis and head back to the venue. It was our first night with Anthrax and I wanted to impress them and their fans, many of whom would be seeing us for the first time.

  We played a decent set, but I went over the top in trying to get the crowd on our side by leading chants, telling stories, and basically begging for reactions. It worked to a degree, but much like being in the opening match on a wrestling show, there’s only so much you can do to get people involved when you aren’t who they paid to see. We walked off the stage to a nice “Fozzy” chant, which is always the goal, but due to my grandstanding we’d gone five minutes over our allocated thirty-minute set time. Again like in wrestling, going overtime is a serious no-no and a real show of disrespect. Since it was the first night, I knew we’d get some leeway, but I wanted to let our bosses (and make no bones about it, the headlining band are the bosses of their show) know that we’d made a mistake. I had a great relationship with the Anthrax guys, but I still felt the need to make amends. I knocked on their dressing room door and said sorry for our mistake, guaranteeing it wouldn’t happen again. They looked at me quizzically, not knowing (or caring) that we’d gone over and wondering why the hell I was apologizing. I breathed a sigh of relief and with the first half of my atonement accomplished, I went into the production office to take care of the second half . . . talking to their tour manager.

  The TM is the caretaker of the entire tour, making sure the shows are properly advanced, the dressing rooms are exactly right, the local promoters pay what they owe, and the opening bands get on and off the stage at the proper times. Anthrax’s tour manager wasn’t mad, but he was very clear that we weren’t to go long again. He also gave me some great advice:

  “Play more songs.”

  What he was trying to get across was the onstage equivalent of a rock station’s commercial-free slogan, “Less talk, more rock.” I’d spent so much time talking to the fans that it had disrupted the flow of our set, which left us less time to play our tunes.

  “When you only have thirty minutes, try to get the crowd into it with your music, not your stage rap.”

  He was completely right and I still think of him when I’m putting together a set list to this day.

  The poster of our first show with Anthrax in Switzerland. If you look closely, you can see my reflection in the window as I took the picture.

  I learned another lesson by watching Anthrax play later that night. I’d seen them many times as a fan but got a whole new perspective on how good they were by watching them from the side of the stage as a peer. It was much the same concept as when young Japanese boys learn how to wrestle while watching the main-event matches from the apron side.

  Anthrax were so tight and they looked like a team of assassins onstage. Everything from their background vocals to the way they moved had so much power. Joey Belladonna was a great frontman and I don’t mind saying I made a mental note of a few of his tricks and nicked them for myself. These were true pros, and even though Fozzy had come a long way as a band, I knew we still had a long way to go.

  The
next show was in Aarhaus, Denmark, a ten-hour drive from Lucerne, and Charlie invited me to ride with them on the Anthrax bus. There was no need to grab my bags, as Fozzy’s bus was headed to the same place, so I grabbed my toothbrush and passport, slipped on my flip-flops, and jumped onboard. I was looking forward to hanging with Charlie on the ride and discuss the detailed minutiae of all things Beatles.

  He and I (and Mike Portnoy) had long agreed that the Fab Four were the best band of all time and nobody could even come close to touching them. If ever the eternal Beatles vs. Rolling Stones debate was brought up to us by an outside party, we would bring down the silver hammer upon their heads like Maxwell and that would be The End of the discussion. Unlike the infamous Eddie Trunk Show Judas Priest vs. Iron Maiden debate, where you could at least make a case for either band, to us there were no comparisons between John and Mick’s boys and nobody could convince us otherwise. Until Andreas Kisser came along.

  Andreas was the guitar player for the Brazilian band Sepultura, who was filling in for Scott Ian (who was in the U.S. with his newborn baby) on the tour and he totally disagreed with our Beatle bias. I’d never met Andreas but was quickly impressed with his intelligence and philosophical views, and as soon as he decreed his allegiance to the Stones, I knew Charlie and I were in for a challenge.

  “How can you say the Beatles are the best band of all time?” he said as he took an apple and hollowed it out with a paring knife. “They couldn’t play all of their songs live and The Stones can.” It was an interesting angle to the age-old debate and it caught our attention.