18 and Life on Skid Row

by Sebastian Bach

  I’m sorry.

  All of my life, I have done pretty much one thing. I am a singer. I do what I do well, because that is all I know. But the flip side of this is that I don’t really know how to do normal, everyday things. That other people have to accomplish every day. Because I have never done many normal things. Put quite simply, I am good at doing hard things. Like making dreams come true. Envisioning concepts, and turning thoughts into reality. It’s the easy things in life that are difficult for me.

  Relationships. Family. Home. Sleep.

  These are things that elude me.

  When I went through divorce at the age of ten, I flipped a switch in my head. I swore on my life that I would never have a son or a daughter and leave them. I would not be capable of inflicting this pain and confusion on a child of my own. All through my teenage years, into my twenties and thirties, I held on to the pain I felt when I was ten watching my dad walk out the door. They say that there is no lead singer of a heavy metal band that does not come from a broken home. I think there must be some truth to this. When I sing with emotion, be it aggression, sadness, pain, or loss, it is not a contrived emotion you are hearing come from me. When I sing “I Remember You,” and you feel it in your heart, that is because I am feeling it in my heart. I can cry very easily when I am singing a song. With a song like “18 and Life,” “By Your Side,” or “Wishin’,” I record the song literally on the verge of tears. Then I take one step back from that emotionally naked place. Those are usually the takes that end up on the record.

  I Like to Run

  I am a tall guy. My friend John Rich described watching me run one time. He said it was like watching Bigfoot come out of the woods at you. Chewbacca is also someone I get mistaken for. Frequently.

  The other day, I went on my normal run. I enjoy running because not only is it a great physical workout, but mentally it clears my head, and no doubt one of my addictions is the runner’s high. The endorphins make it quite exhilarating and keep me coming back for more.

  What a way to see the city. There is no better way to immerse yourself in the culture of wherever exotic locale you are in than hitting the pavement and getting right in the faces of the locals. Who have never seen anything up close quite like me.

  I remember the first time I played in Beijing, China. 2005 I think. Played there with my solo band. Some people have the misconception that somehow all my greatest shows were done with my old band. This is simply not the case. As you get older, it becomes all the more precious and valuable to you. What, you ask? Pretty much everything. Time becomes more critical. Your days mean more to you. Your legacy becomes something you think about. Experiences you have when you are in your teens and early twenties tend to be taken for granted.

  We headlined Beijing and to my shock and amazement, we sold out a 10,000-seat outdoor arena. The Chinese Military Police were in full force throughout the gig. As I looked from the stage into the seething crowd, I saw the Chinese Army troops in their jackboots marching in step through the crowd. None of the audience seemed to notice them. They were all standing on their feet, rocking out, having a great time. But the soldiers’ presence implied that if the people had too good of a time, they would be brought back into line. Posthaste.

  I will never take for granted the incredible places I get to go. Not just go to, but be treated like royalty from the people who brought us there, and gods by the fans who have been listening to us for years. To play in Beijing, to drink beer on the Great Wall of China, is something I could never do if I wasn’t a rock singer. I was so completely stoked to put my kicks on and see what Beijing was really like. From the ground level.

  I hit the sidewalks of China. Hot. Buildings are huge. Square. Not really tall and skinny, but short and fat. Like a little sumo wrestler.

  I run as fast as I can through the streets of Beijing. No shirt. Headphones on. Cranking Phoebe Snow. Listening to “San Francisco Bay Blues,” thinking back to being a little boy at my aunt Leslie’s house in suburban Toronto. Hearing the same song on the streets of China all these years later is truly surreal.

  As I stop on the sidewalk, at red lights, I am surrounded by the locals, who stare at me like I am from another planet. Which, in some ways, I guess I am.

  I run further and further into the city, not knowing or caring where I am going. Just taking it all in. Feeling literally lucky to be alive. I reach an area of Beijing known as the Catacombs. The houses are all connected. The structures are all very, very short. I am very, very tall. I notice that the people who dwell in The Catacombs are quite small in stature as well. When they see me, shirtless, long blond hair flowing down my back, covered in tattoos and sweat, wearing gigantic headphones running through the alleyways they call home, it truly becomes a freak show. Very old men and ladies come out to stare at me. The look on their faces is a mixture of wonder and apprehension. Mixed with fear. “Who or what is this crazy man running through our home?” I laugh. The elderly members of these communities are no taller than my waist. Some of them look to be in their eighties or nineties. I doubt they had ever seen a rocker dude running through the streets of their catacombs.

  There is no better way to see the city. Runs like this one are something that I will never forget. I have run along the beaches of Lima, Peru, suburban streets of Zaragoza, Spain, Bondi Beach, Sydney, got lost in Hyde Park, Perth, Australia. The backwoods of rural Sweden and the sunny hot climes of Southern California are my personal outdoor treadmills. It makes you really feel like a part of the community where you are at. I can’t think of a better way to see a place than be all over it.

  Alas, as with anything, sometimes things do not go as planned.

  Recently I was on my current run in Beverly Hills, California. In the back trails off Coldwater Canyon. Ho hum. Out doing my usual route, listening to Hatebreed or Alan O’Day or my new demos or whatever. I turn a corner on the trail. There, standing before me, is a woman and her little dachshund dog. Off leash. A little wiener. Here comes me. The big weiner.

  The dog is startled. I run down the trail, towards the tiny pooch. He cranes his little doggy neck as far up as it will go. He gets one good look at me, turns, and bolts down the trail as fast as his little body will take him. The lady, surprised, looks at me with a quizzical expression. I keep on running, not sure what to do.

  As I make my way down the trail, I turn and look back once again. The dog is nowhere to be found. The lady is standing there. Alone. She is as unsure as to what to do as am I.

  About an hour later, I make my way back down the trail. Feeling incredibly guilty. Looking for the little pup. That I scared away. Hoping he’s okay. Wondering why, when I try to do my best, try to do the right thing, it can sometimes all go askew.

  The lady is now in her car. By herself. I see her driving around the parking lot, looking earnestly for her dog. Eyes darting back and forth. Searching.

  I keep on running. Head hung low. I look for the dog.

  I am so very sorry.

  I remember when my parents divorced, when I was ten years old. I used to go to California every summer to see my grandma. She was a big part of my life when I was a little boy. My dad had done a painting of my mom, about six feet long and four feet high. Grandma hung this painting, with pride, in her living room. I loved the painting. When I visited my grandma it felt like Mom and Dad were there with me. Looking at that painting seemed like a very real expression of love between my parents. The texture and strokes of his brush. I could see and feel my father pouring his heart and soul into the canvas. I imagined the look on my mom’s face when it was done. What an awesome thing to do for the woman you love!

  When I went to Grandma’s after my parents broke up, to my shock and dismay, the painting was gone. I did not understand why. Yes, my parents had broken up; our family did not exist anymore; but it was still a cool painting. I didn’t quite yet grasp the life changes that we were all going through. How could a ten-year-old?

  I asked Grandma about this the very secon
d I walked into the room. “How come you took down the painting of Mom? That Dad did?”

  She looked uncomfortable. Her eyes shifted around the room. She appeared as if she did not know what to say.

  I continued. “I know when parents get divorced, they’re no longer together. But does that mean you divorce your whole family?” I remember this moment quite clearly. Not being quite sure of her response. I wanted Grandma to give me a hug. Tell me everything was okay. She was going to tell me, “Of course not, Sebastian. Families are forever. We will never be apart. I will always be your grandma and I will always love your mom.” I knew for sure this was what she was going to say to me.

  I was not prepared for her answer.

  “Well, Sebastian, that’s just what happens sometimes.”

  I couldn’t believe this was true. Not only was Dad leaving mom. Grandma was leaving Mom too.

  I never saw the painting again in my life. I don’t know if Grandma threw it in the garbage, gave it away, or sold it. If anyone reading this book knows where it is, I would certainly love to see it again someday. I’ll bet Mom would, too.

  My great grandparents on Mom’s side were “rum runners.” From Windsor to Detroit. They owned their own family bar. On my dad’s side, our ancestors came from a town in Norway, called Elverum. When I play shows in Norway and ask the locals about Elverum (which was actually our family’s last name centuries ago), the Norwegians just look at each other with a knowing smile and tell me, “People from Elverum are crazy!”

  My aunt Margaret, of Norwegian descent, was a piano player in World War II. She toured the world during the war and played music for our troops. Auntie Margaret lived to be ninety-seven years old. She drank alcohol every night at dinner, as I recall. She had a fun life.

  I cannot exactly say the same about myself. Do I get into trouble every time I drink? No. But every time I get into trouble, am I drinking? Probably. Drinking was always fun when I was growing up. But, I guess I am one of those guys. There was a reason I got such good reviews on Broadway playing the dual role of Jekyll and Hyde.

  We used to love our Jack Daniel’s whiskey. Before Skid Row, I was always a Labatt’s Blue beer kinda guy. That was my drink of choice. Like a good Canadian, I loved my beer. I used to joke around, “In Canada there are three pastimes: Hockey. Beer. And Rush.” Funny, yes. Truthful, more so. When we made it big, Skid Row were marketed on the front page of Billboard magazine as “The New Bad Boys of Rock.” I remember thinking, “Wow, what a lame ad.” But another part of me said, “Well, it might be fun living up to this job description.” We certainly gave it our best shot.

  AA, or perhaps a doctor, will tell you, “All alcohol is the same. Alcohol is alcohol. It all does the same thing to you.” But in my case, I have found this to not be quite so cut and dry. Beer does not do to me what wine does to me. Jägermeister, vodka, champagne . . . all of them give me a different, distinct buzz.

  But no alcohol does to me what whiskey does.

  If you met me when I was drinking whiskey . . . I’m sorry. You wouldn’t like me if you met me drinking whiskey. I didn’t like myself. My wife did not like me. My kids did not like me. My coworkers did not like me. Complete strangers really didn’t like me.

  I thought getting fucked up was part of the gig. All my heroes got fucked up. David Lee Roth, Mötley Crüe, Ozzy, The Stones . . . a bottle of Jack Daniel’s was as prevalent on the posters adorning my teenage bedroom walls as was an electric guitar. Jack Daniel’s and rock ’n’ roll just seemed to go together. Like chocolate and peanut butter. Only different.

  There are so many stories of me getting hammered on Jack Daniel’s and making an ass of myself, I don’t even know where to begin.

  But I know where it ended.

  Saturday Night Live 1991: Heavy Metal ABCs

  Growing up in the 1970s, appearing on the show Saturday Night Live was a big deal. No, a huge deal. Next to Johnny Carson’s Tonight Show, Saturday Night Live was the biggest variety television show of the decade. Perhaps of all time. Along with being on the cover of Rolling Stone, the childhood boy inside the man could never fathom me being on SNL. Even now, it is still a huge deal for any performer. But in the ’70s, ’80s, early ’90s, playing with your band on Saturday Night Live was pretty much being on top of the world.

  I have never sold a ticket to a show of mine and then drank alcohol before I sing. To me, this is a disgrace. The stage is sacrosanct. If you are charging money for people to hear you play music, in my mind the right thing to do, the only thing to do, is to give 100 percent of yourself. Leave it all up there. Blood, sweat, tears . . . give it all you got.

  If you want to see a real disgrace? You should have hung out with me after the show, the night we played Saturday Night Live.

  I wanted to perform better than I ever had before. I wanted to sing my best. I wanted to look my best. So, that meant no drinking beer all week before Saturday night. I wanted to be a lean, mean Bach ’n’ Roll Machine.

  Well, I certainly was lean. And thanks to the Jack, no one was meaner.

  Jack Daniel’s turns me violent. Beer made me silly, pass out early, and pee a lot. I always used to say, you don’t drink beer, you rent it. Because you have to return it as soon as you get it. Wine makes me amorous. Like they say, drinking wine is like drinking love. It also makes my lips purple. And my teeth black. But I digress.

  I was the mean drunk at the bar when I drank whiskey. The guy doing shots at the bar, looking at you from across the room. Who said, “Are you lookin’ at me? What the fuck are you lookin’ at? You’re looking at me!?!? Fuck you!!”

  “But I’m not looking at you, dude!”

  “Fuck yes you are lookin’ at me! What the fuck are you lookin’ at?”

  Oh yes, I was so tough. With my ex–NFL linebacker security guard standing next to me. Paid to punch whomever I deemed was “looking at me.” Yes, I was that guy.

  I can remember the exact instance described above happening after a show in Reykjavik, Iceland. Just drinking whiskey and looking for a fight. Good times.

  I would wake up the next morning saying to myself, “What is wrong with me? That guy wasn’t even looking at me. Why do I always want to get into a fight when I drink the Jack?”

  Which brings me to the night of SNL. I set up the after-show party as a reward for not drinking beer all week. All week I told myself, over and over, “When this is over I am going to get SO much more FUCKED UP than I EVER got. In my whole life.” Which, at that point, was saying something.

  When I set a goal, I usually achieve it. Tonight was no different.

  The pressure of doing the show was enormous. It really was LIVE. From coast to coast, all across the USA, rocking out in everyone’s living rooms. They would hear our big heavy metal sound at a quiet volume, coming through one single, solitary, tiny speaker on their TV set. Every note, every inflection, had to be note-perfect. This was before Pro Tools. This was before in-ear monitors. This was old school.

  This was nerve-racking.

  Flew Mom in from Canada to be part of the show. She was so proud. Kiefer Sutherland was the host that night. During rehearsals, Chris Rock was so hilarious. He was brand new to the show. In 1991, I didn’t know who he was. We rehearsed on the set every day that week, leading up to the live broadcast on Saturday night. One day, Chris Rock is in front of the stage, rocking out, with his hilarious moves. I started laughing and came off the stage. “Skiiiiiidddd Rooooowwww!!!” Chris exclaimed, jumping up and down in front of my face. “Yeah dude!” I replied. “I loooooove me some SKID ROW!” Chris shouted. We laughed again.

  I saw Chris years after that, on the street in Manhattan. He told me how he ran to the store and bought Angel Down the day it was released and how much he dug it. Whenever I have seen him, he always seems to know what is up with me and my career. He is a great guy and a true rocker.

  Anyways, we kicked total ass on the show. Which wasn’t without its fair share of drama.

  We did a skit together
with Adam Sandler and Kiefer Sutherland called Heavy Metal ABCs. It was written to be Adam playing Axl Rose, and Kiefer playing Slash. They have a duel of heavy metal ABCs in a kids’ dream, and Rachel and I come into the dream and join the proceedings.

  We certainly did have some fun after the show. Reward time!

  We went to a local bar after the show. With Kiefer Sutherland, the whole cast of SNL (including an extremely inebriated Chris Farley—you can see us head-banging together in the closing credits of the show), my manager Scott McGhee, my wife, and my security guard Big Val. I would definitely need him later.

  I started rewarding myself. Heavily. I was real good at rewarding myself. After a week of no drinkin’, I started to hammer down the Jack. I remember sitting at a table with Kiefer, my wife, and Scott our manager, and doing shot after shot of whiskey with anyone and everyone. Weeks later, Scott told me that Kiefer contacted him and said, “Wow, your boy was really fucked up that night.” Ummmm, yes. That would be correct.

  I don’t remember much after that.

  I have not touched a drop of Jack Daniel’s since that night.

  My Voice Has a Life All Its Own

  My voice has always had a life of its own. In fact, my voice has given me a life of my own. Without my singing voice, I cannot imagine what I would’ve become.

  I was always the class clown in school, until people heard me sing. Then they treated me seriously. With a modicum of respect, even. It was so wondrous and joyous to me as a kid (and to this day, when I think about it) when all of a sudden I would have more friends than I ever would have had before I sang.

  Sometimes my voice gets me noticed in the most random ways. Like going to Home Depot with my next-door neighbor Kevin McCallion, and standing in line at checkout. Hair tied back, baseball hat on, the standard celebrity attempt at incognito. We have our items in hand, are ready to pay, chatting about something or another. An elderly lady, in line ahead of us, turned around and said to us, “Excuse me.” I said, “Yes?” She says, “What do you do for living?” She was at least eighty years old. Not your typical Skid Row fan. I didn’t know what to say. She said, “You’re a singer, aren’t you?” I replied, “Well, actually, I am!” She responded, “I knew it. I could tell by your speaking voice. I could tell by the way you speak that you’re a singer.” My neighbor and I looked at each other. How would this lady know such a thing?