Just not now.
Under Attack: “You Don’t Have a Band Anymore”
1996–1997
New Jersey
When I was kicked out of Skid Row in December 1996, I was completely mystified as to what to do. For the first time in my life, I was not in a rock band. A Bass fish out of water.
That Christmas, we were out in the woods on the grounds of my New Jersey property. Mom and me and Aunt Leslie, in the snow collecting wood for the fire. Nobody could believe that I was no longer in the band.
To our Canadian sensibilities, it seemed unfathomable to reach such success, especially in the United States of America, only to turn around and dissolve everything we had fought so hard to achieve. Two thoughts occurred to me.
How in God’s name could this have happened?
and:
What exactly in the fuck was I going to do now?
Around this time I got a call from Barbara Skydel, the talent agent who, along with Frank Barsalona at Premier Talent, signed Skid Row when we first started. I had been approached by some other agents to book me for shows. Barbara found out about this and called me, completely incensed.
“What is this shit I hear? You are working with other agents?” she admonished.
I myself was slightly confused by this. I had naïvely assumed that since I was no longer in Skid Row, then I would no longer be with Premier Talent, or William Morris Endeavor, which is what Premier eventually morphed into.
I was completely mistaken about my situation.
“You tell those other agents that you already have a fucking agent! I am your goddamn agent! Do you understand me?”
I was surprised by what she was telling me, at the same time being bemused, and very touched, by how she was telling me. In actual fact, when Skid Row kicked me out of the band, Premier Talent dropped Skid Row. While keeping me as a client. And they were not about to let me go.
Barbara Skydel was the best. She signed me when I was nineteen years old, and continued on as my agent up until the day she passed away. Guided me through Skid Row, Broadway, television, and now my solo career. She took me with her from Premier Talent to William Morris Endeavor, as well as working with my current manager, Rick Sales, in 2006. She never let me go. A true friend, as well as being hard as nails, Barbara was the sweetest lady you could ever want to know. We would talk all the time. She was almost like a family member. Her funeral was attended by the biggest luminaries in the music industry and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. A true rarity in the music business, Barbara Skydel stuck by my side her whole life. More than anyone else from when I first started to rock. She is sorely missed.
It was Barbara and her assistant, the amazing agent and friend Lachlan Buchanan, who approached me with a couple of offers for some solo gigs in the Northeast of America. I had no clue that it was possible for me to be in a solo band. But, at the same time, I also had no choice. I wasn’t in the position to turn down work after getting booted out of Skid Row.
The money I was being offered for these initial solo shows was not great. It would have been impossible to do them if I would have had to give management commissions to the McGhees. I called Scott McGhee and asked him if he still wanted to manage me.
“No.”
I had the distinct impression during that phone call that Scott McGhee sounded almost glad to be rid of me, and Skid Row as well for that matter. He had gone on to manage acts such as Liz Phair. His heavy metal background may have been embarrassing to him at this point of time in the music industry. Which made me happy. I would not have to give him a percentage of my solo career. I could now accept these gigs. So I did.
I agreed to do some solo shows for the first time. What initially was three or four dates, turned into a two-week run of headline shows around Christmas of that year. The shows were all extremely successful. Lots of people came out and we had a great time. In Pittsburgh, an inebriated Vinnie Paul of Pantera came out to see the band. He jumped on the stage and proudly bellowed into the microphone.
“This motherfucker took Pantera On Tour!!! And now Pantera is gonna take this motherfucker out On Tour!!! RIGHT NOW!!!!”
I laughed my ass off, along with everyone else in attendance. Yeah, right.
A few short hours before, I was driving from the hotel to this “intimate” venue. Happy to play, but remembering playing a packed arena in Pittsburgh the last time I was here. Intimate venues? I will take a stadium any day over a tiny club. Who wouldn’t? Any musician who is honest will admit this to be true.
Little could I have known, Vinnie Paul would be offering me an arena tour that very night, at that very club. I couldn’t believe what he was saying. Surely this was just drunk talk. But, when I got home from tour the day after Pittsburgh, lo and behold, there beneath my fax machine was a list of Pantera tour dates. Much like Barbara Skydel, Vinnie Paul and Pantera had proven themselves to be a rarity in the music business. These were true friends. Paying someone back, returning a favor. With kindness, for something they did for you, long ago. Sadly, this doesn’t happen much. But Vinnie Paul had made good on his word.
We were going to open up two weeks of dates for Pantera and Anthrax in the United States. We were back playing arenas.
I guess it was possible for me to have a solo band after all.
The mid-1990s were a very strange time for me. Before I started my solo band, I had been involved in a project with Kelley Deal from The Breeders and Jimmy Chamberlin of the Smashing Pumpkins called The Last Hard Men. The guitar player of this band was Jimmy Flemion of The Frogs. Kelley had contacted me in 1996 to sing for this project. I had no idea why. I had thought that the worlds of hard rock and alternative music were never the twain to meet. I thought that we were kids who hung out at the opposite ends of the playground. I found out later that my connection to Atlantic Records may have been the real reason I was contacted. We eventually recorded a self-titled album, which I funded, in its entirety, through an advance made to me directly from Atlantic Records.
The album was an experiment to see if the very disparate worlds of alternative rock and heavy metal could merge. We found out the answer was no, they cannot. Although there were some great songs, such as “The Most Powerful Man in the World,” a lot of it was just filler. We recorded the album in Minnesota, where Nirvana had recorded In Utero. Jimmy Chamberlin recorded the drums.
I became friends with Kelley and her husband, Todd Mundt, who became the first tour manager of my solo band. One night we decided to go see Mötley Crüe on the Generation Swine tour in New York City. I was invited as a special guest of the Crüe. I brought Todd, my wife, and three or four other people. In this era of grunge, nü-metal, and rap, bands like Skid Row and Mötley Crüe were decidedly out of favor. The Crüe were also playing “intimate venues,” tonight at the Hammerstein Ballroom, or Roseland, if I remember correctly.
The only other guests that night were some members of the Hells Angels of New York City, along with their women. Since this was a small venue, all of Mötley’s guests were watching the show in the pit, between the lip of the stage and the barricade. About fifteen of us were sandwiched in amongst the photographers and show security. It was completely packed. There was no room to move around. Most of us were drunk. I, myself, was totally hammered. This was a Mötley Crüe concert, after all.
Friday night and I need a fight
My motorcycle and a switchblade knife
Having a great night! Rocking my ass off. When it came time in the set for my favorite Crüe track, “Shout at the Devil,” I was banging my head and whooping it up in a big way. Digging the show. At the familiar start to the song, I thrust my fist up in the air as hard as I could.
Shout!
Shout!
Shout!
Shout at the Dev-al!!!!
I punched the air as Tommy “T-bone” Lee flailed on the kit. Kept on rocking out and jacking my hand up into the air. Cocking my elbow back with just as much fury. To the beat of the song.
One Shout Too Many Devils
Standing directly behind me was one of the heads of the New York City Local Hells Angels Chapter. In my drunken state of heavy metal worship, I thrust my fist in the air one last time and whipped my arm back as quick as I could. Unfortunately, my elbow made very solid contact with the nose on the Hells Angel standing directly behind me.
He was decidedly not amused.
This was not the typical early-twenty-something “biker guy” that you picture in your head. This was a sixty-something-yearold man, short hair, out for the evening with some ladies and his friends. This not-so-gentleman had no clue who I was or what band I was in. Getting elbowed in the face was not on his schedule that night.
“What in the FUCK???” he exclaimed, in shock. I turned around and faced him. He was beet red with rage. His eyes were bulging out of his skull. He didn’t look too happy to see me.
Seeing how mad this guy was, I backed up quick. And uttered the immortal line:
“C’mon, dude!! It’s the CRÜE!!!!!”
“AAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRGHHHHHHH!!!!!!”
Not following my line of reasoning, the Hells Angels’ chapter leader did not seem to share in my enthusiasm for Mötley Crüe to the point where it was okay for me to bash him in the nose. I, in no way, wanted any quarrel with this guy. Who wants a quarrel with the Hells Angels? Certainly, dear reader, not I.
He rushed at me, reached up, and grabbed me by the back of the head. Pulled me down so my back was bent, my face level with his waist. This isn’t so bad, I thought. I’ll just let him hold me down here and he’ll cool out. He’ll let me up in a minute. I did not take a swing, or fight back in any way. I did not mean to elbow him. I wanted no beef with these dudes.
What happened next was really quite weird. The Hells Angels member didn’t punch me, so much as perform a precise surgical strike. I felt his balled-up fist placed tight against my right nostril. Not moving. He never exactly hit me. Slowly, methodically, the man placed his knuckle alongside my nose and then with a soft, graceful swipe, proceeded to move my nose over, about an inch, to the left side of my face. It was an effective deterrent. Delivered with a brutal, yet almost gentle force.
It didn’t really even hurt that much. But I knew he had fucked me up. I had that familiar feeling like my nose was as big as Bozo the Clown’s, that sensation you get after being bonked. He then let me up.
The girls he was there with were pointing at us and freaking out.
“Oh my God that’s Sebastian Bach! It’s Sebastian Bach!! Oh my God! Leave him alone!! Oh my God! That’s Sebastian Bach!!!” over and over again. I was like, “Where were you chicks a couple of seconds ago?” The guy looked at me. Looked back at them. Behind the girls was a massive Hells Angels enforcer type who must’ve stood around six foot eight. He was far bigger than I was, and was laughing uncontrollably.
“Ha ha ha ha haaaaa!” he guffawed. “Hey man!! Come here!”
“Dude! You guys punched me in the face!”
He laughed again. “Come on, Sebastian!! Don’t let that take the wind out of your sails!” And with that, he slapped me on the back like I was his brand-new best buddy. “Come on, man!! You can hang out with us now!” I spent the rest of the night hanging with the Hells Angels, including the guy who fucked up my face. He stood right next to me the rest of the concert, only to become my protector and friend, later that night. It was like a rite of passage to them. They thought it was funny. I thought it hurt.
After the show, I went backstage to hang out with Mötley Crüe. Tommy Lee was there with his then-girlfriend Mayte Garcia, who is one of the best dancers I have ever seen. There was a time I was in Amsterdam at a private show by Prince, at the Paradiso, and Mayte came onstage and danced like nobody I have ever seen. She was really cool and we all hung out that night. Tommy has always been a great friend and was glad to see me.
“Hey man! How are you!? Good to see you!!! How have you been doing?”
“Well, I just got kicked out of my band, dropped by my record label, and punched in the face by the Hells Angels! But other than that, everything’s great!”
Everybody was laughing. Including me. Until I came to, the very next day.
Only the Nose Knows
We partied on through the evening with Mötley Crüe. The more I drank, the less I felt my nose throbbing and honking like a car horn. I went home and went to sleep.
Got up the next morning. Had coffee. Stood up. Went to the bathroom.
Boy, was I in for a big surprise.
I looked up into the mirror. Horrified at what I saw.
My nose had been moved over, to a new place, on my face.
The nose I had been looking at my whole life, was now in a different location. It was a nightmarish feeling. I flipped out, to the point where I had to take down all the mirrors in my house. I proceeded straight to the hospital.
From the emergency room, I was referred to a cosmetic surgeon. Told him what had happened. Brought along the copy of Rolling Stone magazine with my nose on the cover. He was like, “Okay, I get it.” Scheduled surgery for me. I was told the joyous news that they were going to have to re-break my nose, and then reset it back into place. I would be confined to the air-conditioned darkness of my bedroom all summer. The skin of my nose was not to be in the sun while healing, and so I would have to stay inside for the whole month of July. Sucks to be me, I pondered, ruefully.
On the day of the surgery, I showed up ready to be put under. I was told it would be okay to play music during the surgery. Anything I wanted. The greatest singer of recent times, Jeff Buckley, had just died a short time before. I was extremely disturbed by his passing. His voice was the best I had heard in so many years. His album Grace was without a doubt my favorite record of the whole 1990s. I brought Jeff Buckley’s Grace, by the recently deceased vocalist, along with me to have on through the speakers throughout surgery that day. As the anesthetic apparatus pumped meds into my veins, I lost consciousness to the magical, mystical sounds.
This is our last goodbye
I hate to feel the love between us die
I have no recollection of what happened next, after they put me out. Or to be more accurate, tried to put me out.
I awoke from the surgery, the powerful drugs still coursing through me. The next memory I have is nonsensical blabbering to the nurses in the hospital room.
About pharmaceutical cocaine.
“You guys must have the best shit in here! I know you do! You must have the purest blow! I know you are all holding the most high-quality Peruvian flake up in here!! Serious pharmaceutical-grade flake!! I know you got it!!” I blathered and cackled an insane laugh as I carried on to these poor nice ladies. About all the coke they were obviously holding.
The nurses all looked at me with a unified stare of horror upon their collective brow.
“Isn’t it kind of strange that they aren’t laughing along with me?”
They all looked somehow frightened. Skittishly, they glanced across the room at each other, then back at me.
I could somehow sense that something weird had gone down. I just had no idea what.
I spent the next month of my life in the upstairs bedroom of my New Jersey home. A typical humid, hot, sticky New Jersey summer. Kept the air-conditioning cranked to the max and stared out at the sun-drenched lawn. Wishing I could go outside with everybody else. Thanks a lot, Mötley Crüe.
After three long weeks of tedious healing, I was ready to go in and get the bandages off my nose. The breathing tubes extracted from my nostrils. The secretary told me to go from the waiting room into the doctor’s office. As the door shut behind me, I sat down in front of a concerned-looking doctor, a nurse standing by his side.
“Sebastian. How are you?”
“Fine. How’s it goin’?” I cheerily replied.
“He . . . doesn’t remember,” intoned the doctor to the nurse. Cryptically.
“Remember wha
t?” I queried.
The nurse’s eyes looked into mine, as she spoke. “You . . . don’t remember . . . what happened?”
“He doesn’t remember,” the doctor repeated.
“Sebastian. There was . . . an incident. While you were undergoing surgery.”
“What kind of incident, sir?” Not unlike Malcolm McDowell in A Clockwork Orange, fresh from shock therapy, they looked at me . . . like I was insane, too.
“Sebastian. Everything was going fine. Until we put the Jeff Buckley on . . . and the anesthetic wore off.”
I still didn’t see where he was going with this.
The nurse shifted uncomfortably from left foot to right as the doctor continued.
“You woke up. In the middle of surgery. You raised up from the operating table. You were acting as if you were under attack.”
I had no recollection of this.
“I ordered the anesthesiologist immediately to administer more of the gas to you. She was an older woman, only there to do her job. As she walked over to you, and attempted to put the mask over your face, to subdue you, you turned around . . . and punched her. You were screaming that you were under attack.”
I was in shock. I could not believe the story they were telling me. About me.
“After you knocked the old woman back into the wall, she cried and fled the room. You then raised up completely off the operating table. Broke through the bonds we had on you, which failed to secure you. Raised up on the operating table . . .”
“Your nose . . . off your face . . .”
What he was describing to me was a horror movie come to life. My life.
“We could not hold you down. It was impossible to administer any more anesthesia. You were flailing your arms.”
“You got down off the operating table . . . and proceeded to walk down the hall.”
Who were they talking about? Who was this person? It wasn’t me. Who was this man walking down the hallway of the hospital, throwing old women into the wall? With his nose not attached to his face? Surely, this could not be me.
18 and Life on Skid Row Page 23