by Scott Ian
I turned to Danny and said, “Fuck Jonny! He’s never going to do anything with us.” Danny just shrugged. Then the superhero-like unstoppable force of my will took over. “Fuck Jonny,” I said again. “Someone just set the bar. We just have to be better.” It was a rude but necessary awakening because by late 1982 we knew we weren’t the American Iron Maiden. Before that, Maiden were always special to us—first because they were so fucking good. Even when Paul Di’Anno was singing for them, they were musical role models. But we also revered them because in the beginning of their career they seemed like a band that had the kind of success that was within our grasp, which gave us something to strive for. Then they went from opening for Priest to headlining. And when Bruce Dickinson joined they became a different animal altogether. Within three months they went from playing shows for 2,000 people to selling out Madison Square Garden. By the time they released Number of the Beast, Maiden was already out of reach.
Coincidentally, we had our first brush with greatness when Iron Maiden played the North Stage Concert Theater on Long Island about six months before they blew up. Lilker and I went down there with my brother and all of our friends. Someone who knew us was working the show and handed us passes to be in the photo pit. Kids were getting crushed in the first few rows, and we were standing in the pit watching Maiden tearing it up two feet in front of us.
Originally Anthrax were booked to play the same venue that night with about fifteen other bands, but the gig got postponed because Maiden took the date. Before the show, we printed up all these flyers with the logo we had at the time and the new date of the show, which was about a month later. We snuck in all these flyers under our shirts and between songs, while the lights were out, we threw them into the air. When the stage was lit again, Bruce Dickinson was standing in piles of paper that had fluttered to the stage. He didn’t see us toss the flyers, lucky for us, because we probably would have been thrown out. And magically, none of the security guys saw us either. So we stood there with these sheepish grins on our faces.
Bruce looked down at the ground, and the band went into the next number. Once they finished the song Bruce reached down and picked up one of our flyers. “Someone’s thrown a bunch of paper up here. I’m assuming they want me to read it,” he said. “It’s something about a band called Anthrax, and they’re playing here in about a month’s time. So yeah, that’s what all this stuff is up here on the stage.”
We couldn’t fucking believe it. It was totally a Wayne’s World moment. The singer of our favorite band had just mentioned our name onstage. We were losing our minds, thinking, “Holy crap! The place is going to be packed for our show!” A month later, there were maybe 150 people there in this 2,000-seater. But still, it was so amazing to us that Bruce Dickinson read our flyer. Who could have imagined that six years later we’d be opening stadiums for Iron Maiden all over Europe? Definitely not us. We had just come to the realization that they were way out of our league. And now there was this new band from San Francisco that was in the same ballpark as us. They had already achieved what we were striving for, but they weren’t light-years ahead of us. And we sounded different. My guitar tone was different than James Hetfield’s. We did our own thing. In the beginning, we were more Maiden, they were more Motörhead.
I won’t say Metallica didn’t influence us. Hearing No Life ’til Leather was mind-blowing. But at the same time, riff-wise and beat-wise, we never sounded like Metallica. You can put on any Anthrax record, and I don’t think you could listen to a song and say, “That sounds like a Hetfield riff.” At the same time, we knew right away that Metallica were good—really good. To me at least, that just meant digging in our heels and pushing extra hard.
It sucked that we couldn’t try to compete with them right away because we were about to change half our band. Berry, who never belonged in Anthrax, moved on, and later formed Hittman with our ex-singer Jimmy Kennedy. More significantly, we finally decided to fire Greg D’Angelo. I still think he was a solid drummer, but we would try to get him to play double bass, and he couldn’t do it. Me and Lilker were like, “Dude, listen to motherfucking Motörhead. Check out that song ‘Overkill’ and just do that!” But he couldn’t. I don’t know if he didn’t want to or if it was physically too difficult for him to manipulate both feet like that. Before we got the chance to let Greg go, he quit. It was May 7, 1983, right after we opened for Metallica at Willie’s in Sayreville, New Jersey. Out of the blue, he said, “I’m leaving. I’m joining Cities.”
Cities were the up-and-comers in the New York scene. They had originals in the vein of Van Halen, and they could headline L’Amour for a thousand people. They had this shredder guitar player with long, cool, straight blond hair, Steve Mironovich, who looked awesome. The bass player, Sal Italiano, is in Anvil now, and he looks exactly the same. They were the hot band, and they wanted Greg. I was jealous but also angry. Even though we probably would have fired him anyway because he couldn’t play thrash, I felt betrayed. “You’re joining Cities?!? Dude, they’re not going to go anywhere, they’re just local bullshit. They think small. They’ll never play outside New York.”
“Well, they really want me and they promised me . . .”
“You’re an idiot!” I was yelling at him in the dressing room, “Go ahead and play with your fucking Van Halen wannabe nobody rockers! Have fun!!!”
There’s no question I let my emotions get the better of me. I was envious that he was joining a band that was bigger than Anthrax, and I took my anger out on him. We were pretty close before, and that kind of ended it. It was stupid because not only did I no longer have a drummer, I lost a friend.
Chapter 6
Watch the Beat!
As it turned out, losing Greg was the best thing that could have happened to Anthrax because, to this day, Charlie Benante is the greatest drummer I’ve ever played with, hands down. He can do anything, and he has a second sense for what you’re thinking before you play it so he can intuitively do something complementary. And he can play in any style with any musicians. He can hold a beat as well as Phil Rudd from AC/DC, go crazy on the kit like Keith Moon, or play unfathomable time signatures with the precision of Neil Peart, and it’s all filtered through his own incredible style. On top of that, he’s totally chill, no pretension whatsoever. He just loves to play. And he loves Anthrax as much as I do.
We met in May 1983 through a mutual friend, Tom Browne, who I’d see at shows all the time. After he found out Greg left he came up to me and said, “You guys need a drummer, huh? I know this guy from my neighborhood, Charlie, and he’s amazing. Everyone says he’s the fastest double-bass drummer there is.”
I said, “Really, faster than Robb Reiner from Anvil? Faster than that guy from Accept?” The German band Accept had just put out Restless and Wild, and the opening track on that album, “Fast as a Shark,” set the bar. Hearing it for the first time was one of those moments when I lost my mind for a minute and thought, “How is that even possible? Am I really hearing what I think I’m hearing?”
Of course, there are drummers who can play way faster than that today, but back then it was pretty groundbreaking. We called Charlie, and he asked us if we would come to his house in the Bronx, which is where his drums were set up. Danny and I schlepped out from Queens to his place, a three- or four-story attached two-family house. He had a small room at the top with this giant Gretsch kit set up. There were eight toms and tons of cymbals, so there was barely enough space in the room to maneuver around the drums. We squished into the room with him and set up our amps, then we auditioned him, though it was more like an awesome jam session. We played “Invaders” and “Phantom of the Opera” from Iron Maiden and some songs from Judas Priest and Motörhead, and he nailed them all.
Afterward, Danny Lilker and I were marveling at how good and fast Charlie was. I don’t know if it’s because he was excited, but the Maiden covers were faster than Maiden played them, which made them sound almost li
ke thrash. Then Charlie said, “You guys aren’t going to ask me to play ‘Fast as a Shark,’ are you?” Apparently, Tom Browne had told Charlie that we were in awe of that song. I said, “No way. No one can play that except Accept. Can you do it?”
“Uh-huh.”
We didn’t know the whole song. I knew the opening riff and enough to get into the verse, so we started playing and Charlie burst in, and, holy shit, he was playing it faster than the album—straight-up double bass faster than Accept! We played it for a minute, just fucking around, and then Danny and I looked at each other and everything clicked. Here was the missing piece of the puzzle. This is what we needed to make Jonny Z shit his pants.
I said, “Well, hey man, do you want to be in the band?”
“What does that mean, ‘be in the band’?” answered Charlie.
“Do you want to join and write songs with us and play shows? We know this guy Jonny Z . . .”
“Yeah, I know him. I saw you guys at the Headbanger’s Ball show. I always see you guys around. Lemme think about it.”
I wondered why he suddenly seemed so blasé. So I told him I thought we had real chemistry and that we’d work really well in a band together.
Charlie said he thought we sounded good as well. Then he told us he was friends with this drummer Armand Majidi, who eventually joined Sick of It All and had played in the hardcore bands Straight Ahead and Rest in Pieces. Armand was from Queens, like us. Charlie paused and told us he didn’t want to offend us or anything, but Armand had said we were just “these rich kids from Queens that get whatever they want.”
“What the fuck, man?” I said. “Do we look like rich kids from Queens? I live in a shitty two-bedroom apartment with my mother and brother. Who’s rich? ‘We get whatever we want?’ Man, I work full-time and then hustle to rehearsal.”
Charlie was immediately apologetic. “Yeah, I thought it sounded kind of weird,” he said. “And even if it was true, who cares? What would be the problem with that?”
Yet he still wouldn’t commit to being in the band. He said he’d jam with us and maybe do some gigs, but he wasn’t sure about joining Anthrax full-time. He could draw really well and was planning to go to drafting school. He was afraid his mom would flip out if he didn’t go and joined a band full-time instead.
I decided to take it slowly and not throw the baby out with the bathwater. We needed Charlie, and he said he’d play gigs. That was a start. We came back and jammed again, and it sounded really good. We played more Maiden and Priest as well as some Sabbath and Motörhead. Then he learned our songs and they had never sounded better. Getting Charlie to commit to the band was a war of attrition. I was persistent and eventually wore him down. I won. I wanted him as my drummer, and that was it: “You’re drumming for Anthrax.” Next thing you know, Charlie’s our drummer.
As soon as he was in the band we wrote “Soldiers of Metal.” The song revealed a new side of Anthrax. It was more up-tempo, it had barreling double bass, and it trumped anything we had ever done. Now, all we needed was a new lead guitarist.
Jonny used to tell us that all the time, and he was kinda right. We needed someone with real firepower and stage presence.
A month before we fired Bob, I met Danny Spitz, but the thought didn’t even enter my mind to have him join the band. He was this cocky little fuck who worked at a guitar store on Forty-Eighth Street called We Buy Guitars. I used to go in there all the time, and he once said to me, “I’ve heard about your fucking band. I’ll blow away your lead guitar player. You should hire me and fire that guy.” I was like, “Uh, dude. I just came in here to check out an amp. We’re not looking for another guitarist.” A month later we were looking for another guitarist. I called Spitz. Again, he was a totally arrogant prick, but at the same time he was kind of endearing because he was this tiny little dude, all five foot two of him—he was smaller than me. But he had these five-pound balls that gave him this overwhelming confidence and attitude. And he could play really well. He was much more skilled than Greg or Bob. Aside from that, he had his own gear. That was cool because I was getting tired of always having to share my shit with our guitarists. I had twelve Marshall cabinets and a bunch of heads, which I bought with the money I made working for my dad. But every time we’d play out, I couldn’t perform with six stacks when Greg or Bob only had one, especially since they were the lead guitarists. So I always split my stuff up, and I hated doing that. “It’s my fucking shit! Go buy your own gear,” I’d tell them. Greg was even cheaper than Neil, and Neil was cheap. Greg never chipped in for rent at the Music Building, he wouldn’t pay for studio time, nothing. And he always expected to get paid for playing gigs and recording.
Spitz shoved it in my face in the way only he could do. “I heard your old guitar player didn’t have his own gear.”
“He didn’t.”
“Sheesh. That’s lame. How many cabinets do you have?”
“Twelve,” I replied.
“Yeah, I have twelve cabinets, too. They’re Wachuwan custom-built 4 × 12s. And I have five guitars and six amps.” I’m sure Danny got a good deal on gear since he worked in a music store, but he also came from money. His dad was a lawyer. I didn’t care about that. I was just excited he had so much equipment.
I pictured having twelve cabinets onstage, four wide, three high. That’s what Manowar had at the time, and it looked so cool. So partially based on the amount of gear he had, I said, “Why don’t you come down and audition?”
He said, “Pfft, audition! I’ll fucking play anything you want. Give me your fucking songs. I’ll learn them.”
I gave him “Across the River” and “Howling Furies,” and he called me a couple days later and said, “I know the songs. When are we doing this?”
We set up a date to audition Danny at the Music Building. While he was tuning his guitar and getting his gear ready, I warned the rest of the guys about his attitude. “He’s really arrogant, but if you take it in stride it’s kind of funny,” I said.
Right then, Spitz walked into the room where we were set up. Tom Browne was there and Danny, oozing with hubris, took his guitar out of his case, removed his strap, and threw it at Tom. “Shorten this for me. It’s too long,” he said like Tom was a paid guitar tech. “Who the fuck is this guy?” Tom asked.
Spitz totally aced the audition. He knew all the songs and he ripped on the solos. After Neil left, Charlie said, “He’s a little weird, but he played really good.” Neil Turbin did not want him in the band and seemed threatened by Danny’s strong personality. I said to him, straight up, “Well, we’re taking him.”
Neil said, “Really? You really want that guy in this band? There’s nobody else?” I said, “We need a good guitar player now. We’re going to make a record and we’re not waiting. He’s in the band.”
There was nothing Neil could do. I put my foot down, and Neil wasn’t at the point yet where he could tell us, “It’s either my way or the highway.” That would come soon enough.
I called Spitz the next day and said, “Do you want to . . .”
He interrupted me. “Yeah, I’ll be in your fucking band. We’re going to take over the world.”
That’s who Danny was back then. A decade later he quit and started a new career making and repairing delicate watches. But in the beginning he was dead serious about being a rock star. Even though he could be obnoxious, I liked his attitude. We shared the same hunger for success. I never cared about the rock star cliché; I just wanted to make records and play shows. But Spitz knew he was going to be a “rock star.” And we needed that because Charlie was so shy back then he barely spoke a word. The only place he exploded was behind the kit. And then you had Neil, who bitched about everything, and Lilker, who was this mellow musical virtuoso.
Around that time, we found out Jonny really was bringing Metallica to New York—into our ’hood! These dudes we had never met were coming into our backyar
ds where we were trying so hard to become the big men on campus. Even though Jonny had never managed a band or put out a record, he sent Metallica $1,600 and said, “Get to New York and I’ll take care of things.” He was totally determined to manage them, start a label, and put out their record. It seemed like a stretch. He had never managed anyone or put out anything. He was flying by the seat of his pants. But within weeks of that conversation, Metallica were packed into a U-Haul truck driving to New York. The guys switched off between who was in the passenger compartment and who was in the back where you’re only supposed to store your belongings. I can only imagine how uncomfortable that must have been.
But it prepared them for what lay ahead. They were literally driving blind, putting an awful lot of faith in a guy they didn’t know, who promoted shows and sold records at a flea market. That’s the amazing thing about it. It didn’t make any sense. It shouldn’t have happened, and if it did, New York should have eaten these guys alive. But this was Metallica. They were as determined as we were, and they were a great band from the start. Maybe they got lucky, but they made their own luck, too, grasped every opportunity that came their way.
And Jonny was confident. He didn’t know what he was doing, but dammit, whatever happened he was behind it 100 percent. While Metallica were on the road from California to New York, Jonny called me up and said, “When they get here, do you think you guys could meet them and help them out, make sure they’re okay?” By then my bruised ego had healed. “Sure, where are they staying?”
“At the Music Building. We got them a rehearsal room.”
“Oh, cool. They’ll be rehearsing here,” I said. “But where are they staying?”
“At the Music Building. They’re staying at the Music Building,” Jonny said, like I didn’t understand him the first time. I guess I didn’t. No one stayed at the Music Building.