by Scott Ian
Two weeks into the tour, I was polishing off a bottle of Crown and endless beers and wine every night on the bus. Somehow I pulled that off. If I tried to do that today, it would kill me, but back then it was mind over matter. They would keep a separate bottle of Crown for me and mark it off with a Sharpie to keep track of how much I was drinking. The night I was about to finish my first whole bottle of Crown, everyone was chanting, “One more shot! One more shot!” and I’d be chanting along, but in my brain I was saying, “You’re an idiot! Your liver is fucked!”
Every night toward the end of Pantera’s show, I’d go onstage with them and we’d play “A New Level.” Their singer, Phil Anselmo, would grab me, tilt my head back, and pour wine down my throat like fucking Caligula.
It’s not like I was keeping up with those guys either. If I did a shot, Dime and Vinnie did two. And Phil drank an insane amount, as did their bassist, Rex Brown. After those first two weeks, I started to settle into the routine. I stopped puking and craved my next shot. I was drinking like a maniac, and most importantly, I was having a blast. The adult decision I had made was paying off just like Dime said it would. I wasn’t worried about shit, I was just going with it.
The hangovers were pretty intense, and one day I shambled into the venue around 5 p.m., and Darrell saw me and asked, “You on the skids Baldini?” I could barely open my eyes, my head hurt so badly. He whipped a Coors Light from out of nowhere, handed it to me, and said, “Get a good pull off of that, it’ll get ya off the skids.” I had never tried “hair of the dog,” but I figured at this point anything that would stop the two monkeys sitting on my shoulders from hitting my head with hammers would be worth a try. I hit the beer and I started to feel better right away. I sucked the whole thing down and Dime said, “Ya feeling a little better?” I told him I did and I remember thinking, “Jesus Christ, I’m a fucking hobo now.”
I had become a professional drinker. I had made it from the minor leagues up to the show, and I was excelling, I was an all-star. It was the most fun I’d had in my life up to that point, and I had Darrell to thank for that. After pulling that off for two months, I felt a strange sense of accomplishment. It was like passing an initiation rite or earning a doctorate in drinking.
When I got home from touring with Pantera, my friends didn’t know about my decision to flirt with alcoholism, and I was excited to show off my newfound talent. I didn’t realize I was about to use my powers for evil. The day after I got home from the tour, I called a few of my friends to come hang out at our favorite dive bar, the Coronet Pub, on La Cienaga in LA. Four of my buddies showed up, and I headed to the bar saying, “First round is on me.” I ordered thirty Irish Car Bombs. It took a few minutes to offload all the pints of Guinness and Jameson shots from three different trays. My friends looked confused at all the booze in front of them, and finally one of them said, “Are you expecting more people?” My eyes flashed red, and with a Dr. Doom-esque flourish, I quickly and sternly replied, “No. Why?” I could see my friends were getting nervous. “Well, uh, who is going to drink all this booze then?” he asked.
“WE ARE!” I roared. “NO ONE DARES LEAVE THIS ROOM UNTIL EVERY DROP OF DOOM’S PRECIOUS ALCOHOL HAS BEEN CONSUMED, YOU VILE CLODS!” So we drank, and after a few weeks of me thinking I was the Lord of Latveria, they had enough and wouldn’t hang out with me anymore, so I went back to New York.
Chapter 26
Volume Fadeout
After we finished touring for Stomp 442, we took a few weeks off and then went right to work on our next album, Volume 8—the Threat Is Real. I was still in a bad place mentally because of my failed second marriage. I’ll take the hit for fucking up the first one. We never should have got married; I wasn’t in love. I was twenty-three and that was too young. This time, I felt like it could have worked, but I wasn’t taking the blame. I didn’t think it was my fault, and it took me a little while to see that maybe it was never meant to work out.
After I sold the house, Debbie and I moved into an apartment in Hollywood where I barely spent any time. I was paying the rent and all the bills, and she was living there. I allowed that to happen long after we separated, which was fucking weak, but I was a sucker; I let her take advantage of me.
I don’t know if having two shitty marriages short-circuited my brain or if something inside burst out of its cage while I was on tour with Pantera, but from 1997 to 2000 I was tearing it up in a way that made my dalliances with models and scenesters with John in the early nineties look like I was a fucking altar boy. You hear all these stories about young bands that get some attention and suddenly they’re out of control, doing blow, dropping acid, shooting up, driving drunk. If they survive their wild years, they mellow out by their third or fourth album. I was just the opposite. I wasn’t doing narcotics, but I was drinking enough to get cirrhosis of the liver. John leveled off a bit, but not me. Maybe after my career peaked and then plummeted, I thought I’d never make it back to the top. Or maybe I cared too much in the beginning to screw up, and once I tasted fame and realized it wasn’t as sweet as it looked, I didn’t care anymore. Whatever, I started living like there was no tomorrow. It was very much Bright Lights, Big City without the cocaine or American Psycho without the murder, or mostly like Charles Bukowski without the whores.
In New York I was hanging out with a lot of shitty people and fucking around with a lot of shitty girls. I didn’t want to be alone because I was depressed. As insanely fun as it sometimes was, the whole thing was fucking pathetic, and I would wake up every day feeling empty and hungover. So I’d have a beer in the morning to make the headache go away. Thanks, Dime.
When I was in LA, I’d usually get together with our neighbor Tracy, who I’d known for years, and her boyfriend, Jesse. He worked at a bar called Daddy’s over on Vine. I’d drive with him to work at about 5 p.m. and begin drinking at 5:30. The bar closed at two, and that’s when the bartenders started drinking. First came Irish Car Bombs, and we’d keep going until God knows when.
Anthrax worked hard during this whole time, and I was somehow able to switch off between drunken delinquent and dedicated band member. I’m still proud of the songs we wrote for Volume 8—the Threat Is Real. They were really diverse and heavy, modern sounding with a crushing metal groove. Nineteen ninety eight is the year that nu-metal took over but we were definitely not a part of that scene. If anything we were old metal, so getting anyone to support us was proving difficult. Since we didn’t have a deal, we recorded the album at our studio in Yonkers, and Paul Crook produced it. We worked on Volume 8 for a year and must have done a hundred revisions on the songs “Killing Box” and “Harm’s Way” before we got them right. We put everything under a microscope because we didn’t know if this was our last chance. Since we were all so anxious about making this our comeback record, we second-guessed ourselves and argued about everything. There weren’t any full-on fistfights, but at times we came close.
John and I lived together and worked through our real-life trauma in the lyrics. A lot of the album is about my shitty marriages and the hedonistic lifestyle I had adopted. “Catharsis” is about being miserable with someone and being unable to let her go even though you know being free would be the best thing for both of you. I wrote it on the plane home from Florida after I got arrested. I had an epiphany. I realized I had hit rock bottom in my relationship and my personal life, and by reaching that low I knew everything would work out and I’d be able to climb back up. “Inside Out” mirrored where we were with the band. We used to be on the inside, now we were on the outside looking in, and no matter what we did, no matter how hard we worked or tried, we were shut out and it hurt: “It’s in my stomach like fire, in my stomach like cancer, / in my stomach like a knife / I’ve been gutshot.” We worked with Marcos Siega again for the “Inside Out” video, which was an homage to the “Nightmare at 20,000 Feet” episode of The Twilight Zone with William Shatner. It’s a great video. Nobody saw it. At least people
can see it forever on YouTube now. Dimebag played the sick solo on “Inside Out” as well as the solo on “Born Again Idiot.”
I was reading a lot of Charles Bukowski, and in some ways I was modeling my life after his. I love his motto: “Drink, fuck or fight.” At some point, they’re all completely the same—emotional releases that leave you dizzy and breathing hard. Bukowski was truly free. All he cared about was his art, women, and booze. As long as he had those three elements in his life, it didn’t matter if he was living in the slums or hanging out with Hollywood snobs selling books out the ass. For a while, that’s what I aspired for as well, whether I had $10 million in the bank or I was back at home living with my mom. It’s so different from the way I am today.
I was blinded by rage and felt like a failure, and since I couldn’t make either of my marriages work, I became the opposite of the responsible husband. I was all about drinking and fucking. I treated a lot of people like shit, and I’m not proud of that. I was living for myself and only aware of my own needs. In that respect, Volume 8 was about as real, raw, and dark as I could get. We did it without a label because we needed to make a record—not for financial reasons (although we were all getting a little fiscally desperate)—but because we’re musicians and that’s what we do. We knew we made good albums and it was time to create another. We weren’t ready to throw in the towel just because we got fucked over by Elektra. We had a lot left to say.
When the album was done, Walter talked to a bunch of labels. Ignition was a new rock division started up by the rap label Tommy Boy. At that point, they were the only game in town unless we decided to sign with an indie like Metal Blade or Century Media. Looking back, that might have been a better career move, but our egos were too big to leave the major-label playground. At least Ignition was part of that world. They had money. We were their biggest rock act, and they promised to market and promote us.
Volume 8—the Threat Is Real came out in the summer of ’98, and “Inside Out” started impacting at rock radio. People were sick of alternative, and they were ready to listen to really aggressive music again. We sold around 70,000 copies between July and early December, and everyone thought the next single, “Catharsis,” which was scheduled to come out in early 1999, would help us maintain upward momentum. Maybe we wouldn’t go gold, but heading into the holidays we felt positive that we’d sell at least 400,000 copies. Then at the end of the year Walter called me.
“We’ve got problems.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Ignition is out of business. Tommy Boy’s not funding them anymore. They’re done. In a month you won’t be able to find your album on the shelf.”
That was that. Ignition stopped printing Volume 8, and Walter was right. It literally disappeared. It was like we were cursed. That was the knockout punch for me. We had worked so hard on the album in the most adverse conditions. We bled for it, and now everything was gone. We were starting over—again—and nobody gave a shit.
Going into ’99, we were essentially done with Anthrax. The thought of spending eighteen months writing and recording another record after what we went through on Volume 8 was not an option. We didn’t just have a bad taste in or mouths. It was like we had eaten shit and all the mouthwash in the world wouldn’t rinse away the nauseating flavor. We were really happy with Volume 8. Of all the records we did with John Bush, it’s my second favorite. I like it better than Sound of White Noise, and it was devastating to have it thrown into the garbage by a parent company that was making decisions based on an inane call to scrap all of their rock releases to try to remain afloat. The crazy thing about that whole arrangement with Ignition was we didn’t get an advance for the album. It was strictly a distro deal, yet they owned the masters. We financed it with our final payment from Elektra. We kept a lot of money for our living expenses and put the rest into the album and touring costs. By the end, we were flat-out fucked. All we had was the money we had in the bank. There would be no royalties or advances. We had nothing physical that we owned and could sell to another label. It was like Volume 8 never existed. We tried to make deals with Ignition to buy the masters or at least put it back out, and they wanted ridiculous amounts of money.
There was no way Anthrax could continue as a functional band without taking a break. John Bush went back to Armored Saint to work with them on Revelation, and Charlie and I got together with Dan Lilker and Billy Milano and did the S.O.D. reunion album, Bigger Than the Devil. We had the time, and I was going stir-crazy sitting around trying to figure out what Anthrax were going to do next. Plus, we needed money. Nuclear Blast wanted to release an S.O.D. record and put us on tour, so we thought, “Why the fuck not?” We spent a year writing and putting out the record and playing some shows. It was a welcome distraction. Fourteen years after we released Speak English or Die, Sgt. D rose up from the grave to lead S.O.D. through another set of hilariously stupid, politically incorrect crossover metal. We had songs like “Celtic Frosted Flakes,” “Free Dirty Needles,” and “The Crackhead Song,” and we ripped through them in an effort to offend everyone who didn’t get the joke.
It was cool to get back together with Dan and Billy after all that time, and we joked around in the studio and had fun throughout the writing and recording process. That first tour for the album was great. It felt good to get out and play places that never got to see S.O.D. People forget the band only played seven concerts before 1999. Six of them were way back in 1985, and then we did the reunion show in ’92 that we filmed for the Live at Budokan concert video. So the idea of going out and playing European festivals, getting to go to Japan, and doing a proper run through the States was exciting. The tour started, and we quickly turned into a brutally fierce band, tight as fuck and grinning through every song. There’s nothing quite like 30,000 people screaming “You’re dead” during “The Ballad of Jimi Hendrix.” The shows turned out great, and I definitely felt satisfied with what we had done with the album and tour.
But after a while, it became too much like a real band, which is what it was never meant to be. We shouldn’t have done a second leg of the tour in 2000. We didn’t draw as well because it was our second time around in a short amount of time and we started having baggage. It became like a job. I said from day one that S.O.D. was only ever supposed to be about having fun. I already had a “day job” with Anthrax.
I started questioning why we were still on tour when it wasn’t good for laughs anymore. I didn’t want to tour those songs anymore. I felt like I was exploiting my child, selling him into zombie slavery. Sgt. D was not happy. It wasn’t too long into that second leg of shows in the US that Anthrax were invited to tour with Mötley Crüe and Megadeth in the summer of 2000, essentially ending S.O.D.’s “comeback.” That was a huge relief for me because I didn’t want to do S.O.D. anymore and the Mötley tour seemed like a great opportunity for Anthrax. Win-win. Hahahahahahahaha. If only I had a crystal ball.
In the aftermath of the Bigger Than the Devil tour, Billy got really angry at me and Charlie, and blamed us for what seemed like everything that was wrong in the world. 9/11? That was me and Charlie. The Florida election debacle in 2000? Me and Charlie. The rise of nu-metal? Definitely me and Charlie. I get it, though. If we had left Anthrax in 1986 and made S.O.D. our full-time band, then we all would have reaped the benefits of that. But we didn’t, and our paths went in different directions. I’ve always considered Billy a good friend, and we’ve had some amazing times. Those are the things I like to think about, not the fights and the arguments.
We recently reconnected with Billy over some pending S.O.D. business. We got ripped off for a shit-ton of publishing money. (Shocking, right? Yay to the music business.) We’re trying to figure out how to get the cash back. Through the drama, it was good to be on the same page again with Billy because there was a time when his yelling bothered me to the point where I had to cut off contact with him. Every time I talked to him, he’d verbally abuse me for ten
minutes. I didn’t need that in my life anymore. I had already been married twice. (Rim shot, please!) Besides, I never called him up and yelled at him. He and Charlie definitely had a falling-out as well. Billy said a lot of shit to Charlie that he could never take back, and that’s why Charlie will never work with Billy again. It’s kind of too bad and all unnecessary, but I don’t lose sleep over it because I have no desire to make a third S.O.D. record or play any more shows with the band—unless of course someone wants to back four trucks of money up to our respective houses. Until then I can sit in my house and play “March of the S.O.D.” and write Sgt. D comic strips. S.O.D. FTW!
At the beginning of 2000, Anthrax received an offer to play a headline tour with Fu Manchu opening. We didn’t want to do it because the money wasn’t that good and we had nothing new to promote. But we knew if we played the shows, we would all come home with something in our pockets, and that was definitely an incentive. At the same time, the idea was kind of demoralizing. I thought, “Why slog it out in a bunch of shitty half-filled clubs? That won’t help the morale of the band.”
Our agent at the time, Dave Kirby, talked us into doing the tour, and it went well. It started a little slow, but as we went along the crowds got bigger and bigger and pretty much every show was full, which took us by surprise. We thought it would suck, but we ended up doing good business, whereas the year before was terrible except for the small window when Volume 8 was actually out and people came to the shows. When we finished the tour, we thought, “Well maybe we should get back together and write a new record.” A fresh start could be just what we needed. It felt like the nineties were finally over and our curse was broken. The pendulum seemed to be swinging the other way.