Death Punch'd

by Jeremy Spencer

  We returned to the bar and got thoroughly obliterated. As we were leaving, we encountered a woman affiliated with radio station KILO. Her on-air name was Mama Kilo. Not sure why, but she was “parked” outside the bar. I use that particular verb because she was wheelchair bound. As we exited the bar, Mama Kilo tumbled out of her wheelchair and crashed to the ground. Had it been part of a comedy routine, we would have applauded: it was a thoroughly convincing pratfall. However, she appeared to be hurt. Though drunk, we weren’t totally without compassion. Bobby and I helped her back into her wheelchair, for which she was grateful. Fortunately, she wasn’t seriously injured. The incident actually helped sober me up.

  I include this next little vignette to show the depths to which I had fallen. If you thought I’d already reached them, stay tuned.

  Somewhere in Pennsylvania, we played a venue that had originally been a church. Stained-glass windows had been removed, the rough openings boarded over, but pews remained in the balcony, a solemn reminder of its former sacred stature. If it still harbored any desire for the salvation of its congregants, we exorcized it that night. Having rocked the show, we celebrated our irreverent performance with our own form of communion—90 proof.

  As per usual, potential sexploitation was part of the postshow agenda. Darrell had invited a chick to visit him, but for some reason he’d been ignoring her all night. Even though he’d initiated the get-together, socializing didn’t come easy for him. A natural loner, he went from the venue directly to the bus, where he remained, messing around on MySpace.

  The chick was pissed that she was being ignored, and rightly so. She’d come with her own agenda, and it didn’t include being neglected. She was there to get laid, and the longer he made her wait, the more annoyed she became and the more she drank. Being buzzed myself, I started talking to her. In no way was I trying to hit on her—I just felt sorry for her and was trying to be respectful.

  “I’m sure Darrell will be out here in a few minutes to hang with you. He’s just busy taking care of some things. Let me go check and see what’s keeping him.”

  I excused myself and went to the bus. There sat Darrell, alone, communing with the Internet. “Dude, you need to come take care of business with this chick. She’s getting antsy.”

  I can’t recall his exact response, but he acted like he could care less. I was thinking, Okay, man, I tried. My next thought went from being “respectful” to wanting to capitalize on the situation. As Zoltan would say, “You just left the goat to guard the cabbage.” (Oh, those wild and crazy Hungarians and their witticisms! Bet that’s a real knee-slapper in Székesfehérvár.)

  I returned to the bar, where the drinking continued. By now she was ripped, and when I heard, “I wanna fuck and I love anal,” I must have looked like I’d won the lottery. Spotting the eager look on my face, she added, “You and me, baby.”

  “I can’t do that to Darrell,” I said halfheartedly.

  “Darrell? You mean the Darrell who isn’t fucking here? That prick! He doesn’t figure into the equation,” she said. “Darrell had his chance . . . and now it’s all yours.”

  Sadly, that sounded totally legit to my alcoholic ears. “Okay, meet me by the bathroom in five minutes.” Once again a restroom stall would become the scene of the crime.

  I waited a couple of minutes and then discreetly walked to the bathroom, where I navigated her into the stall. I’ll spare you the particulars, but I will say that she howled like a she-wolf. Everyone in the place had to have heard every moan and screech.

  As fate would have it, no sooner had we finished than a head appeared over the top of the stall. Good guess . . . it was Darrell’s. He looked at me like he’d been violated. I was speechless. Finally, I uttered, “Yup!” I mean, what could I have said to make it better? I was fucking busted. He stormed off, and I ran after him.

  I could hear the chick yelling, “What about me? What about ME . . . ?”

  When I caught up with Darrell, outside, he was as angry as I’d ever seen him. “I came in to help load the gear and you’re in there fucking my girl.” Suddenly, she was “his girl” again.

  I didn’t buy that he was there to help load gear. It looked more like his typical avoidance and addiction to MySpace had given way to his need for alcohol. Besides, he never was really a proactive kind of dude. But, inebriated, I could have been wrong.

  “Man, I’m sorry. I have a problem. When I drink I can’t control myself. I’m a drunk and a sex fiend.”

  That explanation proved to be totally ineffectual. It took a week of me apologizing—many nights of drinking and waiting for Darrell to be drunk enough so I could talk to him—to smooth things over. Although I finally succeeded, the rational part of me knew that I’d been a shitty and unreliable “friend.”

  Night after day after night, I was poisoning myself with as much booze as I could consume before passing out. If I managed to be conscious when the sun came up, I’d crawl into my bunk like a reluctant vampire, pull the drapery to block out the light, and hope I’d get a few hours’ sleep before I had to play again that night. With everyone up and around long before me, and with crew running in and out, that was rarely possible.

  As with the previous tour, I soon developed a weird form of vertigo. Feeling like I was about to topple off my drum throne any minute, I couldn’t wait for the shows to end. The experience was so disorienting that I not only feared having to play, but I hated the very act of playing. The only thing that appealed to me about a gig was the partying to follow. And our parties were legendary—if not in enjoyment, at least in the amount of alcohol we consumed.

  It seemed like we each killed a bottle of Crown a night and shared three cases of beer, not to mention my use of weed. That was a deadly combination for a group that was growing in our dislike for one another.

  One night, Darrell and I were smoking cigarettes in the jump seat in the front of the bus. The only thing separating the jump seat from the front lounge was a thin curtain. Typically, we were both hammered. Somehow fighting became the topic, and Darrell announced, “You know, man . . . I’d love to fight Ivan.”

  As if on cue, the curtain ripped open and there stood Ivan—looking like he’d just grabbed the gold ring. With a malevolent smile, he said, “Really, Darrell . . . really?” Before Darrell could even respond, Ivan grabbed him and smashed his head into the windshield—cracking it (the windshield, that is). This was a solid head smashing. I don’t know if you’ve seen Jason X, where Jason dips the girl’s head in liquid nitrogen, freezing it cryogenically, before shattering it on the counter—but this was reminiscent. Though Darrell’s cranium wasn’t fractured, the whole scene was pretty intense. To make it worse, it happened while we were blasting down the highway at seventy-five miles an hour.

  I did my best to break it up, all the while trying to keep them from causing the bus driver to wreck. Zoltan and Bobby came to help, but the damage had been done. I apologized profusely to the bus driver, a guy named Pops who was a fucking giant of a man. “Hey, Pops, I’m really sorry about the windshield.”

  “I could give a shit!” he said. “It don’t make me no never mind. But y’all just spent a thousand bucks. That’s what it costs to replace the windshield.”

  Great, I thought. By the time management gets its share and we divide our take at the gate five ways, I just played for nothing.

  Once again, alcohol had fueled an unpleasant incident. It had become the theme of the tour, which we promptly renamed the Burn This Bitch to the Ground tour.

  The one thing that made the tour bearable was having Bobby to pal around with. He was such a buzz saw of energy, and between the two of us, we were always creating havoc. There was no way to know what he’d do next. He loved being able to hang in our camp; however, his hang time was often cut short because he just couldn’t curb his smart-ass mouth and attitude. I can’t say I blame him. We had to be one of the worst bands of all time to work for, and he had to endure a lot. Everyone was a complaining asshole with no
regard for others. That disregard soon extended to Rockshow, and it was obvious I wasn’t going to be able to protect him or his job.

  Death Punch was now at a level where I needed someone who was a competent technician. Though it was never anything major, Bobby occasionally fucked up as my tech. Add to that the band’s constant irritation with some of his pranks and my burnout factor, and I knew a change was imminent.

  This was going to be tough, because he and I were simpatico. I’d needed his humor to survive the hours of mind-numbing boredom that is touring. Still, I wanted to try a new direction and also force Bobby to follow his dream of being an actor. Rotting away as a tech was no place for someone with his talent, so we fired him. The way it went down was typical Bobby.

  He’d recently purchased some fake mustaches and was all decked out in a stupid outfit when we pulled him off the bus to tell him. Seeing him in that ridiculous getup, it made having to fire him seem even more pathetic. He was crushed and so was I. He looked at me as if to say, “And you’re okay with this . . . ?” The decision had been made, and I couldn’t reverse the call even if I’d wanted to. We let him go in his hometown of Chicago. It was a sad farewell.

  At the next venue, our new tech, Joel, joined us. He appeared to be a really nice guy, the perfect Band-Aid to cover the pain of losing a friend. A Christian and a virgin, the poster boy for teen abstinence groups, he had no idea what kind of minefield he had walked into. Fortunately, he proved to be a great sport about everything—which just proves that being naïve and clueless might be the best way to survive being surrounded by a bunch of assholes.

  Joel didn’t have time to get acclimated. He had to hit the floor running. I’d gotten a new rack at the beginning of the tour, and Bobby had set it up from day one. Together Joel and I started the long process of assembling my drum kit and the complicated rack. I was clueless and he seemed equally perplexed, but we finally figured it out. I could tell Joel was more technically skilled than Bobby, but it wasn’t going to be the same without Rockshow.

  The more this band progressed professionally, the more we suffered on a personal level. The band’s trajectory was on the upswing, but everything else was on a downward spiral. As a group, we barely had the energy to slog through. Any added negativity and it became impossible. The band was getting more and more out of control.

  Matt had begun bringing his then girlfriend and her kid out on the road. Though she was a sweet little girl, this was definitely no place for her. Can’t tell you how many times we woke up, hungover, with SpongeBob SquarePants blaring in the front lounge. We’d quickly gone from a rock ’n’ roll bus to a preschool on wheels.

  One morning, Darrell was blindly stumbling down the hallway when he tripped over the little girl’s toys. He looked at Matt and said, “Really . . . ?”

  “Get used to it!” yelled Matt, whose sense of entitlement was starting to wear on everyone. In any situation, Matt always acted like he was especially privileged. This extended to whatever venue we played. There were times when all of us had chicks watching from the wings. But that wasn’t good enough for Matt. He’d allow his chick to stand in plain view of the audience, the child by her side. Once, when Zoltan was in the middle of playing a song, the little girl grabbed some drumsticks and wandered out onstage. When Zo felt something tapping on his legs, he looked down to see her doing a paradiddle on his shin.

  It’s doubtful you’d ever see Iron Maiden with a bevy of girlfriends and kids crowding the stage. We were hoping to build some cred as a serious band, but Matt’s insistence that his “family” be in the forefront and underfoot made that increasingly difficult.

  In addition, his need to impress everyone encouraged his girlfriend to become self-important, too. With each passing day, she got mouthier to our crew. Once, when a tech was carrying an armload into a venue, she let the door slam shut in his face. When he finally managed to get inside, he said, “It would have been nice if you’d held the door for me.”

  I couldn’t believe it when I heard her retort, “You’re just a roadie . . . I’m the wife!” Her attitude was definitely a result of listening to Matt lord it over everyone.

  In spite of all that, I still liked partying with him. His angry tirades were often entertaining, and his sarcasm could make Daniel Tosh seem tame. However, the more inflated his ego and the more he drank, the more tiring it became.

  Consuming insane amounts of alcohol was threatening to tear it all apart. Personally, my body was in shock. My playing was sufficient, but I hated everything about it. I needed this tour to end . . . soon. We all needed a break from the road and one another. Something had to change.

  Unlike Matt, when Darrell drank he didn’t become annoying to be around. Instead he became a stumblebum. I’ve seen him stagger and crash into walls. Once, he’d turned around and yelled at the driver, “Can you take those turns any harder?” We had to remind him that the driver wasn’t present and we were still parked.

  The problem with Darrell’s hangovers was that they kept him from functioning. A perpetual grump when he’d wake up at three or four in the afternoon, he never felt like doing meet and greets or radio promotions. Those tasks always fell to the rest of us. Once, when we returned—beaten up from a radio promotion where we played paintball—he emerged from his bunk with a guitar embossed on his face. He’d passed out on top of his guitar.

  “Where’ve you guys been?” he asked . . . clueless. It didn’t take long before this got old.

  His attitude became increasingly belligerent when he was asked to join the rest of us in doing promotions. His attitude was, I play guitar and put on a show for the people—don’t expect me to play paintball, too. The real reason he didn’t participate was that he was painfully hungover and didn’t want to be pelted with paintballs. Ivan, Matt, and I drank as much or more than Darrell, but we still managed to get up and do promos and phone interviews or whatever was needed to help promote Death Punch. But somehow Darrell thought he could opt out.

  As a person, I loved Darrell and got along with him great. But as far as a business was concerned, we’d reached an impasse. As a band, we seldom agreed on anything; however, we were unanimous in our belief that we couldn’t go forward with him on guitar.

  I began communicating with Jason Hook to see if he might be interested in joining the band. I knew he wasn’t happy being in Alice Cooper any longer, because he was tired of being a hired gun. I asked if he’d be interested in joining Death Punch and he was like, “Fuck yes!” I talked to the rest of the guys, and they thought it was the right move. Everyone liked Jason and knew he was a phenomenal player. We decided to finish the tour and make a seamless transition.

  Darrell suspected his days were numbered. One night when we were hammered, he asked, “Am I getting fired after this tour?”

  The question took me by surprise. I was a total pussy when it came to hurting people’s feelings, so I mumbled, “What . . . ? Fired . . . ? No, I don’t think so . . .” What a wuss!

  We pressed on for the last few weeks, but it was pathetic. We were deteriorating rapidly. Even the tour manager was starting to slip. The last few weeks of the tour, he’d gotten hammered on Crown and was sloppy running the show. Offstage, his drunken antics continued. Once, he pulled his shirt off and smeared mayonnaise all over his stomach. He came into the lounge where we were sitting and plopped down on our laps, pinning our arms. He had this weird-ass, demonic look. When we tried to get away, he smeared the shitty condiment all over our faces. It might have been funny if it hadn’t been so disturbing. The more he drank, the more aggressive he became. We’d hired him to manage the lunatics in the band, not to become one.

  We coasted into the last date in San Diego on proverbial fumes. As soon as the show was over, like usual, I started pounding drinks. Though it was raining, I decided to step outside for a cigarette. Completely blotto, I slid on the slippery bus step, landing on the side of the curb and cracking my ankle. It hurt so fucking bad that I fell to the wet ground and started cryin
g like I was a kid who just stepped on a rake or got his foot caught in the spokes of his bicycle. As I lay there writhing in pain, the sky opened up in a major downpour.

  Matt was watching from the window seat, observing my moment of agony. Hobbled, I dragged myself back onto the bus. Always quick with a caustic remark, he had something smart-ass to say; however, I was too drunk and in too much pain to respond. When I finally made it to my bunk, I passed out.

  The next morning, the bus pulled up to our storage unit in Burbank so we could unload the trailer. Forgetting I’d hurt myself the night before, I jumped down out of my bunk. When I felt a shooting pain in my ankle, I crumpled to the floor. I couldn’t put any pressure on it, which made unloading a real joy. The last thing I wanted to do on break was rehab an ankle as I had my legs.

  I called Angel and told her about the accident. When she came to pick me up, she insisted I go to a walk-in clinic to have my ankle X-rayed. I agreed, but not before ordering her to stop and buy a fifth of Crown. I drank the whole thing when I got home. Knowing what an asshole I could be when blitzed, she gave me some space. Most of that first day off, I sat on the deck with our dog, Bean, drinking, listening to music, and calling band members to discuss how we were going to break the news to Darrell.

  The band decided to wait a couple of days before we dealt with his situation. I told Zo to give me a warning first, because I knew the minute Darrell hung up he’d call me. Zoltan’s heads-up would be the go-ahead for me to start pounding booze and getting sloshed so that when Darrell called, I’d be able to handle it. However, I was such a jonesing drunk I couldn’t wait for the heads-up. I poured the first of many Crown and Diets. I called Jason to tell him what was going down, but got his voicemail. Waiting for Zo’s call, I kept tossing them back. Hours went by and I was drunker than Cooter Brown (another one of my grandma Helen’s country expressions).