They were cool enough to let me put my huge drum kit in their garage. It was incredibly loud, but I jammed anyway. I wailed out there for hours and no one complained. I tried to play during times I thought people would be at work.
After a few weeks, the arrangement was definitely starting to get annoying for everyone. Too many people crammed into a two-bedroom apartment. Bill and I crashed in the living room, one on the couch, the other on the floor. Even though we took turns sleeping on the couch, the damn thing was about as comfortable as a bed of nails. I wanted to get out of there and get my own place, but an apartment was out of our financial reach.
To remedy that, his friends helped me land a job at the department store on base. I sold cologne, dress clothes, and other crap. I also had to pull my long-ass hair back in a ponytail. Boy, was I ever out of place. All the soldiers gave me weird looks, and I knew they were all judging me.
One day at work, a great song came on the radio. The melody was haunting and beautiful. I found out later it was a song called “Ordinary World” by Duran Duran. To this day it remains one of my favorite songs of all time. The song put me in a great mood. However, when I got back to the apartment, that mood ended abruptly.
Bill informed me he’d reconnected with some chick he used to bang on base, and she’d moved back to her hometown in Kentucky. He decided he wanted to hang out with her, so he was heading back to the Bluegrass State.
WTF?! I said, “Dude, don’t leave me here. I don’t know anyone and I can’t afford to be here by myself.” Besides, these dudes were Bill’s old friends, not mine. Before he left, he arranged it so I could stay there—paying a little rent until I found a place. There I was . . . alone at the Playgirl Mansion. This was not how I’d imagined my big move to California and a new life.
Every spare moment, I worked at trying to find a band to jam with. I ran into some dude at the local mall who said he knew of a band that was a hair-metal-type band with a gnarly singer. Awesome! I thought. Let’s start there. I didn’t want to do any of the grunge horseshit. I would rather get eaten by a pack of wild coyotes and shat off a cliff onto a cactus patch. (Graphic enough?)
I got the guitar player’s number by hyping myself up until the guy agreed to meet me. I went to his house. He and the singer were there. We talked about me learning some of their original tunes and coming back to jam. I took a CD with me. As soon as I heard the singer, I was like, Holy shit! This guy really can sing. I wasn’t blown away by the tunes, but I dug his voice. I was thinking that this could be my ticket to getting something rolling out West.
I met up with the guitar player to jam on some tunes. I loaded my drum kit into his house, which was a pretty tight crib, with a bunch of people who were renting rooms there. I set up my kit and we started jamming. It was brutally loud. I’m sure the whole neighborhood hated it, especially the roommates.
After jamming a little while, he said he thought I was great and would be perfect for his band, which he called Love Drive, after the Scorpions album. I was excited, but apparently the singer and the bass player weren’t too excited about him. It didn’t take long for me to see why. His personality sucked. The singer and bassist kept flaking on us. Finally, the guitarist let me know there probably wasn’t gonna be much happening for a while. Yeah . . . like never!
I was bummed and, at the same time, extremely lonely and homesick. I didn’t have any friends. I was sober and incredibly insecure. Moving from a town that had about seven thousand people to a town that had millions was crazy culture shock. I felt like Tom Hanks in Big, when he’s freaking out alone in that crack hotel. I kept trying to hang in there, but the homesickness got worse.
Fuck it, I thought. I’ll move back to Tennessee with my parents. They’d just moved to Franklin, a suburb of Nashville, and were getting settled in. I thought they must have a cool music scene there besides country, so I packed my car, said good-bye to the three Wills (and no Grace), and bailed out of there for Nashville.
I hauled ass. I stopped only once for a six-hour nap before plowing through in thirty-six hours. I arrived at my parents’ new home and found it to be a major step down from the house we’d had in Indiana. I felt bad for Mom, because she’d moved to Nashville to support my dad—leaving behind the house she loved so much. Property prices in Williamson County were outrageous. This was a rental, and about all they could afford with Dad on a songwriter’s draw.
They were happy to see me, and I was happy as hell to see them. I just wasn’t quite ready to make the leap from a comfort-zone family home environment to the craziness of California. They said I could stay there as long as I got a job.
Since I had some retail experience, I applied for a job at a huge mall clothing store called Dejaiz. They sold hip-hop-style crap clothes. I had to wear some of that shiznit in order to work there. Remember those jeans: Cross Colours? In hindsight they were hideous, but I wore them. It was the sign of the times, and we sold them at the store.
The manager was a real cocktard! He was always busting my balls. Inside I was thinking, Dude, you have no idea the amount of shit talking I can own you with. But on the outside, it was grin and bear it. That was part of my people-pleasing trait. I was always passive-aggressive, until it would build up. Then I’d explode. I worked there a few months until I couldn’t take any more of this asshole. I quit without notice, fucking his whole weekend.
I was getting restless as all hell in Nashville. I started calling the dude out West from the hair-metal band Lovedrive. He said he was putting the band together for real, and that it would be a good idea if I came back out. I didn’t waste any time. I packed my LTD and drove back to San Diego. This time I had $150 to my name and no job! I didn’t care. The desire to make it in music possessed my soul.
When I got to Cali, I was expecting everything to be rolling. It turned out the guitar player who owned the house was really a total flake. He said he’d let me stay there until I got on my feet, hiring me to do odd jobs. That lasted about a week. The “jobs” turned out to be one job before he decided I needed to pay rent. There was no sign of the band doing shit.
A month elapsed before he asked me to move so he could rent the room for more money. However, he said I could move into his garage. It wasn’t even the main part of the garage, but a closet he’d built in one corner. Literally, it was three by eight feet—and still I had to pay rent. I stacked my belongings in one end, leaving just enough room to sleep with my legs pulled up in a fetal position. Being the “great guy” he was, he let me keep my drums in the main part of the garage. My drums came out on the best end of that deal.
Man, was I depressed. I wasn’t going to let it get me down and stop me, though. I got a job at the Wherehouse record store and tried my damnedest to make my life work.
At this point I was also running two or three miles a day. I was sober and had become a vegan. I didn’t eat meat, dairy, caffeine, or sugar. I had more energy than ever. I was also really into self-help books and trying to better myself and grow as a person. I’d been reading a lot, latching onto a book by Dan Millman, The Way of the Peaceful Warrior. It was highly inspirational and helped direct my thinking into a whole new place. I listened to a cassette series called Pathways to Mastership. I would spend time every day in my cramped little “bedroom” getting quiet and meditating.
I was really lonely and insecure, trying to figure out what the hell I was doing. I knew what I was capable of, but no one else did. I needed a sign that this was somehow going to work. I just hoped I had enough patience and perseverance to wait for one . . . and the “spiritual eyes” to see it when it appeared.
Months dragged by with nothing happening. The band never materialized. Every day after work at the record store, I returned to my cubbyhole. Knowing no chick would be impressed with my “pad” only added to my insecurity and loneliness. The car I’d been driving didn’t help, either. It was a big beige boat . . . the opposite of a chick magnet.
I felt like I was on a deserted island with no one
to help me except my higher power. That was my only relationship, and I counted on it being enough. I continued to run every day. I started noticing a red-tailed hawk flying over me some days. It was strange because I’d been asking the universe to give me a sign. Maybe this was it.
Later that day at work, while looking through the Ticketmaster computer system we used to sell concert tickets, I noticed this hard rock band I liked—the BulletBoys—was playing nearby in Riverside. I purchased a ticket and went to see them a few days later.
I showed up early at the tiny little club. Outside, I ran into the BulletBoys’ drummer, Jimmy D’Anda. He told me that he and the guitarist, Mick Sweda, were leaving the band after one more show. Considering we’d just met, I thought it was strange he opened up to me. I watched the concert and thought they were great. They played their big radio hit, “Smooth Up in Ya”—they’d sold a million records on the strength of that one single. After the show, I saw Mick Sweda outside and went up to talk to him. He told me he was looking for players for a new band he was putting together, and asked if I knew of any.
“Yeah, me,” I said, without hesitating.
He smiled and said, “Right on, here’s my manager’s info. Send me a demo of you playing.”
I couldn’t believe it! It was too good to be true, but it seemed legit. Somehow I’d just walked up to a dude in a hugely successful band and been invited to send him my music . . . with the possibility of joining his band. I went back to my closet and thought about it all night.
I didn’t have any recordings I wanted him to hear. I thought the C.O.D. stuff might turn him off because of the wackiness. So I set up a jambox and recorded myself just shredding a drum solo. I sent it to his manager’s office, hoping he’d get it and respond right away. Days, then weeks went by . . . nothing. No response. I was getting bummed out and impatient. When I couldn’t wait any longer, I called his manager’s office and left a message with the receptionist. Still nothing.
A couple of months passed. I was starting think nothing was ever gonna happen. Isolated and sad, I slipped into a deep depression: living in that fucking closet and not being able to have company because I was so embarrassed wrecked me. I pleaded with the universe for help. During my meditations, I began visualizing Mick calling me. I did this every day. Not long after, while running, I saw a red-tailed hawk flying over me. Could this be another sign? I got back home after the run and the light on my answering machine was blinking. I hit play.
“Hey Jeremy . . . it’s Mick Sweda . . . from the BulletBoys. How’s it goin’, man? Got your tape . . . it sounds great! I’ll give you a call real soon.”
I sat there stunned. I replayed the message again and again. I was so excited I called my parents with the big news.
“This is it! Finally . . . my big break!”
Thinking “real soon” meant just that, I anxiously awaited the next phone call from Mick. Days turned into weeks, weeks into months. Every time I returned to that closet/bedroom, which felt more and more like a three-by-eight-foot coffin, I would rush to see if the answering-machine light was blinking. It got to the point where I wouldn’t look at it at first, but then slowly I’d let my eyes wander over to it and if it was blank, I’d feel this overwhelming sense of despair.
I was so bummed I started doubting that the “signs” meant anything. Obviously, it was just a coincidence. I decided to take a more aggressive approach. I called his manager’s office and left a message for Mick, inviting him to lunch.
Not long after, while running, I paused to catch my breath. It was a beautiful day. Physical exercise and just being out in the sunlight were about the only things keeping me from totally losing it. That’s when I saw it . . . a red-tailed hawk streaking by. I was afraid to get too excited. I tried to prepare myself to be disappointed. Though I wanted to believe it was a sign, I had to guard against the reality that it was all just my imagination. When I returned from my run, the answering-machine light wasn’t blinking. My heart sank.
Goddammit, this is bullshit. The hawk . . . all of it is bullshit. I left to go to work in a horrible funk. I made it through a god-awful day at work and could barely force myself to go back to that tomb. When I walked into my closet, the light was blinking on the answering machine. Knowing it was probably from my folks, I waited to hit play. Finally I gave in. Sure enough, it was Dad saying he hoped I was doing okay. And then . . .
“Jeremy, Mick here. Hey man, sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner. Got your message . . . yeah, cool . . . let’s get together, do the lunch thing. And, if you want, bring your gear and we’ll jam afterwards.”
If I want? Fuck yeah! This damn patience thing was killing me, but I decided to never doubt the sign again. Think what you will about the hawk sign, but I know how it really went down. That hawk was a connection with my higher power, and it’s something I have a strong connection with to this day.
I loaded my drums into the spacious LTD, cramming the trunk with toms and cymbal stands and filling the backseat and passenger side from floor to ceiling. I looked like an Okie from Muskogee, the Joads fleeing the dust bowl with everything they owned in The Grapes of Wrath.
LA was nothing like I’d ever seen. I thought San Diego was wild, but the traffic here was a long beast with a million red eyes: a bumper-to-bumper parking lot with kamikaze drivers dive-bombing from every on-ramp. The air was disgusting and dirty, like a big brown umbrella hanging over the city. There were homeless people and transvestite hookers, not to mention some really fucked-up people, on every corner. My little Midwestern, small-town sensibility was in shock. But I was so excited to meet Mick and to have a chance to do music on a real level, I didn’t care.
I finally made it to Hollywood, and, with some effort, found the restaurant on Sunset Boulevard. With even more effort, I found a place to park the old beige boat.
I had no idea what to expect. I was really nervous. Fortunately, Mick, who was thirteen years older than me, turned out to be super nice. He wanted to know where I was from and what I was doing out West. Because of the age difference there was quite a life-experience gap, but we got along great.
We finished lunch and headed over to an hourly rehearsal spot, where we loaded in our gear. We were joined by a bass player who was also auditioning. He seemed really cocky, and I didn’t think much of the guy. We jammed on some of Mick’s riffs. I was trying my best to nail everything. I knew this could change my life forever. We played for a couple of hours, then loaded everything out. We went back to Mick’s place. While we ate dinner, we chatted.
Finally, I asked, “So, what did you think of jamming with me?”
“Not sure yet . . . it was hard to get a read on it.”
He’d been jamming with Jimmy D’Anda for the last six years, and Jimmy definitely had a certain style of groove. I asked if he would be into jamming more, and he said, “Sure.” He wanted to know my plans for moving to Hollywood. I acted like I’d planned to all along—saying I was thinking about renting a room until I could get my own place.
“Why don’t you just move your stuff in here? You can stay with me until you find a place. We can go in together on a rehearsal space.”
I was like, “Fuck yeah, man! That would rule!”
I said I’d need a few days to get everything together before I could move. I headed back to my closet outside San Diego, feeling like I’d won a heavyweight fight against Tyson. This was a huge, life-altering day: a great musician, with one of the bands I loved, wanted to jam with me, and I’d have a place to live. Incredible! I couldn’t wait to get back to the dicksack guitar player’s house and tell him I was moving out . . . tell him to roll his fucking closet into a neat cylinder and shove it!
I thought of him as the enemy. Looking back now, I see him as vital step in helping get me where I am. That’s never an easy lesson, but one I’ve slowly come to learn. Even if someone seems like a prick, is someone you don’t like . . . do the inventory and figure out why they’re really in your life. There’s always a
reason. People are like mirrors—exposing things we need to work on. In this case, he helped show me my insecurities, how little I thought about myself, how I really didn’t think I deserved better and was willing to tolerate being miserable.
Over time, I came to realize that I create everything that happens to me. It all starts with visualization—intentionally creating something better—or, out of fear, creating something worse. As much as I didn’t like that dude and that cramped closet, at least he gave me a place that allowed me to be there long enough so I could eventually meet Mick.
So bless him . . . the fucker!
CHAPTER 13
INTO THE DESERT, THEN BACK IN THE STUDIO
2010–11
Following our short Canadian tour, I returned home and continued to rampage for weeks on booze and blow. I could barely scrape myself up off the mat in time to go to Iraq to play for the troops. Some of our biggest fans were the military, and though getting there was tough, just knowing we could provide a little distraction for an hour made it worthwhile.
It’s one thing to eat sand, dodge bullets and IEDs, and live in a tent; it’s another to find yourself in one of Saddam Hussein’s palaces. But that’s what happened on this trip. The palace was only one of many Saddam maintained. After the insurgency, most of them were looted. This one featured cavernous inlaid-marble rooms, mosaic ceilings, and lavish crystal chandeliers. The bathroom fixtures were gold—not gold plated, but fucking gold. If you could’ve seen the rest of this impoverished country, you’d realize how obscene these palaces were and why these people needed him ousted.
Because we were with the military, no booze or drugs were allowed. Talk about hell: ten days of no partying and abstinence. Nothing like “entertaining” while detoxing! In actuality, being in a war zone—sober—helped the band reunite a little. The timing was good, because we were coming apart at the seams (like Ruben Studdard’s undies before his latest stint on Biggest Loser). Being flown into a combat zone in helicopters, escorted by armed guards, wearing flak jackets and hearing bombs explode has a way of bonding people . . . and, brother, did we ever need it.
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