We had to hit a home run on our biggest stage yet.
The 2005 Download lineup was amazing, with Black Sabbath, Slipknot, Slayer, Megadeth, My Chemical Romance, and System of a Down headlining, so we had our work cut out for us.
We were the second band of the day on the second stage of the festival, sandwiched in between Celtic punk band Flogging Molly and Finnish shock metal band Lordi. I wasn’t sure what to expect from the crowd, especially after Molly had whipped them into a frenzy. I was imagining pure apathy but was pleasantly surprised when the crowd started chanting “Fozzy!” the second Molly’s set finished.
We started the set by barreling into “Nameless Faceless,” and I noticed two things right away: the stage was huge and the crowd was massive. There were thousands of people waiting to see Fozzy at only 2:30 in the afternoon, but that was how festivals worked. Fans camped out for days and partied for the entire weekend, checking out as many bands as they could. I was on a mission to grab the attention of the 25,000 rockers in attendance immediately. So I ran across the stage and leaped straight off the edge.
I soared through the air and … kept soaring.
And soaring.
And then I stopped in midair with my arms and legs flailing like Wile E. Coyote as time stood still.
Then I dropped.
I hadn’t anticipated how high off the ground the stage was and I felt like I was falling a hundred feet. When I finally landed in the photo pit in front of the barricade, I felt my ankles buckle awkwardly, like my bones were bending inward to their breaking point. But instead of fracturing, they snapped back into place like rubber bands.
I was lucky they didn’t shatter into pieces, and had the passing mental image of being stuck in the pit writhing in pain with two broken ankles before I even sang the first note. But I hoisted myself back up onstage and made it to the mic just in time to hit my cue.
Fozzy was a machine that day and led the rowdy crowd through an all-original six song set. We jumped, pogoed, headbanged, led chants, got thousands of people to wave their hands in the air in unison and put on the best show we could. After the last note was played we were rewarded with the sound of 25,000 people chanting our name.
It was an incredible feeling and I was so fired up that I didn’t notice the flight of stairs leading off the stage. I had just played the biggest gig of my life and conquered thousands of fans, but none of that mattered when I tripped and fell down the steps.
I skidded and stumbled into the arms of a seven-foot-tall masked monster named Mr. Lordi, who was waiting to go on next. “Watch your step, friend,” Mr. Lordi said with a thick Finnish accent. “Don’t be such a klutz next time.”
This mob of 25,000 at the Download Festival in Donington, England, was the biggest crowd Fozzy ever played for. Fozzy’s smallest crowd? Twenty-seven people in Windsor, Ontario.
Olen idiootti!
Afterwards, we were hanging around the backstage compound watching our bass player Sean Delson take advantage of the free haircut that the festival organizers provided to all bands (a haircut at a rock show?). The stylist spent thirty minutes sculpting his coif into an awful outdated style that could only be called “The Joyce DeWitt.”
Strangely the helmet hair kind of fit Delson, as he was a comical guy who referred to things he liked as “Your Dad” and passed the time on the road by replacing the “Driving” in Driving Miss Daisy with any form of torture he could think of: “Defiling Miss Daisy,” “Eviscerating Miss Daisy,” “Cornholing Miss Daisy,” “Cleveland Steaming Miss Daisy”—you get the gist.
We were thoroughly enjoying his look of embarrassment at his horrible haircut, pointing our fingers and laughing in his face, when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
I turned and saw Dave Mustaine, the leader of Megadeth and one of the best guitar players of all time. I’d met him a few times over the years, and even though he had a reputation for being surly he was always nice to me.
“You guys sounded great today, Chris, and your lead guitar player really knows what he’s doing.”
We called our guitar player, Mike Martin, “Sir Shred” and “Mr. Holy Shit” due to the reactions he received after he displayed his guitar wizardry. I knew Mike was a big fan of Mustaine’s, so I brought him over to say hi about twenty minutes later.
“Hey Dave, this is Mike Martin, from Fozzy.”
Dave’s facial expression altered into one of disgust like he had just stepped in a pile of Ulrich shit. He stared at the bearded Mike, sizing him up from head to toe.
“You need to shave. You look like a terrorist,” he sneered and sauntered off.
Classic MegaDave.
Download was a huge success for us, and even the previously Fozzy-unfriendly Kerrang! magazine called us “the surprise band of the day.”
The great reviews opened the doors for us to tour the UK yet again and we crisscrossed the country playing more sold-out shows packed with loyal fans. But in typical Jericho fashion, whenever I got too high on my rock-star horse, something always went down to bring me back to earth.
We were playing in Brighton and there were two pretty girls in the front row. When I strutted past them, I noticed them smiling and giggling at me. It was obvious they were digging my vibe and I decided to sing directly to them. They were sniggering now and I thought how amazing it was that I had the power to make girls swoon with my singing.
When one of them pointed at me I pointed right back and kept crooning. She continued pointing and I noticed she was gesturing towards my lower abdominal area. What was this girl insinuating? Did she want to see my love gun? But the weird thing was, she wasn’t pointing sensually or with any modicum of desire; in fact the two of them were outright belly laughing now.
Download, 2005. We’re a big stage band, we always have been, and it’s where we thrive. Seeing 50,000 hands clapping on my lead is a feeling of pure power that I’ll never forget.
Confused, I looked down to see what she was staring at and noticed my fly was wide open.
I guess that’s why David Lee Roth wore spandex.
A few nights later I was in the dressing room at the Rios in Bradford talking to Jessica after the show. It had been a good gig, accentuated by the fact that Helloween had just played there a few weeks prior. Fozzy was at Helloween’s level in Bradford and that was good enough for me.
I was on the phone for fifteen minutes tops, but when I hung up I realized that everyone was gone. The dressing rooms were in the upstairs of the club, and when I opened the door it was pitch black. I turned on my phone to give me some light and yelled out for someone. Nobody replied. As I walked gingerly down the stairs so as not to fall (Mr. Lordi was not there to catch me this time), the security system went off. Claxon alarms were shrieking so loudly I couldn’t hear myself think, and I suspected I’d been locked inside the club.
I shuffled through the empty stage area and saw two huge fireproof silver garage doors pulled down over the exits. The owner of the venue used them to make sure nobody broke in (or out). I was stuck inside with the ear-piercing alarm going off and I started freaking out.
“What if that’s not a burglar alarm? What if there’s a fire in here? How the hell am I going to get out?”
I tried to text our tour manager Toad that I was locked inside the club, but there was no reception and it took me a few tries to get through.
After the eternity of a few minutes, I heard a rattling against the steel doors. When they rolled up on the hinges, a veritable SWAT team walked in. The police told me to step outside and there were four cop cars with their lights flashing and eight bobbies standing around looking annoyed.
“You know I could arrest you for this,” said a stern-faced cop who looked like Simon Pegg with a mustache.
“Arrest me for what, sir?” I replied nervously.
“For being such a plonker!”
Pegg and his cohorts burst out laughing, as Rich ran around the corner and shoved a video camera into my face. I’d been punk’d UK style. I
didn’t see the humor in it, and if Ashton Kutcher would’ve jumped out of the shadows with his Von Dutch trucker cap askew, I would’ve punched him right in the fucking boatrace.
Every day Toad gave us a per diem for dinner. It was in our rider (along with a big bowl of Reese’s Pieces with the peanut butter removed) that the promoter had to provide dinner for us on gig nights or we would get ten pounds each and buy whatever we wanted. Most of the time (at Rich’s insistence) everyone went for Indian food, except for me and Delson. I couldn’t stand the spicy cuisine, and Delson just pocketed the ten pounds to save money and ate fruit backstage. (“These grapes are your dad!”)
However, when we showed up at the venue in Portsmouth, I was pleasantly surprised to find out a full-fledged buffet dinner had been arranged for us. The chef had created a wonderful spread of Yorkshire pudding, roast beef with gravy, hash browns, cornbread, and roast chicken. It smelled delicious, and after two weeks of truck stops and fast food, it was a feast fit for a king—or at least Prince Charles.
I walked to the front of the buffet, grabbed a plate, and started serving myself. Suddenly the chef marched out of the kitchen and screamed in a thick limey accent, “Who goes there!?”
I’m not kidding with this, he actually said, “Who goes there?” like he was the fricking Beastmaster.
I stared speechless at this slovenly wart of a man who was the spitting image of the keeper of the Rancor monster and decided that he scared me.
“Odds bodkins! What do you think you’re doing?”
As the lead singer of the band who’d sold out the club that night, I deserved more respect, and I wasn’t going to let this infidel speak to me this way. I was going to have this fat bastard fired!
I opened my mouth, ready to do my best Donald Trump and said …
“YOU’RE … Ummm…. just getting some food?”
Chef Rancor Keeper looked at me with pure repugnance. “Don’t you ever touch my catering. Only I dish out the food! You tell me what you want and I put it on the plate. No one else. Only me!”
Completely terrified at this point, I sputtered meekly, “Can I please get some roast beef?”
He put the thinnest slice of roast beef I’d ever seen on my plate.
“Please, sir, can I have some more?” I asked pathetically, feeling like Oliver Twist.
“No! There’s a limit on roast beef!” said the Buffet Nazi.
I shuffled down the line, like George Costanza buying soup. “Can I have a Yorkshire pudding?” He gave me the smallest one.
“Is there any way I can have another one of those?”
“Only one! Everyone only gets one!”
I nodded at Buffet Nazi, happy that he hadn’t beheaded me, and sat down to eat the most delicious meal of the tour. The Yorkshire pudding was delightful and it alone was worth the browbeating I received. I wiped my plate clean and patiently waited until everyone else had eaten. Then I made my move and approached Buffet Nazi timidly.
“Excuse me, sir. Now that everyone else has eaten, may I please have another Yorkshire pudding and another slice of roast beef?”
Buffet Nazi stared at me, deciding if I was worthy of a second helping. Finally Buffet Nazi acquiesced and with a death stare begrudgingly put the food on my plate.
I nodded thanks, and as I left to eat my food Buffet Nazi leaned over the buffet and whispered menacingly, “I’m a big fan.”
Fozzy had been approached to do a track for a Judas Priest tribute album and we’d decided on “Metal Gods.” I was on my way to Atlanta to lay down the vocals and was at the gate waiting to board the plane when my cell rang. It was Shane McMahon, which was a surprise since I hadn’t talked to him for months. But as soon as I heard the somber tone of his voice, my stomach dropped ’cos I knew somebody had died.
“I have some terrible news …”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Eddy Guerrero is dead.”
I was hit with a horrible case of déjà vu and felt the same way as I had ten years before when Norman Smiley told me Art Barr had died. My body went numb and I lost all the strength in my legs as I collapsed. I tried to ask Shane what happened, but a stifled squeak was all I could manage.
“I know this is terrible. I know how close you guys were. He was in a hotel in Minneapolis and he wasn’t answering his phone, so Chavo and Dean went into his room and found him dead. We don’t know the cause.”
I buckled into a seat and sat there stunned. Tears welled out of my eyes as I thanked Shane and muttered I’d call him later. I hung up and was about to dial home when Jess called me first. She was in a panic: “Shane just called the house—”
Before she finished the sentence, we both started crying together.
I said, “I don’t know what to do. Do I come home or go record this song …?”
But as always the show must go on, and I decided to get on the plane and just keep on keepin’ on. I still don’t know if it was the right thing to do, but it was a plan, something I could follow that would keep my mind off of what I had just heard. I flew to Atlanta, went into the studio, and sang better than I ever had in my life.
Singing is a lot like acting—the more you relate to the vibe and feel of the song the better you’ll do. I was so angry and filled with raw emotion that I nailed the song in two takes and said, “Fuck it. I’m out of here.”
We had to cancel the first few shows of a Canadian tour we had booked so I could attend Eddy’s funeral. A few days earlier, I’d received a call from “Superstar” Billy Graham, asking me if I would say a few words at the service. I was honored but a little confused as to why Graham was in charge. It wasn’t like he and Eddy were the best of friends.
When I got to the funeral home Superstar handed me a rundown sheet, as if it was an episode of Raw. “Okay. You’ll be up fourth and you have five minutes. Make sure you don’t go overtime as we have to make sure that Vince has as much time to talk as he wants.”
Five minutes? What was he going to do if I talked longer—go to commercial? It was a funeral, the last chance I’d have to see my friend and share my memories of him with others who loved him like I did. If I wanted to talk for an hour I would, no matter how much “time” I had.
I tried to honor my brother by telling tales of how he and I attempted to be roommates on the road, but we got along like Molson and Jose Cuervo. How we got in a fight at a Minneapolis Denny’s and rolled around on the floor (Jericho-Sneap style) under the other patrons’ tables. How Eddy pronounced filet mignon “ fill-ett migg-non.” How we were the best tag team that never was and called ourselves “North and South of the Border” or “Eh and Wey.” I had no notes, no cue cards. I just got up and spoke about one of my oldest friends in the business, and tried to get some sort of closure.
After the service I went outside and spotted Benoit. He beelined over and gave me one of the most powerful and moving embraces I’ve ever experienced; he was clinging to me like a newborn baby to his mother. Then he began to shake.
He was crying uncontrollably with these deep, hitching, heartbreaking wails, and the shoulder of my suit jacket was soon damp from his tears. After a solid minute of this, I started to feel uncomfortable. Finally Chris let go and sobbed that he was furious I wasn’t asked to be a pallbearer. “That’s what Eddy would have wanted.”
Every pallbearer had been given a rose to throw on the casket as it was lowered into the ground, and he murmured adamantly, “I want you to have this rose. You have to throw this rose into his grave. Promise me you’ll put this in his grave, Chris.”
He stared a thousand miles into my eyes, all the while clutching the flower in his fist.
But he never gave it to me.
At the end of his plea he whispered, “I love you, Chris,” and then he shuffled away on zombie legs into the shadows of the funeral home.
After the service, Jess and I went to Eddy’s brand-new house he’d just bought in Phoenix. Vicki told me that Eddy was in a lot of physical pain toward the end of his li
fe from all of the various injuries he’d suffered over the years.
She also told me that Eddy was proud of me for being able to walk away from wrestling on my own terms. He was envious and wished he could have done the same thing.
The saddest thing about Eddy’s death for me was that so many guys have been eaten up by the business and died because of it. But here was a guy who’d battled his demons, beat them, and was at a good place in his life.
It seemed so unfair that God would take Eddy so young, a man who spread the word of the Bible at every chance, a man who stood out as a Christian in the WWE locker room. He never pointed fingers or preached to anybody, but if you had a question about Jesus he was the guy you would ask. It’s beyond my comprehension why God makes the decisions he does, but the world could use more people like Eddy Guerrero.
He wasn’t perfect. He wasn’t a saint. But he was one of the most genuine, humble, sweetest men I’ve ever met in my life, and I miss him.
I also think about Eddy every time I go to a restaurant and pay the check. One day we went to eat and the bill came. I left a one-dollar tip on a ten-dollar tab and Eddy looked at me, annoyed.
“You should tip 20 percent no matter what.”
“Why?” I asked.
“What’s two dollars to you? What’s four dollars to you? You’re making good money. But to the waitress it could be the difference between paying her electric bill or not. Don’t be selfish.”
I felt like Mr. Pink talking to Mr. White, so I put another dollar down.
To this day, I tip 20 percent no matter what, and all of you waiters and waitresses that I meet can thank Eddy Guererro for that.
In the coming weeks, the WWE did an angle where Randy Orton in trying to antagonize Rey Mysterio would say things like, “Eddy is in hell.” Eddy was a devout Christian, and in my opinion he would’ve been incensed at the thought of using his eternal soul as the basis for a wrestling angle. I was glad that I wasn’t working for the WWE at the time, because I would’ve needed to speak out against it. I called Benoit and asked him what he thought and he calmly replied, “There’s nothing I can do about it.”
Undisputed: How to Become World Champion in 1,372 Easy Steps Page 30