B004FEF6RO EBOK

by Wylde, Zakk

  Remember how I mentioned unimportant people making important decisions? Anyway, I’m at one of these record company fucking meetings, where this fucking Einstein unleashes these words of musical wisdom to enlighten me as, I know, I’m a clueless dumb motherfucker who’s never been to the dance before. He says to me, “Zakk, you know this whole Viking-Jesus’s-biker-henchman thing you’ve got going on?”

  I said, “Yeah, you forgot to throw in the fact that we bake all the cookies that the fucking Girl Scouts sell. What about it?”

  “Well, I was thinking, if you changed the image of the band to maybe more of a Limp Bizkit type of thing, that would definitely help.”

  I didn’t know whether he was making a fucking joke or he wanted me to knock his fucking teeth out, or see if I could cave his fucking skull in with my Wesco mining boots. I was like, “You’re fucking joking, right?”

  “No, I think it would really help,” he said.

  “Hold on a minute, you mean to tell me that if I put on a backward fucking baseball cap, throw on some baggy motherfucking clothes, a pair of fucking Vans, and start rapping “Yo yo yo”—that’s gonna fucking fix everything? Are you out of your fucking mind? Are we supposed to make believe that I never fucking played with Ozzy? Instead of being proud of the fact that I stood in the same spot as my hero Randy Rhoads and shared the same stage with my hero and mentor Ozzy, I’m supposed to be embarrassed of where I came from? Fuck you, douche! And fuck Limp Bizkit! I’m in Black motherfucking Label Society!!! Why don’t you just take your fucking record company, and Limp Bizkit, and cram it up your fucking cunt sideways.”

  Needless to say, that meeting didn’t pan out as well as expected.

  So that’s where the Black Label war on Limp Bizkit began. Right then and there I felt like my whole musical existence had been attacked and fired upon. He could have mentioned any other band that was popular and that I should be more like, but he said Limp Bizkit. If they are responsible for the trend that means Black Label won’t taste victory, then they must be fucking destroyed!!! I kid you not, this was my complete fucking mind-set, as I felt it was kill or be killed. So during every Black Label mass after this record company meeting, “Limp Bizkit sucks fucking dick!” became the war oath as the Black Label armada rolled on seething strength from one Black Label mass to the next and refused to be denied. That’s why I’ve always said Black Label is not a band, it’s a mentality where lions gather and adversity is the fucking air we breathe.

  As far as the Limp Bizkit guys go, I’ve never met them. Guys who have worked with them or roll with them have said to me, “They are all super-cool guys and good people.” God bless them. Any band saying they wouldn’t want a smidgen of their success is full of shit. I’ve never wished bad on anyone in my life (except for JD, obviously), as it takes away from your concentrating on getting the fucking job done that’s in front of you. And if they are complete fucking cunts, just forget their existence altogether. Instead of wasting my time thinking about some douchebag, I would rather have Barbaranne suck me off and fist me, preparing me for my next prostate exam, to ensure that I have a clean bill of health, so I can continue to play this magickal music—which makes me feel like a giddy little schoolgirl—called rock ’n’ roll.

  But if Limp Bizkit was in the same position as I was thirteen years ago, during the birth of the almighty Black Label in 1998, I’d expect nothing different from them if some record company know-it-all douche who obviously knew what was best for them and probably isn’t in the music business anymore said the same thing to them. Here we are thirteen years later with our Black Label family growing stronger and stronger, and Order of the Black entered the Billboard charts at number four. Now let’s say some record company guy tells the fellas in Limp Bizkit, “Guys, your shtick is getting old. That was thirteen years ago. Maybe if you dressed more like… Black Label? They have a number four album!” I’d expect them to say, “Black Label can suck my left fucking ball! We’re Limp fucking Bizkit, asshole!”

  You think I’m joking but established artists who have sold millions of records have fucking idiots who don’t even know who’s in the fucking band or anything about their past telling them what kind of music they should be playing or what kind of clothes they should be wearing. Always remember—play what you love and what moves you. And have a set of fucking balls and don’t be afraid to stick up for yourself. I’ve been put in positions where I’ve felt uncomfortable about doing something, and in the end they pretty much all turned out with me asking myself, “Why the fuck did I listen to that asshole?” If you believe in what you are doing, those beliefs are yours, and not anybody else’s, to change.

  Weekend at Bernie’s

  A BUDDY OF MINE TOLD ME WHEN HE WAS WORKING AT SOME RECORD company that they were about to release a new Jimi Hendrix album of lost tapes of Jimi snoring or stubbing his fucking toe, or God knows whatever else they could find recordings of Jimi doing—brushing, flossing, mowing his lawn, eating potato chips, you get the idea. So the record company was having its weekly boardroom meeting discussing the battle plan of how they were going to promote the new Jimi Hendrix offering. Everybody was firing off ideas, bouncing them off each other, when in walks a twenty-two-year-old girl who works for the label. She says to everybody at the table, “I’m going to book Mr. Hendrix’s flights and take care of all of his travel arrangements. Does anybody know where he prefers to stay?”

  My buddy said there was dead silence, and then they broke out dying laughing. The girl handling the travel asked, “What the fuck is so funny?” Then she said, “When you find out where he likes to stay, let me fucking know because I have to book this shit.”

  At least the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders have to take a test on the history of the Cowboys’ players and its franchise history. That’s why the music business is so fucking awesome—you don’t even have to know the name of the deceased person you’re working for! Being involved in this shit truly is a gift that keeps on giving.

  At the end of the day, play what you love and what moves you. Plain and simple. GIFD.

  Gotta Promote the Record!

  OVER THE YEARS, GOING TO RADIO AND PROMOTING WHATEVER ALBUM was out at the time has always been a blast. And I’ve met some great people who, whether they’re still in the business or not, when we run into each other again, we always have a great time catching up, laughing our asses off telling war stories. Now here’s another gem of radio fucking comedy.

  The record company and their radio staff people are the absolute fucking best when they get all jacked up. Especially the radio people in their market or territory, when we are gonna pay them a visit with our cuddliness, compiled with the sheer adorableness of the fucking grand whatever-the-fuck-it-is that we bring to the table. Anyway, at one particular radio station we visited up in the Pacific Northwest, in walks the radio guy or gal from the label, and my brother-in-law and tour manager, and fearless field general, much akin to General George S. Patton—Father Mark Ferguson—along with the general of the Black Label guitar army, Moby. And then there’s the wonderful blond-bomber douchebag—me.

  So basically the game plan is that I will tantalize them all with my unbelievable fucking greatness, push the album, and bless them with a Carnegie Hall–worthy performance, and in turn they will be so abso-fucking-lutely blown away that they just have to add the single to their playlist! Right? Oh, you sad, sad, pathetic little man.

  Now, get this. I jam about three or four unplugged, un-Blackened fucking tunes on the acoustic guitar and piano, tell them a batch of funny fucking Ozzy and Black Label stories, tell them about how wonderful the new album is and how if you buy it, everything in your life is going to be peachy keen and all the other bullshit that makes life worth living! Mission accomplished, right?

  Here’s the grand prize, kids.

  While Moby was breaking down the gear, and I was taking a piss, Father Fergie was talking with the radio programmer (the guy who decides what does and what doesn’t get played on th
eir radio station) and some of the gang at the station. The programmer guy told Mark, “We love when you Black Label guys come down to the station. Zakk tells the funniest stories and we love it when he performs for us. It’s just so awesome!”

  Mark answered, “Yeah, Zakk’s a funny fucker. So listen, boss, are you guys going to spin the single?”

  The guy looked Mark straight in the fucking eyes, everything went silent, and he said, “Ahhhhh… No. But anyway, it was really great seeing you guys. Take care.”

  The only thing missing was, “Don’t let the door hit you in the fucking ass on your way out, you fucking idiots!” Once again, fucking priceless!

  You’re Fucking Out!

  REMEMBER HOW I WAS TELLING YOU ABOUT THE RECORD LABELS THAT I dealt with and how I told them, “I’ll do my end of the deal, you fucking do yours”? Well, here’s a perfect example of when you know they’re lying to you, and you just wish somehow you could prove it. None other than “Mom”—Sharon Osbourne—conceived this little plot of record label investigation during the release of the No More Tears album. Mom wanted to have the Boss get closer to the Ozzy Army so she rounded up a batch of in-stores and smaller gigs for us to play, instead of the enormodomes we were doing up to that point. It was her idea to give all the Ozzy-heads a chance to see the boss in a more intimate setting. As far as the gigs went, they were fucking awesome! Between the fucking energy coming off the stage and the insane asylum in the crowds, it was fucking killer. Thank the good Lord the gigs were a blast because the in-stores were a whole other fucking story.

  On paper, it all looked fucking grand—Ozzy and the band would roll into the record store with the new album blasting throughout the fucking place. The Ozzy Army could come in, get the new record and whatever other Ozzy album they wanted, and have them signed by the boss and the band. With about fifteen hundred crazy Ozzy-heads at every in-store, you would figure they would sell fifteen hundred copies of the new record, and plenty of other Ozzy and Sabbath records. Then Ozzy and the band would sign everything and a good time would be had by all. How fucking complicated is that? Keep reading.

  If I’m a manager at fucking McDonald’s and I realize that we are starting to run low on fucking hamburger patties, I am immediately blowing a phone call in for a massive shipment of patties so that we don’t lose out on a ton of burger sales. The music business is no different. If you’re a record company, your bands’ CDs and product are your burgers for sale. You don’t sell fucking burgers, you don’t pay the bills and you don’t eat. Common sense, right?

  The boss and the rest of the band showed up at one particular record store and there was a massive line around the fucking building. As soon as we stepped foot in the store there was a Black Sabbath video cranked up on all of the TVs—STRIKE ONE!

  Ozzy looked around and said, “Do these fucking assholes realize that I’ve been out of Sabbath longer than I was in it? Tell someone to put the new fucking record on!”

  Once they got that sorted, we sat down at the signing tables. The doors opened and in came the Ozzy Army—all super-cool people, all super-pumped to meet the Boss. After Ozzy signed about five CDs the store completely ran out of the new record. The shelves were pillaged to find every last CD with Ozzy’s name on it—one copy of Blizzard of Oz, two copies of Diary of a Madman, one copy of Bark at the Moon, one copy of Master of Reality, and two copies of Paranoid—and that’s all, folks! They had booked a living legend to appear in their store, the Prince of fucking Darkness, and had a total of twelve fucking copies of any music with Ozzy on it—twelve fucking copies to span his entire career of music! The only problem is, we had fifteen hundred fucking people wanting to buy a record and have Ozzy sign it. If the store manager had pulled this horseshit at any other job he would have been fucking fired, killed by a death squad in some countries—STRIKE TWO!

  It gets better.

  Instead of signing flyers or posters or whatever promotional items might have been brought into the store to promote the fucking album (which, by the way, are supposed to be supplied by the fucking record company), the Boss and the band were signing fucking paper towels from the fucking bathrooms. Oz, being the super-cool guy that he is, just signed anything handed to him. He greeted everybody, right up to the last person waiting in line to meet him and the store employees as well. After we left, on the way back to the hotel, that’s when he laid it down.

  “Fucking napkins? How many years have I been doing this shit and I’m signing fucking napkins from the bathroom at a record in-store? Are you fucking kidding me?”

  After Mom got word of this fucking fiasco of doom, each day we rolled into any town to do a show, she had the assistant to the band (which really meant best friend and drinking partner)—Will “the Chill”—go out to every fucking store and take an inventory of every last Ozzy record in the place, the name of the store, the manager, contact numbers, addresses. That way when Mom called the record company as we were headed out to bring the doom, she could say, “We were in Miami yesterday and there were no fucking Ozzy records in the stores, assholes!”

  The record company would fire back, “Yes there are! There are tons of Ozzy records out there!”

  Mom would reply, “Listen, cocksuckers, don’t you fucking lie to me! I’ve got my assistant going out to every big chain and mom-and-pop record store out there! I’ve got a list of names, dates and times, contacts, which records and how many at each and every store. You’re busted fucking cold!”

  To this day it never ceases to amaze me that this shit still goes on. If we own a Burger King, and somebody pulls up and orders a burger, we don’t tell him, “Sorry, we are out of burgers, but would you like a grilled chicken sandwich?” For fuck’s sake, the name of the restaurant is called Burger fucking King, not Grilled Chicken Sandwich King! No fucking burgers? STRIKE THREE, MOTHERFUCKER–YOU’RE FUCKIN’ OUT!

  It would just be easier to have them give us twenty thousand records, bring them to the in-store, and whatever we don’t sell, we have for the next in-store. What the fuck is so fucking hard about that? It’s the record company’s job to make sure they sell fucking records. Do we not want to sell records? Maybe we should go into the bathroom-paper-towel business, because there were plenty of those fucking things to go around for Ozzy and the band to sign. Better yet, if they could find a way to make a living by coming up with bullshit excuses, they would. Since that’s what the majority of their job consists of—weak-willed, excuse-riddled shit. The whole thing is you’re supposed to work as a fucking team, not us against you.

  Somewhere in the middle of the No More Tears tour, the record company held this dinner in some fancy banquet room and presented Oz and the rest of us with double-platinum discs. They also presented Ozzy with this gigantic frame with all of the platinum albums that he had sold—from Saint Rhoads to Father Lee to when my dumb ass joined the band. It was massive. I felt so happy for Oz—he’s one of the coolest guys on the planet and we were all there to celebrate with him.

  One of the big guys at the label got up and gave a speech about how awesome Oz was and about all his years of hard work and success, how proud they were to be his record company. Then he said, “We’d like to congratulate Ozzy and his band for No More Tears going double platinum!”

  Everyone began to clap and cheer, when all of a sudden Mom’s voice overpowered everything with, “It could have done fucking better!”

  There was dead silence, then uncomfortable laughing, and then clapping again. And then again at the top of her lungs, Mom shouted, “It could have done fucking better!”

  Needless to say it was fucking awesome.

  Thank you, Mom.

  Hair of the Gods: The Metal Beard

  One of my favorite nicknames for Zakk is “Hangtime,” because he’s always got food or something stuck in that filthy thing that he calls his beard.

  —RITA HANEY, DIMEBAG’S HAG

  WHEN I WAS A CHILD, I DID CHILDISH THINGS, LIKE MASTURBATE HEAVILY, drink my father’s liquor, and play
the recorder. Now that I am a man I have put away those childish things—and now I masturbate heavily, drink my father’s liquor, and play the recorder. What I’m driving at is that to truly establish yourself in the Great Halls of Metal, nay, in music, it is necessary to grow up and become a man. This means a lot of different things. Some of them you will discover as you continue reading this holy parchment, which will transform the fantasy portion of your life into a reality. There is no higher honor in life than to proudly display the fact that you have evolved into manhood, and the best way to do this is to grow yourself a true Metal beard. And if you truly want to test your manliness you could also try running into your local marine recruiting center hollering, “God bless the terrorists!” However, for your safety and everyone else’s involved, let’s just stick with the beard.

  Everyone from Kerry King, to Scott Ian, to Rob Zombie, and of course, Brother Dimebag Darrell himself all cultivated the sacred emblem upon his iron chin. It is a rite of passage for a band to grow beards. It’s a sign that they have moved on from a silly bullshit act into an undeniable wrecking ball of musical alchemy—or possibly that they’re too fucking lazy to pick up a razor. I’ve got to be honest with you, that’s why I’ve got one. But we’ll stick with the sacred rite of the Viking for its awesomeness. Beards have been associated with the warrior mentality and dominance for thousands of years, and things are no different in the world of Metal—or in the gay community.