B004FEF6RO EBOK

by Wylde, Zakk

  When we first started Black Label Society in 1998, our drummer Phil Ondich, or as I labeled him, “the Philthy One,” was not only a great drummer and drinking partner, he was also a killer artist. Philth handled all of the artwork for the band. I would scribble down my ideas for T-shirts, beanies, and caps. Then after Philth got done laughing his balls off at my Salvador Dalí-of-patheticness artwork, he would design them and bring them to life. Then we’d have them printed up ourselves and store them in our garage at the house. Barbaranne would take the orders off our website and print them all up. Then we’d pull the orders from the garage, stuff them into packages, and take them down to the post office ourselves. I even thought about hiring JD to help out but I would have ended up firing him at some point because he is useless. This is really a shame because with his little hands it would have been so much easier for him to stuff the envelopes. And nothing has changed since then—he’s got the hands to get the job done, just not the work ethic.

  Everything was hands-on back then and if anything went wrong we had nobody to blame but ourselves. I would always rather be as self-reliant as possible. Even today we carry all our own gear, merchandise, and anything else we can handle on our own. And all of this happened before the band had any merchandise deals or anything like that. It’s how we started out and I really enjoyed doing it. When I was a kid I would have loved to have received a package actually sent by Jimmy Page, Eddie Van Halen, or Randy Rhoads.

  World Tour Survival Technique: The Great Crusade

  SO NOW YOUR BAND HAS A STRONG IDENTITY AND YOU’VE GOT YOUR album recorded. And if you’ve paid attention up to this point you’ve come up with some cool merch and have stocked up on all of the cocaine and strippers you’ll need to entice the radio programmers to play your mind-blowing record. It’s clear to the Nordic gods that you’ve made the decision to grab your sac and be a true fuckin’ Viking warrior. With all of these weapons now in your arsenal, it’s time to embark on your magnificent campaign toward world dominance. Well done, my battle-ready brethren. Now it’s time to tell your parents to keep your room clean and not to mess with any of your Star Wars toys while you’re away on tour. Also, remind your wife to keep the kids quiet after nine P.M. each night so that your parents can get a good night’s rest before they leave for work in the morning—somebody’s gotta pay for all the diapers and the baby formula.

  In order to get your band out on the road, you can either get out there on your own or get on a bigger tour as a supporting act for a more established band. As with anything, there are pros and cons to both, but if you want to play music for a living, you’ll probably want to do it all. If I were a young Metal bodybuilder starting out and looking to carve my name into the bowels of Heavy Metal, I would van it. I’d get all my bandmates to pitch in and buy a van and book as many gigs as we could get to with a tank of gas. We’d hit the road night after night to get the songs out there. This is exactly what Black Label has been doing on a larger scale since day one. Sure, there was a little more cash in the bank to start off with, but the concept is exactly the same, just scaled up.

  You’ve got to be cool with people and make friends out there, not just hit the stage and leave. You want to make friends everywhere you go so those people will want to come back next time you’re in town, because you and your band are cool guys to hang out with. And if that means you have to pork someone’s obese sister or friend in order to keep them coming to the show, so be it. Remember that story I told you earlier about when I got talked into making out with that heifer so that her brother would help out my band, you know, with all his “big connections” in the biz? I let that three-hundred-pound titanic love machine jump aboard, crushing my ribs and lungs as she tried to eat my entire face in the back of the car. Remember—MERCILESS. It really was my first attempt at making a big-time career move and as mentioned earlier, it didn’t work at all. I’m still suffering back problems from this little incident. So maybe this paragraph doesn’t really offer the best advice. The more I think about it, the more I think we better pretend like this part of the conversation, and this part of my life, never happened.

  To get your band on tours nowadays you usually have to pay to play. It only makes sense; just like Coke and Pepsi duke it out for product placement in movies, you may actually have to buy your way onto a tour to be able to play in front of massive amounts of people. You’re paying for the crowd, since your own band couldn’t draw more than a few friends and family members to come see you. This way you’re killing two birds with one stone, crushing it onstage in front of thousands of people every night instead of playing in front of a few dozen, plus you’re on a major tour, which will beef up your Metal status, leading you to more opportunities. It will also keep you away from whoring yourself out like I did. Trust me, you’re gonna be taking enough ass-reaming while in the music business—choose yours wisely. I didn’t and my lower back will never forgive me.

  With all the players involved in Black Label, I refer to running the whole thing as a military operation. My management team, the Warden and Bob Ringe, stay at the “White House,” back home. I don’t need management out on the road with me to hold up my balls, wipe my ass, and tell me how adorable and wonderful Jfr I am. I already know that. In fact, as part of my therapy, a therapy that I developed, I stare at myself in the mirror and repeat this mantra to myself over and over—while wiping my ass. Actually, I don’t really need the mirror. I just need the constant reminder that I’m wonderful and fucking adorable.

  The president and his staff aren’t running around out there in the battlefield where the bullets are flying; they stay at the White House making executive decisions while their soldiers fight the war. And if your manager happens to be Bob Ringe of the almighty Black Label Order, then there are massive split-second, make-or-break decisions that need to be made. This includes decisions about what kind of furniture is going to match the Italian stone floors and handcrafted shutters in his Malibu mansion, which wheels will look best on his new Mercedes Benz SL65 AMG, and whether he should go with the king palms around the pool or just more imported, high-priced European furniture.

  When the band and Doom Crew are flying, I refer to our plane as Air Force One. If we’re on the road in the tour bus, then we’re all part of the Black Label Navy Team traveling in the Black Label nuclear submarine. I call it this because the bus, since it really is just a big metal tube, seems more like a submarine (Yes, I realize that the bus is on the road and not underwater. But mind you, back in the day, our liver, kidneys, and pancreases were constantly submerged in liquid.) And when we take to the water, like with the boats and ferries, it’s also the Navy Team. Yes, it is very exciting. And I wonder sometimes, because it is a submarine, why couldn’t JD’s submarine sink to the grubby bottom, just sink like his self-esteem, his work ethic, and … should we even bring up his erectile dysfunction? Probably not—because all of the guys that he’s slept with say that everything works just fine in that department. Now his dysfunction as a human being is a whole other story. You know how the U.S. military’s motto is Be All That You Can Be? Obviously JDesus never got that memo.

  Sex and Religion

  BY PHIL CIULO, SERGEANT AT ARMS

  ONE THING A LOT OF PEOPLE DON’T KNOW ABOUT ZAKK IS THAT he’s a faithful Catholic who prays all the time, at home and on tour. Zakk’s one of the most religious guys I know. One time in Winnipeg, Canada, we checked into our hotel and had just finished a couple rounds of drinks in the hotel bar. Zakk decided it was time to go pray. “Wake up the guys, we’re all going to church right now,” he said.

  “Zakk, it’s ten o’ clock at night, brother. We aren’t gonna find a church right now.”

  “Get the guys, we’re going,” he said.

  So we all end up in a cab running around town looking for an open church, and all of them are closed. Finally, Zakk got out at one of these stops and knelt in front of this church, out in the frozen fucking tundra. It was thirty degrees below th
at night and Zakk stayed out there praying for twenty minutes. I thought he was gonna freeze to death. JD actually suggested that if we left Zakky out there long enough, maybe he would actually freeze to death, therefore giving the band a chance to “upgrade” their front man. Unfortunately for JD, Zakk was so sauced up on the booze that his blood was not capable of freezing.

  Another time in Winnipeg, we went into this fuck store and Zakk bought a batch of dildos and sex tricks. Barb was out on the road, and he was planning on harassing her later with his porn-shop shenanigans. He paid for the stuff and handed the bag to me to carry. Five minutes later, Zakk decided we’re going to church, and there I was carrying a black bag full of dildos. We ended up in this Catholic church, during the hymns and sermon, and I was sweating whether or not this heavy bag of dildos was going to break open. How would I explain that one? An hour later, Zakk had his communion and we were out of there. God forgive us.

  Note from Zakk: Actually, in that photo above, I’m not only giving thanks to the Good Lord, but I am also asking, no, begging my savior Jesus Christ, his holy spirit, and almighty God above to grant me strength and surround me with his white light as I battle the forces of darkness and pure evil that emanate out of one Meatball Lasagna—John “JDesus” DeServio.

  Here’s a shot from my birthday party in 2010 that Barb threw for me at a Moroccan place in Hollywood. Not shown here—my Black Label brother Nick Catanese, Father Cantrell, Father Jericho, and Father Blasko, among many other friends who came and celebrated. Unfortunately, the list of guests also included my brothers Father Eric and Father Phil—and again I use the term brother in the loosest sense, as in “Oh brother, they were invited too?”

  Scraps from the Lion’s Table

  WHEN YOU HAVE A FAMILY AND YOU’RE ON THE ROAD, THINGS ARE NATURALLY a little different than when you’re single. If I were single I’d be out reaping the spoils of my grandiose celebrity and bathing women across the globe in my conquest each night, before, after, and possibly during every show. Now, mind you, the chicks that actually like me have humps on the back of them instead of in front of them, have more hair on their genitals than I have, and can bench-press, deadlift, and squat more than the entire Doom Crew combined—no wonder why I have so much time to practice. I think I’m gonna get my name changed again—to Eunuch Boy.

  To be honest, this is the only reason I ever picked up a guitar and is the only reason any guy with the right frame of mind should consider playing a musical instrument. Not for the love of music. Not for the creative freedom. Not to follow your passions. You should do it in the sheer hopes that you might one day find yourself lathered up in a motel shower with two chicks at the same time. And all the better if you wind up in one of those showers with all the handicapped grab bars. God bless the Americans with Disabilities Act of 1990.

  Note from Zakk: I didn’t put in that shit about the disabled. Eric did. Sick fuckin’ asshole.

  Alas, as a married man, I’ve been told that now it’s gonna be boring as I get the same thing every night for the rest of my life. So that’s why I mix it up. You know, throw the gorilla suit on the wife while I fuck the living shit out of her. I love the feeling that I’m conquering not only her but wildlife at the same time. Whenever I buy these fucking costumes for her, people ask if they are costumes for my kids for Halloween. I just say, “Yeah, of course,” right before I cut out holes for the vagina and tits and ass.

  For the Love of God, Do Not Pick Up the Phone!

  ONCE AGAIN, AS THIS BOOK OFFERS TIDBITS OF ROCK ’N’ ROLL WISDOM, here’s another story of stupidity and brilliance coming together, fusing into one hard lesson learned by one blond bomber douche—which would happen to be me.

  Back in my high school days, or even earlier, all the chicks I was ever into dropped me like a bad habit, sack of shit, flat-out douche, or whatever other word they might use for someone they want to get the fuck away from them. I’d always get them flowers, candy, the whole nine yards. They’d just leave me with the bill and a set of fucking blue balls. So when me and Barbaranne hooked up, and she actually appeared to like me, I knew she was a keeper. And here we are, twenty-six years later, with three kids. But before I put that wedding band on her finger and locked her up in the basement of our house, I had to fulfill my fantasies of being Bond—that is, James Bond.

  Now, like I said, being the Mr. Intercontinental that I am, with chicks lining up for herpes before spending a single date with me, there I was, nineteen years old, playing arenas and stadiums around the world with my hero, the legendary Ozzy Osbourne. Between the poofy hair, looking like some chick I’d want to fuck, and the fact that I was playing with the Boss, for some weird reason, I experienced something I never had before in my life—girls were actually coming up to me.

  Enter Bond, James Bond—Mr. Intercontinental.

  I remember we did this gig in Texas. I brought back some hot-looking mama-jama with massive jugs, curves of doom, and a full-on gorilla coat of hair on her back, just the way I like my women. Mind you, she was missing a few teeth and her hands were more callused than those of any bricklayer I’ve ever met. Basically, she was nothing like Barbaranne, except for the back fur.

  So after a hot rocking show with the Boss, back to the hotel bar we went, where we were firing back cocktails like it was going out of style. Not long after, it was me and Mighty Joe Young getting it on in my hotel room.

  Guys who had been out on the road for years told me, “Whatever the fuck you do, you fucking idiot, if you’ve got a chick in your room and an old lady at home, tell that chick not to even think about answering that fucking phone if it rings.”

  Of course. No problem. Right? Wrong.

  Let the comedy fucking begin.

  So after me and King Kong fought like Kong vs. Godzilla in Tokyo all night long, we both crashed out in the bed.

  The phone rang.

  In my head, between being so tired and having a decent bombo on still, I didn’t know whether I was dreaming or what the fuck was going on. Next thing I knew, I felt these massive jugs rolling across my chest as Mighty Joe Young picked up the phone.

  “Hello. Yes, this is a girl.”

  At this point I still thought I was dreaming. Well, whatever dream I was having was about to turn into a terrifying fucking nightmare.

  Tits McGee then said, “Yeah, he’s right here. Hold on a second. Zakk, it’s your sister, Amy. She says it’s a family emergency.”

  Now, mind you, my sister, Amy, is eighteen months younger than me, but there couldn’t be two more completely different people on the fucking planet. Put it this way: She once went to an Eric Clapton concert and complained that it was too loud and too heavy. You know those Yanni concerts on pay-per-view? And you ask yourself who the fuck watches this shit? Well, that would happen to be my sister, Amy.

  My sister would never call me out on the road unless it was something serious. The first thought I was thinking was that maybe something terrible happened to our dad, being that dad was an older guy and a World War II vet. I woke right the fuck up and sobered right the fuck up immediately as I grabbed the phone out of her hand.

  “Amy, what’s up?”

  There was first silence on the other end of the line.

  Then:

  “Who the fuck is that whore in your room?”

  I didn’t say a fucking thing. I was fumbling in my mind about how the fuck I was going to get out of this one.

  “I said, who the fuck is that whore in your bedroom? You tell that fucking bitch,” she said, “to get the fuck out of your fucking room right now!”

  If you haven’t guessed by now, it wasn’t Amy on the other line. It was Barbaranne—the Immortal Beloved. It’s a pure Black Label stupid-yet-brilliant story, where I had stupid covered and Barbaranne handled the brilliance. She knew that I would never have picked up the phone if she said it was her. So in a split second, she knew to say it was my fucking sister and that it was a family emergency! So devious, so diabol
ical—yet so brilliant.

  Again Barb said, “I want to hear you say it. Tell her to get the fuck out of your room. Say it!”

  So I sheepishly mustered up my most pathetic, candy-assed douchebag voice and said, “You’re gonna have to leave now.”

  That wasn’t good enough for the Warden. Barbaranne told me, “I want to hear you fucking say it. Tell her to get the fuck out of your room.”

  Finally I told Milk Jugs, “Just get the fuck out of my room! Now!”

  I got back on the phone with Barbaranne and said, “Are you fucking happy now?”

  Barbaranne answered, “You’re not in a position to talk to me like that. I’ll deal with you later.”

  So, kids, the moral of this story is, if you’ve got an old lady, and you get an opportunity to fuck a chick who has man-hands and a furry back, just keep the visual in your head. Go back to your room solo, shove one fist up your ass, and tickle your prostate, leaving the other hand free to drink your beer and hammer your cock. That’s about all the advice Uncle Zakk can give ya. Don’t end up like me or Tiger Woods. You don’t want that.

  One night after a show, the guys brought this really filthy skank on the bus. This girl was just fucking salivating at the chance to be a star on the tour bus porn set. While we were drinking beers in the front lounge and laughing, she started blowing one of the guys, then another, and then another. I watched while this chick made her rounds with several of the guys and crew. Then she wanted to get fucked by everyone, and at one point she asked our sound man Dave his name and started screaming, “Fuck me, sound man Dave!” Being the class act that she was, she obviously wasn’t interested in last names. Before Dave was finished with her, she yelled out, “Enough of you, I want to fuck the little guy,” pointing at JD.