by Wylde, Zakk
A Typical Day on Tour
WHEN WE’RE OUT ON TOUR, THE SHOW ISN’T THE ONLY THING ON MY mind. In every town we hit there are interviews, press conferences, contests, appearances, TV shows, radio shows, Black Label family meet-and-greets, record-release in-stores, and other happenings and events to be done. It’s not like we kick back all day long drinking beers and playing video games until it’s time to hit the stage and then party all night until the sun comes up. Wait a second… It used to be exactly like that. What the fuck happened???
I thought it would be interesting to share what a typical day on tour looks like for a Rock Hero like myself, as compared to my personal wizard Moby’s day. To give you a good perspective on our routines, we both kept a daily journal and wrote down some of the key events that happened to each of us during the day.
7:00 A.M.
Moby: I woke up with a stiff neck and sore back, unable to feel my left arm. Struggled to make it out of bed and find a cup of coffee to wash down the anti-inflammatory on an otherwise empty stomach—empty because I missed dinner last night. After I finished packing up the stage and loading the trucks, there was no fucking food left. I checked my e-mail and phone messages to see the never-ending burdens that will consume my day. Had to wash up quickly and get out the door. I wonder how it will be possible to make it to the end of the day when this one already sucks so badly.
Zakk: These goose-down comforters and oversized satin pillows are fucking unbelievable. Zzzzzzzzzz…
8:00 A.M.
Moby: I got to the venue only to show a crew of ex-convicts how to unload the gear. It’s the same equipment every day, but we always have new workers who don’t know what the fuck to do. One of them dropped two six-hundred-pound road cases off the edge of the truck and smashed my foot. The ice for the drinks hadn’t arrived yet, so I had no way to ice my foot.
Zakk: While groping Barbaranne’s lifeless and sleeping body, and whilst inside her morning-mist vagina, I jackhammered my cock into submission. It’s so awesome treating my body, and Barb’s lifeless one, like an amusement park. I blew my load and passed the fuck out. Zzzzzzzz…
10:00 A.M.
Moby: Trucks were finally unloaded, with no thanks to the day laborers, as they mostly watched me limp around with road cases. It was one hundred degrees and 90 percent humidity. All the guitars were going out of tune because of the heat and all of the strings were rusting because of the humidity. Then I had to get the backline set up while I fixed the guitars.
Zakk: Woke up to Barbaranne completely unaware what happened to her, until she felt me running down the inside of her leg. She then rewarded my greatness with a Kama Sutra position where I do very little of the work. After that I dozed back into dreamland for a bit while she rubbed my feet and ordered coffee and a healthy egg breakfast from the hotel’s room service. This is one of the nicest five-star hotels I’ve stayed in. It could actually be a six-star if there were such a thing. By the way, my cock told me that the goose-down-feathered comforters were amazing as well.
11:00 A.M.
Moby: Slammed my hand closing the roll-down door on the truck. Changing strings and tuning guitars was painful all morning. I forgot one of my tools back at the motel and when I got to my room, everything was completely soaked: the carpets, bed, tables, and all my stuff. I guess some assholes set off the fire sprinkler system on my floor while I was gone.
Zakk: Met up with Father Eric for a cup of Black Label Valhalla java. We had some good laughs and talked about the book you are reading. We set off the fire alarm over at Moby’s motel and then ran back over to our place. After some more laughs, we grabbed a pre-lunch snack and then I received a call from my manager that the new Black Label record landed No. 1 on the Billboard charts. I went down to the hotel spa to celebrate by getting one of the best massages of my life. That’s when my cock told me, “That omelet was simply amazing. The hollandaise sauce was undeniably perfect!”
12:00 P.M.
Moby: While changing strings, intonating the guitars, and setting the backline, got power to everything and did a line check of Zakk’s guitars. I’m not sure if the pounding headache is from lack of sleep, lack of food, or an extension of the back and neck pain I’ve had all day.
Zakk: Grabbed another freshly brewed cup of Black Label Valhalla java and headed back up to my room. Saw JD on my way up to the room. I ducked behind a column in the hotel lobby to avoid his seeing me. After the coast was clear, I continued my stroll back to my room. I was still in my bathrobe and slippers from this morning. My cock was also in a bathrobe and slippers. Yes, six-star hotel.
2:00 P.M.
Moby: Sound check went way over time and I missed any chance at getting a meal. Headed out in a rental car, in tons of traffic, in search of a music store for some parts I needed. Had to hurry and get back to setting up Zakk and Nick’s guitars for the night.
Zakk: Knocked out a couple of quick phone interviews while getting a deep-tissue massage and then took a short nap in front of SportsCenter.
5:00 P.M.
Moby: Had to run for a quick tetanus shot. I stuck my hand with a rusted tool while adjusting the intonation on Zakk and Nick’s guitars. We’ve had the same rusty tools for years and no budget for new ones. Zakk says there isn’t a dime left in the budget for tools.
Zakk: Just blew a ton of money on a delicious filet mignon dinner, ordered a couple to go in case I get hungry later as well. Then I went to the hotel’s gym to get a solid workout. It’s not as nice as my gym at home, but it did the trick, plus I was able to watch the game at the same time. Afterward, I headed back to the room to warm up with my guitars while the wife caressed my balls and told me how bountiful they are.
8:00 P.M.
Moby: Headed back from urgent care to the gig. Found a small, day-old side salad in the backseat of the rental car—first meal in twenty-four hours. The lettuce was rubbery from being in the car and heat all day. There was a half-empty water bottle as well, also warm.
Zakk: Phil picked me up at my penthouse suite and brought me a fresh triple-shot mocha. We headed downstairs. I signed a handful of autographs for members of our Black Label family who had been waiting for me in the lobby. We had some laughs, took some pictures, and then we jumped into the tour bus and headed off for Black Label church services.
9:00 P.M.
Moby: Zakk played all sixteen guitars tonight for twelve songs. He actually had me hand him a fresh guitar in the middle of several songs, so the crowd would see every single one we brought out on the road. After the set he handed me his guitar and told me to clean and restring every single one of them by five A.M. for his satellite radio appearance, where he will be performing two songs on the piano only.
Zakk: Had a kick-ass Black Label church service with thousands of Berzerkers. Everything went perfectly except I noticed that the B string on one of the sixteen guitars I played tonight was slightly sharp. I have a sneaking suspicion that Moby is slipping. Gonna have to hire someone to keep an eye on him, which will be deducted from Moby’s pay.
11:00 P.M.
Moby: Spent three hours taking down the stage, backline, and guitars and packed everything up on the truck. A homeless guy wandered into the venue collecting cans and threatened me with a rusty knife. I told him if he could stab me deep enough that I could take a few days off work, I would give him one of Zakk’s guitars. He gave me a deranged “crazy eyes” look, said something to me that sounded half-Chinese and half-Mongrel, and then staggered off into the night.
Zakk: Stepped off the stage and the Black Label Special Ops escorted me to a limousine waiting to take me back to my hotel suite. Checked my phone to find provocative photos sent from my wife, waiting in bed for me to come bathe her in my conquest.
2:00 A.M.
Moby: Stranded in the venue parking lot. I told those fucking guys I would be right back and they left me here. Have to find a way to the motel we are staying at. It’s forty miles from here, so a cab ride is going to cost me at least a hun
dred bucks. Between the hospital trip and getting left behind, I actually lost money by working today. Gonna look for that homeless guy again and see if two guitars will convince him to stab me with a rusted blade.
Zakk: After conquering the Immortal Beloved, I snacked down one of those savory and delicious steaks I bought earlier (smart planning, that’s why I’m the boss). Did a quick interview with China. I’m looking forward to rolling with the China Order of the Black. Got ready for bed; this Viking needs his beauty sleep. Barb frolicked among my balls, sucked me off, and then thanked me for allowing her to be my wife. I gazed right into her gorgeous, almond-shaped green eyes and said, “You’re welcome. And since my personal foot masseuse is nowhere to be found, rub my feet.”
There you have it, pretty much exactly how it goes down each day.
Bo Gacko
WHEN WE’RE OUT ROLLING WITH THE BLACK LABEL ARMADA, I LIKE TO meet our extended Black Label family in every town we pass through. And then there are radio performances and interviews. This one time in Baltimore, I was out doing radio interviews for the new record. Ordinarily, I would get instructions like “Don’t curse” if it’s a public radio station. But sometimes it’s satellite radio and they tell me I can say whatever the fuck I want. No one told me this time.
When we’re out rolling with the Black Label Armada, I like to meet our extended Black Label family in every town we pass through. And then there are radio performances, in-person interviews, and telephone interviews. When I call into a station, I generally get instructions like “don’t curse” if it’s a broadcast radio station. But sometimes it’s satellite radio and they tell me I can say whatever the fuck I want. On one particular occasion, they forgot to let me know it was broadcast radio.
I got on the phone thinking it was a satellite radio station, and I could hear this old timer saying, “Zakk Wylde here today from the Black Label Society. How ya doin’ today, Zakk?” So of course I answered, “It’s a sad day in rock ’n’ roll, guys. I just got done sucking off a couple of guys for beer money…”
CLICK!
They took me right off the air. But from my end of the phone, I could still hear them talking.
“See, with idiots like this, no wonder broadcasting is in the state it is.”
A few seconds later Mark’s phone was blowing up, and you know those calls weren’t friendly.
Back in the Pride & Glory days, we were in Idaho doing radio promotion gigs. We walked into this station, still loaded from the night before. I was irritated, trying to figure out how this AM radio station gig was gonna help us in any shape or form. I knew there weren’t any of the P & G family listening to this bullshit radio station. To make things even better, the DJ didn’t know who the fuck we were; this guy wouldn’t have recognized Ozzy if he was stuck in a fuckin’ elevator with him. So I decided to have a little fun with this one. I had Brian and JD play some fucked-up song they came up with called “Bo Gacko,” about a really nice guy who would do anything for you. At the end of each lyric line, Brian would play this riff on his guitar that sounded like the phrase Bo Gacko—which JD came up with when he was stoned out of his gourd one day. So these guys go into this ridiculously goofy-ass shit:
When you need him to walk your dog for you
he will… Bo Gacko
He’ll wash your car for you when you’re not
home… Bo Gacko
“And then…,” JD sang as he and Brian broke into the next part of this musical masterpiece…
Meanwhile, I was fucking dying laughing and the DJ, with a deadpan stare, wasn’t saying a fucking thing. He thought this shit was for real.
They finished the song, live on the air, and the DJ came back in saying, “Okay, well that was Pride & Glory with Bo Gaaaacko.”
Un-fucking-real.
And these pointless little radio and TV things still continue to this day.
You’re a Viking from New Jersey? You Must Have Grown up and Lived Right Next Door to Bruce Springsteen!
HERE’S A GREAT BLACK LABEL SUPER BOWL HIGHLIGHT REEL OF HOW amazingly the publicist and record company can perform when left to make decisions at will. Just recently, on tour for the Order of the Black record, we had just finished three Black Label church services and were about to play the fourth consecutive show in New York City. Now, when you’re playing the guitar and staying up all fucking night getting fucking hammered, it ain’t a big deal when you’ve got a gig the next day. That is, unless you’re the douchebag lead singer of Black Label, which is the other half of what I do, making me half more douche, thus completing my full-bore doucheness. Anyway, ask any lead singer and he or she will tell you that the only way to get ready for the next gig is to sleep and shut the fuck up. For guitar and bass, you change the strings. For drums you change the drum heads. But for vocals, you gotta rest the pipes until it’s showtime. So now that everybody knows that, what does my Black Label Special Ops publicity team arrange? This is how they show me why I pay them the big fucking bucks—my publicity think tank of doom threw this atom-splitting idea at me.
Before I get into this brilliant idea, realize I don’t go to sleep after a Black Label mass until three A.M., or even five A.M. I'm up from all of the adrenaline of the Black Label church service. So the game plan is to get me and Mark to some fucking radio station in the city at about six in the fucking morning to tell them what my favorite fucking Bruce Springsteen songs are and what memories I have connected to these fucking songs! Are you for fucking real??!!
Then I was told it’s the E Street satellite radio channel, where all they play is Father Springsteen 24 fucking 7!!! Now, I dig the Boss, but I asked my team of specialists, “What in the fuck does this have to do with me promoting Black motherfucking Label?”
The answer was, being that I’m the fucking Viking douche that rose from the frozen tundra of the Nordic New Jersey parkways, where Odin resides—and if you notice, the only fucking birds that fly around New Jersey are ravens—they thought it would be cool publicity because I was playing NYC that night.
I then asked, being the dumb motherfucker that I am, “Are they going to announce that we are playing in town? Are they going to play Black Label? Are they going to even mention Black motherfuckin’ Label?”
Well the answer, gang, is one that you’ll soon become all too familiar with in the glory-hole-filled music business. And that answer is a resounding, “No. No. No.”
After I got done fucking laughing I just said, “Lemme get this straight. You want me on no motherfuckin’ sleep, getting ready to play NYC, which is going to be a fucking madhouse tomorrow between friends, family, record company people, radio people, the whole nine yards, and it also being the fourth Black Label mass in a row, which means at some motherfucking point I gotta fucking sleep. But all I’m gonna do is talk about Father Springsteen’s songs and whether Barb was sucking me off or I was mounting her from behind while ‘Born to’ fucking ‘Run’ was blasting on the radio in my old 1978 Delta 88 Royale. Get the fuck outta here. Tell the gang down at E Street Radio that Bruce and company rule, but I have a Black Label church service I have to attend. And I apologize for not being able to come down to the station. Now that that’s done, see if you can put your heads together and come up with some more brilliant shit for me to do.”
And so the joyous musical journey continues, which will be well documented in yet another one of my future masterpieces, titled How to Get Your Wife to Tickle Your Prostate, Suck You Off, Change Your Newborn, and Make You a Sandwich at the Same Time.
World Tour Survival Technique: STDs, and I’m Not Talking About Stronger Than Death
The Adventures of Itchy the Crab Catcher
After you’ve thrown down a crushing show of Metal alchemy it’s time to pat yourself on the back for a job well done, crank up the stereo, and enjoy the spoils of your conquest. At every gig we play, there’s a lineup of girls who’d love to be on the receiving end of an extreme rear-end makeover masterminded by yours truly. This is great for the single
guys in the band, but it doesn’t come without its itchy, crawling consequences.
Over in Tokyo, one of the guys, whom we’ll call “Itch” for the sake of this story, came down with a nasty batch of crabs. This wasn’t his first experience with crabs. Itch has had a plethora of burning and bumpy gatherings on his junk over his many years in rock. It’s pretty safe to say that he’s had every STD in the book a dozen times over, and quite possibly a few that haven’t been discovered yet. Let’s just say he’s a huge fan of skinning it.