B004FEF6RO EBOK

by Wylde, Zakk

  My God, it was comedy hearin’ those two! But we still made it to the show. We Got It Fuckin’ Done.

  Ozzy’s a What?

  I REMEMBER THIS ONE NIGHT OVER IN EUROPE, WE WERE PLAYING SOME small club, and Ozzy and Geezer were feeling a little under the weather, so the gig was getting canceled. I think at this point they were both back at the hotel, which was actually across the street from the venue. So our fearless tour manager and guardian angel Bobby Thompson, bless his soul, came up to me as I was warming up on my guitar in the venue and said, “Zakky, would you mind going up onstage and telling the audience that Ozzy and Geezer are feeling under the weather and that the show is canceled? But we’ll be back soon and all their tickets will be refunded?”

  I looked at B.T. and said, “Fuck that, Bobby. I ain’t going up there and saying that shit.”

  Bobby just said, “All right, just get your stuff together so we can get your asses over to the hotel.”

  Me and Father Castillo started walking out the back door and across the street to the hotel. We went up to the top floor to the Skybar to have some cocktails. As we were having our drinks, we could literally see the people down below, waiting to get inside the venue for the big hot-rockin’ show. Me and Randy went downstairs to ask if there were any cool rock bars in town. Just then a kid came up to us and asked, “Oh man, were you guys going to the show tonight?”

  “Yeah, it really sucks, man. We really wanted to see Ozzy,” Randy and I responded.

  Then the kid told us, “Yeah, I had tickets and a recorder. I was going to tape the show tonight. Here, check it out.”

  He hit play on his recorder and I could hear people talking and chattering, and next I hear Father Thompson’s voice over the PA system announcing that Ozzy wouldn’t be performing that night.

  First, B.T. thanked the crowd for their understanding before the comedy ensued. There was mumbling and then utter disgust. And then chanting: “Ozzy’s a wanker… Ozzy’s a wanker… Ozzy’s a wanker.” All one thousand of them in unison and sheer drunken delight blasting out our fearless leader’s name.

  Me and Randy just started fucking cracking up. Then the crowd turned into an angry mob and destroyed the whole fucking place. John Sinclair’s keyboards, which were behind the PA, got completely demolished as they tipped the whole fucking PA over. Thank God John wasn’t behind there. Needless to say, I don’t think the cancellation was well received.

  Just because you actually make it to a show alive doesn’t mean you’re out of the woods by any stretch of the imagination. Once the show begins, expect that anything that can go wrong—will go wrong—and sometimes it gets downright hairy out there.

  Of Fire, Indecent Exposure, Vomit, and Cleveland

  NOW, ANYONE WHO HAS EVER SEEN AN OZZY SHOW KNOWS THAT THE Prince of Darkness loves to play with water. Whether it’s with those big fire hoses he drags around, the water guns, or the big-ass two-gallon buckets, dowsing his fans and bandmates is a particularly inspired pastime for the Boss. The buckets were first; they came about well before any of the other contraptions were developed, and he was never hesitant about using them. All of these satanic water sports came to an electrifying climax at Mc-Nichols Arena in Denver, Colorado.

  We were probably about four songs into the set, heading into the outro for “Shot in the Dark.” I was jamming away, Randy was pounding the skins, and Geezer was going from one side of the stage to the other while Ozzy ran around with those buckets soaking the first ten rows of the audience. Then Ozzy spied Tony Dennis, his personal assistant, who had made the unfortunate choice of standing at the side of the stage, right in Ozzy’s crosshairs. It was Tony’s time to soak.

  Now, Tony was standing just in front of where the stage monitor engineer was positioned, working the monitor-mixing console. With that evil Ozzy gleam in his eyes, the Boss launched the water at Tony, but, as if by merciless fate, the flashlight that Tony was holding fell and Tony bent down to pick it up, right at the exact moment that the airborne wave was hurtling toward him. Two full gallons of water went right over Tony and broke over the monitor console. I kid you not, six-foot fuckin’ flames began shooting off that thing. It was like a perfect storm of disaster.

  There was this huge crackling noise, and then the monitors went dead. And there was no sound at all onstage. All I could hear was the sound from the front of house echoing throughout the arena. At first I thought it was my fuckin’ rig and I bolted over to check it out, but I soon realized it was much more serious than that. And then I saw those fuckin’ flames spewing from the console. That shit could have easily killed someone.

  Since the onstage sound was out, none of us could hear shit, especially Ozzy. We ended up finishing out the set all huddled up in a bunch so we could cue Oz when to come in. It was so bad that Randy’s drums sounded like cardboard boxes because he was set so far back, and good luck hearing the cymbals. Mind you, this was a massive fuckin’ stage. I was singing the first line of each verse so Oz would know when to come in. We had to do pretty much the whole set like that, with Ozzy’s head right next to mine so he could get the cues.

  We got through the show of course, but I remember thinking, “Thank God it wasn’t me!” I mean, it’s Ozzy’s show, and he’s earned the right to do pretty much whatever the hell he wants. Bottom line though—shit happens. And when it does, you’ve got to power through it regardless of the circumstances. After all, this is Metal, and as the saying goes, “Rock out with your cock out!”

  It was at a show in Albuquerque, New Mexico, where I found out, in a somewhat obscene twist of fate, the true meaning of this classic adage.

  The whole grotesque incident wouldn’t really have been that bad, except for the fact that Randy Castillo had some family out for the show that night; his nephews and his nine-year-old niece were standing right there by the side of the stage. I was out there, onstage, doing my moves, busting into my wide stances and so forth when, right as I was lifting my guitar, I hear this loud RIIIPPPP!!!!

  My fuckin’ pants had split, right up the crotch to the waistband! In fact the waistband was the only damn thing holding the rest of my pants on. It looked like I was wearing a pair of assless chaps. Of course this happened right at the point where I was raising my axe high in the air, and so there I was, standing with my legs spread apart and my dick and balls hanging out in all their glory for the world, and Randy’s bewildered nine-year-old niece, to see.

  Of course I couldn’t stop playing, so I just kept on at it, doing all my usual bullshit, with my junk flappin’ around, until Randy finally took his drum solo. You’ll find that the Almighty Drum Solo is one of the most opportune moments in a show to fix your shit when it goes wrong. I threw on some new pants and finished the show. Even though I’ll never forget that gig, I hope that Randy’s nephews and niece will and that I didn’t traumatize anyone too badly.

  Besides keeping an extra pair of pants with you at the gig, another valuable piece of advice I will offer the would-be rock star is to never eat before a show, especially if the food in question is itself questionable. When we were playing with Mike Bordin behind the drums, he had a stomach of steel and could power down whatever the fuck he wanted before a show. He could kill and eat a three-pound porterhouse, pound a beer, roll onto the kit, and blast it out no problem. Some can. Not me. These days I won’t even eat a meal five hours before a show, and with good reason.

  It all went down while on the Mafia tour and while we were playing the Fillmore in San Francisco, California. A classic venue: the Doors, the Stones, Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix, you name ’em, they’ve played there. We made it into town a bit early, and JD, Barb, and I were a bit hungry so we decided we’d go scout out something to eat. Of course, being in San Francisco, we figured that we needed to partake of the town’s legendary Chinese cuisine. Unbeknownst to many, I have really terrible acid reflux, and at the time I wasn’t taking anything to treat it.

  I couldn’t tell what exactly was on my plate, but it was definitely spicy. We go
t enough in us to feel full and then headed over to the show. Things were fine at first as we laid into the set, but as time went on, I began to feel a little off. As we began to play “What’s in You,” things took a turn for the worse and the song became eerily prophetic. I got through the first verse all right, but by the time we were beginning the riff for the second, I could feel my stomach churning. My mouth wasn’t going to open without a disaster, so I just kept playing the riff, confusing the hell out of JD, who was wondering what the fuck was going on. My mouth began to drip with saliva like a rabid dog’s, and I was spitting on the stage to get the shit out of my mouth. Finally, I decided it was time to power through the queasy feelings and GIFD, so I opened my mouth with the intention of getting through the song, come hell or high water.

  “Helter Skelter’s comin’ ’round the bend, Satan’s on his way… What’s in you now…”

  Motherfucker! Once again, that warm rush I knew all too well washed through my body. Vomit launched out of me like I was some kind of Chinese puke dragon, spraying all over the mic, the pedal boards, and everything and everyone else that was of the bad fortune to be too close to the disaster.

  All I heard while I was unloading my bile-ridden payload was JD saying, “Yeah … What’s in you!”

  Apparently it was Chinese.

  JD felt the need to continue with, “Hey, Zakk, I see you had the beef and broccoli… Oh, and that you were enjoying a little bit of the garlic chicken as well!”

  So there it is. Now I never eat a thing before a show, and if anyone has a touchy stomach, I would seriously advise against a preshow meal for them as well. Otherwise everyone at the show may just find out exactly what’s in you.

  While I’m on the task of dropping all of this wisdom on your spongelike gray matter, I might as well remind you of the obvious. Try to find out what city you are in before you get inspired to give a shout-out. It’s tough when you are hitting as many cities as I do per year, and there aren’t too many topics for discussion that I will bring up onstage, but anyone who knows me knows that I’m a huge football fan, and given the opportunity I can’t help being a fanatic. That said, being from the East Coast, the New York Giants are my all-time favorite team. Unfortunately, the Giants can’t win every Super Bowl, and so I still, occasionally, have to recognize other great teams for their prominence and talent. I’m good that way, as long as it isn’t the Steelers. It’s not because they don’t have an awesome franchise, it’s because Father Eric and Father Fergie love the Steelers as much as I love being the bad guy. In fact, any team that JD, Eric, Nicky, and Mark are going for is always on my hope-they-lose list.

  We were traveling through California and ended up in Oakland for a show. Now, Northern California might as well have been Guam to me at the time, and I didn’t know the lay of the land whatsoever. The show was being played just after the Super Bowl, where the San Francisco 49ers had recently won another title. I got it in my head that I’d be Mr. Sports Ambassador and relate to all the sports fans in the audience, and so I jumped on the mic to extend my congratulations.

  “Being a Giants fan I just gotta give you guys fuckin’ credit,” I screamed out. “Your Niners have one badass motherfuckin’ football team! Congrats on the Super Bowl!” I waited for the cheers of approval and gratitude. The crowd erupted loudly, but not as planned. Instead of roars of acceptance and brotherhood, my heartfelt props were met with a resounding “BOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!”

  Randy leaned out over his kit and yelled to me, “We’re not in San Francisco, asshole! We’re in fucking Oakland!”

  It was truly a Spinal Tap, “Hello, Cleveland!” moment.

  Take That Boy to Hollywood!

  WE WERE DOWN IN CHICAGO, IN NITRO MODE—DRINKING EVERYTHING. I was down there with Phil and Mark, drinking Crown Royal by the gallon, literally. We went to Buddy Guy’s blues bar and it was killer because Buddy Guy’s band was playing. The guitar player came over and gave us a bottle of Buddy’s beverage of choice, Louis XIII cognac. He asked if I would come up and do a couple of songs with them. I was stoked to jam with these guys; it was a killer session ripping it up with the saxophone player, just smokin’ solos back and forth. While I was up there playing, Mark and Phil dusted the cognac. Mark went into the bathroom to take a piss, and there was this old guy in there who looked just like John Lee Hooker. He said, “You with dat white boy out there?” And Mark said, “Yeah.” The guy answered back, “That boy’s gooood! You oughtta take that boy to Hollywood!”

  And we did. And that’s when everything changed for me—music, gay porn, sex change, then another sex change, and now a happy father of three married to a cock-gobbling whore whom I worship and adore.

  Twenty-four Hours Drinking with Zakk Wylde

  BY JIMMY HUBBARD

  IT WAS MY SECOND YEAR WORKING AT GUITAR WORLD, MY FIRST magazine cover shoot, the first time I met Zakk, and my first time photographing him. He came to our building in New York City, down on Twenty-first and Fifth Avenue, to give a guitar lesson and have photos taken for our July 2004 issue. I was immediately surprised at the juxtaposition of his larger-than-life appearance and his down-to-earth personality. He’s really just a guy you can talk to and bullshit about music with, all day.

  We started drinking early that afternoon. I definitely wasn’t drinking as much as Zakk; I wouldn’t have been able to keep up. We did our photo shoot right after he finished with a guitar lesson, at about five o’clock in the afternoon. An hour later, Zakk wanted to go get some steaks, so me, Zakk, Nick Bowcott (Nick had worked with Zakk a lot over the years), and our publisher Greg Di Benedetto all went to some fancy steakhouse in the lower West Side. We got tons of ridiculous food and a whole lot of alcohol again.

  I can’t remember exactly what the conversation was, but Zakk ended up faux-strangling Greg, our publisher. He was describing what he was gonna do to someone that he was really pissed at and then went through the motions on Greg. It was kind of this awkward thing where Zakk didn’t mean it to be a real strangulation, but Greg was pinned up against a wall nonetheless, laughing nervously while the blood evacuated his head. Bowcott was sitting at the table in absolute fits of hysterics, and I was watching in utter disbelief that Zakk was choking out our publisher.

  After dinner Zakk wanted to go to an Irish pub and keep drinking. Greg was out of there quick, and Bowcott left too, but not before giving me instructions: “Jimmy, make sure Zakk gets back to his hotel.” He gave me the address of the hotel, which was on Forty-ninth in the middle of Times Square, and bolted out of there.

  I decided to find an Irish bar along the way back to Zakk’s hotel, so we could get a beer and then get him back. We hopped into a cab and I told the driver to take us to a bar on Eighth Avenue somewhere near Times Square. The driver said, “Yeah, I know a place I can take you to.”

  Zakk started in right away with this thing that he was doing all night with everyone he came across—“Hey, bro, who would win in a fight, Mike Tyson or Evander Holyfield, both in their prime?” The cab driver picked Tyson. This was one of those things where there really is no correct answer, because Zakk just wants to engage people and have a conversation. If someone answered Tyson, Zakk would respond with, “No way, man, Holyfield.” If they went with Holyfield, Zakk would take Tyson’s side.

  Once inside, he handed me some cash and told me to get us a couple of beers while he went to take a shit. And then it struck me.

  “Hey, Zakk, dude, do you see any chicks in here?”

  “Aww, dude, that cab driver dropped us off at a homo hang.” (You can’t even make this shit up.)

  After leaving the gay bar, we grabbed a case of beer and sat in the middle of Times Square until the sun came up. I remember at one point jumping over a fence and peeing on a statue, just total inebriated retardation. Next thing I knew someone was tapping on me. It was Barbaranne with a handful of aspirin. I had passed out on the couch in their hotel room and she was telling me that I should probably get out of there before Zakk woke up and wanted
to start drinking again.

  I called my boss, told him that I was running a little late and had just woke up on Zakk’s couch, and then I just passed out again. Then another tap, but this time it wasn’t Barb, it was Zakk, and I could hear him opening beers.

  “Bro, here, have another cold one, buddy.” And we started drinking again.

  I think by that time it was almost noon. I called my editor and told him I’d be at work in about an hour. He suggested, since I was still with Zakk, that both of us simply drop by the magazine’s headquarters so Zakk could pick up his guitars. It sounded easier said than done.

  We drank more and I told Zakk he needed to come back with me to meet Bowcott and get his guitars. So we finished off the beers in the room and headed downstairs to the hotel bar and continued drinking there. I kept looking at my watch to make sure we would make it to my work in time. At one point my mom called and I put her on the phone with Zakk. He told her the whole story from the night before, the peeing, the gay bar, everything. Finally, around five o’clock (I was completely fucking hammered again) I told Zakk that we really had to grab a cab and start making our way downtown.

  We headed out to grab a ride, but before I could hail a cab, Zakk decided to duck into a corner store to pick up some “road beers” for the trek downtown. As he emerged from the shop with a cold six-pack, he spied a pedicab and stopped the driver (a pedicab is one of those carts pulled by a bicycle). Zakk asked this guy how much it would be to take us down to my work, but the biker said he didn’t go that far, until Zakk pulled out a wad of cash and told him, “Yes you do.” And so there we were, in the middle of rush-hour traffic and on one of the busiest streets in Manhattan, riding in a pedicab and drinking beers.

  I called my boss and told him, “You gotta grab a camera, I’m on a bike with Zakk and we’re headed down there.” We finally arrived at my work at about six o’clock in the afternoon. I couldn’t believe I had managed to survive a full twenty-four hours of drinking with Zakk Wylde. Then I stepped out of the pedicab cart and puked.