B004FEF6RO EBOK

by Wylde, Zakk

  Note from Zakk: Father Jimmy, too bad I don’t drink anymore. But if my blood clots ever give me a free hall pass for a day, I suggest we go back out for another pedicab ride! Good times indeed, my Black Label brother!

  Have a Nice Trip! See Ya Next Fall!

  SO NOW THE SHOW IS OVER, AND YOU THINK YOU’VE FINALLY MADE IT through the Metal gauntlet—WRONG! You’re only partway through, my little Metal brother. The simple act of getting off the stage can be an ordeal in and of itself, and sometimes even an opportunity to test the true valor and toughness of you and your crew. One such trial by fire befell a friend of mine while Black Label was rolling with our New Orleans chapter.

  Let me start by saying that, in my book (and whaddaya know, this is my book!), Louisiana isn’t a state at all. In fact it really is its own planet, floating around in its own beautiful, swampy galaxy. One of that planet’s more hilarious creatures is a friend of mine named Frey, who is part of the New Orleans chapter of BLS. Frey has a band called Valume Nob, and no, that’s not a typo, it’s “Valume,” kind of like the little pill that was used to calm down housewives in the seventies—Frey’s quite the wordsmith. Hanging with Frey and his crew is always interesting. At that time, there was all sorts of shit flying around: smoke, drink, all sorts of pills, what you’d expect on a good, old-fashioned rock ’n’ roll tour.

  Traveling around with the New Orleans Berzerkers really is comedy beyond comedy, and so we took a bunch of the New Orleans guys out on the road with us for a few cities. BLS was on one bus, and those crazy bastards all piled in another. I figured we’d put the New Orleans chapter to work, so they were always helping us load in and load out, and the band always stuck around to hang as well. We’d get the trailers loaded and situated, then begin the party as one big family.

  At one show, Frey was doing load-out, and so of course I was kicking it with some of the guys in the band, having a few post-show refreshments. Frey had to go up and down this rickety flight of stairs to get the shit loaded out of the club, a recipe for disaster. Sure enough, our twinkle-toed friend, with all of his grace and nimbleness, ended up taking a serious tumble while attempting to maneuver a bass drum down the narrow stairwell. I was outside chilling, when all of a sudden an ambulance came, hauling ass around the corner, lights blazing and sirens blasting. We all ran for the front of the club to find out what the hell was happening and found Frey being strapped to a gurney. He appeared all right, but he was shrieking like Harvey Fierstein and grabbing at his leg.

  “It snapped! I heard it snap! It SNAAAAAAPPED!!!”

  This guy needed calming down, and quickly. So I sprang into action and ran to the bus to procure the necessary supplies. He was thankful for the Crown Royal and beers I fed him while he waited to be loaded into the ambulance. Since I was the one with the credit cards, I ended up having to jump in the meat wagon with him, and so I hauled along a pillowcase full of beer and a grabbed a bottle of Crown for the ride. The rest of the guys followed us to the hospital. Of course we were drinking the whole ride there.

  Once we got to the emergency room, they loaded him out and set him up in a room. The rest of the guys hadn’t arrived at the hospital yet. Since Frey and I rode in the ambulance, we got there right away, going through stoplights and all that. He was lying there all jacked up, but there wasn’t a doctor or nurse there yet, so it was just me, Frey, and a shitload of booze. I figured someone had to be coming in sooner than later, and so I got to work quickly.

  First I strapped him into a neck brace, threw on a couple of splints, and hung a stethoscope around his neck. But that wasn’t enough, not by a long shot. I bandaged him up like he was a fucking mummy! By the time I was finished taping him up and wrapping gauze around his head he looked like a wounded Civil War soldier. To finish off the masterpiece we put rubber surgical gloves on his hands and on his fuckin’ feet! Just as I applied the final touches on Frey, the nurse walked in. She was pissed.

  “You guys get the fuck out of here!” she yelled. And we actually ended up getting kicked out of the hospital altogether. Go figure.

  After all the wailing Frey did at the scene and all of the ensuing hospital bills, it turned out that all he really did was bruise his fucking shin! He definitely didn’t earn any kind of Black Label Purple Heart for that one, but he did win the award for Biggest Pussy of the Year, putting an end to JD’s six-year winning streak.

  This stuff is all pretty fucking funny, but I don’t want anyone to think that the dangers of the road are all cock ’n’ balls, puke, and Baby Hueys with bruised shins. It’s the times that you have to get offstage a lot sooner than expected that can be the most perilous of all, and some of these incidents, for better or worse, end up being written into rock ’n’ roll lore.

  Madness at the Meadows

  ONE OF THE MORE LEGENDARY CONCERTS IN THE HISTORY OF METAL occurred at Irvine Meadows in California. It was a special benefit concert that Ozzy was holding to honor Randy Rhoads and to raise money to build him a mausoleum, because all of these sick assholes kept stealing his gravestone. It was a very emotional evening for everyone, and I actually had the honor of playing “Dee” for Randy’s mother during the gig.

  Things were going great until we got near the end of the show. When we came out for the encore, ready to play “Crazy Train,” Ozzy grabbed his mic and yelled out to everybody, “All right, who wants to get crazy with Ozzy? Who wants to dance with the Oz? I need every single one of you to go extra, extra crazy!” And oh boy did they go crazy.

  The next thing you know, a wave of humanity rolled through the amphitheater and smashed onto the stage. The security at the show was completely overwhelmed by the number of fans. People were jumping barriers and clawing their way onstage. In only seconds the whole situation got completely out of hand.

  Some guy jumped up next to Ozzy and started trying to grab the mic out of his hand. The whole stage was packed with people. The mob started tearing everything apart. I saw one group of guys dismantling Randy Castillo’s drum kit, and others were tearing up the monitors. It seemed like there were more people onstage than in the audience. I looked up and saw a bunch of kids sitting on these metal trusses that were suspended above the arena by chains; I watched as the chains snapped and the kids fell to the deck below. I heard later that they had survived, but not without a few broken bones.

  I caught two motherfuckers trying to steal my fiddles. I went ballistic on those motherfuckers, pummeling them, head-butting them, just beating the living shit out of these guys. One of them was actually on my back while we were fighting. Finally I was able to secure my gear and get the hell out of there. Randy wasn’t so lucky; his drum kit was completely gone. Some kids even got ahold of Ozzy’s water buckets and of course they started heaving them right into the monitors. Flames were shooting out of the monitor console. The stage was fucking annihilated.

  I found out afterward that they even took Ozzy’s forty-inch monitor that he uses to scroll the lyrics! Seriously? I mean, somebody actually walked out of the venue with a forty-inch television! How the fuck they walked out of there with that, I don’t know. But they took everything: mics, cymbals, drums—everything.

  The total bill for the damage was over a hundred thousand dollars, and then of course Ozzy started getting hit with all the lawsuits. We still ended up getting the mausoleum for Saint Rhoads, so that all the fans can go down there and pay their respects to Randy.

  One thing about being on the road is that it isn’t just perilous for the Vikings themselves. When we storm into a town to pillage and conquer, there is always a great deal of collateral damage, but thankfully, in the past I was usually too fuckin’ hammered to remember all of the craziness.

  Crabs and Deer Heads

  BY NICK “E.T.” CATANESE, PITTSBURGH CHAPTER

  WE WERE IN SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS, WITH ROB ZOMBIE, PLAYING one of the last shows of Ozzfest. Rob and all of us decided to hit up Joe’s Crab Shack. John Tempesta (of the Rob Zombie Band), Stone Cold Steve Austin, and his wife Debr
a were with us as well. Picture, if you will, a table with Zakk Wylde, Rob Zombie, Stone Cold and Debra, John, and myself, surrounded by tables with families trying to have a nice, normal dinner.

  Zakk was sitting there wearing a bib, drinking beer from these huge hurricane fishbowls. After every chug, he slammed the fishbowl down and beer splashed all over. He had all these crab chunks and bits of food all over him and in his beard. Then, out of nowhere, Zakk stood up and punched this buoy that was hanging from a wall. It went flying across the room and hit some lady in the head; of course Zakk ended up going over there, apologizing, and buying their dinner.

  Inspired, John got up and tore an oar off the wall and smacked a hanging blowfish, sending the fat little bastard sailing. We were already roaring with laughter when Zakk ripped this deer head off the wall. He got the head down, put it in the center of our table, then poured 151-proof rum on it and set it on fire. Then he stood over this fucking burning deer head and yelled, “How do you like your venison?”

  There were these mortified people around us who were trying to have a nice dinner, and then these Viking deer-head-burning banshees at the table across from them. Zombie and everybody were absolutely hysterical with laughter. And the next thing you know the cops showed up. They came up to the table and recognized Zakk, Stone Cold, and Zombie. Instead of making any arrests, the cops wound up asking for pictures and autographs. In the end, we paid for the damages, but Zakk said if he was going to pay for the deer head, then it was going with him. The result was that we ended up with this burned deer head on the bus, as well as the blowfish and all that shit.

  The next day we had a show with Zombie. At the show, Zakk took the deer head out during Rob Zombie’s set and was dancing around with it, trying to mess with him and make him laugh during his performance. Later that night, Zakk was onstage playing with Ozzy. Rob and I were in the back watching the show on the Jumbotron and he tells me, “Dude, I gotta get him back. Go find me a black sheet.”

  So I went out and found a black sheet and brought it back to Rob. He already had the deer head tied on, and it looked like it was coming out of his stomach. He pulled the black sheet over his head, making it look like the deer head was just levitating in the dark. He decorated the head with beer cans on the antlers and a cigarette in its mouth and stuff like that.

  Next thing I knew, I was steering Rob Zombie through to the stage. Zakk was out there in the middle of his solo when all of a sudden you saw this deer head peek over his shoulder and start jumping around. I could see tears rolling out of Zakk’s eyes because he was laughing so hard. You can’t make this shit up.

  Note from Zakk: What Father Nickolas forgot to add was the fifteen-hundred-dollar tab for all the king crab legs, lobster, and titanic quantities of booze all the Berzerkers helped themselves to. Ever since I added “legendary vocalist” to my iconic death-defying guitar skills, along with Father of the Year and whatever else is on the growing list of douche-bag awards that have come my way, another awesome award that I seem to receive without ever entering a contest is the Recipient of the Check at the End of a Behemoth Meal Award. So at this particular Berzerker buffet of doom, I reached into my wallet and handed our tour manager at the time, Father Bolin, my Black Label American Express card to handle the damages.

  Timmy said, “Fuck this. Hey, motherfuckers, everybody throw forty dollars on the table for all the fucking booze and goddamn food you all helped yourselves to.”

  At this point I looked at Father Tim and started laughing, saying, “You’re fucking dreaming, Tim.”

  Grand fucking total from eighteen working guys for a fifteen-hundred-dollar tab: sixty fucking dollars and thirty-six cents. Mind you, there was some pocket lint thrown in for good measure.

  So there is my answer to myself when I ask the question, “I wonder when I can retire?”: “Well, asshole, with brothers and friends like this, let’s see … like a long, long, long fucking time from now!” It’s just like when we pulled up to our new house and I asked my Immortal Beloved, Barbaranne, “Can we afford this?”

  “Just keep working, asshole, we’ll be fine.”

  Disciples of the Mosh Pit

  DANGER LURKS IN EVERY SMOLDERING, STICKY CREVICE OF THE METAL labyrinth. From being on the road to getting on- and offstage, all of those who are merely in the presence of Metal’s aura are at risk. Never is this risk greater, however, than for the diehard fans, for whom we as a band bleed. It is because of my deep caring for all of those Metalheads out there that I feel it is necessary to explain some crucial facts regarding your very survival when gathering for the Metal feast.

  We all love going to a killer Metal show, watching our favorite bands tear it up onstage while banging our heads, thrashing around, and tossing up the Dio horns. If you’re a purist Metalhead you might even take it a step further and dive into the mosh pit—you know, that swarm of Berzerkers below the stage at every Black Label show that sweats and bleeds as much as we do up onstage. I was going to give you a Black Label mosh pit tutorial packed with how to survive those crazy fuckin’ things, but I realized I haven’t been in such a place since my early teens, so I decided to bring in the most credible person I know. This wasn’t such a simple task. In order to make sure you received the best possible edification on moshing, I needed to make sure I chose someone with verifiable experience not only as a one-man wrecking machine but also as a true disciple of the mosh pit. This crazy mongrel needed to be a true fan of Metal as well. You know: the kind of guy who eats Metal for breakfast and craves it throughout his day. If there were ever a vitamin for Metal that you could take to become more Metal than you already are, they would find the ingredients in this man’s DNA. Fortunately, I’ve got our man.

  Let me tell you a little about this crazy fuckin’ Berzerker from Queens, New York. This is a guy who has no boundaries when it comes to destroying his own body in the name of all that is kick-ass. His professional wrestling career spans twenty years of leaping off ringside ropes onto barbed-wire tables, falling off fifteen-foot ladders onto his skull, and pounding his opponents into the ground with his backbreaking power bombs (all of the same things I like to do in the sack with my wife; she’s very athletic). This man has had as many concussions as he’s held championship titles, and if he weren’t out dominating the wrestling circuit with his tag-team partner Brother Devon, he’d probably be out touring with his own Metal band playing and shows with Black Label. I reached deep into the Black Label directory and called on the ultimate mosher and one of my best friends, Black Label Brother Bubba (a.k.a. Bubba Dudley and Brother Ray).

  Let’s talk a bit more about this three-hundred-and-thirty-pound behemoth of verifiable Metalness. Over the years my brother Bubba has come out to many Ozzfests and Black Label shows to hang out and enjoy the music. At one of those Ozzfest shows we got into a little trouble with Mom (Sharon Osbourne). Before the show there usually isn’t much for the bands and their friends to do other than hang out and get ready for the gig. And if you leave a few Black Label brothers with too much free time on their hands, and then mix in the booze, they’re bound to get into some kind of trouble.

  One of these debacles came about in 2003 at the San Antonio Ozzfest, when I invited Bubba to come out and play baseball with the guys in the tour bus parking lot. We set up all the bases, grabbed some gloves and bats, invited a bunch of rockers to join, and threw a game down. Sharon kept getting pissed, because when we’d play baseball the buses would get dents in the sides and more than once a ball went through one of the windows. And this particular day was no different; if anything we were more destructive with Bubba there (strength in numbers). Pitches were flying and balls were being smashed deep into the sides of fences, buses, buildings, and anything in our way. Finally, out came Sharon from one of the buses screaming at us like we were thirteen-year-olds, probably because we were acting like it. We tried hiding around the back of our bus until we thought she was gone, but she busted us and said we couldn’t play anymore.

  In
2009 Bubba came out to a Black Label show at the House of Blues in Atlantic City. As usual, we had our share of beers and storytelling. That night I watched him exude maximum Metalness as he cometed into the mosh pit, sweating and bleeding while we played. He broke his finger and at one point grabbed this chick’s long hair, making her head bang to “Stoned and Drunk.” Moments later, Bubba was standing there with a crazed look in his eyes, the girl’s hair in his hand, but no girl! She had extensions and Bubba had literally yanked them completely off her head. With all the sweat and blood, and his broken finger, and his standing there looking like he had just scalped someone, I could tell it was a good night for my brother Bubba. More importantly, I knew this was the master who could teach you, young Metal Loki, how to survive a mosh pit.

  Bubba’s Mosh Pit Survival Camp

  WHAT IS GOING ON, YOU INSANE BERZERKERS? THIS IS BUBBA DUDLEY, one-half of the greatest professional wrestling tag-team champions in the world, here. Three hundred and thirty pounds—WTF? Try three hundred and thirty pounds of twisted steel and sex appeal! I eat T-bone steaks and lift barbell plates. And to build this finely tuned sex machine, you’ve got to get the food down and the weights up. Ever find yourself in the middle of a mosh pit at a Thrash Metal concert with your face pressed firmly into the ground beneath the boots of another mosher, your teeth bleeding, and the rest of your body being trampled relentlessly by Berzerkers who are completely oblivious to the fact that you have become one with the dirt below their feet? If your answer is no, then you need to read this section worse than we thought. Chances are that you’ve handed in your man badge for a vagina pin, you’re carrying around some kind of man bag, and your nut sac has become a detachable accessory that you more often than not leave at home in your nightstand drawer. We’ve got to get you back on track, my brotha.