B004FEF6RO EBOK Read online

  Sirens pierced through the scorching desert air, instantly setting the tone to one of terror and aggression. It was a warning signal identical to the alarm for incoming air raids heard during the kamikaze attacks on Pearl Harbor. The alarms clutched the attention of every society dweller within their reach. But this time, the alarms were not sounded to warn people that their lives were in danger. Instead they were fired up from the Ozzfest main stage to alert fifty thousand crazy motherfuckers that Black Label Society was about to pummel their eardrums with the Metal sounds of Valhalla. The crowd gathered below the stage with fists and devil horns raised by the thousands in anticipation of the fury about to be unleashed.

  And then it began.

  Draped in denim, leather, and unbreakable chains, the Viking Zakk Wylde, graduate of Jackson Memorial High School in New Jersey, class of 1985, marched to the center of the stage, raising his battle-axe of choice above his head for all to behold, a Bullseye Les Paul guitar. His heavy brow and jaw, Hessian hair (which was washed and double conditioned using Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific), and paralyzing stare into the eyes of his audience were all testimony to his uncontested command. And while the alarms continued to rupture the air, his band commenced with the pounding of thunderous drums and bass. Taunting guitar harmonies bled through stacks of Marshall cabinets as Wylde and his evil twin guitarist Nick Catanese cranked their Marshalls up and stroked their first chords.

  “How many of you motherfuckers believe in rock ’n’ fuckin’ roll?”

  The San Bernardino Berzerkers roared as Zakk yelled back, “So do I! And that’s why I still live at home with my mommy and dada, and occasionally sleep on the floor of my buddy Andy’s van—down by the river!”

  The crowd roared like a pride of lions as the band tore into what sounded like war between the gods of Olympus and Titans of Tartarus.

  The mosh pit beneath the stage flowed with reckless abandon. Berzerkers who populated the circling masses of Metalheads had donned the same attire as the band. Their black leather and denim, with BLS emblazoned upon their clothing in Old English lettering, was testimony to their loyalty to the Metal giants before them. Just then, Black Label manager Bob Ringe whipped out his trusty calculator and started counting heads among the sea of Black Label T-shirts, headbands, and vests—and started to beam with sheer unbridled enthusiasm, knowing he was that much closer to purchasing a forty-thousand-square-foot home sitting atop beachfront property in Malibu.

  The band began doom-trooping into “Battering Ram,” “Graveyard Disciples,” “Bleed For Me”—as each song merged into the next, Wylde challenged the Black Label family to raise the bar and bleed even more. Mosh pits formed by the crowds throughout the modern Colosseum. “13 Years of Grief,” “Demise of Sanity”—the open lawn of the venue looked like a dusty swarm of locusts where hordes of moshers circled to the hostile rhythms of the music.

  Wylde’s fixation was unbreakable as he ripped through guitar solos with precision and speed. One hand continued to play while the other worked to empty a can of beer down his throat, foaming down his long beard, all over his clothing, before he crushed the can into his forehead and chucked it into the crowd. His voice could be heard for miles as he delivered line after line of his lyrics through the main stage’s PA system.

  Leading in with his wicked bass line, Trujillo fired up the anthem of the Berzerkers as Wylde pierced the ear canals of his listeners, screaming, “Let me hear you, motherfuckers!” and then went into the final jam before hurling his guitar into the sky, allowing its inevitable crash into the stage floor. Feedback and resonance struck listeners as the band took its exit.

  And as I wiped the dirty sweat and blood from my eyes and brow, I gazed around at the rest of the moshers in the pit with whom I’d shared the last forty-five minutes of physical chaos, forever bonding with those who also beamed with pride and sonic satisfaction. My colors were soaked with the sweat and blood of hundreds of other diehards who had joined in the success of what just took place. We looked like we had emerged from the trenches of a desert war, having just survived a fury of colliding bodies and flailing limbs, animated by the sounds of Black Label Society. Our union was much more than that of ordinary fans. We were Berzerkers.

  Note from Zakk: By the way, this bullshit about me throwing my fucking guitar in the air and it coming crashing down is an utter load of garbage … never fucking happened. Like the majority of this waxed-poetic load of bullshit—“emerged from the trenches of a desert war”? Here’s my question: When was the last fucking time Eric got laid? And did he write this crap in between playing with his Star Wars dolls or whatever make-believe shit he comes up with when he’s all by himself? One word: wow.

  World Tour Survival Technique: Play What You Love and What Moves You

  IT’S SAFE TO SAY THAT A LARGE NUMBER OF YOU BERZERKERS ARE NOT only interested in learning about my majestic world of Metal, you are also interested in carving a slice of this musical beast for yourself. That is to say, you play guitar or another instrument of rock, and you plan to attempt some global domination of your own. My first words of advice for you are: Don’t Do It, Save Yourself, Run for Your Life, Turn in Your Badge, Sell the Farm, Run and Pray! That’s what I opted to do when I realized that I would be surrounded by JDesus and his odor for the rest of my life—but to no avail, as his stench still permeates the buses, hotel rooms, and stages wherever I go. However, if you decide to travel down the same imminent Road of Doom that I have, a road of countless back-door reamings, sleepless delirium, and tour buses that smell like prison ass, then I have a few pointers to help you out along the way.

  People always ask me, “Hey, Zakk, got any advice for me or my kid about starting a band?”

  Yeah, here’s some advice—play what you love and what moves you. The running joke, I always say, when me and the rest of my Black Label brethren have driven thirty hours, crossed the sea in a ferry for another seven hours, and arrived in some rat-and-piss-infected shithole, is you better love the music, ’cause sometimes the music doesn’t love you.

  But getting back to playing what you love and what moves you—it sounds easy, right? Well it ain’t.

  I knew a guy, a friend of mine, who would basically change his image more often than I change the blades in the razor to shave my wife’s back, chest, and stomach hair. (Barb told me this is the norm so she probably won’t mind that I mention it here.) In the eighties, when the whole Hair Metal thing was going on, the guy threw on the full look: the big hair, bright clothes, and leather jacket—the works. Then when grunge hit, he switched it up to the flannel shirts and beanies and shit. When the Green Day thing hit, I shit you not, I saw him cruisin’ with a green fuckin’ Mohawk! (This is also something I considered for my wife’s back, chest, and stomach as she looks fantastic in green—it really brings out the color in her eyes.) As each phase of music came and went, so did my buddy’s personal style. He had no real identity of his own or belief in what music he enjoyed listening to, let alone playing.

  If you’re doing that shit, you’re pretty much startin’ out a day late and a dollar short. When Hair Metal was big, the grunge guys, like Alice in Chains and Soundgarden, were already doing their thing. When grunge came in, the Green Day guys were already being who they are and playing their music. All of these musical movements were happening underground, while the popular music was going on. If you’re modeling yourself on whatever is the new thing, then you’ve already missed the boat and don’t even know it! So to prevent this from happening to you, just play the fucking music that gets your dick hard—or your labia swollen.

  I remember when I played in a called band Zyris. We were playing our songs and at the end of the show one night we played “Rock and Roll” by Led Zeppelin. Right then and there, I asked myself, “How come our music doesn’t move me like this? We should be doing kick-ass fucking music like this instead of music that we think is gonna get us a recording deal or on the radio that has absolutely zero fucking passion in it.” So ask yourse
lf, “Why am I doing what’s popular when I can’t stand playing this shit?” When you play what you love, then it’s fucking real. You’ll know the difference. Lesson number one—don’t ever forget that.

  While you’re finding your signature sound, you’ve also gotta have the balls to stick to your game plan. What would have happened if Chris Cornell had turned on the radio and heard “Cherry Pie” by Warrant and went for what he thought would be popular at the time? Instead of Soundgarden it would have become Spandex-Hairspray Garden. He may have known what the fuck was going on, but he was like, “I can’t stand this shit.” He played and wrote the shit he dug and steered the ship steady. Nothing for nothing, so did Warrant. They didn’t give a fuck what anybody thought about them. They were like, “This is us. You don’t like it? Go eat a bag of fucking dicks.”

  Not to get sidetracked, but since we mentioned Chris’s name here, I’ve got a pretty fucking funny story.

  I remember getting completely hammered and making the usual roll-through-your-fucking-phone-book-until-somebody-will-deal-with-your-drunken-bullshit phone call. Well, on this occasion, I happened to get Father Edward Van Halen on the other end of my stupidity. Anyway, Ed told me that he had been recording a bunch of new shit and was really happy with the way it was coming out.

  “Awesome, I can’t wait to hear you killin’ it, as always, Father Edward!” I said.

  At this point, Gary Cherone was no longer singing with the band. So I asked Ed, “Who’s singing?”

  Ed said, “We’re thinking about having Chris Cornell be the new lead singer.”

  “Oh cool,” I said, “Chris is fucking unbelievable!”

  And then it dawned on me: “Wait … How in the fuck is this gonna work?” Then I’m trying to picture Father Cornell jumping around in spandex, doing splits off the drum riser, and then walking up to Eddie and going, “Ah … I reach down in between my legs, ease the seat back…”

  You gotta be fucking kidding me! It would be a toss-up to see what the fuck would be funnier, this musical comedy delight or seeing George Carlin do his stand-up routine. I love David Lee Roth; nobody can do it like Dave. Chris is the complete fucking opposite of DLR.

  I said, “Cool, Ed. Chris is the man.” I wasn’t about to piss on Ed’s parade by saying, “Ed, have you heard some of Chris’s lyrics? Nail in my hand from my creator. You gave me this life, now show me how to live. You know … then just transition into Got a drink in my hand, got my toes in the sand, all I need is a beautiful girl—fucking classic! Hopefully between the fucking spandex and the titanic vats of booze and weed, nobody will notice a fucking thing. After I pissed and shit my pants from envisioning this musical comedy that could only be rivaled by Chappelle’s Show, I thought, “Why the fuck stop here?”

  Hey, Chris, if you’re reading this, here’s a short set list that me and your army of fans would all love to hear you sing. These are very much in the spirit of the musical stylings we would expect to hear from you. These songs obviously represent every ounce of integrity for which you’ve worked so hard for throughout your career:

  “She’s Only Seventeen,” Winger

  “Unskinny Bop,” Poison

  “Talk Dirty to Me,” Poison (They’re so fucking badass,

  I had to list Poison twice!!!)

  “Cherry Pie,” Warrant

  “Wango Tango,” Ted Nugent

  Now, if your life has been sucking balls lately and you’re contemplating committing fucking suicide, trust me, after you hear Father Cornell singing these classics Cornell-style on an acoustic guitar, all of your troubles will just melt away, as your only problem will be trying not to die from fucking laughter. The point is, all of these artists that I mentioned are successful. Whether it’s talent, hard work, luck, or whatever the fuck it is that gets you to Madison Square Garden, there’s one thread that ties all of these artists together—they love and believe what they’re playing. Remember, you gotta play what you love and what moves you. Which brings me to another classic moment in the music business history of unimportant people making important decisions.

  Unimportant People Making Important Decisions

  THIS WHIM OF STUPIDITY HAPPENED TO BEFALL ME SOMEWHERE RIGHT around the birth of the almighty Black Label Society.

  At this point, I had signed with Geffen Records after the multiplatinum success of No More Tears with the Boss. I was kind of viewed like a number one draft pick in the NFL—I had all these meetings with all the legendary record company people and everybody in between. It was wonderful, with everybody blowing smoke up my ass and telling me how great I am and asking how one human could possibly contain all the cute and cuddly and flat-out fucking adorable qualities that I possess—and telling me that their record company would be the best home for me.

  When all this goofy business shit was settled, me and Barbaranne decided Geffen Records would become our new residence. So off we rolled into the land of a gazillion records sold, packed sold-out stadiums, private jets, the whole fucking nine yards, right? Not quite. Actually not even fucking close.

  After my first two albums—Pride & Glory and my solo record Book of Shadows, both of which I am still very proud of to this day—didn’t go into the charts at number one and stay there selling more records than Thriller and Back in Black combined, when it came time to do record number three, Geffen bought me out as opposed to me even making another album. As I signed the release contracts with Barbaranne at my side, it was bittersweet. Me and Barb were getting a nice chunk of change for us and the kids to live on for a bit. But I was now viewed as a bust. In the NFL that’s a big number one draft pick that can’t get over the hump and make the transition from college to the pros, or gets injured before he even enters the NFL. At this point, you could say I was a bit of both. So instead of getting fucking pissed off at anybody or feeling fucking sorry for ourselves because me and Barbaranne couldn’t invest in our dream of opening up our own restaurant called Schlongs—which is the opposite of Hooters, where the guys have to be built like brick shithouses with a six- or even an eight-pack of abs, and cocks ten inches and over, where Barbaranne gets to interview them and sleep with each and every one of them, which you’ll read more about in my next book, How to Keep Your High School Sweetheart Happy—what did we do? We went out and took our record buyout money and got our first Rottweiler. I had always wanted a Rott as a kid because they represented strength to me. So we found this little guy with paws bigger than his body, whose birthday was January 14, the same as mine, and he was born in Freedom, Oklahoma, which represented our being free from the Geffen contract, with the world being ours for the taking.

  I named him Dorian after my favorite bodybuilder Dorian Yates, who represented strength not just in his physique and blood-and-guts training style, but in his mentality and mind-set of overcoming injuries and setbacks only to destroy all and everything in his path to conquering six Mr. Olympia titles. So we drove little Dorian home and plotted our next move.

  Like I’ve said, along your musical fucking journey of doom, don’t get pissed to the point where you’re smashing shit, blaming every fucking thing with or without a pulse for why shit didn’t pan out for you—because it does fuck-all. Trust me, I’ve tried it. Not so much blaming other people for my not achieving my goals. I dump all my excuse-riddled pathetic bullshit on my loving wife, Barbaranne. She could very well thank me exclusively for her conversion to Buddhism—serenity now. By the way … you’re welcome, Barb.

  Anyways, what I recommend is approaching your problems, or whatever fucking dilemma in life the good Lord places upon your shoulders, head-on in pure Black Label/General Patton style. We are stranded in a lifeboat in the middle of the fucking Atlantic. We’ve got food and water for three days. We can all fucking bitch and moan about it or start fucking paddling—there is no argument. Shut the fuck up, get it fuckin’ done, or die. So after that little Black Label/General Patton pep talk, the comedy tour was about to begin.

  Now, like I said, after two commercially u
nsuccessful albums, then being let go by a major record label, in the business I was viewed as a bust, a failure, washed up, damaged goods, a has-been, done, or whatever word you want to use for “Go fuck yourself, douche.” And I completely understand it. As a businessman on the outside looking at me, how could you not think that? The way I looked at it was, the Appetite for Destruction first-album success didn’t happen. The road in front of me was going to be rougher, bumpier, colder, stormier, a flat-out pain in the fucking ass. So fucking what. I’ve been with Barb for twenty-six years and we have three kids—and you’re gonna scare me with this horseshit? Go away and come back when you got something real. Victory is for the fucking brave, not the timid and excuse-riddled weak. And like I’ve said, a lion is a fucking lion and does not need to be told, or reminded, what it is and what it has to do. So roll up your sleeves, hike up your skirt, and let the balls—or in my case, labia—that the good Lord gave you hang down, and get to fucking work.

  Excuse Me, Mr. Wylde, Would You Like to Eat Some Ass?

  SO NOW THE SUCKING-DICK, EATING-ASS, “CAN YOU PLEASE GIVE ME A record deal, mister, pretty please?” bullshit began. It is rather amazing how within a few short years, you could go from golden child to damaged goods—to the point where no chick wants to fuck you because your dick is so covered with herpes, gonorrhea, crabs, and whatever pus is slowly dripping out of the head of your cock (which we will also discuss later; I told you rock ’n’ roll was a rather odd religion—these types of things are actually applauded as opposed to frowned upon). In my case, whoever would actually pick up or return a phone call, me and Barbaranne took a meeting with them.

  Now, these record companies and promoters—the first thing I tell them is, “Look, I know you don’t give one cunting-flying-fucking rat’s ass about me. And I don’t give a fuck about you. I don’t need birthday fucking cards sent to me, the wife, and the kids to show you care. Although I appreciate all the thought that went into the anniversary card you got for me and Barb that folds out into a twelve-inch cock. I will most definitely use it on Barb to create a true Hallmark moment. I know I’m a fucking piece of cattle, and I mean fucking money. I get it. All I ask of you is that you do your end of the fucking deal and I’ll do mine. And that’s that. This way, if things don’t work out, it’s just business, nothing personal, and we can still be friends and move on.”