Bringing Metal To The Children: The Complete Berserker’s Guide to World Tour Domination

Bringing Metal To The Children: The Complete Berserker’s Guide to World Tour Domination Rob Zombie Zakk Wylde Eric Hendrikx Zakk Wylde – the man, the guitar god, the legend – invites all who dare to follow onto the tour bus for tales of glory, debauchery and metal mayhem.Ever wondered what really goes on behind tour bus windows and backstage doors, or what inspiration fuels a mind-blowing metal display? The content of these pages will make you wish you never asked.Among deranged tales of onstage indecent exposure and booze-fuelled destruction, Zakk leads you on a Journey to Valhalla, where your metal awakening awaits. For the aspiring Metal Musician, you’ll be lucky enough to get Zakk’s exclusive tips on how not to make it in the music business, how to survive decades on tour with the Prince of Darkness, Ozzy Osbourne, as well as useful tips on how to set up a shooting range on a tour bus and survive the mosh pit.Aspire to reach new heights of metal mayhem. Get on the bus and get ready for the Metal ride of your life. Dedication (#ulink_4150c6ca-5738-5ef2-8406-64d18a0e6694) To God and Jesus Christ for giving me life and for giving creation to the amazing cast of characters that make up the music business. Without them, life wouldn’t be as insane or as much fun as it is. I also should mention Vaseline lubricating jelly—without which my ass would never have healed from the relentless pounding, hammering, fisting, plowing, and gaping joys I received from said cast of characters. Epigraph (#ulink_ff50409c-8056-59f5-9372-721c78168419) ON THE COVER: The spiked wristband I’m wearing on the cover of this book was a gift for my thirty-ninth birthday from my good friend and Black Label brother Kerry King, a true Berzerker who also calls upon the OdinForce of Valhalla to forge the Metal for his band, Slayer. Title Page (#litres_trial_promo) Dedication (#ulink_faf53add-178b-5ffd-bcfd-b086cf535286) Epigraph (#ulink_20a2a860-cc19-542f-8369-360c33cc93a7) General Black Label Society Warning (#ulink_e9e6fe09-7ed5-5c03-ad16-f7afbb6a0bf2) Foreword by Chris Jericho (#ulink_593c85f6-efdd-5db2-990a-a1901cf65b55) Author’s Note (#ulink_5f0c9a4a-b13d-557d-9e5c-c723eb60f1fb) Preface (#ulink_d9603b79-8605-5fac-90fa-4e28545e9080) Chapter One: The Berzerkers of Asgard (#ulink_b9cedc4e-cb0c-5460-a7bc-b82798defdb5) Chapter Two: The Black Vatican (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Three: GIFD (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Four: No Shitting on the Bus (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Five: Perils of Valhalla (#litres_trial_promo) Chapter Six: Pssst! Don’t Tell the Warden (#litres_trial_promo) Epilogue: One for the Road (#litres_trial_promo) Picture Section (#litres_trial_promo) Appendix: Bonus Material (#litres_trial_promo) From the Desk of John DeServio (#litres_trial_promo) Acknowledgments (#litres_trial_promo) About the Authors (#litres_trial_promo) Credits (#litres_trial_promo) Copyright (#litres_trial_promo) About the Publisher (#ulink_ac1b8d90-973a-5eb5-963c-72f8e00a175c) NOT A SINGLE SENSICAL WORD EXISTS IN THE CONTEXT OF THIS Volume, Nor were Any Good Judgments or Rational Decisions Executed in Its Production. This Book was Planned, Developed, Produced, and Submitted under the Complete, Utter, and Absolute Idiocy of the Authors. In Fact, This Book is So Completely Horrendous that any Physical Contact with its Pages may cause Vertigo, Memory Loss, Nausea, Vomiting, and Uncontrollable Evacuation of the Bowels. The Authors do not Recommend that you Attempt any of the Stunts in this Book, with the Exception of some of the Really Cool Ones. Lastly, no Animals were Fondled in the Making of this Book. I look forward to Performing my own Prostate Exams each day and I Thoroughly enjoy Fucking Slamming my Meat all by Myself. I don’t need no Stinking Fucking Animals. While this Book Offers Extensive Advice Intended for the Betterment of People’s Lives (Because that’s What I do), By No Means is it a Safe Alternative to Traditional Therapy. This Book will, However, Make your Penis Larger. If You don’t Have a Penis, it Will Still Make it Larger. And if your Wife has a Penis, it will Make hers Larger as Well. (#ulink_3f8c21ef-6ab3-504b-8f40-72f8da980efa) I’VE BEEN IN SHOW BUSINESS FOR OVER TWENTY YEARS AND IN THAT time, between wrestling, music, writing books, and acting, I’ve met a lot of characters: freaks, geeks, sheiks, big jerks, young turks, Captain Kirks, Aussies, Ozzys, Fozzys, chicks, pricks, dicks, dicks with chicks, chicks with dicks, and everything in between. But I’ve never met anyone like Zakk Wylde. In a world infested with obnoxious egomaniacs, backstabbing charlatans, temperamental prima donnas (of which I confess I am one), world-class fakes, and all-around Grade-A Assholes, Zakk Wylde is real. A real nice guy. A real family man. A real fan of music. A real kick-ass guitar player. And a real stinky son of a bitch. Yeah, stinky! You want an example? One afternoon, following one of our notorious all-night drinking binges in New York City, I met up with Zakk and noticed he was wearing the exact same clothes he’d been wearing while throwing back cocktails the night before. His hair was a cross between Bozo the Clown’s and Dee Snider’s circa 1984, and good lord in heaven did he reek of alcohol and odors I’ve never smelled before or since. “Great Caesar’s ghost, Zakk!” I bellowed in disgust. “Why don’t you take a shower?” “Vikings didn’t have showers, brutha,” Zakk replied. “Yeah, and Vikings didn’t travel in their own private tour buses and sleep in the Waldorf hotel either. Take a shower, ya fuckin’ scumbag!” And therein lies the genius of Zakky. He is a stellar musician and one of the greatest guitar artists of any generation, a man who has written some of the most classic riffs and songs in Heavy Metal history. He is a talented vocalist with a style completely his own and a vastly underrated piano player who can make grown men weep with his emotional ballads. But he is also a guy who considers himself to be some sort of Nordic warrior and has no problem farting in public, bragging about his sexual prowess (but only with his Immortal Beloved, Barbaranne), using more cuss words than a fleet of soused sailors, and washing that confused mess he calls his hair at best once a week, probably much less. As I said, Zakk is real. Really funny. Really genuine. Really obsessed with James Hellwig. Really respected by one Chris Jericho. And now really sober. Yeah, you read that right. Sober. Zakk is one of rock ’n’ roll’s last true characters and the tales of his drunkocity will live on in the annals of rock history forever. I should know; I was a part of many of them. But Zakk was getting near the end of his lifetime cocktail punch card, and instead of using it up taking a seat at the bar in God’s tavern with so many of his peers and heroes, Zakk chose to stop. Cold turkey. No therapy, no rehab, no Dr. Drew. He just stopped. And that’s what I respect most about my friend. He recognized the problem and eliminated it. And he’s a funnier, more talented, better man for it. I’m proud of him for that. Now without the excess booze baggage, Iron Chef Zakk is out there working harder than ever to make those doughnuts. This book explains in every way, shape, and form how he has created those delicious treats for the last twenty-plus years and how he will continue to do so for decades to come. Zakk discusses what it takes to become an SDMF-certified Berzerker and will take you step by step through the mind of a Truuuuu Rockaaaaaa!! So sit back and enjoy. Pay attention; read slowly and maybe you’ll find out a little of what makes our intrepid protagonist tick. And maybe you’ll understand why he always wanted to be a Solid Gold dancer. And that’s for real. Chris Jericho October 4, 2011 Lady Gaga’s dressing room Author’s Note (#ulink_879f3e0e-5d0b-5cae-af52-094941dd09da) (#ulink_1627a6a1-23e1-5f8a-b93a-0eb30cca5a61) METAL. DID IT COME FROM THE BOWELS OF THE EARTH FULLY FORMED? Or was it a gift from the god Odin, handed down from Valhalla, forged into his son Thor’s mighty hammer, known as the Mj?llnir (a hammer that would one day inspire the title of the telltale book Hammer of the Gods)? Or was Metal birthed across the ocean by Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath and driven across the world on the iron-horse track they laid for every Metal band to follow? Because this is my book, I’m going to start where I believe Metal begins in all of us, and that is the exact spot where your stomach ends and your bowels begin. That twenty-eight-some-odd feet of smaller and larger intestines that end at your colon is what I’m referring to here. I’m sure you are familiar with the phrase Metal up your ass. I stand here before you in true testimony—they weren’t kidding. You go into Metal wanting to be the best musician you can be, practicing until your fingers bleed and grow calluses, studying the masters of your newfound craft. You shell out for the best gear your wallet will allow, and you associate with others in search of that same holy grail. But beyond that, the rest is one unbelievably rude wake-up call. Anything that you actually take seriously, that you hold sacred to your heart, goes straight through your bloated sack and right into the fuckin’ shitter, and your lower intestine actually disembowels itself. That’s when you know you’ve made it in the world of Metal. But fear not, my fellow Berzerkers and Berzerkerettes, for you shall receive no such colonic intrusions here. Much like Jesus bore the cross so that all of us wouldn’t have to suffer his burden, I’ve already taken it for the team so that none of you have to endure the monstrous ass-reaming of rock ’n’ roll. Well, I haven’t taken all of it—you’ll get your fill of musical cock and balls. And when you get poked and prodded in all the wrong ways, hopefully, after reading this book, it will be more like Jenna Jameson’s pinkie rather than Brock Lesnar’s fist. I’m about to share some of my musical conquests and follies and a few words of advice to help shorten that lengthy path of musical doom you are about to embark upon. There is one thing I want to mention before you embark upon your quest for the holy grail of Metal. And that is the ongoing theme throughout the pages of this book: the numerous degrading, belittling, and morally unpleasant references to one John DeServio. My comments are obviously not to be taken seriously. JD and I have been best friends since we were kids and I love him like a brother, which is exactly why I like to ridicule him to no end, with as many cheap shots, punches to the rib cage, and insults as I can drop upon his pathetic and fatigued person in my book. And someday when JD gets his own book, which would most likely be titled How to Ruin Everything, I would expect nothing less from him than a full-blown, cover-to-cover literary retaliation. Although I know in my heart that pigs will spread wings on the day that JD actually gets a chance to write a book, and his odds of successfully mocking my greatness are even less. At this time, you might feel inclined to ask me, “Hey, Zakk, where did you learn to become the mighty Berzerker you are today?” Well, I studied in school just like everybody else did. But instead of Berklee College of Music or MIT, I’m a Delta Tau Chi graduate from the University of Ozzy Osbourne. And now I’m working on my PhD in Black Label Global Domination. Everybody would like to get signed at eighteen years old, sell twenty million fucking records, and throw down for massive crowds at Donington, but that ain’t the way it works. This is when fantasy ends and the harshness of Metal reality begins. You know that shitty taste of tinny metal you get in your mouth from some piece-of-shit beer can of whatever the hell you’re drinking? That’s where it started for me. Welcome to the Wonderful World of Showbiz MY MOTHER WAS IN SHOW BUSINESS. SHE USED TO DO CASTING CALLS TO place kids in commercials. You know how the BFGoodrich commercials use little babies to show that their tires will keep your kids safe? Stuff like that. She was responsible for many of the Oscar Mayer wiener kids as well. I can still hear the jingle ringing in my head: “Oh I wish I were an Oscar Mayer wiener . . .” Just glad she never placed me as one of the kids desiring to be a wiener—even though since childhood I have thoroughly enjoyed pounding my wiener into submission until I’m legless and in complete vertigo. But she did get me my first gig as a musician. My cousin Karen, who had been working at the Playboy Mansion in the Pocono Mountains, had brought home this guy named Jerry. I didn’t know much about cocaine at the time, because my buddies and I were just into drinking beers and playing music. A few of them might have smoked weed, and I remember one or two of them snorting Freon or some stupid air-conditioning shit like that. Freon and weed were the only drugs I’d ever seen. Obviously I knew what cocaine was, but I was never interested in that shit and even if I was, none of us ever had the money to afford it. So I had never actually seen the abundance of sweat that pours from the body of a true GAC hound—a bona fide fuckin’ cokehead. My mother and father came from the Sinatra generation and my dad was a World War II veteran. The only thing they knew about copping a buzz was drinking highballs, and the stories they’d heard about marijuana were from the Vietnam generation. They knew fucking nothing about drugs. That said, Karen brought home this drug-riddled motherfucker she had met at the Playboy estate. I’ve never seen anyone polish off as much booze as this motherfucker! He literally cleaned out the liquor cabinet that was usually reserved for fifty people coming over for the holidays. Later in life I learned that any of my friends who did do cocaine could fuckin’ drink until the cows came home and never cop a buzz! They could drink all fuckin’ night, drink Jack Daniel out of booze if they had enough cocaine to hold the story—a Titanic full of fuckin’ whiskey—and not even get the least bit sloppy. So this cat was telling my folks that he was a producer and about how he was making a record at the time. These were big words flyin’ around for my mom, her being in showbiz and having a sixteen-year-old son who played the guitar. Obviously my mom jumped at the opportunity to let him know that her son played the guitar. And he instantly invited me to be on his record. I had never been in a recording studio before. I had always dreamed about being a professional musician, but I never had a clue how to make that happen. And now my mom had just booked my first gig. I figured this, the recording studio, was where all my dreams were about to come true, where all the “magick” happened, where the Wizard of fuckin’ Oz existed, and this Dorothy was on her way to the Emerald City. Jerry gave me the address and the date and told me to meet him at this place to record some guitar tracks. So me and Barbaranne, now my wife and mother of our three children, made the excursion up north toward the Poconos and ended up getting to this big-ass mansion-type house. I grabbed my amplifier and guitar, we knocked on the door, and it was opened by this guy with his dick hangin’ down to his fuckin’ knee! He was completely naked, and Barb was standing there staring at this guy’s schlong! “Do you want some of that?” I asked her. “Yeah,” she said, “you go play with your guitar and I’ll play with this massive pussy-gaping cock of his.” It’s moments like these that reassured me of my deep penetrating love for Barbaranne. Good times indeed. Despite Dirk Diggler and his dangling dong show, we still went into the house, not really knowing what to expect. The next thing you know, we saw people fucking everywhere! It was like we had just walked onto the set of Caligula—people were on the floor, on couches, even up on the tables, just fucking everywhere. We were led into this room where a full-on recording studio had been built. Not only was the studio outfitted with a nice-looking mixing board, but the console came complete with a rock ’n’ roll–sized mountain of cocaine piled up at the end of it. It looked as if Scarface was engineering the damn thing on a porn set. Once again I found myself staring at this fucking cokehound Jerry, still sweating profusely, like he was in the fuckin’ Sahara desert or something. Mind you, the air-conditioning was blasting, and to me and Barb it felt like we were in a meat locker, but this guy was still sweating his fucking balls off. That’s what happens when you’re gacked to the motherfucking gills. It turned out that the record was for Ginger Lynn, a famous porn star—she was basically the Jenna Jameson of her time. They were trying to have Ginger cross over from porn into music, you know, and have her become the next Madonna. Well there I was, my first “professional” recording session ever (since I got paid for it), and I was knocking out tracks for a porn star’s album. We laugh about that now, and the funniest thing is that my mother was the one who sent me, her son, to the gig! I can hear her now, saying shit like, “Oh, my little Jeffrey is making a record! I’m so proud of my Jeffrey . . . ,” as she sent her son out on a quest to the land of cock and balls, and pussy and ass and tits—cum and cocaine everywhere. “That’s my boy!” Mind you, Barb couldn’t walk a straight line for two weeks after that. Once again—good times indeed. Welcome to the wonderful fucking world of Metal. Yay, I’m on my way! I’m gonna make it! Congratulations, asshole, Zakk (#ulink_51dbcb8e-0b13-5050-9e4a-b86dc9d83528) To my Brothers and Sisters, Berzerkers and Berzerkerettes, for the Immortal Beloved sayeth, do we not reside in Asgard?! For the immortal strength of the OdinForce shall carry them to victory and make all of Asgard Proud! And we shall celebrate with drink and feast, another glorious day in our holy lands, brimming with the enlightenment and enchantment of Rock. And whilst I break away from the highest peaks of Valhalla, where I forge the Metal of the Gods, after once I hammer the Immortal Beloved with mine crotchal Mj?llnir, thou shalt don thine axe and join me in allegiance as we wage war against the enemy that has brought Vaginal countenance to our sacred rites! So shall I return to Asgard victorious or upon mine own shield. And I shall once again drink from the cup and savor the Nectar of the Gods!!! What sayeth thee, mine battle-ready brethren? Shall we march forth in unison to the measures of the sounding drums? For the quakening of the earth is near upon us, and all shall hail the flags of Asgard! Let us beseech the blessing of almighty God as we begin this great and noble Black Label Crusade! Zakk, you are so cute when you imagine yourself a Viking. —BARBARANNE WYLDE Note from Zakk: Trust me, I don’t think I’m a fucking Viking. But the fact that everybody keeps throwing this shit in my face ’cause I’ve got long hair and a fucking beard—all the while taking the fucking piss out of me—I guess we’ll just run with it. With all the little chuckles I hear from you motherfuckers, you guys seem to be enjoying yourselves. The Berzerkers were the most crazed motherfucking Vikings that ever lived. To give you a little history lesson on these ancient warriors, they fought in a nearly uncontrollable, trancelike fury, much like the Incredible Hulk on a cocktail of steroids and acid. They battled in the name of Odin, chief god of war and ruler of Asgard, one of their mystical Nine Worlds. In battle, many Berzerkers fought bare-chested to prove to the enemy their immunity to iron weapons. And if they had to wear clothes it was surely pelts from bears or wolves. These motherfuckers were fearless and brutal, eating their enemies and toasting with the blood of their foes. On a side note, this kind of behavior also exists in my home. When my wife, Barbaranne, comes at me with an iron weapon, I simply expose my manly chest and she freezes in astonishment. Mind you, it’s probably from my sheer patheticness, but she freezes nonetheless. Going “berserk” back then usually happened during the heat of battle, but the condition could also kick in during heavy labor. Men, who were chosen by the OdinForce to become berserk, were capable of crazy, superhuman feats. The condition would begin with tremors, chattering of the teeth, and finally, a deep chill would set in; then their faces would swell up and turn red with fury. These symptoms of mightiness developed into an all-encompassing rage, under which the Berzerkers would howl like wild animals, bite the edges of their shields, and cut down everything and everyone in their paths with their mighty blades, and without discriminating between friend and foe. It took up to several days for Berzerkers to come down from the adrenaline. These warriors were so infamous that many of the Viking kings chose to use Berzerkers as their personal bodyguards. They were so ferocious and uncontrollable that they were even afraid of themselves. And I’m positive that’s why Barb married me. She thinks I’m her personal Viking bodyguard, with some extra benefits, one being my Crotchal Mj?llnir, and she has given it many endearing nicknames—bather of conquest, hole puncher, rod god, labia stretcher . . . you get the idea. To get ready for battle, the Berzerkers would lose their fucking minds by powering down fistfuls of hallucinogenic mushrooms and buckets of booze spiked with a spice called bog myrtle. This battle brew was known to maximize aggressive behavior but left them with massive hangovers. The Berzerkers also drank wolf’s blood, believing that it helped to really kick in the frenzy. Raging, alcohol-fueled warriors with relentless determination, battling in the name of the Metal god Odin—yeah, that was something our boozed-up, pilled-up brothers and sisters heading out to their children’s school PTA meetings could get behind. The Berzerker moniker fuels our pursuit of wreaking havoc across the globe, tearing new assholes, stealing farmers’ daughters, and drinking all the towns’ whiskey—just to live up to our merciless Viking namesakes. Note from Zakk: Listen, don’t literally go around wreaking havoc, tearing new assholes—as opposed to old assholes—stealing farmers’ daughters, or whatever other goofy-ass shit Father Eric is talking about here that might get your ass kicked, killed, or put in jail. Don’t listen to Father Eric here. Eric is a fucking idiot, okay? We love him. But he’s an idiot nonetheless. Trust me, he has never done any of the ridiculous bullshit he’s talking about here—maybe with his GI Joe doll collection, but that’s about it. Why do you think he doesn’t have a girlfriend? What chick in her right mind is ever gonna hook up with a guy talking stupid shit like this with a GI Joe doll hanging out of his back pocket? Don’t be like Eric. Which literally means: Don’t be a fucking idiot. P.S. Love you, buddy! :) Bleeding Black Label JAPAN, 1991: I WAS WITH OZZY FOR THE NO MORE TEARS TOUR. One insane night, while firing off some really heavy riffs next to the Boss, I swear Odin came straight down from Valhalla and shot a fucking lightning bolt right up my ass. It was either that or I got shocked by my own gear, and since this is my book I’m going with the Viking story. I mean really, for all you know I could have been zapped backstage in the dressing room while plugging in my makeup kit to apply some rouge before the show. Just pay attention, I’m only five sentences into my book and we’re all over the fuckin’ map with it already. There I was onstage, pummeling through these heavy fucking jams with Oz and the guys, getting zapped in the rectum, and then the vision came to me. All of a sudden I saw the crowd not as what they were but as what they would become—a legion of Berzerkers, or as my manager would prefer to call them, “cash crops with legs.” And as Ozzy and I continued blasting out songs from No Rest for the Wicked, No More Tears, and some of the works of genius that Lord Iommi, Saint Rhoads, and Father Lee blessed us with, I could not stop these electrified visions. And neither could my manager, as he was already making phone calls to place a down payment on a new mansion in Malibu. One second I was looking at a row of cheerful fans, singing along to these musical masterpieces of doom and head-banging to the complete Armageddon of Metal, the next second I was looking on as my manager placed his order for a new Maserati, loaded to the hilt with all the options. The audience looked like a horde of battle-ready Vikings awaiting the command to attack. As I was cranking the shit out of my Marshall wall of doom I could see on the horizon the day of the Berzerker Nation. That was the first night I was drawn into the OdinForce and the first night my manager was drawn into the nearest Prudential real estate brokerage. It also dawned on me during this pinnacle moment of genius that not only do cowboys like Jon Bon Jovi come from New Jersey, but Vikings are from New Jersey as well—along with a high teen pregnancy rate and an even higher involvement with alcohol and getting high by inhaling Freon. The further we got into our show, the more I could see the Berzerker Metal madness grow, as well as the sheer enlightenment and joy on my accountant and manager’s faces, not so much over the mountains of Valhalla, but over the mountains of potential earnings and 401(k) contributions, as they envisioned paychecks that dwarfed anything they had conceived of. The thought of the piles upon piles of dollars upon dollars set their eyes gleaming like the stars on Orion’s Belt. I was literally blinded by their money-grubbing glares, and the audience was illuminated by the intensity. Each and every fan had an inner warrior, armed and ready to explode into a frenzy of rock ’n’ roll–infused destruction and debauchery. Wait . . . Is this a rock show I’m talking about or the Festivus miracle going on inside my wife Barbaranne’s baby-maker? It wasn’t about me, it was about bringing all Metal fans into one family, one horde, one society, and one womb. All of us joining forces against the world in hopes of keeping JD out of the unemployment line—a line in which he has spent most of his adult life. And so began the almighty Black Label Society. And much like Jimmy Page was called upon by the spirit of the dark poet Aleister Crowley to lead mass services in the name of Rock, I was called upon by my boss, the produce manager of Fine Fair, to restock the Granny Smith apples before I clocked out for my ten-minute break. Jimmy is a living god, and much more than just a guitar player. He conjured his art on the guitar, but he also took the lead as a songwriter, producer, mixing engineer, and art director—his band was his baby, his calling. Playing in the Yardbirds put him on the map, but it didn’t sum him up as an artist. Jimmy wandered deep into the forest of dark souls to master his craft and create the heart that would one day beat in the name of Led Zeppelin. His journey was otherworldly. Unlike my journey, from the stockroom to the produce aisles. From Pope Page’s conversations with Crowley in the netherworld, he gathered the ingredients he needed to brew the mind-altering compositions that live on today. And from my direct order from the produce manager, I gathered the freshest and greenest Granny Smith apples I could obtain from the produce gods in the back of the store. Note from Zakk: Again . . . “Forest of dark souls”? “Netherworld”? I have no fuckin’ idea what the fuck Eric is writing about here. Gimme a fucking break—the guy just loved music. We’ll let Father Eric run with his illustrious bullshit though, since he is a Black Label brother—and I use the term brother in the loosest way. I do, however, still enjoy a fine Granny Smith apple from time to time. Try them with caramel, kids, and if you want to really live on the edge, combine it with peanuts—its netherworldly. Page formed his band, a concept far greater than himself, and they circled the earth, converting ordinary masses to his rock ’n’ roll religion. And let me tell you, it’s quite the religion—what the fuck this religion advocates is completely wacked. I’ll just say this—morals and overall cleanliness don’t rank too high in this religion. Anyway, moving on . . . So this is what the Nordic gods intended for the Berzerkers and what one cattle-prodding deity beckoned for me to create . . . one global nation of merciless motherfuckers intact with all the insanity and comedy one could possibly hope for. The Berzerker Empire was founded upon the most important elements of life: God, family, music, and fearless drinking—unlike my manager, whose foundation is Satan, selfishness, dead silence, number crunching, and the utter fear of ending up spiritually broken and penniless. Hold on a second, my manager has no fucking spirit. In fact, he’s completely soulless when it comes to pillaging the pockets, wallets, and purses of anyone he comes in contact with. And that, kids, is exactly why I hired him. It didn’t take long for the concept to progress, for the good word to spread, and for people to gather. Although the foundations of Black Label are expressed in the music, the message is much deeper than drinking and listening to epic tunes. It is greater than the band and the show. It is a family, a brotherhood, a unity, a mind-set, and a way of life. And as long as the money keeps rolling in, management, record companies, and whoever else is on the Black Label payroll will let me believe whatever bullshit BLS represents to me in all that is sacred and holy. We live by a creed—Strength, Determination, Merciless, Forever. Our code, honest and meaningful, is rooted more than a thousand years deep. That is, unless you go by my manager’s timeline, because then it goes back to the first time someone discovered that they could pawn some useless horseshit off on some dumb motherfucker and come out on top. Just like the minute the Indians started selling fuckin’ pelts, it was game fuckin’ on. Getting back to our Viking ancestors, among whom physical, mental, and spiritual strength ruled all and each individual was part of an indestructible fortress. We are relentless in our pursuit, merciless in our behavior, eternal in our hearts. And with the gods of Valhalla watching over our Order, and my manager, wife, accountant, and team of lawyers watching over my expenditures, we stride forward on our path of global domination, spreading the word to the masses at our nightly Black Label church services. Our venue is our electrified cathedral, our music is our sermon, and all who attend are our family. And if you happen to spot a truly shady-looking character passing around the collections basket during our Black Label masses, that would be my manager, lining his fucking pockets with silver and gold to keep up his fleet of Mercedes and to complete construction of a fully equipped wet bar near his heated outdoor pool in Malibu. SDMF: Strength, Determination, Merciless, Forever (UNLIKE JD’S MOTTO: WEAKNESS, AMBITIONLESS, HEARTLESS, SHORT-LIVED.) I placed this motto on a crucifix, just like INRI, which is often on crucifixes but means “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.” And when you see me play, you might notice that I do the sign of the cross twice, once for the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, and then again for Strength, Determination, Merciless, Forever. While I’m onstage counting my blessings and thanking the good Lord for the strength he gives me and my Black Label family to continue following our passions, my manager is counting his blessings as well—eight homes, sixteen cars, lucrative offshore investments, and a time-share in Aspen, Colorado. God bless him. Strength has always been my foundation—physically, mentally, and spiritually—that and the short string of belief that I cling to each day, the hope that my wife and children actually care about me. I began my strength-building routine after the first time my wife beat me up and embarrassed me in front of our children and I finally decided it was time for me to giddyup. Every morning after powering down my Valhalla java I head into my gym, the Doom Crew Iron Dungeon, and throw around some chunks of iron. I even bring a weight set with me when we’re out on deployment so I can get in a good pump each day before we hit the stage. I also like to get in a good pump with my wife, or if she’s not havin’ it, with my right hand. Although I do all sorts of exercises in the gym, squats are my favorite. Just that repetitive motion of grinding up and down, lunging and throbbing, sweating and clenching, greasing and buttering, gripping and stretching, gaping and . . . Oh wait, time out. What the fuck happened? Where am I? Oh yeah, I drifted back into the music business again, where greasing, buttering, ass-gaping, and backstabbing are bodily functions like pissing and shitting. Aside from the heavy-hitting squats, I also follow a strong regimented workout that I designed over the years and that works well for me. It’s basically the same as the routine of most power lifters and bodybuilding champions, except for the results. Then I drop in an hour and a half of cardio daily, whether it’s on the treadmill or while blasting through a Black Label set onstage. I also have a high-protein diet, taking in up to three hundred grams of protein a day, depending on how many grams of protein I dumped on the Warden that morning, or again, if she wasn’t havin’ it, how many loads I splattered on the bathroom stall down at the venue. Replenishing my loads of doom is really easy, being that I’m in the music business. There is no shortage of motherfuckers I gotta suck off in order to keep the almighty Black Label Armada rolling. With the amount of music biz cock-gobbling I’ve gotta perform, between my manager, agents, band salaries, per diems, bus drivers, truck drivers, my wife’s personal trainer (who I’m sure she’s been fucking while I’m out here killing myself, bleeding Black fuckin’ Label every waking second . . . mind you, I couldn’t really give a shit as long as she’s got a smile on her face; you know how it goes—the girls don’t like to be disappointed!), the bright side is that my vocal cords are eternally lubed. Gotta stay positive! Fuck it—Merciless. (What that means, we’ll get to soon enough.) I don’t do steroids, but I should. Then I’d have an excuse for all the pissy fits, road rages, tantrums, outbursts, yelling at my wife, then forgiveness flowers, screaming at my children, then forgiveness allowances—not to mention all the douchebag lead-singer shit I pull on the guys in the band. That said, I think it’s fucking hilarious when people say that I’m on the juice. They see a picture of me at 249 pounds and a shot of me when I was eighteen years old at 140 pounds, and they assume it all happened overnight after a magical injection straight out of Barry Bonds’s medicine cabinet. But if I did use steroids I wouldn’t need Barry. I’d have my own team of shady gym owners and back-door physicians who would supply me with a black-market Titanic-load of growth hormones, Dianabol and Winstrol—enough to have any pancreas, liver, or pair of kidneys screaming for mercy. They don’t think of the twenty-plus years in between 1987 Zakk and 2011 Zakk where I was training all the time and eating healthy (though drinking professionally). The only supplements I take are protein shakes and vitamins. I don’t bother with anything else. With the blood-thinning medication I’m on these days to avoid blood clots, I don’t know how certain supplements will react. I’m no fuckin’ nuclear physicist, but I do play one on television. And what if I do take creatine and it doesn’t mix well with the shit I have to take for my blood, and I fucking croak in my sleep? I’ll tell you what would happen. It would set off a nuclear chain reaction of money-hungry scavengers hoping to squeeze any remaining drops of blood from my deteriorating corpse. I can picture it now—Barbaranne, management, and the accountants would all meet at Spago in Beverly Hills for a nice lunch and to begin planning how they are going to repackage all of the Black Label Society catalog and also release every fucking recording I’ve ever made, in a studio or on a cassette tape, and then probably even try to release some shit that I had nothing to do with. Back-alley meetings would take place with a black-market taxidermist to have me stuffed and preserved so that they could prop me up and continue selling meet-and-greet packages to the Black Label family. Barbaranne would sell the compound and run off with a failed NBA player. At seven foot two, with a relentlessly hammering, pounding cock of doom, and the life insurance money, and whatever Black Label shit the wife and management can pawn off, his basketball skills really won’t fucking matter at that juncture, nor what college he claims to have graduated from. Next my manager would place an order for his own corporate jet, and it would be one big party for all. I guess everything is fair game once I’m up in God’s tavern with the rest of our fallen saints. But seriously, as I sit here writing, there is a vulture sitting impatiently on the back of my chair staring down at me like I’m a giant fleshy sack of cash, its insatiable drool spilling over the pages of my manuscript, just waiting to get the proceeds from this book and every other motherfucking thing I’ve ever done. Anyway, about the steroids, fuck all that noise. The last time I checked, I’m doing just fine by lifting weights and eating clean proteins. Besides being physically fit, you’ve also got to keep your mind strong. If you don’t believe in what you’re doing, no one else is going to. That’s why I have to believe Barbaranne when she tells me that she’s not cheating on me and that our three children are really ours. Mind you, we didn’t have sex during the two years prior to our youngest being born, but Barb told me that Immaculate Conception is a real and common occurrence. Lucky for her I’m a devout Catholic and not a devout atheist. Otherwise, I’d ask her if she filmed herself fucking the other guy so I can at least jerk off to this shit. Once again—gotta stay positive, kids. And having religion won’t hurt either. There are so many choices out there, it can’t hurt to pick one of the nicer ones and run with it. Being a soldier of Christ, I believe in Jesus and everything he represents. Having compassion for others, giving to those who are less fortunate, protecting the innocent, empowering others as opposed to enslaving, making sacrifices for the benefit of others, and bringing someone other than yourself happiness. And through Jesus, the crucifix represents unconquerable and everlasting strength, sacrifice, blood, commitment, and faith in all that is good. Then I just ask the good Lord, why have you put JDesus in my life? Why? Why, beloved Father? Why? Now, if your religious leader tells you to go out and murder a bunch of innocent people because they think the Stones are better than the Beatles, or that Lady Gaga can bench-press more than Madonna could when she was the same age—try to stay away from this religion. As history has shown, in the poker game of life, when you try to explain to a judge that your religious leader told you to murder innocent people over a Stones vs. Beatles debate, you will usually find that the law carries a royal flush over your religious leader. If you need any proof, ask the Manson girls—as their long-awaited album and tour has been pushed back so many times at each passing year’s parole meeting. It makes Geffen Records look like they got off easy with Chinese Democracy. The next religion I would try to persuade you to stay away from would be the one where the religious leader tells everybody that a meteor is coming to take us all away. But before we jump on board the meteor to go to the promised land where the McDonald’s two-for-one is eternally on, we each have to put a Hefty bag over our head and seal it around our neck, suffocating us, while we slice off our fucking genitals! Now, this religion and religious leader can put a goliath fucking damper on all of your rock ’n’ roll dreams. For not just one but four terrible reasons: 1. Putting a Hefty bag over your head to snuff the life out of you is bad. 2. What happens if your favorite football team is making a push for the play-offs after several bad seasons? 3. You find out that Carvel ice cream is reintroducing the legendary ice cream cake that is Cookie Puss. 4. Your wife tells you she wants to do the threesome with her girlfriend who you think is slammin’. Well, guess what? Forget your football team holding up the Lombardi trophy. Forget having that crazy birthday party with all of your friends while enjoying Cookie Puss. And definitely forget about throwing back some Viagra and pounding and dominating the living shit out of your slammin’ wife and her hot girlfriend. You ain’t got no cock and balls, you dumb motherfucker! Oh, and another thing, Einstein—you’re fucking dead. In the end, find a religion that enriches your life and the lives of others and try to avoid religious leaders who land you in jail for thirty years to life. It is also advisable to keep sharp objects away from your genitals—they don’t like that. Determination only comes with you straight out of the womb. You can’t learn determination. You either have it or you don’t. That’s why as hard as I try to beat it senselessly into JD’s body, I’ll never be successful. His body is already full, but with holes and emptiness that befuddle all laws of physics. Just like you can’t fill a colander with water, you also can’t fill JD’s body with an ounce of determination. Whereas the Black Label creed is stronger than death, JD’s is weaker than life. His heartless, soulless, lifeless, and friendless existence is an astonishing anomaly that will always amaze me. That being said, the two most determined guys on the planet I’ve ever known are my father and Ozzy. These are two guys who lead by example and who’ve been there, done that. They had their asses handed to them repeatedly and never played the role of a victim. Instead, they said, “Fuck this,” and never stopped pushing forward. If I ever needed advice in my life I could always look up to Dad or Oz—and that advice would always be, “Start drinking heavily until the pain subsides, only to awaken sober, realizing that you’re in a rock band with a wife and three children who you need to provide for. Then keep drinking, trying not to remind yourself how much your wife and children are going to cost you, continually asking yourself why you couldn’t have taken up another hobby, such as basket-weaving or crochet.” You think I’m fucking kidding? That’s what they both actually told me. After that, they asked me to lean a little closer toward them, and then poked me in the fucking eye. Blinded and confused, I asked my wise elders, as they stood there laughing at my misfortune, “Why did you do that?” And they answered, “We’re not really sure either. It fuckin’ hurts though, doesn’t it?” I started listening to Ozzy’s music when I was twelve years old. If I had a crappy day at school or whatever, I could get off the school bus, go home, and listen to Sabbath albums, and it would just lift my spirit. Then I would come crashing back down to earth when I realized I was actually forty-four years old and still living at home with my mommy and dada, plus the rude awakening that my allowance hadn’t gone up since I was twenty-eight. So Ozzy’s actually been a part of my life the whole time, far before we ever met or started jamming together. I’ve seen it a thousand times in my life: The musicians who were determined and had faith became successful, and those who were only looking for a paycheck are no longer around. When I actually auditioned for Ozzy, back when I was nineteen years old, some of the other guys trying out were a lot older than me. They were waiting their turn, saying, “I hear the gig pays pretty well . . . ,” and shit like that. That was the whole motivation for their being there. I would have taken the gig with no pay. I had shrines back home dedicated to Ozzy, Randy, and Black Sabbath. So when I realized that a slew of guys were there looking only for a payday, my attitude changed from nervous to “Fuck those guys, I’m going to get this gig!” The first time I ever sat down with Ozzy he set me at ease. He said, “Zakk, just play with your heart, man, that’s all I want you to do.” His next piece of advice was for me to go into the kitchen and make him a ham sandwich. “And don’t fuck it up by going in heavy with the mustard,” he counseled me. I took his musical words of wisdom, and his instructions for the perfect lunch, to heart. With these treasures and my love of the music, I landed a gig that changed my life forever. Determination: You can’t manufacture that shit, it’s gotta come from the heart. A lion doesn’t choose to be a lion, that’s just what he is. He knows what’s expected of him, and he gets it fuckin’ done. Kind of like JD—we expect nothing from him and that’s exactly what we get. Merciless—to me Merciless means to be relentless in your pursuit, whether it’s for the love of your wife and kids, or for your passions and goals. You never give up on what’s important to you. If you want your band to be successful, or if you want to open the best fucking ham sandwich deli in town, you need to be Merciless in that quest. Just make sure you don’t go in heavy with the mustard—words of wisdom from the Sandwich Tao of Oz. Black Label Society is going to continue to make records and will never stop kicking ass and tearing across the globe like a nuclear assault vehicle . . . Fuck it—MERCILESS! If I have to light myself on fire and eat my own shit onstage to outdo the other bands . . . Fuck it—MERCILESS! If I have to get one more sex change after the three I’ve already undergone to keep selling Black Label records . . . Fuck it—MERCILESS! If I gotta hang a forty-pound plate from my labia majora to impress some record company executive, if that’s what it takes to keep moving the Black Label Armada forward . . . Fuck it—MERCILESS! If while doing those special engagement Black Label family meet-and-greets I have to rub all my fans’ shoulders and then finish them off with a happy ending . . . Fuck it—MERCILESS! (Remember—it keeps the vocal cords lubed anyway! Stay positive!) On my first date with my wife, Barbaranne, the two of us went to see the movie Urban Cowboy. I tried going up her shirt several times and got shut down. But I continued my relentless pursuit of fondling those luscious melons and today we have three children . . . Fuck it—MERCILESS! Forever—We always say that Black Label is beyond forever. No one has ever been fired from or quit Black Label. Once you’re in, the door is always open. Long after I settle in for my dirt nap and I’m hangin’ up in God’s tavern, people will be listening to Black Label Society, wearing the colors and raising their glasses in the name of kick-ass music—some may argue that it would have to be no music that I’ve ever been part of. That’s the true essence of Black Label Society and its creed, SDMF. The creed is our foundation, and from that place of strength, the concepts continue to grow and develop. And with all of us fuckin’ idiots involved, it can also be interpreted as Stupid Dumb Mother Fucker—you included. The Three Black Label R’s: Revenge, Retaliation, Redemption FACE YOUR FEAR, ACCEPT YOUR WAR, IT IS WHAT IT IS. . . Being a Berzerker and part of the Black Label Society is also about accepting the responsibility of the Three Black Label R’s: Revenge—The idea is that you are taking revenge upon your failures through your own achievements. You’re not going around beating anyone’s ass or being a dick because you’re pissed off that you’re not succeeding at life—I do that. Remember, I’m the lead singer fronting this two-bit fucking operation. Nobody can make you fail; they can create more obstacles and force you to have to be more resourceful, but that just means you have to keep working it. Bottom line is that if you fail at something, if you get knocked down, then you gotta get the fuck back up and any desire for vengeance you feel has to be channeled through yourself into productive energy. Look at me; even with all the times I got shot down by Barbaranne I was still able to plow her sugar walls, dominate her baby maker, and bathe her in conquest enough times to kick out three children. Retaliation—Revenge is the energy and retaliation is the set of actions you take to exact that revenge. Again, always retaliate upon yourself, because you are the only one who can carry out the steps toward your goals. Lawsuits and jail are no fun. Redemption—Once you’ve sought revenge and followed through with your plan of retaliation, then you get to take home the prize, the redemption. You have succeeded; you’ve challenged yourself and come through on the other side. Face your fear and accept your war. It is what it is. And after all, life is a test and life is tough—let’s see how motherfucking tough you really are. Remember, nothing stuffs a behemoth brass-knuckled fist up your detractor’s ass more than when you succeed. I should actually add a fourth Black Label R: Remove—as in please remove JD from my life. Yep. Now there are four. Moving on. We pray for war and we pray for adversity, because we bleed for a challenge—something that’s bigger than us. You can either get discouraged and crawl into a corner and cry about it, or you can come out dick fuckin’ swinging. That goes for the ladies as well. Yeah. You heard me right. Around this camp, it’s not out of the ordinary to have a few of them motherfuckers rolling around—a nice round apple-bottom power-ass of doom—only to turn around swinging a cock bigger than the migraine I get from hanging out with JD. Remember, life’s a mountain and we’re either going over it, going around it, going through it, or completely dismantling it. Final score: Mountain—0, Black Label Order—1. Flying the Colors NOW, YOU’VE HEARD STUFF LIKE “THESE COLORS DON’T TOUCH THE ground,” like with the American flag and other patriotic or revered symbols. Well with Black Label, our colors do touch the ground. Sometimes it feels like they’ve been pounded into the ground and then shit on, but they always get back up again. The Black Label colors themselves represent family and unity. I’ve always referred to our fans as our fams. That’s what Black Label is, one gigantic extended family—something bigger than yourself and bigger than a band. Back Patches—The original BLS patch set started with a bowling ball and pins to represent all of the shenanigans and the true concept of Black Label—that of a secret Illuminati bowling society. We had the bowling ball and pins in the center, and then “Black Label” across the top and “Society” below. As the concept grew, more patches were added to the front of the vests. Eventually we came up with a few different back patches as well. Each patch reinforces a different virtue of the Berzerker. Skully—I chose Skully from an old medical manual, mostly because he looks like my favorite actress and the most handsome woman in show business—Bea Arthur. She ran the Golden Girls ship with an iron fist. There are numbers and locations on different areas of Skully. And the joke in our band has always been that the locations are the parts of your brain that are affected by booze, weed, painkillers, and stuff like that—not that we take any of that shit. One time someone in the Doom Crew suggested that the two circles and shaft near the top of the head look like a set of cock ’n’ balls on Skully’s forehead. And it’s ironic, because JD often accuses us of tea-bagging him while he’s sleeping on the bus. The problem is that his only proof is having a forehead that smells like an unwashed nut sac—that could come from anywhere. Between all the cock pumps (which you’ll be hearing about later) and all the jerkin’ off and porn that goes on in this outfit, I guess we really do have cock ’n’ balls on the brain! If you take a look at the lyrics in the song “Berzerkers” (Drinking, puking, pissing, and fighting—Starting all over again), that’s the way the guys live. With the amount of pain pills going down, the amount of booze, and God only knows what else flyin’ around, things get a little crazy. But in the end, no matter how banged up you get, you gotta answer the bell the next day. That’s how the acronym GIFD was born. GIFD—Get It Fucking Done. Elvis coined the acronym TCB, “Taking Care of Business.” He had the lightning bolt going through the TCB. We added the lightning bolt going through Skully on the GIFD patch, in the spirit of the King and out of respect for the Memphis Mafia. It’s a way to pay homage to Elvis’s work ethic and his relentlessness in keeping his operation moving forward. No matter what obstacles he faced, how many zeppelins jam-packed with narcotics flew into Graceland, how many televisions he shot, or how many late-night fried peanut-butter-and-banana sandwiches he devoured, the King was pure Black Label, always getting it fuckin’ done. Chapters—The chapter patches identify where each Berzerker lives. Mine says “Los Angeles Chapter.” JD is in the Jersey chapter. Nick is in the Pittsburgh chapter—you get the picture. The idea is that a couple of guys from the same chapter can meet up, start a bowling team, come up with a cure for children’s cancer, end up millionaires, and bring joy to countless families across the globe. Or you can end up just like JD and his chapter—shoot heroin, share dirty needles, and bitch and moan that you all got nothin’ except that you’re in the same chapter and you now have the same blood type. Berzerker Casket—Once you’re a Berzerker, you’re a lifer, as long as you’re bleedin’ it and you’re committed. That’s the mentality you live with, living life full-bore, stronger than death (or as I mentioned earlier in JD’s case, weaker than life—God bless the Mongoose)—a term of endearment we have long since bestowed upon the little fella. You’re a Berzerker long after they shovel the dirt on top of you and that’s the reason we have the word on a fuckin’ coffin. Silhouette of My Testicles on a Shield—This is not a patch on the vest at all, it’s a silhouette of my nut sac. I tried to get this particular image printed with a scratch ’n’ sniff effect, but we were unable to reproduce the correct scent, so you’ll have to use your imagination or just sniff your own nut sac. We were originally going to use this design for our crest shield patch, but after a band vote, the idea was completely shut down. BLS Crest Shield—The shield of strength represents family heritage. In the Black Label family crest you’ll see everything that Black Label is: the unbreakable chains to represent determination and faith; SDMF between the two images of Skully, which represent strength in numbers; and the black and white colors illustrating that there are no gray issues. There’s only yes and no, right and wrong, as in “Yes, Barb, I would love a blow job this morning,” and “Right, I haven’t bathed since the deployment of our tour over six weeks ago.” When you’re on tour, your goal is to get yourself from point A (your hotel room) to point B (the rock show that night). Everything in between is the gray area that nobody gives a fuck about. You get a flat tire on the way to the gig, you stop by the liquor store and get shot at, and your dog eats your fucking homework. Nobody wants to hear about all that stuff. Just get it fuckin’ done. Get yourself from point A to point B and handle your business. Black and white. Doom Crew Iron Cross—The Doom Crew patch honors the hardworking crew involved in keeping the Black Label Armada rolling. BLS Nation Flag—Represents the BLS Nation and everyone that belongs to it, including all you Society-Dwelling Mother Fuckers! The Black Label Order—The Order is a lot like the Illuminati—it’s a secret religious order with its foundations deeply embedded in the Black Label code. Members of the Order belong to their respective chapters worldwide, signified by the crucifix and the unbreakable circle that supports the cross standing in front of it. As the circle represents everlasting faith and commitment, the crucifix represents unconquerable strength, blood, and sacrifice. Skully is at the bottom, representing the foundation and the true secrets of the almighty Black Label Order. Basically, it’s so secret that we don’t even know who we are. Truth be told, only Bea Arthur from The Golden Girls knew our most sacred and core secrets. And if you go back and watch some of those old episodes you can clearly see Saint Bea blinking and signaling codes that will reveal the truth of the Order. All of the symbols and acronyms that make up the colors stand for something meaningful to me and all those who wear them. They represent a philosophy on how to approach life, with the music of Black Label providing the enchanting hymns and melodious anthems for those within the Almighty Order. In Witness of Unity BY ERIC HENDRIKX SAN BERNARDINO, 2002: THE BLACK LABEL SOCIETY TOUR bus rolled up to the Blockbuster Pavilion. Within a few hours of their arrival every single ticket holder at the venue was made aware of their presence. 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 yourself, “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 asking Chris Cornell to 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 unsuccessful 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.” Remember how I mentioned unimportant people making important decisions? Anyway, I’m at one of these record company fucking meetings, where this fucking Einstein unleashes these words of musical wisdom to enlighten me as, I know, I’m a clueless dumb motherfucker who’s never been to the dance before. He says to me, “Zakk, you know this whole Viking-Jesus’s-biker-henchman thing you’ve got going on?” I said, “Yeah, you forgot to throw in the fact that we bake all the cookies that the fucking Girl Scouts sell. What about it?” “Well, I was thinking, if you changed the image of the band to maybe more of a Limp Bizkit type of thing, that would definitely help.” I didn’t know whether he was making a fucking joke or he wanted me to knock his fucking teeth out, or see if I could cave his fucking skull in with my Wesco mining boots. I was like, “You’re fucking joking, right?” “No, I think it would really help,” he said. “Hold on a minute, you mean to tell me that if I put on a backward fucking baseball cap, throw on some baggy motherfucking clothes, a pair of fucking Vans, and start rapping “Yo yo yo”—that’s gonna fucking fix everything? Are you out of your fucking mind? Are we supposed to make believe that I never fucking played with Ozzy? Instead of being proud of the fact that I stood in the same spot as my hero Randy Rhoads and shared the same stage with my hero and mentor Ozzy, I’m supposed to be embarrassed of where I came from? Fuck you, douche! And fuck Limp Bizkit! I’m in Black motherfucking Label Society!!! Why don’t you just take your fucking record company, and Limp Bizkit, and cram it up your fucking cunt sideways.” Needless to say, that meeting didn’t pan out as well as expected. So that’s where the Black Label war on Limp Bizkit began. Right then and there I felt like my whole musical existence had been attacked and fired upon. He could have mentioned any other band that was popular and that I should be more like, but he said Limp Bizkit. If they are responsible for the trend that means Black Label won’t taste victory, then they must be fucking destroyed!!! I kid you not, this was my complete fucking mind-set, as I felt it was kill or be killed. So during every Black Label mass after this record company meeting, “Limp Bizkit sucks fucking dick!” became the war oath as the Black Label armada rolled on seething strength from one Black Label mass to the next and refused to be denied. That’s why I’ve always said Black Label is not a band, it’s a mentality where lions gather and adversity is the fucking air we breathe. As far as the Limp Bizkit guys go, I’ve never met them. Guys who have worked with them or roll with them have said to me, “They are all super-cool guys and good people.” God bless them. Any band saying they wouldn’t want a smidgen of their success is full of shit. I’ve never wished bad on anyone in my life (except for JD, obviously), as it takes away from your concentrating on getting the fucking job done that’s in front of you. And if they are complete fucking cunts, just forget their existence altogether. Instead of wasting my time thinking about some douchebag, I would rather have Barbaranne suck me off and fist me, preparing me for my next prostate exam, to ensure that I have a clean bill of health, so I can continue to play this magickal music—which makes me feel like a giddy little schoolgirl—called rock ’n’ roll. But if Limp Bizkit was in the same position as I was thirteen years ago, during the birth of the almighty Black Label in 1998, I’d expect nothing different from them if some record company know-it-all douche who obviously knew what was best for them and probably isn’t in the music business anymore said the same thing to them. Here we are thirteen years later with our Black Label family growing stronger and stronger, and Order of the Black entered the Billboard charts at number four. Now let’s say some record company guy tells the fellas in Limp Bizkit, “Guys, your shtick is getting old. That was thirteen years ago. Maybe if you dressed more like . . . Black Label? They have a number four album!” I’d expect them to say, “Black Label can suck my left fucking ball! We’re Limp fucking Bizkit, asshole!” You think I’m joking but established artists who have sold millions of records have fucking idiots who don’t even know who’s in the fucking band or anything about their past telling them what kind of music they should be playing or what kind of clothes they should be wearing. Always remember—play what you love and what moves you. And have a set of fucking balls and don’t be afraid to stick up for yourself. I’ve been put in positions where I’ve felt uncomfortable about doing something, and in the end they pretty much all turned out with me asking myself, “Why the fuck did I listen to that asshole?” If you believe in what you are doing, those beliefs are yours, and not anybody else’s, to change. Weekend at Bernie’s A BUDDY OF MINE TOLD ME WHEN HE WAS WORKING AT SOME RECORD company that they were about to release a new Jimi Hendrix album of lost tapes of Jimi snoring or stubbing his fucking toe, or God knows whatever else they could find recordings of Jimi doing—brushing, flossing, mowing his lawn, eating potato chips, you get the idea. So the record company was having its weekly boardroom meeting discussing the battle plan of how they were going to promote the new Jimi Hendrix offering. Everybody was firing off ideas, bouncing them off each other, when in walks a twenty-two-year-old girl who works for the label. She says to everybody at the table, “I’m going to book Mr. Hendrix’s flights and take care of all of his travel arrangements. Does anybody know where he prefers to stay?” My buddy said there was dead silence, and then they broke out dying laughing. The girl handling the travel asked, “What the fuck is so funny?” Then she said, “When you find out where he likes to stay, let me fucking know because I have to book this shit.” At least the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders have to take a test on the history of the Cowboys’ players and its franchise history. That’s why the music business is so fucking awesome—you don’t even have to know the name of the deceased person you’re working for! Being involved in this shit truly is a gift that keeps on giving. At the end of the day, play what you love and what moves you. Plain and simple. GIFD. Gotta Promote the Record! OVER THE YEARS, GOING TO RADIO AND PROMOTING WHATEVER ALBUM was out at the time has always been a blast. And I’ve met some great people who, whether they’re still in the business or not, when we run into each other again, we always have a great time catching up, laughing our asses off telling war stories. Now here’s another gem of radio fucking comedy. The record company and their radio staff people are the absolute fucking best when they get all jacked up. Especially the radio people in their market or territory, when we are gonna pay them a visit with our cuddliness, compiled with the sheer adorableness of the fucking grand whatever-the-fuck-it-is that we bring to the table. Anyway, at one particular radio station we visited up in the Pacific Northwest, in walks the radio guy or gal from the label, and my brother-in-law and tour manager, and fearless field general, much akin to General George S. Patton—Father Mark Ferguson—along with the general of the Black Label guitar army, Moby. And then there’s the wonderful blond-bomber douchebag—me. So basically the game plan is that I will tantalize them all with my unbelievable fucking greatness, push the album, and bless them with a Carnegie Hall–worthy performance, and in turn they will be so abso-fucking-lutely blown away that they just have to add the single to their playlist! Right? Oh, you sad, sad, pathetic little man. Now, get this. I jam about three or four unplugged, un-Blackened fucking tunes on the acoustic guitar and piano, tell them a batch of funny fucking Ozzy and Black Label stories, tell them about how wonderful the new album is and how if you buy it, everything in your life is going to be peachy keen and all the other bullshit that makes life worth living! Mission accomplished, right? Here’s the grand prize, kids. While Moby was breaking down the gear, and I was taking a piss, Father Fergie was talking with the radio programmer (the guy who decides what does and what doesn’t get played on their radio station) and some of the gang at the station. The programmer guy told Mark, “We love when you Black Label guys come down to the station. Zakk tells the funniest stories and we love it when he performs for us. It’s just so awesome!” Mark answered, “Yeah, Zakk’s a funny fucker. So listen, boss, are you guys going to spin the single?” The guy looked Mark straight in the fucking eyes, everything went silent, and he said, “Ahhhhh . . . No. But anyway, it was really great seeing you guys. Take care.” The only thing missing was, “Don’t let the door hit you in the fucking ass on your way out, you fucking idiots!” Once again, fucking priceless! You’re Fucking Out! REMEMBER HOW I WAS TELLING YOU ABOUT THE RECORD LABELS THAT I dealt with and how I told them, “I’ll do my end of the deal, you fucking do yours”? Well, here’s a perfect example of when you know they’re lying to you, and you just wish somehow you could prove it. None other than “Mom”—Sharon Osbourne—conceived this little plot of record label investigation during the release of the No More Tears album. Mom wanted to have the Boss get closer to the Ozzy Army so she rounded up a batch of in-stores and smaller gigs for us to play, instead of the enormodomes we were doing up to that point. It was her idea to give all the Ozzy-heads a chance to see the boss in a more intimate setting. As far as the gigs went, they were fucking awesome! Between the fucking energy coming off the stage and the insane asylum in the crowds, it was fucking killer. Thank the good Lord the gigs were a blast because the in-stores were a whole other fucking story. On paper, it all looked fucking grand—Ozzy and the band would roll into the record store with the new album blasting throughout the fucking place. The Ozzy Army could come in, get the new record and whatever other Ozzy album they wanted, and have them signed by the boss and the band. With about fifteen hundred crazy Ozzy-heads at every in-store, you would figure they would sell fifteen hundred copies of the new record, and plenty of other Ozzy and Sabbath records. Then Ozzy and the band would sign everything and a good time would be had by all. How fucking complicated is that? Keep reading. If I’m a manager at fucking McDonald’s and I realize that we are starting to run low on fucking hamburger patties, I am immediately blowing a phone call in for a massive shipment of patties so that we don’t lose out on a ton of burger sales. The music business is no different. If you’re a record company, your bands’ CDs and product are your burgers for sale. You don’t sell fucking burgers, you don’t pay the bills and you don’t eat. Common sense, right? The boss and the rest of the band showed up at one particular record store and there was a massive line around the fucking building. As soon as we stepped foot in the store there was a Black Sabbath video cranked up on all of the TVs—STRIKE ONE! Ozzy looked around and said, “Do these fucking assholes realize that I’ve been out of Sabbath longer than I was in it? Tell someone to put the new fucking record on!” Once they got that sorted, we sat down at the signing tables. The doors opened and in came the Ozzy Army—all super-cool people, all super-pumped to meet the Boss. After Ozzy signed about five CDs the store completely ran out of the new record. The shelves were pillaged to find every last CD with Ozzy’s name on it—one copy of Blizzard of Oz, two copies of Diary of a Madman, one copy of Bark at the Moon, one copy of Master of Reality, and two copies of Paranoid—and that’s all, folks! They had booked a living legend to appear in their store, the Prince of fucking Darkness, and had a total of twelve fucking copies of any music with Ozzy on it—twelve fucking copies to span his entire career of music! The only problem is, we had fifteen hundred fucking people wanting to buy a record and have Ozzy sign it. If the store manager had pulled this horseshit at any other job he would have been fucking fired, killed by a death squad in some countries—STRIKE TWO! It gets better. Instead of signing flyers or posters or whatever promotional items might have been brought into the store to promote the fucking album (which, by the way, are supposed to be supplied by the fucking record company), the Boss and the band were signing fucking paper towels from the fucking bathrooms. Oz, being the super-cool guy that he is, just signed anything handed to him. He greeted everybody, right up to the last person waiting in line to meet him and the store employees as well. After we left, on the way back to the hotel, that’s when he laid it down. “Fucking napkins? How many years have I been doing this shit and I’m signing fucking napkins from the bathroom at a record in-store? Are you fucking kidding me?” After Mom got word of this fucking fiasco of doom, each day we rolled into any town to do a show, she had the assistant to the band (which really meant best friend and drinking partner)—Will “the Chill”—go out to every fucking store and take an inventory of every last Ozzy record in the place, the name of the store, the manager, contact numbers, addresses. That way when Mom called the record company as we were headed out to bring the doom, she could say, “We were in Miami yesterday and there were no fucking Ozzy records in the stores, assholes!” The record company would fire back, “Yes there are! There are tons of Ozzy records out there!” Mom would reply, “Listen, cocksuckers, don’t you fucking lie to me! I’ve got my assistant going out to every big chain and mom-and-pop record store out there! I’ve got a list of names, dates and times, contacts, which records and how many at each and every store. You’re busted fucking cold!” To this day it never ceases to amaze me that this shit still goes on. If we own a Burger King, and somebody pulls up and orders a burger, we don’t tell him, “Sorry, we are out of burgers, but would you like a grilled chicken sandwich?” For fuck’s sake, the name of the restaurant is called Burger fucking King, not Grilled Chicken Sandwich King! No fucking burgers? STRIKE THREE, MOTHERFUCKER—YOU’RE FUCKIN’ OUT! It would just be easier to have them give us twenty thousand records, bring them to the in-store, and whatever we don’t sell, we have for the next in-store. What the fuck is so fucking hard about that? It’s the record company’s job to make sure they sell fucking records. Do we not want to sell records? Maybe we should go into the bathroom-paper-towel business, because there were plenty of those fucking things to go around for Ozzy and the band to sign. Better yet, if they could find a way to make a living by coming up with bullshit excuses, they would. Since that’s what the majority of their job consists of—weak-willed, excuse-riddled shit. The whole thing is you’re supposed to work as a fucking team, not us against you. Somewhere in the middle of the No More Tears tour, the record company held this dinner in some fancy banquet room and presented Oz and the rest of us with double-platinum discs. They also presented Ozzy with this gigantic frame with all of the platinum albums that he had sold—from Saint Rhoads to Father Lee to when my dumb ass joined the band. It was massive. I felt so happy for Oz—he’s one of the coolest guys on the planet and we were all there to celebrate with him. One of the big guys at the label got up and gave a speech about how awesome Oz was and about all his years of hard work and success, how proud they were to be his record company. Then he said, “We’d like to congratulate Ozzy and his band for No More Tears going double platinum!” Everyone began to clap and cheer, when all of a sudden Mom’s voice overpowered everything with, “It could have done fucking better!” There was dead silence, then uncomfortable laughing, and then clapping again. And then again at the top of her lungs, Mom shouted, “It could have done fucking better!” Needless to say it was fucking awesome. Thank you, Mom. Hair of the Gods: The Metal Beard One of my favorite nicknames for Zakk is “Hangtime,” because he’s always got food or something stuck in that filthy thing that he calls his beard. —RITA HANEY, DIMEBAG’S HAG WHEN I WAS A CHILD, I DID CHILDISH THINGS, LIKE MASTURBATE HEAVILY, drink my father’s liquor, and play the recorder. Now that I am a man I have put away those childish things—and now I masturbate heavily, drink my father’s liquor, and play the recorder. What I’m driving at is that to truly establish yourself in the Great Halls of Metal, nay, in music, it is necessary to grow up and become a man. This means a lot of different things. Some of them you will discover as you continue reading this holy parchment, which will transform the fantasy portion of your life into a reality. There is no higher honor in life than to proudly display the fact that you have evolved into manhood, and the best way to do this is to grow yourself a true Metal beard. And if you truly want to test your manliness you could also try running into your local marine recruiting center hollering, “God bless the terrorists!” However, for your safety and everyone else’s involved, let’s just stick with the beard. Everyone from Kerry King, to Scott Ian, to Rob Zombie, and of course, Brother Dimebag Darrell himself all cultivated the sacred emblem upon his iron chin. It is a rite of passage for a band to grow beards. It’s a sign that they have moved on from a silly bullshit act into an undeniable wrecking ball of musical alchemy—or possibly that they’re too fucking lazy to pick up a razor. I’ve got to be honest with you, that’s why I’ve got one. But we’ll stick with the sacred rite of the Viking for its awesomeness. Beards have been associated with the warrior mentality and dominance for thousands of years, and things are no different in the world of Metal—or in the gay community. If you’re too young and can’t physically grow a beard yet, don’t worry. Someday you will be able to, and when you actually can, then the time will come to test your manhood against the mothers, girlfriends, and clean-cut pussyfucks who glare snobbily down their shit-brown noses at you. For these people will entice, tempt, and taunt you to shave your beard and relinquish your power—kind of like what my family does to me. Do not give in, my friends, the OdinForce will always be with you. And once you do cultivate your hairy manhood and you lose your job, and you can’t pay the rent, and Mommy and Dada won’t let you live with them anymore—when you’ve got nothing left—that’s when it’s time to reconsider running into your local marine recruiting center hollering, “God bless the terrorists!” For the minute the marines hear this load of shit, it will be the last words muttered out of your pathetic little mouth—you pathetic little man. Note from Zakk: This is the only magazine cover that I ever did where—because of the holiday season and me being in a giving spirit—I included JD in the photo shoot. World Tour Survival Technique: Farming Your Chin Spinach JUST LIKE THE STORY OF SAMSON AND DELILAH, MY BEARD HOLDS THE power of the OdinForce in its shaggy, dreadlocked twists and turns. It’s come in handy in all areas of my life. • An Irish tickler for when I’m in the sack with my wife. • A pointer when I’m directing JD to leave the room. • A stirrer for my coffee, when I’m not using my schlong. • Sometimes I like to wrap it around my own neck and restrict the blood flow while I jerk off. Okay, maybe more than sometimes. • A flavor-saver of love for when I want to be reminded of my Immortal Beloved whilst out bleeding on the battlefields of the great Black Label crusades. • Preparation for my backup career as Drunk Santa at the mall. • A stunt double for John Holmes’s cock in his biographical movie. The Talk Box BY THE BEARD OF ZAKK YO, YOU MOTHERFUCKERS! YOU MAY NOT KNOW ME PERSONALLY, but I’m Zakk’s beard. Now, ole Zakky boy may have gone all tutti-frutti in Beverly Hills, but I’m still keepin’ it real, a Jersey beard through and fuckin’ through. But just ’cause Little Lord Fancy Boy has gone all Hollywood on us, don’t think that I’m gonna sit here all trimmed and pointy-like and smelling of coconuts. I’m not fluffy, I’m not soft, I’m a hard-core Metal beard and just so you know, yes, if I had a stomach, it would make me sick to live this close to the Dodgers. So anyways, nice to meet you. Think of me as the pepperoni on the pizza, the extra cheese if you will. When Zakk makes all his crazy faces at the crowd, I’m the one that kicks that shit into gear! Truly freakin’ scary! Imagine if he just puckered up and scowled at you without me! Forget about it—I make this man! And if you think different, I’m gonna have to come out there and pluck out your eyeballs and stick ’em up your ass so you can get a closer look at reality! Apologies, I’m a slightly angry beard. You see, I’ve been in places that only Jersey beards have been and lived to talk about, and believe you me, it’s not all glitz and glamour being Zakk’s beard. You try it! Have you seen this guy onstage? He’s a fuckin’ slob! He spits all the time. And only about half of that makes it into the sky; I end up with a fuckin’ bath every time he decides to do that. Yo, buddy! I asked for the news, not the weather, asshole! A lotta times I’m forced to survive off chunks of everything he eats. And more days than not, I end up smelling like that spot between a woman’s pussy and her butthole. And let me tell you—taint nothin’ pretty about that! I live in constant danger, my friends. But I’m a fuckin’ survivor, sharing my stories of survival. The closest I ever came to death was during a video shoot Zakky boy did with Ozzy for a song called “Dreamer.” Sharon Osbourne put a fuckin’ hit on me and told Zakk that he had to shave me off! Thankfully, Rob Zombie, the director of the video, came to my rescue. I heard Sharon say, “Doesn’t he look silly with that thing? He needs to shave it off right now.” “No, I think it looks cool,” Rob said, defending me. “What’s wrong with having a beard?” That was a close one. Sharon was looking for backup to take me out, but she got the opposite reaction from my brother Zombie. Actually, it’s me and Rob’s beard who are the greatest of pals. We’ve been catching our boys’ whiskey drool for years now, and we back each other up. Soon after, Zakk trimmed me into a much more Metal beard than before. I lived on to fight another day, my friends, standing proud as the most Metal of all facial hair. By the way, I’m also good friends with Kerry King’s beard. Don’t try any funny shit! You don’t want the two of us comin’ round, ya hear me! So remember, beards are for growin’ and furginas are for mowin’! Good night, motherfuckers, and all hail the almighty Metal beard! Note from Zakk: Father Eric wrote this. I had no fucking part of it at all. He thought it was funny. I really don’t see any humor in it, but we left it anyway. I mean really—who gives a fuck about my stupid beard? You know when you go to the movies and there’s a part in the movie that really sucks and you wonder why they left that part in the movie? This is that part. Hey, Father Eric, maybe you can show this little ditty to your imaginary girlfriend while you’re showing her your vintage Star Wars dolls—you truly are a fucking idiot. Hopefully we can rebound from this horrendous part of the book. Remember, this was your idea. By the way, you’re not funny and neither is this section. True Rocker Test THIS RIDICULOUS BIT OF BULLSHIT CAME ABOUT ONE DAY WHEN MY buddy told me, “Oh, you’ll spot my friend, he’s a true rocker.” True as opposed to false rocker? Okay. Whatever the fuck that means. So we got to talking about what really constitutes being a true rocker. I love listening to my Sabbath and Zeppelin albums while throwing back a couple of cold beverages. You know, while cramming an empty beer bottle up my ass and sitting on my washing machine during a spin cycle—my cock in one hand and a beer in the other. Which begs the question: Does this classify me as a true rocker or just a guy who loves having bottles stuffed up his ass? This is where we test your instincts to see if the blood of the Berzerker flows freely through your veins or if you need a little work in the Department of Heavy Metal. Your answers will determine whether or not you are truly Berzerk and should keep reading, or if you are merely a Viking infant in need of a dipey change. Those of you whose scores reach into the clouds where Odin himself resides can refer to yourself around the house as a true Berzerker and command thy family to address you only with your Berzerker name. Around my house, I won’t even speak to my family unless they first address me as Godred Crovan, Victor of Sky-Hill and Ruler of Man and the Isles. And now that I think about it, that’s probably why nobody speaks to me unless it’s time to feed the dogs or take out the garbage. In pure Black Label fashion, we’ll use the honor system here—so keep your own score and be honorable, motherfuckers. We’ll start with an easy question first so you can get the hang of it. 1. Who is the lowest bloodthirsty, money-grubbing vulture in the music business? a. My manager. b. My agent. c. My promoter. d. My loving wife. Answers: a. 10 points. Bingo. b. 10 points. You are correct. c. 10 points. Nailed it. d. 0 points. I’m God-fearing and wife-fearing as well. You gotta be out of your fucking mind if you guessed “d.” Remember, you lay down to rest each night next to your wife . . . and at some point you’re going to fall asleep. This leaves two things not in your favor: a pissed-off wife and sharp objects in the home. Always remember something a priest actually told me when we exchanged our vows—“Son, the girls don’t like to be disappointed.” 2. How often should one brush their teeth on the road? a. Twice a day. b. Once a day. c. Usually every day, but if I’m on the road, I don’t mind skipping a few days. Just suck off a guy who’s been on a healthy diet of broccoli and cauliflower. d. What the fuck is brushing your teeth? You gonna ask me if I shower too? Answers: a. -10 points. Have you been paying attention? (It’s simple: I write, you read.) This book is about Metal Viking debauchery, not overzealous ways to manage good hygiene! b. -5 points. You’re probably taking this test with your girlfriend, and she’s answering the questions for you and helping you keep score. You pussy. c. 10 points. Now we’re talking. People will back away from you either because of your smelly breath or because you’re out sucking guys off. d. 10 points. Pure Black Label fashion, brother. On one tour I went seventy-seven days without a shower or brushing my teeth. Of course, when my wife caught up with me, she hosed my ass down before laying a finger on me. True story—I recall one time when my cock and balls got to the point of smelling like a rotten fish market. I dropped my trousers, Barb was about to go to work on me, and she actually gagged from the stench of rotten tuna and salmon and said, “I’m not going near that fucking thing until you shower.” And I explained, “But I’m a hardworking man.” She calmly replied, “No, you’re a fucking idiot.” Then I said, “But now we both smell like Chicken of the Sea.” She said, “I’m done here. Now you can go back to sucking off guys who are on a healthy diet of broccoli and cauliflower, asshole.” Then I said, “First of all, I never stopped sucking guys off. Just lock the door so the kids don’t come in. I’m gonna jerk off by myself. I love you, my little Chicken of the Sea!” 3. What do you do when you’re onstage and you need to take a shit? a. Have the band cover for you while you take a bathroom break. b. Hold it in until after the gig. c. Wait until the drummer’s solo and then run out to the bus and shit in his bed. d. Dimebag Darrell’s tried-and-true “bucket technique.” Answers: a. 10 points. Although you did just hit the brakes on the show, I’m awarding you a ten-spot for being so bold as to have a thousand people wait while you go blow a fucking toilet up. You fucking septic, you. b. 5 points. Problem solved. Just don’t shit yourself before you walk offstage. c. -10 points. We’ve got two problems here: (1) No one shits on the bus. (2) What sick fuck shits in someone else’s bed? This is some fucked-up, GG Allin shit that should have ended when they dropped the last nail in his coffin. God bless GG. That motherfucker literally gave his all when he walked out onto the stage. Nobody ever left a GG Allin show sayin’, “Wow, he really half-assed it tonight.” d. 20 points. After a sleepless night of drinking his favorite Black Tooth Grins, my brother Dime could be in the middle of a fucking guitar solo, walk to the side of the stage, drop trou, and take a shit into a bucket without missing a motherfuckin’ note. And you only thought Dime could come up with brilliant riffs and blistering solos. How’s that for talent? You score 10 points for knowing about Dime’s bucket technique here and another 10 points for knowing that the show must always go on. Nice job, Berzerker. In fact, if you chose “d” and just started reading this goddamn book, then you’re on the List. 4. You’re in a band and you really want to make it in the music business. You are introduced to a guy, who knows a guy, whose guy knows a guy, who can help your band become successful. In order for him to help you out, he informs you that you have to make out with his three-hundred-pound sister in the backseat of a car. How do you respond? a. Simply tell him, “No, thanks, I love cock and balls. And I like it rough and unshaven.” b. Pound your beer, and then another, and then another, and then another, and then suck it up and make out with this big fat wildebeest mongoloid troll. The bigger the waistband, the deeper the quicksand. You know what I mean. c. Strike him in the throat with the blade of your hand, yelling out something that sounds Japanese but is actually not of any language at all. d. Tell him you have herpes, but your bass player will do it. You should also thank him for the wonderful sex with his mother. And ask him to thank her for the salad-tossing during the hand job; she really went the extra mile to make it a pleasant evening. Answers: a. 5 points. I find that claiming gayness gets me out of a lot of situations these days—like instead of telling my wife that I’m not in the mood for sex, I just tell her I’m gay. b. 5 points. This is exactly what I did. I took one for the band. Back when we were kids, this chick mounted me in the back of some beat-up car in the parking lot. If your back and ribs get crushed as much as mine did, give yourself another 5 points, since that’s all you’re gonna get is points. This in no way helped my career, nor my overall self-esteem or physical condition. As this chick sat on me trying to graze upon my face, I knew I had made a mistake, and that mistake resonated through every vertebra in my spine. To this day I still attribute the majority of my back pain not to power-lifting in the Doom Crew Iron Dungeon, but to this very unholy disaster of Titanic proportions. I should have just said I was gay. c. 0 points. This is a break-even, because while hitting anyone for offering you their own bloodline is fucked-up, the fact that you used old-school kung fu is awesome. So no points, but because you invoked the spirit of Bruce Lee I’m not going to fault you either. May the spirit of Saint Lee and jeet kune do always be with you. d. 10 points. This would have been the correct choice. It’s not what I chose, but I wish I had, just to have the nightmares in JD’s head and not in mine. Oh, the horror. But be sure to thank him for the wonderful sex with his mother. 5. What is a Black Tooth Grin? a. After you go down on someone, it’s the smile you make when your teeth are full of pubes. b. A crackhead’s smirk. c. A cocktail. d. Any smile in Louisiana or that belongs to a Doom Crew member. Answers: a. -5 points. That’s disgusting. And how dare you talk about my wife like that. b. -5 points. That’s disgusting. And how dare you talk about my wife like that. c. 5 points. Nailed it. My Black Label brother Dime’s favorite drink was the Black Tooth Grin . . . A shot of Crown Royal topped off with a splash of Coke. d. -5 points. If you were thinking hillbilly here, you actually lose points. Go back to your Deliverance thoughts. 6. You find yourself in the middle of a Black Label Society mosh pit. As you look around, you realize that there is no escape from the circling chaos that surrounds you. You decide to . . . a. Find the biggest, scariest motherfucker in the pit and punch him square in the face. b. Cry, panic, and scream. c. Stay in the mayhem and see how well you do. d. Pull out your cock and spin it around like a windmill until people clear out of your way. Answers: a. 10 points. This is exactly how I met and fell in love with my loving wife, Barbaranne. Now the only time I punch her square in the face is with my cock. b. -15 points. Stop acting like JD. He does enough of that for all of us. c. 20 points. There ya go! You’re in the pit and you haven’t done anything stupid. You may still get your ass kicked, but that’s okay, because you’re not afraid to take a few lumps of sugar with your tea. d. 0 points. I have no idea how to assign a score to what you’ve just done. I don’t know if I’m impressed or terrified. If you do want to see your scores up on the board, here ya go, from lowest to highest: -40 to 0 points . . . Level: JD—In other words, you’re worthless and weak. 5 to 20 points . . . Level: Order of the Idiots 25 to 45 points . . . Level: Black Label Brethren 50 to 70 points . . . Level: Berzerker 75 points . . . Level: Bea Arthur—Order of the Black Label Illuminati I didn’t realize Ozzy had a chick in his band. She’s not bad. She kind of looks like Pamela Anderson but not quite as breasty. Although I’m a tit guy, I’d still fuck this chick. Whenever Ozzy and I would do these photo shoots and the photographers would ask us to make screaming faces, the Boss would always say, “Look at this stupid shit. People must think we fucking sleep like this.” Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес». 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