Shut Up and Give Me the Mic

by Dee Snider

  What I gradually discovered in the weeks to come was, not only wasn’t Suzette interested or attracted to me, she was repulsed by me! She was embarrassed to be seen with me. How freakin’ self-absorbed was I? In case you haven’t already noticed, I am a textbook narcissist.

  To top things off, Suzette had no prior interest in music or bands. She didn’t own so much as one record or tape, and she had nothing to play them on if she did.

  Suzette repeatedly tried pretty much everything to break up with me during those first few months, but I just wouldn’t let go. No matter what her complaint was about me, I adjusted for it. Whatever she didn’t like, I changed. When I raised my voice to her for the first time and she opened the door of my car and started to jump out while it was still moving, I swore I would never yell at her again. I still don’t.1 The more I realized that she didn’t want me, and the more I knew about her, the more I wanted her.

  This was my theory: I was convinced I was going to make it, and I knew that any girl who was interested in me once I did would be into me for all the wrong reasons. Namely, I was a rich, famous rock star.

  My thinking was, if I could win Suzette’s heart, get her to love me for me, I would always know she was with me for the right reasons. Not because I was in a band or had fame or money or she liked my music.2 By starting our relationship as a total zero, whatever happened, I could never go lower than that . . . zero. I would never have to worry about why she was with me. I don’t know where I got this odd wisdom from, but I was right.

  I need to give credit to Suzette’s childhood best friend Wendy Cohen-Yair, who coached me through the rocky shores of dating Suzette. I would often call Wendy for counsel when I was confused by my girlfriend’s actions and/or didn’t know what to do. Wendy would always talk me through it, even the time Suzette finally convinced me she didn’t want to go out with me anymore. I was going to pack it in and walk away from the relationship, but Wendy assured me that Suzette was totally into me and just didn’t know how to express herself.

  So I hung in there. As it turned out, Wendy lied. Suzette really didn’t want anything to do with me anymore. When she asked Wendy why in God’s name she told me that she did, Wendy replied, “I felt bad for him. He’s so in love with you.” Thank you for that, Wendy. Suzette thanks you now, too. I told you we were meant to be together.

  I wanted my first Christmas with Suzette to be great. We had been dating now for eight months and were starting to feel like a couple. For Suzette’s sixteenth birthday I had wowed her with a white German shepherd puppy. Suzette had had a beloved white German shepherd as a child, so I got her another. She loved it. I had to top the birthday gift on our first Christmas.

  Unlike in the “economical” Christmases I had grown up with, I got Suzette four or five different gifts, the capper being a new portable television for her room. Hers had broken, and since she liked to sleep with the TV on, she was frustrated not to have one anymore. I knew I was going to blow her away.

  Christmas Eve came and Twisted Sister wasn’t working.3 I couldn’t wait to finish the celebration at my parents’ house and head over to Suzette’s with my gifts. Both families were Christmas Eve celebrators, but my family celebrated much earlier in the evening. Suzette’s family were Christmas Eve traditionalists: no gift was opened before midnight. I arrived in time for the festivities. The Gargiulo Christmas tree was packed with more gifts than I’d ever seen before.

  Suzette, now in her junior year of high school, was taking an accelerated schedule so she could graduate a year early and go to the Fashion Institute of Technology (FIT). She had been interested in clothing design since she was a kid (a much younger kid) and was chomping at the bit to embrace her chosen career. To that end, she enrolled in the fashion-design program at the Board of Cooperative Educational Services (BOCES). BOCES allows students to attend their regular school and classes in the morning, then focus on more career-oriented learning in the afternoon. Anxious to jump-start her career, Suzette attended BOCES classes daily.

  Meanwhile, back at the festivities, the gift-giving was in full swing. Now, at my house, we would hand out one gift at a time, watch the recipient open it, and react accordingly. As we did, my mom would pick up the torn wrapping paper from the floor and throw it out, then we would move on to the next gift. Very civilized. In the Gargiulo household . . . not so much. They had so many presents, if they went at that pace, it would be the New Year by the time they finished.

  I don’t recall the exact nuances of the gift exchange, but I opened my first gift from Suzette to discover an amazing, handmade “Suzette original” design top for the stage! White, off one shoulder, with a sleevelet for the exposed arm, it had long, white fringe all over it. It was stunning . . . ly gay! I loved it!

  I opened gift after gift (Suzette had way more for me than I had for her), to find more and more wild, original designs, which she had hand made for me at her BOCES school. While the other girls were working on designs for themselves—or normal people—Suzette had dedicated her entire fall to creating outfits for me to wear with the band. They were amazing!

  Can you imagine what the teachers and other girls in her class thought when they saw Suzette working on these large, superfeminine outfits for her then-unknown, six-foot-one-inch, 180-pound boyfriend? (I was skinnier then.) Suzette didn’t care what other people thought. She never has.

  The pièce de résistance was a skintight, pink spandex jumpsuit, open in the front to almost my pubes, with floor-length white fringe all across the back and the arms. I had told Suzette that I had always wanted an outfit like this, and she designed and made it for me. Unbelievable! To make the effort even more amazing, Suzette couldn’t find long enough fringe, so she and her brothers and sister hand-tied two strands together for each individual fringe, to create the length for the entire outfit! I was blown away.

  As I stood in the middle of the Gargiulo living room, knee-deep in wrapping paper (the Gargiulos just let it pile up), I was humbled by the generosity of my girlfriend and her family. Most of the gifts under the tree had been for me. I shuffled through the wrapping-paper pile like a kid through fallen leaves and vowed that Christmas would be like this from now on, if I had to work all year just to afford it. It always has.

  More important, and not fully realized at that moment, Suzette’s massive effort had just launched me, and ultimately Twisted Sister, to a whole new level. Sure, she may just have been preventing me from ever wearing matching outfits with her again, but she had pushed me to embrace my inner transvestite and be the best Twisted Sister I could be. Which is all she has ever done—selflessly help others attain greatness.

  There was no looking back!

  11

  the gauntlet is thrown

  In the tristate club scene, Twisted Sister was the party band. No one could light up a crowd the way we could, and we quickly became in high demand, especially for holidays and special events. When they were closing the original Hammerheads (the club where Suzette and I met), the owners decided to go out big and hire Twisted for the final blowout. Perhaps that was a poor choice of words. By the end of the night, interior walls had been ripped down and plumbing fixtures torn out, along with most of the drop ceiling, by marauding fans, revved up by the band. Our security that night were some biker/black-belt friends of ours from a karate school known as ACK (American Combat Karate). Founded by martial arts legend Richard Barathy, American Combat Karate was mixed martial arts years before it became fashionable. Credit where credit is due.

  At some point during the crazed night, someone maced another in the overcrowded club, it got in the eyes of one of the ACK members, and then all hell broke loose. The scene was reminiscent of the Stones at Altamont with our black-belt/biker security kicking the shit out of pretty much anybody at arm’s (or leg’s) length . . . and the band played on! People were being taken away in ambulances (some guy actually had his ear bitten off!). My lasting memory of that night is the sight of the club’s massive central-air-condition
ing unit dropping out of the ceiling and onto the crowd below. Hey, they said they wanted a blowout.

  DURING OUR YEAR OF living together, many band meetings were held. One infamous meeting was when Eddie—after months of being late, missing things, and generally being less than a part of the band—was to be dismissed and replaced by my best friend and Twisted housemate, Don Mannello. Don was a good-looking, great guitar player who would have made an amazing addition to the band.

  Jay Jay, the band manager and spokesperson, was all set to fire Eddie, and then he “called an audible.” Without consulting the rest of us, Jay gave Eddie one more chance to get his shit together. We were stunned. Remarkably, Eddie—who always had a “legit” excuse for everything—got his act together quickly, and a band member he remained.

  Another meeting was called to discuss the future of the band. Not in an ominous way, but in a positive “What do we do to achieve our goals?” discussion. The special guest at that meeting: Kevin Brenner, our booking agent. Kevin had worked with dozens and dozens of bands over the years, but we were the first that he could see making the jump from cover bar band to playing our own music in concert venues all over the world.

  A timeline and game plan were discussed, but when the subject turned to original music, I went off. I couldn’t stand the originals we were then playing. Not only did I think they were weak, but they weren’t right for my voice, the band, and its ambition. This wasn’t the first time I’d griped about these songs, but it was probably the most intense.

  Kevin Brenner looked at me. “Can you write songs?”

  “Yes,” I responded confidently.

  “Have you written any songs?”

  Oops. Brenner had me there. “Uh . . . no,” I mumbled.

  “Then shut the hell up until you’ve got something better,” our intrepid agent barked.

  Check and mate! I was red-faced. It was humiliating to be put in my place like that, but it was frustrating, too . . . because he was right. I can’t stand people who constantly tear things down with absolutely no suggestion of how to do it differently or better. I sat quietly for the rest of the meeting, and when it was over, I stormed up to my room and slammed the door. I knew I was right about the band’s originals, and I was sure I could write songs. It was time to put up or shut up. Inspired by Bad Company’s Burnin’ Sky album, I wrote my first original song for the band a few days later. I presented them with “Pay the Price”1 and they liked it. We worked it up (at a club) and added it to our set.

  From then on, I was constantly working on new, original songs, and I wrote them all—music, melodies, and lyrics—by myself. Feeling alienated from the band for a variety of reasons, I made it my goal to solely create all the music that would define Twisted Sister.

  BY 1977, TWISTED SISTER had solidified its position as a dominating force in the club scene on Long Island and in upstate New York and was beginning to expand its sphere of influence further into New Jersey and Connecticut. The Demolition Squad was on the move. New York City clubs (such as CBGB) were never an option because they were too small and didn’t pay well, and because our continued dedication to the no-longer “in vogue” glitter-rock movement of the early seventies made us a pariah to the “too cool for the room” city rockers.

  It always blows my mind how New York music industry moguls will wander into some shithole half-empty club (downtown or uptown, take your pick), see a band playing for a handful of apathetic hipsters, and go back to work the next day proclaiming they’ve discovered the next big thing. Meanwhile, across the bridge (or through the tunnel) some band is rocking the hell out of a dangerously over-filled room of people, literally bouncing off the walls, and it goes completely unnoticed. At the height of Twisted Sister’s club days, we were performing in the suburbs to a thousand to three thousand people a night (sometimes over four thousand), five nights a week, but we had to go to England to get noticed by the music industry! I guess if it’s not in the city, it can’t possibly have value, right? Friggin’ record company morons. But I’m getting way ahead of myself. When people would question Twisted Sister’s commitment to what was then considered a defunct music trend, I would respond, “If it’s that over, why are people still freaking out when I walk onstage every night?” By the time a trend reaches suburban and rural audiences, the urban “cultural centers” have moved on to something else.

  I knew plenty of life was still left in the whole glam rock thing and embraced it with a passion. The wild costumes Suzette made were blowing people’s minds, though some of the guys in my own band were embarrassed by the more genitalia-revealing ones. Suzette made the pants so tight, they left nothing to the imagination. They didn’t call us cock rockers for nothin’! These outfits, combined with my penchant for insane onstage behavior and violent reactions toward hecklers, were building my and the band’s reputation as a “don’t miss” attraction.

  Pretty much nightly, I’d leap off the stage into the crowd and get into a confrontation with some drunk jackass who thought I was going to let his derisions slide. Fuck that! Now they could go home and tell their friends how they got shut down by some huge “fag” in high heels, a shorty satin top, and a purple feather boa. I loved that outfit.

  I’ve never been a fighter, but I cannot and will not allow some asshole in the audience (or on the street, for that matter) to dictate what I can or cannot wear or do. Audiences have a mob mentality. If you allow one or two to get away with saying or throwing shit at you, others will get brave, and soon you have a major problem on your hands.

  ONE NIGHT, AT A club in New Jersey, I was talking to the club owner, and he made a reference to “my boss.”

  “My boss?” I said. “Who’s my boss?”

  “Jay Jay,” the club owner responded matter-of-factly, as if he was surprised I even had to ask.

  Jay Jay!? My boss?! I was incensed! Did people think that was the case? Jay Jay was still the “bandleader,” essentially running the show. He was the consummate carnival huckster, regaling the crowd each night (with my help) between songs with lame, Borscht-Belt humor. To be fair, the audience loved it. The idea that his substance-less bullshit was overshadowing my talent (I was pretty damn full of myself) was flipping me out.

  As I drove home that night, I fumed. Talent does not necessarily win out in the end. Bullshit beats talent. Then what beats bullshit? I turned this question over and over in my mind, looking at it from every angle, until it hit me.

  DEE LIFE LESSON

  Bullshit beats talent . . . talent + bullshit beats bullshit!

  I knew just what I had to do. To dominate, I had to take Jay Jay’s shtick, improve upon it, and add it to the singing and performing I was already delivering each night. And I did just that.

  As the months rolled by, I continued to write more and more songs and refine my look and my act. The other band members didn’t work as hard on their look, so by late ’77, people were starting to take the singularity of the name Twisted Sister to mean me. I was the “twisted sister.” I think the others in the band may have had their own epiphany at that point.

  BY AUGUST OF THAT year, the failed experiment that was the band house ended, and we all went our separate ways. Jay Jay and drummer #3 got a place together, and Eddie, who had secretly married his fiancée, Clara, found a place with her. Having graduated high school after her junior year, Suzette was accepted to her school of choice, the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York City, a hell of an achievement for a sixteen-year-old girl. Suzette was going to live in the dormitory at the school. This was a problem.

  As I said earlier, New York City could be a scary place for suburbanites. Though I certainly had become more worldly over the eighteen months I had been with Twisted Sister, NYC was still a largely alien place to me. Now I was faced with an even bigger issue: the love of my life was moving there.

  Suzette was now officially “in love” with me, though I can’t be certain that the Stockholm syndrome didn’t play some kind of part in it. We’d been togethe
r almost a year and a half, and our commitment to each other was pretty much a lock (not to say that our romance was easy). Suzette’s choices had been either to go to school in Paris or New York. Due to the seriousness of our relationship, she chose the latter, but, understandably, was not going to commute. When my high school girlfriend had gone off to college, I’d experienced the growing apart that happens when a couple are away from each other for extended periods.

  I wasn’t about to let that happen with Suzette. She was to start college the first week in September, so I hopped on a train in the middle of August and headed for the Big Apple to find myself an apartment.

  Like a complete idiot, dressed in the nicest clothes I had (a long-sleeved, colorful, man-tailored shirt, high-waisted, bell-bottom slacks, and platform shoes), I made my way to Penn Station, then took the subway, five blocks, to FIT. Clearly I had no concept of distance in NYC. I exited the subway station on a steamy mid-August afternoon, dripping with sweat, and stood on Seventh Avenue in front of the school. I looked around, and directly across the street was a lone apartment building: Kheel Tower. I waited for the walk signal (rube!), then crossed the street to check it out.

  The building superintendent told me an apartment was available and showed me a killer one-bedroom, one-and-a-half-bath duplex, with a balcony, on the twenty-third floor, overlooking the school (and, as it turned out, right next door to the dean of FIT). The rent was a bit pricey, but I figured with a couple of roommates I could make it work.

  At a pay phone outside I called my old pal Don Mannello and my former drummer, turned aspiring actor, Rich Squillacioti. They said they were in, so I told the super I would take the place, got back on the train, and headed home. The whole of this apartment hunting took less than an hour.