Shut Up and Give Me the Mic

by Dee Snider

  The band Terraplane was currently performing, opening the day, and they were getting quite a bit of stuff thrown at them. Apparently, the just-waking Reading crowd didn’t like having their beauty sleep interrupted.

  On my way backstage to check out the dressing room, I ran into our new friend Lemmy Kilmister, who was there for the weekend’s festivities. I gave him the heads-up that Fast Eddie Clarke was going to be jamming with us, then shared with him the same little lecture I gave Fast Eddie when we were recording. You know, the one about how the press were manipulating the feud between them and their relationship was like a marriage? Did I mention I was an ass? I don’t think I can say it enough.

  My first official realization something wasn’t quite right was when Terraplane finished their set. The throwing of things didn’t stop. Now the audiences in front of each stage were pelting each other. When I inquired about the reason for this, I was told it was a band thing. The fans of the band about to go on and the fans of the band going on after them were going at each other. It seemed idiotic to me, but whatever.

  As we were getting ready for our set, the whole truth of the Reading Festival audience’s bizarre actions became clear. They throw things at every band and each other. This violent behavior had become so epidemic, and so many bands and fans had been hurt that the promoters had banned all glass bottles and metal cans from the festival grounds. This shit was moronic and serious!

  It was finally time for our set.1 As we stood off to the side, waiting for the point in our intro tape when we walk out, stuff was being thrown at the empty stage. I guess they were warming up their arms because when we made our entrance, all hell broke loose. That we were performing in broad daylight turned out to be a blessing in disguise. At least we could see the deluge of projectiles being hurled at us. What’s that line from the movie 300? “Our arrows will block out the sun.” “Then we shall fight in the shade.” Well, we rocked in the shade.

  We were bombarded with anything and everything those assholes could throw. Glass bottles and metal cans being banned didn’t slow them down one bit. They would throw plastic liter bottles filled with soda, water, or even urine at the stage. Some members of the Reading audience even took the time to slowly, methodically fill the bottles with dirt or small rocks and then hurl them at the stage. It was insane! The truly terrible thing was that a lot of the stuff would never even make it to the stage and slam down into the backs and heads of the concertgoers closest to the band. Some of them even wore helmets for protection, in anticipation of this happening. I was livid!

  Under the heading of “the coolest thing I’ve ever seen a record company executive do,” our label president, Martin Hooker, caught a peach that was thrown on the fly, gave it a quick once-over . . . then ate it! Waste not, want not, I guess.

  As the band tore through “Bad Boys (of Rock ’n’ Roll),” followed by “Shoot ’Em Down,” I was getting angrier and angrier. It was so incredibly frustrating to be unable to do anything about what was happening, standing high above the crowd on a stage, with a moat of a space between us and the barricade.

  Our recording of “Shoot ’Em Down” on the Under the Blade record ended with the sound of a machine gun firing. While in the new millennium a song about shooting people who mistreat you (albeit in metaphor), finishing with a gun firing, would be considered insensitive and un-PC, this was 1982. No asshole had yet taken song lyrics that literally. At my request, Secret Records had rented a military-grade Uzi filled with blanks for me to fire off dramatically at the end of “Shoot ’Em Down.” Like I said, Twisted Sister doesn’t fight fair.

  When we got to the end of the song, I pulled out the Uzi. It was a damn good thing I didn’t have live rounds in it because, I’m telling you, I would have used them on those fucking pieces of shit. I was out of my mind with rage. When the song finally ended, I had my first opportunity to tear into the audience. And I did.

  I had been warned about using profanity and told our band would be banned from all outdoor venues if I cursed. Though I was (and still am) a renowned user of expletives in concert, this was not a problem. Not being drunk or high, I have total control of the language I use (which has come in handy) and can fairly easily modify my speech, while still getting my point across . . . though there is nothing quite like the F-bomb to communicate one’s innermost feelings.

  I told the crowd that the people throwing things were a bunch of pussies who didn’t have the balls to say or do something to my face. I told them those same pieces of crap were hurting innocent people in front of the stage. Then I delivered my ultimatum. I called out the entire audience—all thirty-five thousand of them. I said if they were men and women enough, I would meet them all on the side of the stage after the show and fight every one of them, one at a time; I didn’t care how long it took. And I meant it!

  Suddenly, the audience stopped throwing things and began to laugh. Not at me, but at the audacity of this makeup-and-costume-wearing Yank who was clearly out of his mind and not kidding. They’d never heard or seen anything like it. The band then ripped into “Destroyer” and the tide turned. The Reading audience started to rock! By the time we got to “It’s Only Rock ’n’ Roll,” the crowd had been completely won over, but the best moment was yet to come.

  Toward the end of “It’s Only Rock ’n’ Roll” we have a breakdown where I get the audience to yell “I like it!” after I sing “I know, it’s only rock ’n’ roll but . . .” Using various audience-participation tricks I’d perfected over the years in the tristate club scene, I would never fail to get the audience screaming their lungs out. And tonight I had an ace up my sleeve.

  After a couple of okay tries, I introduced Pete Way and Fast Eddie Clarke. The audience lit up! These guys were rock gods and totally unexpected by the crowd. The two deities plugged in their “axes” and joined the band for another go at getting the audience screaming . . . and scream they did. While I was talking to the crowd, getting them ready for the big finish, they suddenly, inexplicably started to roar. I was confused. Being a professional “crowd revver-upper,” I was an expert in cause and effect. I say something reaction inciting—the crowd reacts. That’s how it works. But this audience was reacting and I hadn’t initiated it. And now they were pointing at something. I turned to look where the audience was gesturing and saw an unmistakable figure, dramatically backlit at the rear of the stage. With his Rickenbacker bass guitar (did he bring it with him just in case?) slung down by his side, Lemmy Kilmister walked out to join the fray.

  For the first time since their breakup, Lemmy and Fast Eddie Clarke were brought together. The crowd absolutely lost their minds! Lined up across the front of the stage, guitars pointed at the crowd like the Magnificent Seven, were myself, Eddie, Animal, Jay Jay . . . Pete Way, Fast Eddie, and Lemmy! Holy shit! We tore into the finale of “It’s Only Rock ’n’ Roll” and completely turned the Reading Festival on its ear.2 What a complete audience turnaround in forty short minutes!

  We exited to the backstage area where cameras were flashing and everyone wanted to know about this crazy makeup-wearing band from New York who had not only won over the vicious Reading crowd, but had just orchestrated the reunion of Fast Eddie and Lemmy.

  Maybe I’m not such an asshole after all.

  After the press barrage, Mark Mendoza, A.J., and I headed over to the side stage to see if there were any takers on my offer to fight. The place was packed . . . with new Twisted Sister fans ready to do battle against any would-be takers with us! There were none.

  Later, after we’d changed out of our stage clothes and taken off our makeup, the band and crew were standing around, marveling at what had transpired. What a day! The drummer (Danny “Piss Flaps” Heatley) and guitar player (Big John) from the Exploited had done us the enormous favor of being roadies for us that day. Eddie Ojeda joked that we should have put our amps in front of us as a protective wall.

  The usually quiet Big John piped up, in his thick Scottish brogue, “I canna believe-a someone-a t
hrew-a shite.”

  “What?” I said, completely confused by what Big John clearly thought was English.

  “Someone-a threw-a shite.”

  “A what?”

  “A shite man, a shite!” Big John exclaimed again, frustrated by my inability to understand him.

  “A what?”

  Danny Heatley chimed in with his “Scottish to East London” translation: “A shit man, somebody threw a shit!”

  Wow. Somebody had thrown human shit at the stage. My mind was blown. So many questions about this needed to be answered. How much do you need to hate a band to throw human shit? Whose shit was it? The thrower’s, or somebody else’s? Where did they get the shit? From a Porta Potti, or did they just have it on standby in case they hated a band enough to throw it? Or were they so angered by us, they dropped trou, laid a fresh one, then hurled it? Which brings me right back to my first question: how much do you need to hate a band to throw human shit? It’s a conundrum.

  I pondered that brainteaser on and off during my flight home to the States, but I had other, more important things on my mind. It was time for my wife to have our baby.

  ON SEPTEMBER 19, 1982, my life was changed forever. My son Jesse Blaze Snider was born.

  Suzette, my twenty-two-year-old wife, had a brutally long labor and natural birth, and I sat by her side through it all feeling completely useless. Sure, we took Lamaze classes, but let me tell you, saying “Breathe, breathe” and “It’s going to be all right” to a woman dealing with the pain of mind-numbing contractions rings hollow and makes a man feel impotent. Men are instinctively programmed to protect the women we love and want to help them, but as women go through this incredible ordeal, we are helpless to do anything but stand and watch.

  After a long night of suffering (my exhausted wife slept through painful contractions that would bring a grown man to his knees), Suzette was finally brought to the delivery room. My feeling of helplessness was never greater than when I watched her pushing so hard to deliver our baby, blood vessels were bursting in her face. What had I done to the woman I loved?

  Then suddenly, a baby’s cry and the words “It’s a boy,” and my emotions completely reversed; from the lowest of lows to the highest of highs in a split second. Was this what it felt like to do drugs? Maybe I was missing out on something after all. Moments later, without warning, the nurse put my newborn son into my arms. I had heard about and thought I understood the incredible feeling of being a father. It seemed a simple enough concept. The reality is, you cannot understand the feeling until you experience it yourself.

  Back in the day, the guys thought they appreciated what I was going through, being so far away from my family for such long periods. Years later, Jay Jay, who had a daughter after our heyday, asked me, “How did you do it? I can’t imagine being away from Samantha the way you were away from Jesse.” Well, we do what we have to do.

  From that day forward, the road was total misery for me. I couldn’t not pursue my life’s work, but the only place I ever wanted to be was home.

  25

  man-o-wimp and the new flower children

  With Jesse born and Twisted Sister’s first album released (albeit available only as an import in the United States), I was sitting on top of the world. Then the news came that we would be touring England, in support of our album, with the band Diamond Head. Today, they are best known for being a major influence on Metallica (who have famously covered a few of their songs); in 1982, they were a popular English metal band, and we were stoked to tour with them.

  With our dream of being an international recording and touring rock band finally beginning to be realized, we hit the tristate club circuit one last time, for a big, farewell run of shows. The time had come to officially say good-bye to our longtime, stalwart supporters in the bars before we left in October for good. With an album in the record stores (remember those?) and international stardom on the horizon, every one of those shows was packed to the rafters. Every loyal Twisted fan wanted to see their rock ’n’ roll heroes off. It couldn’t have been more glorious.

  Upon finishing our run of club shows, we were readying ourselves to leave on the Diamond Head/Twisted Sister tour, when the bottom fell out of our world.

  There had been ongoing delays with Secret Records getting us our plane tickets to the UK, but they always seemed to have a good reason. We had no reason to doubt them, so we continued with our preparations. Just days before we were scheduled to leave, we received word—Secret Records was unable to put up the tour support for the band. Without their economic backing, we could not afford to do the Diamond Head tour.

  It had been incredibly ambitious for this microlabel to sign and import an American rock band. Unlike the Exploited, who all lived “down the road,” Twisted Sister required plane flights, accommodations, ground transportation, per diems, equipment rentals, and more. Bringing us over for the recording of Under the Blade, then back again for the Reading Festival, must have pushed the label to its limits. The tour was off. Twisted Sister was facing a long, cold winter ahead.

  Without a tour, we had no income. Having just played our big “farewell tour” of the tristate area, we couldn’t very well go back to the clubs for a “Psych! We Were Just Kidding” tour (though that does seem to have worked for Kiss). We did have some money in our war chest, but who knew how long that would last, or even how long it would have to last for?

  In October of 1982, only weeks after the birth of my son, I sat with Suzette and Jesse, in our studio apartment, essentially hiding, because everyone thought Twisted Sister was on tour in England. After all my preening about how we were leaving the bar scene behind, I was too embarrassed to have people know the truth. I had no record deal, no shows or tours—and I had no idea what the hell I was going to do next. Twisted Sister had pretty much run out of options. Now what?

  AS THE NEW YORK weather got colder, the band’s spirits took a nosedive. Just when we thought we were finally getting a leg up, we had slipped and fallen to our lowest point ever. Weeks turned to months, and though—remarkably—our ability to draw minimal salaries held out, without an end to our problems in sight, we had no idea for how much longer it would.

  But how were our salaries holding on? Had we really saved so much cash we could continue to float the whole band and key crew personnel indefinitely? Not quite. Unbeknownst to the band, our intrepid tour manager, Joe Gerber, feeling our plight, and being one of the most loyal and dedicated people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing, began to put his own money into the band’s coffers so, as the holidays approached, we wouldn’t be quite destitute. It wasn’t that Joe was independently wealthy or anything like that. He had received a small inheritance and was loaning it to the band—no interest; no guarantee of repayment.1

  Our temporary ability to pay our bills aside, the frustration and anger, already raging inside me, were compounding exponentially.

  ONE COLD AND RAINY, nasty fall day, while Twisted Sister was sitting out those dark months, Suzette and I were out running some errands in our older but mechanically sound and dependable ’76 Mustang. We had just picked up dinner for the night and a cheap video rental (ninety-nine cents!), and as we drove along, safe and warm from the bone-chilling weather outside—a delicious, hot cup of coffee in my hand—I had this wonderful, all-consuming feeling of contentment. Our healthy newborn son was in his car seat, I had a precious few dollars in my pocket, and somehow the bills for our studio apartment were miraculously paid (thanks, Joe Gerber) for another month . . . and I realized that this was it. That intangible thing we all struggle to find and achieve . . . was right here. I realized that it’s not money or success, fame or extravagant worldly possessions. It is all around us, all the time . . . we’re just so busy looking for some big, significant moment, thing, or “sign,” we don’t even see it. This would be the feeling I would fight to re-create the rest of my life. If I could die with this feeling, I would go a happy man. I knew from that point on that all the things I was so de
sperately struggling for were merely the icing on the cake. No doubt it would make, did make, and has made my life that much better, but it all would be nothing without it. Before I had even come close to making my mark in the entertainment business, or realizing my rock-star dreams, I had already achieved my life’s goal. I’d found it. So know that throughout the rest of this tale, I was never without the joy, warmth, and love of my amazing wife and children. I am blessed. They are my everything; I am nothing without them.

  IN NOVEMBER OF 1982, a couple of disturbing articles came out in Sounds and Kerrang! One was an interview with the Finnish band Hanoi Rocks, the other with fellow American metallurgists Manowar. Hanoi Rocks—another makeup-wearing band—had made a joke at Twisted Sister’s expense, calling us “Cinderella’s ugly stepsisters.” Manowar called us a joke and said, “Back in the States, Twisted Sister plays wet-T-shirt contests and dollar beer nights.” Both lies.

  While Hanoi Rocks’ comments were an affront (in retrospect, it was a great line), Manowar’s comments were particularly infuriating. Their guitar player “Ross the Boss” was a former band member and touring roommate of Mark Mendoza’s in the Dictators, had been to Twisted Sister shows, and had even jammed with the band. We considered him a friend.

  As trivial as both bands’ comments sound (and are to me now), in the darkness of my mood at that time, they were fighting words. The only problem was, I was in America, they were in Europe, and I could do nothing about it. Or was there?

  They say the pen is mightier than the sword, so with a razor-sharp pen (actually a typewriter), I wrote a letter to the editors of both Sounds and Kerrang! In it, I broke down the lies, indignities, and aspersions cast on both myself and my band by Hanoi Rocks and Manowar and demanded a public apology. Either that, or Twisted Sister and I were calling them out.