by Scott Ian
“Yeah, cool, okay, no worries. I got it.”
I didn’t have it.
All I could think of was that I was going to somehow trip Madonna as we got out of the car, and she’d be lying on the ground surrounded by photographers happily snapping away and thanking the bald jackass for the photo-op.
I sat there quietly sweating for the next few minutes trying to focus. I was going to be a ninja getting out of that car. Stealthy, moving like a cat from point A to point B, no mistakes. And then we were pulling up in front of the restaurant and the limo door was opening and I could see other cars pulling up behind us, in front of us, on the side of us, walling us in, and guys were running toward the entrance of the restaurant, cameras flashing like they were shooting King Kong, and I was out of the car, moving with my head down, security in front of me, shoving through the gauntlet of paparazzi, Madonna behind me, holding onto my jacket, Guy behind her, and we were getting bumped and pushed from the left and the right like a mosh pit had broken out in front of Café Luxembourg, except this wasn’t fun. This was a crowd of dudes being physically aggressive at me and my friends, and I couldn’t help myself as my instincts kicked in and I started yelling at the paparazzi, pushing back, grabbing their cameras—I was ready to fight them all. And then security pulled/pushed us through the doors and into the restaurant. Madonna was smiling at me. She could see how angry I had gotten and told me I had done well by not breaking someone’s camera. I was still fuming. All I wanted to do was go back outside and beat paparazzi heads with their own cameras. I totally understood how Sean Penn must’ve felt. I had never had that kind of invasion of personal space before, and I didn’t know how to deal with it. I still don’t.
A few years ago a paparazzi was taking my picture as I was crossing a street in Beverly Hills, and I politely asked him to please not take my picture as I was holding my then two-year-old son. He followed me across the street, right next to me, camera in my face, and kept shooting, ignoring the fact that I was holding a child. If I didn’t have my son with me, I wouldn’t have cared about getting my picture taken, but my son has an expectation of privacy: he’s not a public figure, he’s a child, and I asked you nicely, jerk.
When we got to the other side of the street I told him he had no respect, that he was human garbage, and that if he didn’t stop following us and taking pictures of my son, I was going to shove his camera up his ass. He looked at me like he didn’t know what I was talking about and said, “Hey man, I’m just taking some pictures. Give me a break.”
My left hand shot out and grabbed his neck while my right hand pistoned into his face over and over as his camera fell into the street and was crushed by a car, my son cheering, “Daddy smash!”
End awesome dream sequence.
“Fuck off,” I growled at him, very Clint Eastwood–like through gritted teeth, hoping my son wouldn’t hear me. He did. My son looked at me and said, “Uh-oh, Daddy.” That made me laugh, and I kissed my boy and told him everything was okay. I was done, but the paparazzo wasn’t. This guy continued clicking away until this elderly woman standing on the corner near us yelled at the guy, “You are a terrible person! Leave them alone.” Finally the guy lowered his camera and said, “I didn’t think it was such a big deal,” and skulked off. I thanked the nice lady, and my boy and I walked off into the sunset.
Back at Café Luxembourg, we sat down to dinner, Madonna sitting across from me. She had taken off her jacket. I don’t know how or why, but her boobs looked even better than they had before. Maybe it was the lighting in the restaurant or maybe it was just the fact that I WAS HAVING DINNER WITH MADONNA AND SHE WAS WEARING A SEE-THROUGH SHIRT.
I know, I know, I was thinking like an ass, but cut me some slack: it’s Madonna.
I started up my mantra again, look at her eyes look at her eyes, and was relieved when the waiter brought menus over, giving me something else to focus on. Dinner ordered and a cocktail in hand, I was finally able to relax. It helped that Madonna was asking me question after question about my band and metal in general. She was picking my brain and engaging me in a way that was disarming and allowed me to feel like myself again—I could talk about my band all day long. The conversation continued all through the meal, and at some point I realized I wasn’t freaking out anymore about her tits or about meeting her and finally stopped acting like a kid who just found his first Playboy magazine. She made me feel comfortable, like I was the only person in the room, and I could see that she really was a normal, down-to-earth, cool lady who also happened to be Madonna.
Dinner was winding down, and we got to talking about the plan for the evening. Madonna reminded me that the paparazzi were still outside and that we would do the same thing leaving the restaurant, straight into the car, no engaging them. I didn’t get nervous about it; this time I really had it. At some point during dinner Guy and I were talking about the stripper with 42GGGs, and Madonna overheard us and said, “I want to go see her!” So the plan was set: we’d hit Flashdancers and then head downtown to the Limelight to see Rage Against the Machine.
Her security called the strip club to let them know we were coming and to be ready for the paparazzi. Getting Madonna in and out of places was like a military operation. We left the restaurant and had a much easier time getting into the car because her security and people who worked at the restaurant parted the paparazzi like the Red Sea, and we floated through unscathed.
It was a short drive to Flashdancers, and we beat most of the paparazzi there. We were walking into the club as most of them were getting out of their cars and running toward us, only to be blocked by the Flashdancers’ giant security guys. Now that I was starting to get used to this whole paparazzi thing, I just smiled at them with my mouth while my eyes said, Step-off, Gigantor—New Jack City being all the rage back then.
If going to strip clubs is your thing and hooking up with a stripper is your goal, don’t go to a strip club with Madonna. From the moment we sat down near the stage there was a line of strippers waiting to meet her. They’d step up, hug her, sit on her lap, and take a picture like they were meeting Santa Claus. If Guy and I had been hoping to hook up, we’d have been shit out of luck. They only had eyes for Madonna.
We hung out until the lady with the 42GGGs took the stage, and we watched her show. “Not for nothin’, but those things look painful,” I said, using some of my best colloquial New York–ese. Regardless, we were having fun, and so was the lady with the 42GGGs.
Mission accomplished, we said our good-byes and exited the club with a phalanx of beefy bouncers surrounding us on all sides. By this time I felt like I was developing a rapport with some of the paparazzi. They would yell questions like, “How was the club?” and I would flip them off.
Back in the car we sped down 7th Avenue to the Rage Against the Machine show. We were heading toward the Limelight, a rock club housed in what was formerly the Episcopal Church of the Holy Communion built in 1845. At some point in the 1970s the church was deconsecrated and turned into a drug rehab facility. When that business didn’t work out the building was sold to a promoter and turned into a disco/rock club. God, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll—it was always a house of worship. New York City rock clubs were still very debaucherous in the early nineties, and the building’s gothic architecture and overall churchiness only added fuel to the fire. People really seemed to like getting fucked up in a church, so it was a great place to see shows.
We pulled up minutes before the band was going to start, I gave a quick flip of the bird to the paparazzi, and we were ushered into a private area above stage right, giving us a perfect view of the band and the audience. The house lights were still on, and I could see people I knew and people I didn’t know looking up at us with confusion on their faces: What was Scott doing with Madonna? I’d let them think whatever they wanted. Who am I to burst my bubble? If memory serves, there may have even been an “Anthrax, Anthrax” chant from the audience, which in the moment was pretty flipping sweet—standing next to Madonna
with the crowd worshipping me. Oh, the irony.
At this point in this tiny, dark unused crawlspace somewhere in my brain, the smallest kernel of an idea started to form: What if I could hook up with Madonna? What if I could go back to her apartment after the show? We’d had a good time all night—why not continue? As I was trying to figure out how to make that happen, the lights went out and the band hit the stage and I forgot what I was thinking about as RATM broke my brain as they crushed through their set of super-heavy rap/rock. The crowd went ape-shit. They’d never seen or heard anything so powerful, and it was easy to see that this band would be moving on to bigger and better things very soon.
The show ended, the lights came on, and before I even had a chance to recover from the spectacle I had just witnessed, Madonna was hugging me and Guy good-bye and goodnight, and she was gone.
Poof.
She disappeared into the dark recesses of the Limelight like a ninja.
My fan-boy crush would have to remain just that, as if I ever could’ve pulled off some magic move to cross that line. It was so ridiculous that I was laughing out loud. I couldn’t be bummed about it. Guy asked me, “What’s so funny?” and I told him I was telling jokes to myself.
Guy and I said goodnight, and I thanked him for including me in an amazing evening and that I owed him one big-time. I hopped in a cab, and when the cabbie asked me, “Where to, buddy?” I gave him my address. Normally I would’ve ventured out into New York City’s seductive embrace, but I’d had enough. There was no way I could top that night out. I was drunk on the whole experience, and as they say, it’s better to go out on a high note.
I woke up late the next morning and zombie-shambled into the kitchen for coffee. I poured a cup and sat down at the kitchen table. John had left that morning’s copy of the New York Post open to Page Six (the celebrity gossip page) for me to see. There was a picture taken from the night before from the Limelight—someone had taken it from below, looking up at where we were standing. The picture was of Guy, Madonna, and my elbow. The photo had been cropped, cutting me out of the picture. There was a caption under the photo saying something about Madonna and Guy seeing Rage Against the Machine. There was nothing about the mysterious elbow on Madonna’s right.
I laughed over my coffee and couldn’t wait to tell the rest of the band about my crazy night out.
That was then. This is now.
Madonna has just kissed me on the lips and is holding my hand and I’m getting into her limo and my friends are all witnessing this and I’m wondering what in the world is about to happen and then I hear a heavily New York–accented male voice say, “Hi Scott. Nice to see you.” Ron Delsener, the legendary New York concert promoter, is sitting in the back of the limo. Madonna says, “Scott, say hi to Ron!”
“Hi Ron. How are ya?” I mumbled, shaking the man’s hand as the Scott and Madonna, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G (yep, I was a child) fantasy world I had created crumbled into dust.
I got over it quickly, and it wasn’t awkward to be sitting there because Anthrax had worked with Ron many times over the years, so conversation came easily. We talked about the Rancid show we had just seen and the resurgence of punk rock, with Ron holding court, telling tales about classic shows he’d done and a bunch of other stuff I can’t remember, as all I could think about were my friends down the block. They didn’t know Ron was in the car. Perception is everything.
I hung out with Madonna and Ron for about twenty minutes. They asked if I wanted to join them for dinner, but I politely declined, as I already had plans with my friends waiting for me outside. We said goodnight, and I got out of the car, stopping to nonchalantly adjust my clothes a bit before walking back to my friends. They were falling all over each other with curiosity as I rejoined their circle of inquiry, desperate to know what had transpired in the limo.
I just half smiled and said, “Nothing.”
WE GAVE THE SUN THE FINGER
I’ve always hated that stupid “What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” slogan. I’ve spent a lot of time in Vegas over the years—on tour with Anthrax, playing poker tournaments, and Jerry Cantrell and I had a bar called Dead Man’s Hand there for a year. This slogan was ubiquitous; I would hear it all day long. People actually say it out loud. I guess the ad company earned their money, but I have to ask: What’s the point of having fun and not sharing? Sure, if your trip turns up a dead hooker in your hotel room and sparks a CSI investigation, keep your trap shut.
I was just in Las Vegas for my semiregular DJ gig at the Hard Rock Hotel. Yes, DJ Scott Ian. I’ve added another job on my résumé. If you’re picturing some guy waving his hands in the air after pushing “play” on his MacBook Pro, playing EDM surrounded by his douche crew, that’s not me. Well, the pushing “play” part is me. I’m not spinning records, but at least I’m choosing each song depending on the vibe of the people, and I only have around four minutes while a song is playing to make the decision on what comes next. I do take it very seriously. Like Eric B & Rakim said, “Move the crowd.” After the gig I was walking through the Hard Rock lobby and heard some fanny-packer loudly slurring—unironically, mind you—“WhathappensinVegasstaysinVegas” as he had his picture taken in front of a display of Christina Aguilera’s clothes. Yeah, better keep that quiet, you maniac, and erase that picture so the wife doesn’t see it by accident. Sorry if that comes off a bit snarky. I’m no Hunter S. Thompson, but come on, people, you can do better than that.
Crazy fanny-pack got me thinking about a weekend not too long ago that involved a bit more than taking a picture in front of a bedazzled bra. It was one of those accidental weekends and started with a plan and a reason for me to be there…
I flew to Vegas to play in a charity poker tournament. I got to the Hard Rock Hotel the night before the tournament and planned on getting some dinner and then staying in so I’d be fresh for the event the next day. I texted my buddy Joe Bastianich (Master Chef judge and co-owner with Mario Batali of Eataly and a restaurant empire) to see if I could get a seat at one of his spots. He wrote me right back, telling me he was in town at his restaurant Carnevino at the Palazzo Hotel and inviting me over for dinner. For a second I thought about staying in and ordering room service. I should’ve thought longer on it.
I got in a taxi and headed over to the Palazzo. Joe met me in the bar of Carnevino and explained that he’d already eaten and was just about to have a meeting so I should eat dinner at the bar and then we’d hang out after and that I should have the La Fiorentina (sliced porterhouse): “It’s the best in town.”
I gorged myself on that delicious steak and then texted Joe to let him know I’d finished eating. He came out front and we headed back to a private room where Mario Batali was holding court. Mario. Alarm bells started ringing in my brain, and I had a moment of clarity, thinking I should politely phantom back to my hotel. I’d been out with Mario before, and the man was a force of nature. You had to commit to a night out with him, realizing no good would come of it—in the best of ways. The alarm bells were quickly quashed by a bear hug from the man: “How was the steak?” Mario smile-yelled at me over the Black Crowes he was cranking throughout the restaurant. “Have an Amaro—it’s good for ya!” and a giant glass of Fernet Branca was shoved into my hand. I couldn’t argue. One Fernet would be good for the meat sweats I was having from dinner.
One being the key word here.
I sat down and sipped my drink, realizing I was at a table with people who had already been drinking for hours. And not casual dinner drinking—this was Mario style. I’d sip my drink, and a waiter would appear and top me off. Another waiter came over with a Hagrid-sized wine glass three quarters filled with whatever red they were drinking. As soon as I’d make a dent in my wine it would get refilled. Fernet with a wine chaser. The night just got so much more interesting.
Tom Colicchio was there as well, so I was in full-on food-nerd mode sitting with him and Mario. Turns out Tom plays guitar and collects them as well. I remember that much of
our conversation. What else did we talk about for an hour? No idea. What did I talk to anyone about for the next four hours? Ya got me. The Fernet and wine fountains never stopped flowing. I think at some point Mario had half the menu brought out, so like a Hobbit, I ate second dinner. My glasses emptied and magically refilled and I’d empty them again. The room was a swirl of voices and music and food and booze and too much of all of it, and we were doing our best to consume it all. There were no troughs at this Roman orgy, so I got up to find a bathroom and
Wet.
I’m wet. Why am I wet?
Where am I? Everything is white. It’s so hot. I have no idea where I am. Why am I wet?
I blinked my eyes open, trying to adjust to the supernova brightness bleaching everything an uncomfortably hot white.
The sun was raging through the windows of my room at the Hard Rock. The Hard Rock. My room. How did I get here? The last thing I remembered was getting up from Mario’s table to pee and then nothing. I was sweat-soaked in my clothes from the night before, the bed and blankets drenched underneath and on top of me. I had one sneaker on. As wet as I was, my mouth was dry as a kiln. There was a bottle of water on the nightstand, and reaching for it caused my rise up from the depths to speed up as the slightest movement made my head feel like Thor was pounding it with Mjolnir. Fully awake and in pain, I tried to take inventory.
