“It’s been great to hang with you . . . I’ve been a fan of yours for a while.”
What? A fan of mine from what? I knew Shep had worked with the WWE briefly in the ’80s when Alice Cooper appeared at WrestleMania 2, but he didn’t seem the type who was keeping up with the business in 2016.
“I was at the Golden God Awards a few years ago where you hosted and Alice played. I thought you were excellent. You did a great job of relating to the audience even though you came from a different world. It really impressed me and I was happy to finally meet you at Clive’s party. I’m a fan of yours.”
His statement was a total shock, Constant Reader, because I had no idea Shep had ever seen my work . . . which proves you just never know who’s watching.
I always give my all in whatever I do and that included hosting the Golden God Awards four years in a row (all described at length in my third literary masterpiece, The Best in the World). But because Shep enjoyed my work the year he was there, it laid the foundation for a tremendous experience for me, and my family. It also opened the door to me being able to call one of the most genuine and interesting people on the planet my friend.
Aloha, Shep!
HOOKING UP with Mr. Gordon was a great moment for me and my family, but years earlier, impressing an unseen source didn’t just land me a vacation, it landed me a job.
In the summer of 1995, I had been wrestling for five years and had made a good name for myself in Mexico and Japan, but I’d still received no bites from the big leagues in the States. It bothered me, but I was still enjoying myself working for WAR and was about have the biggest match of my career in the Tokyo Sumo Hall against Ultimo Dragon for the Junior Heavyweight title.
There was a big buzz for the bout and the sold-out crowd gave us a great reaction for one of my best matches to date. What I didn’t know was that Hardcore Legend/Mick Foley was in the crowd that night and even though we hadn’t really met, he was so impressed with my work that he spoke to ECW head honcho Paul Heyman about bringing me in and raved about me.
That planted the seed in Heyman’s head to book me in ECW, and even though it took him eight months, he eventually brought me in with some serious fanfare (and I ain’t talkin’ about The Elder). On top of that, Chris Benoit got a hold of a tape of the Dragon match and passed it on to Jimmy Hart at WCW, who in turn passed it on to Paul Orndorff, who liked it enough to leave it on bossman Eric Bischoff’s desk. I’m not sure Eric ever watched it, but the chatter about me was enough that he pretty much hired me on sight when I met him at the World Wrestling Peace Festival in Los Angeles in the summer of 1996. The word of mouth spread by people I hadn’t met was enough to finally get me into the big leagues of WCW.
The other side to all this, however, is that not knowing who’s watching can also work against you, ya dig?
One night in Pittsburgh in 2004, I was in Vince’s office going over a promo for Raw when the dark matches started. A certain performer who’d had a decent run in the company a few years prior (whom I’ll call Bobby Baby to protect his ego), had just been rehired after some sort of hiatus and was having a few nontelevised matches to try out a new character. Unfortunately, it wasn’t working and when Vince (who was already in a surly mood) saw him struggling through a dismal match, he flipped his toupee.
“Why the hell is this guy in my ring? Who rehired him? Look at this . . . he’s the shits and I don’t want to see him again.”
Needless to say, we never saw poor Bobby Baby in a WWE ring again, and I’ll bet nobody told him why he was getting let go. So now you know, Bobby. I’m sure you can figure out who you are.
BEING SCOUTED without my knowledge also led me to having one of my most cherished experiences, playing a song for Lemmy at his seventieth birthday party.
I was over in Europe on the last leg of the Do You Wanna Start a War tour in December 2015, when I got an email from longtime Motörhead manager Todd Singerman, inviting me to Lemmy’s milestone bash at the famous Whiskey a Go Go on the Sunset Strip. Lem had been suffering from some health issues over the past few years, so I was happy that he had made it to seventy and was honored to be included in the plans. But after having just been on tour for almost a month, I didn’t think I’d be able to take another day away from home to travel to Los Angeles.
Over the next few days Todd kept asking me if I’d come, saying the party wouldn’t be the same without me and that Lemmy really wanted me there. I’d forged a pretty decent friendship with him over the years, including being invited over to his apartment for him to do my podcast and show me his massive collection of World War II memorabilia. We had an awesome time and he was a tremendous interview, which was the opposite of what I’d heard about him. He liked talking to me I think, because we were into a lot of the same things: the Beatles and the Stones, Fawlty Towers, bad jokes, and Grey Goose vodka, his new drink of choice after being forced to give up his beloved whiskey for health reasons. (“I’m sure his liver knew the difference,” Alice Cooper quipped when we discussed Lem on Talk Is Jericho.)
After a great ninety-minute chat, we spent another couple hours drinking vodka, smoking cigarettes (I hadn’t smoked in years, but when the legendary Lemmy offers you a butt, you damn well have one!) and hearing intricate descriptions and stories about every knife, spoon, medal, sword, sash, flag, and gun hanging from his wall. He even had Eva Braun’s cutlery and an actual lighter owned by Hitler himself in his collection. I don’t know what happened to that assemblage after his passing, but it was so extensive and impressive, it needs to be in a museum somewhere.
I could’ve stayed and hung out with him all day, but I had to leave to catch a flight, so a very frail Lemmy told me to “come back anytime, I’d love to have you over again.”
But I never had the chance, so when Singerman sent me yet another email asking if I could make the party and be a part of the all-star jam that was taking place, I reconsidered and said yes. I didn’t know when I’d get the chance to see Lemmy again and didn’t want to miss out.
The all-star jam was going to be made up of a huge collection of legendary musicians, including Billy Idol, Zakk Wylde, Sebastian Bach, Steve Jones, Gilby Clark, Doug Pinnick, Bob Kulick, Nuno Bettencourt, and Steve Vai, and I was honored to have been asked to be a part of it. I asked Todd what song I’d be singing and he told me to contact Matt Sorum, the ex–Guns N’ Roses/Cult drummer who was the musical director of the jam and putting together the lineups.
Matt asked me if I wanted to sing ZZ Top’s “Beer Drinkers and Hell Raisers” with Slash, Scott Ian, Charlie Benante, Rob Trujillo, and Whit Crane. I started laughing at how ridiculous my life was that I was getting to play a ZZ Top tune at Lemmy’s birthday party with some of the most respected musicians in rock ’n’ roll; all of whom were my friends.
The only problem was that due to my travel schedule, I had to fly in a few hours before the show, which meant I would miss rehearsals.
“No problem,” Matt replied. “I’ve seen you play before. I came to a Fozzy gig with (Motörhead guitarist) Phil Campbell. I already know you can sing and perform, so just get there when you can.”
I had no idea Sorum had ever been to a Fozzy gig and this was another example of never knowing who’s got their eyes on you.
On the night of the party, the Whiskey was packed with hundreds of fans and friends of the most notorious rock ’n’ roll pirate ever (you could maybe say Keith Richards, but it wasn’t his birfday now, was it?). Lemmy sat above the proceedings on a large throne in the balcony, which was apropos because even as fragile and weak as he looked, he was still the KING.
The jam started and I have to admit it was pretty effin’ cool to walk onstage at the world-famous Whiskey with Slash, Scott, Charlie, Rob, and Whit. I felt like I was in the most famous bar band in the world.
I walked up to the mic and said, “Hello, we are the New Faster Pussycat,” which made about twelve people chuckle, and Charlie clicked us off. The band kicked in with that classic Billy Gibbons chugging r
iff, and Whit took the first line of the song: “If you see me walking down the line . . .” then I fell in behind him with the second: “. . . with my favorite honky-tonk in mind.” We were off and rocking.
The great thing about playing with true pros is there was no rehearsal necessary to make it work. Everybody was on point and this was one of the best moments of my musical career. Trading off lines and sharing harmonies with a singer as talented as Whit Crane was an honor, even if I had to teach him the meter of the song . . . and he’d been at rehearsal! Anthrax and Fozzy had toured together, so sharing the stage with Charlie and Scott was as natural as being caught in a mosh.
But then there were the Rock & Roll Hall of Famers.
Rob Trujillo had been inducted into the Hall with Metallica, and if you didn’t hear what I said, I’ll repeat it.
ROB TRUJILLO IS IN METALLICA.
I made sure to spend as much time as possible whiplashing on his side of the stage and enjoying the moment, because I’m pretty sure I won’t be the lead singer in Metallica any time soon. He was totally locked in with Scott and Charlie as if they had been playing together for years, which considering the lineage of their respective bands, they kind of had been.
But as good as all the other cats were that night, it was Slash who stole the show. We had been friends for years, but I got a whole new appreciation for his playing while rocking beside him as he soloed. The band had decided to do an extended break during the bridge section for Slash to rip over and he delivered each note with a slimy, dirty, reckless abandon that was oh so totally rock ’n’ roll. I hung beside him and danced like Mick Jagger for an hour (or five minutes), clapping and swaying to the music and getting in his face the whole time. I’m not sure if my Ozzy/Randy, Jericho/Ward–style of interacting freaked him out because he never looked up from his axe once, but I had a fucking blast anyway.
The audience seemed to dig it as well, because when the song ended they gave the New Faster Pussycat a raucous roar as we stomped off the stage. It was a night I’ll never forget and even though the other guys might never write about it in THEIR books, it sure as shit belongs in mine. As a matter of fact, if I can borrow a line from the doomed quartet in Titanic, I’d like to say to those five dudes, “Gentlemen, it was a privilege playing with you.”
Sadly, I’ve never seen a full video of that performance, so if somebody out there has one, please send it to me at @iamjericho on the Twittah!
After the jam ended, the birthday celebration began. Sorum introduced a tremendous video montage of dozens of musicians and celebrities wishing Lemmy a happy seventieth birthday; thanking him for all he’d done, and spinning filthy tales of his wicked sense of humor and infamous debauchery. It was an amazing tribute and I couldn’t take my eyes off the screen, even though Lem couldn’t seem to keep his eyes on it, as he sat on his throne reading a book the whole time.
It was classic Kilmister: hundreds of people were assembled to praise his name and he couldn’t give a fuck. It reminded me of one of my favorite lines from our podcast, when I asked him how he reacted when people told him he was God.
“I’m not God . . . .God’s taller,” he deadpanned with a smirk.
After the video finished, I made my way over to his throne, which was surrounded by onlookers and well-wishers. I saw his girlfriend, Cheryl, (who saved my ass when I did the interview at his place by giving me a pack of AA batteries when I lost the power charger for my Zoom unit) and asked her if it was okay to say hello.
She grabbed my hand and dragged me through the pack straight to him and I was stunned to see how gaunt and pale he looked up close. I said hello and happy birthday, but when he gazed up from his book, I saw how deep his eyes were sunk into their sockets. He didn’t look good.
His expression never changed when he saw me and I wasn’t sure he even knew who I was. I asked him if he was having a good time and he nodded slowly, but I could tell he was over the whole thing and probably wanted to get the fuck out of there.
I didn’t want to hassle him so I leaned in and gave him our favorite line from Fawlty Towers:
“Listen, don’t mention the war! I mentioned it once but I think I got away with it . . .”
Even that classic quote didn’t break Lemmy’s stoic demeanor, so I decided to cut my losses and leave him alone. But before I could go, he slowly raised his hand and extended his pinky. I wasn’t sure what he was doing but I didn’t want to leave him hanging, so I wrapped my pinky around his and shook it up and down like a prepubescent schoolgirl making a promise. He shook it back for a few seconds, then pulled away and went back to reading his book.
I never saw him again.
Lem passed away just two weeks later, after finding out he had terminal cancer the day before. I strongly believe that when he found out his fate, he willed himself to die quickly so he wouldn’t cause himself or anybody else any further pain. He went out on his own terms, the exact same way he lived his life.
I’m so grateful I made the decision to go to his party, because aside from being a part of the amazing jam, I got to see my friend one last time.
A few months after Lemmy’s passing I happened to see a picture of him and Phil Campbell onstage at a gig. I’d seen hundreds of pictures of them before, but this one stood out because they were standing with their arms raised, giving each other the “pinky swear” handshake. I called Phil and asked him what the greeting was all about.
“We did that every night,” he told me. “It was Lemmy’s ultimate show of respect. Fans always asked him to shake pinkies but he wouldn’t do it. He saved that only for the people that he really liked.” Phil’s words touched me and made me even happier that I’d made the trip to Los Angeles that day to pay tribute to my friend.
Thanks for everything, Lemmy. I miss you and I’ll see you on the other side. Please have a Grey Goose and a cigarette waiting for me.
EPILOGUE
At the party after Lemmy’s birthday video aired, I bumped into Lars Ulrich. I had no idea he was there but we always got along well and had a good talk about the party, the humor of Lemmy reading his book during the tribute, and the evening’s musical entertainment.
“You guys kicked ass on ‘Beer Drinkers,’” he said favorably. “That’s one of Lemmy’s favorite tunes . . . Motörhead even covered it back in 1980. You guys did a great job and I’m glad I got to see it.”
You just never know who’s watching.
CHAPTER 17
THE
RONNIE JAMES DIO
PRINCIPLE
(AKA
THE ELLSWORTH EDICT)
GIVE EVERYONE
THEIR MOMENT
We are all a star . . .
—PRINCE, “BABY I’M A STAR”
(Prince)
The night Fozzy played the Motörhead thirtieth anniversary show in Los Angeles, I got a nice compliment about my vocal stylings from the legendary Ronnie James Dio. He was backstage checking out our show (you never know who’s watching) and by going out of his way to tell me he enjoyed my performance, he gave me a memory that will last a lifetime.
I thought it was really great of him to do that, so it didn’t surprise me when I saw him signing autographs later for a group of fans hanging around the backstage door after the gig. Being nice to people seemed to be Ronnie’s natural modus operandi.
After he finished signing and taking pictures for every person waiting, I asked him if he always did that.
“Yeah, I try to give people their moment, Chris. You might not remember signing an autograph or shaking a hand, but that person will never forget it. And they’ll also never forget it if you blow them off.”
Ronnie was absolutely right and I’m sure all of you have had brushes with people you admired that turned out well and others that ended not so great.
When I first met Hulk Hogan in the lobby of the Polo Park Inn in Winnipeg at fifteen years old, I remember him shaking my hand and asking what my name was. “Nice to meet you, Chris,” Hulkster said, and I’ll
never forget how good it made me feel when he called me by name. Conversely, I also remember Sika the Wild Samoan (who incidentally is Roman Reigns’s father) looking me in the eye and telling me to “fuck off, kid” when I asked him for an autograph.
I have to point out that even though each guy treated me completely different, they both gave me a memory that will last forever.
Now, that might sound a little strange at first, but hear me out. Hogan was gracious and accommodating, like a true babyface should be, while Sika was rude, abrasive, and mean . . . like a true heel should be. In their different ways, both of them gave me a few seconds of their time, and provided experiences I’ll never forget.
By virtue of that, I’ve followed Sika’s lead and have the same attitude when I’m playing a heel. Whenever I’m on “WWE ground” (e.g., in an airport or at the arena before a show) and I’m playing a bad guy, I don’t sign or take pictures with anybody. So if you decide to wait at baggage claim for me to autograph your Chris Jericho ice cream bar or ask for a selfie at the arena, please don’t take it personally if I decline. I’m only doing my job.
If I give you Mr. Niceguy and accommodate your requests before the show, what incentive is there for you to boo me later? I never tell people to fuck off like Sika did, but if I stroll past you and say, “Sorry, I’m not signing. I’m a bad guy,” I’m still giving you your moment, but in a heelish manner, which is the way it should be.
However, when I’m a babyface I go out of my way to try to sign or take pictures whenever I can. I even breached the top security of the hotel in Jeddah, Saudi Arabia, in order to spend time with some Friends of Jericho who weren’t allowed into the lobby . . . because they were female.
I’d never been to Saudi before and when we arrived, I was really surprised to see how disrespected the women were in the country. They were expected to wear veils over their faces, walk a few feet behind their men, and weren’t allowed to attend the WWE show. As a matter of fact, NO WOMEN ALLOWED was printed in bold letters, right on the tickets.
No is a Four-Letter Word Page 17
