Heavy as lettuce? Ouch.
It was a laughable quote that reminded me of the “Shit Sandwich” two-word review of Spinal Tap’s Shark Sandwich album, but it pissed me off all the same. In the UK, music magazines still have a large influence on what the fans think, and considering I had a good relationship with Metal Hammer (I’d hosted their awards show multiple times and written articles for them), I thought it was a low blow. There was no way I was going to let that one slide by, so I dialed up my Inner Asshole.
I wasn’t sure what kind of revenge I wanted to plot on Metal Hammer, until I told my bro M. Shadows from Avenged Sevenfold (a participant in many a great story in my literary classic, The Best in the World: At What I Have No Idea) about the snub.
“Dude, you HAVE to mail them a head of lettuce,” he said with a laugh. “That’ll send them a message.”
Shads was right, I had to do something overtly cheeky in response. If it pissed off Metal Hammer and they stopped covering Fozzy, well, if they were gonna compare us to an edible leaf, what did it matter anyway? What else could they say? We were more purple than an eggplant? More sour than a lemon? The salad was in our court and I was going to toss it back with a Serena Williams–level serve.
The first step was to contact my good bud Jack Slade, part of our fantastic UK Fozzy crew, and ask him to buy a head of lettuce and put in a box. Then I typed up a letter to send with it, and after Jack added a bottle of Newman’s Own ranch dressing, our care package was ready for delivery.
A few days later, the fine people at one of England’s biggest rock magazines received a package containing a browning head of lettuce, a bottle of ranch dressing, and the following message:
Thank you so much, Metal Hammer writers, for the review of our performance at Bloodstock! While we’ve been called the clichéd “woeful” and “dreadful” many times before, we applaud your originality and creativity in referring to us as “Heavy as Lettuce”! So please enjoy this token of our esteem as we look forward to your future reviews and comparisons of our songs to various items of produce. Love, Fozzy
The joke was received well by the Hammer guys and on their website they even posted a picture of the box’s contents, along with a description of what had prompted the delivery and a brief “Cheers, Lads!” at the bottom.
I appreciated the good-natured reply to the rib and while I respected Metal Hammer’s right to say what they wanted about our performance, it sure felt good to fire back with a shot of our own. That’s the therapeutic side of being a little bit of a dick: it can clear your mind and make you feel good that you didn’t let somebody walk all over you (and I ain’t talkin’ about Bon Scott).
ONE OF THE best things about the success of Talk Is Jericho is that I’ve been flown out to see bands play and then interview them for my show. While I’ve had great experiences with Asking Alexandria, Queensryche, Living Color, and my bro Devin Townsend (with whom I won a Juno Award), the worst was with one of my favorite bands, the Scorpions. Now, before I tell this tale I have to stress that the Scorpions themselves couldn’t have been nicer; it was their management that screwed the pooch. But as the wise men from Loverboy once said, we “better start from the start.”
I’d been trying to get the Scorpions on TIJ since I started doing the show, and while I’d been able to land guitarist Matthias Jabs (who was an excellent guest), I’d never been able to land founder Rudolf Schenker or singer Klaus Meine. I’d come close, as I’d booked them twice, but got blown off both times.
After being a two-time Scorpions loser, I decided I’d had my fill of the Teutonic Terrors and stopped pursuing them. Then my magnificent producer, Stacie Parra, called to say that the Scorps wanted to fly me to Vegas AND pay my hotel in order to appear on my show. What? A free trip to Vegas to hang out and see one of my favorite bands play live? It’s a dirty horse, but somebody’s gotta ride it . . .
The deal was I’d get Klaus and Rudolf for an hour the day of the show and then stick around to watch the gig afterwards. Everything was set up for us to have our chat at around 7 p.m. (which I thought was a little late considering that the gig started at 9 p.m.), so Stacie gave me their management’s number to contact for details when I got into town.
I arrived in Vegas and called at about three to find out where we were supposed to meet, but the guy who answered seemed to have no idea who I was. I reminded him about our interview, and with some prodding he finally replied in an annoyed tone, “Okay, well, you can have fifteen minutes with Rudolf at 7 p.m.”
Fifteen minutes? Was this a rib? My shortest ever TIJ interview was forty minutes with Rob Zombie and without at least that amount of time, I wouldn’t have enough material for a show. It didn’t make any sense, especially when the band had spent money to bring me in, and I told the guy so.
When I mentioned it had been agreed that I’d have an hour with Rudolf AND Klaus, the dipshit laughed into the earpiece and told me fifteen minutes was the best he could do. What pissed me off even more was that he was acting like he was doing me a favor in allowing me to talk to Rudolf at all. I reiterated that I needed forty minutes minimum and that the Scorps organization had paid for me to be there in the first place.
Dipshit called back a few minutes later and told me to meet the band’s rep at the venue at 5:30 p.m. so that when Rudolf got there at 7 p.m., I could get started. Oh, and he was now offering me the princely sum of twenty minutes (I wasn’t even gonna hassle the fact that Klaus was apparently no longer involved), because they had a VIP meet and greet at 7:30 p.m. sharp. So in reality I was going to have less than half an hour, which was far too short for a full episode. That meant I was going to have to make the best of it and try to squeeze out more time somehow.
I had taken thirty-minute interview slots and expanded them to forty-five minutes before, by using the subtle asshole technique of ignoring the clock. I got an extra ten minutes with Zombie that way, when I basically tuned out his handler when he came in the room to wrap up the chat. I figured I could do the same thing with Rudolf, or just play it by ear and see what type of mood he was in. Maybe he’d want to talk longer if he was enjoying himself.
When I got to the foyer of the Joint at 5:30 p.m., I was met by a man that I can only describe as the epitome of a dweeb. He was nerdy, socially awkward, and timid: the exact opposite of what you would expect the representative of a massive band like the Scorpions to be.
Let me also say that after being in show business for over twenty-six years, I have a good feel for figuring out a person’s true character within minutes of meeting them. And Dweeb McQueen was giving me a bad vibe right from jump street.
“Hi,” he mumbled nervously, his eyes darting back and forth around the room. “I guess we should go inside.”
Yeah, no shit, Dweeback, unless you just want to hang here in the deserted lobby, looking for change on the carpet?
He led me inside the venue and even though I knew where the dressing room was (I had interviewed Paul Stanley in this exact arena a year prior), this goober didn’t seem to know where he was. After walking aimlessly around for ten minutes, I realized that he really had no idea where we were supposed to go. I felt like David St. Hubbins and was about to start shouting, “Hello, Cleveland,” when Dweeb Aoki stopped at the top of a flight of stairs and admitted he was lost. I told him that the backstage lounge area was actually at the bottom of the steps and that was probably the best place for me to set my stuff up.
“No!” he snapped. “You’ll be setting up in Rudolf’s dressing room . . . if I could only remember where it is.”
We stood there for a few more seconds until he finally took my advice and walked down the stairs. When he got to the bottom and swung open the door to the lounge, Dweebil Zappa announced, “This . . . is the LOUNGE!”
Then he told me he would come get me when Rudolf arrived and disappeared behind the door, leaving me with no pass, no ticket, and no credentials.
So instead of setting up my rig in Rudolf’s dressing room and being
ready to start the second he arrived, I stood there and twiddled my thumbskis for the next thirty minutes. I hung around like a fanboy until a security guard came by and asked for my credentials, which of course I didn’t have. Thankfully, he knew who I was and what I was there for (“Recording a podcast today, Chris?”), which put him two steps above Dweeb Harris, who still hadn’t returned.
When the clock hit 7 p.m. I was about to abort the mission, until the door opened and Dweebee Cates summoned me inside with no words of explanation or apologies as to why I’d been left out there for so long. We walked through the catacombs of the backstage area and down a hallway to a door with a RUDOLF sign plastered on it.
I walked inside and there was Rudolf Schenker, the legendary founder of the Scorpions sitting on a couch. He looked trim and considerably younger than his sixty-seven years, and couldn’t have been more friendly as I set up my Zoom recorder and microphones. Just before I pressed record, Justin Dweeber said in a fake friendly voice, “So about twenty minutes then?”
Yeah, fat chance of that, I thought to myself as I smiled and started the interview.
For the next twenty minutes Rudolf was a tremendous guest. I could tell he was genuinely engaged in our conversation about rock ’n’ roll fashion, the 1983 US Festival, why he shaved his trademark moustache, and the 1989 Moscow Music Peace Festival. After twenty minutes, like clockwork, the Dweebler Elf came in about as silent as an asthmatic rhino, but since Rudolf didn’t acknowledge his shitty handler’s existence, I didn’t either. Finally, Stacy Dweebler waved his hands over his head in a panic, mouthing, “Five more minutes!” He wasn’t happy but I didn’t give a shit, because Rudolf was on a roll and I now had twenty-seven minutes in the can.
I was almost home free.
But a few minutes later, Dipshit made his big return by barging into the dressing room, and both he and Dweeb Schreiber pointed at their nonexistent watches and shook their fingers angrily until finally Dweeba McIntyre stood up and yelled, “That’s it, Rudolf has to go! You’re finished here!”
I was really getting sick of these guys treating me like I was a high school journalist who’d won an “Interview the Scorpions” contest in the local newspaper. But out of respect to Rudolf, who had treated me so well, I decided to back off and let it go with just over thirty minutes in the can. It was a short interview, but it was really good and I would make it work somehow. I thanked him, but just as I was getting ready to leave, Rudolf said in his charming German accent, “Why don’t you sink of sree or fouh more questionz and we can continue when I’m done with ze meet and greet?”
I was ecstatic and told him I’d be waiting for him the moment he got back. Rudolf shook my hand and told me to make myself at home as he and Dipshit walked out of the room. I was left alone with Steve Dweebee, who was staring a hole through me like he had caught me taking a dump in his mom’s kitchen sink.
“You want me to wait outside?” I said cheerfully, knowing damn well he’d heard Rudolf tell me to make myself at home.
“That would be best,” Robert Louis Dweebenson replied acerbically.
What was he expecting me to do, walk out with one of Schenker’s famous flying Vs stuffed down my pants? But okay, whatever, never mind, I walked the five steps across the hall to the Scorpions’ drummer (and my bro) Mikkey Dee’s room and killed some time watching Judge Judy. A few minutes later I saw Rudy walking back into his room, and even though I was on the edge of my seat waiting to see if Judge Judy was going to allow some poor guy to break his lease because the house he was renting had no working stove and an ant infestation (hope things worked out for him), I went and knocked on Rudy’s door. He was all smiles and we immediately picked up the conversation right where we left off.
“Okay, Rudolf, we were in the middle of a fantastic chat when your handlers cut us off . . .”
“. . . Yes, along with ze police and ze Gestapo,” he added comically.
He totally got the ridiculousness of the situation and with good vibes in the air we continued our conversation. I can say that the second part was just as good as the first . . . until Stone Cold Dweeb Austin cut us off again after a mere seven minutes.
He was pissed that I had come back into Rudy’s dressing room without his “permission,” even although he was sitting right there when Rudy made the offer to continue with me in the first place.
“I told you this interview is over! You’re done!” he bellowed belligerently.
That was it. I was sick of this little jackoff talking to me like a mark and was going to tell him so, but first I thanked Rudolf for a great interview. He reciprocated and asked me to contact him the next time I was in Hanover, so he could come see me perform in return. We shook hands and when he left to get ready for the show, I set my sights back on Dweebo Bryson and glared into his beady eyes.
“I know you heard Rudolf tell me to come back and continue my interview after his meet and greet. So I’d say you were pretty fuckin’ rude right there, don’t you think?”
“Well, Rudolf shouldn’t have said that and besides, you gotta get out of here. I have a show to run.”
He began rushing me out of the room, even though I still had to pack up my recording gear. The breaking point had been reached and out came The Inner Asshole.
“HEY!” I said gruffly. “You need to back off, dude. The Scorpions spent some good money to bring me out here, so quit acting like you’re doing me a fucking favor and get out of my face. Do you understand?”
Dweeby Harry’s eyes got as big as saucers and he appeared to be on the verge of crying.
“Do. You. Understand. Me?” I said, enunciating each word, so even his stupid ass would understand.
He nodded and walked out of the room quickly. Feeling satisfied with myself, I packed up my stuff and went down to the box office to pick up my passes for the show, but to the surprise of exactly no one, Dweebus Christ hadn’t left me a damn thing. The dude working the box office was totally cookie and said even though the show was sold out, he’d figure something out. At that moment, as if on cue, Brutus “The Barber” Dweebcake walked in the box office and practically bumped right into me.
“Hey, man . . .” he mumbled, looking like he was going to poop his pantskis, “. . . everything all right?”
“Actually, there’s no ticket or pass for me here. This dude offered to help me out, but since you asked, maybe you can take care of it.”
“Aww, man, the pass was supposed to be there, but it’s a soldout show. Guess there’s nothing I can do.”
Why would he be able to do anything, he was only the handler of the fucking headlining band! But then I had an idea.
“Why don’t you give me your pass?”
“My pass? But this is all access.”
“Yeah, I see that, it’s perfect. So why don’t you give it to me and then go upstairs and get another one?”
I stared him down as he considered his options, his wheels spinning. I think he was genuinely intimidated by The Inner Asshole and in the end smartly decided to cut his losses with me. He defeatedly slid the lanyard over his head and slowly handed over his pass.
“This should take care of it,” he muttered. Then he dodged inside the door of the venue and stammered, “I’ll be right back.”
Of course you will, Junior, I thought to myself, but of course he didn’t come back and I never saw him again. And apparently the Scorpions never saw him again after the tour either, because I heard they fired his ass after the last show.
The moral of the story is that by unleashing The Inner Asshole and standing my ground with Cheryl Dweebs, I ended up with a wicked thirty-seven-minute interview with Rudolf Schenker (just long enough for a full show), and with my all-access pass I got to see the Scorpions tear Las Vegas apart from the front row. All in all, it was a pretty rad day at the office.
The moral of the story is if some stupid idiot is trying to push you around, don’t be afraid to show some attitude, stand your ground, and rock them like a hurricane.
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br /> Or at least take their all-access pass.
CHAPTER 20
THE
BOWIE
PRINCIPLE
REINVENT YOURSELF
Ch-ch-changes, turn and face the strange,
Oh look out you rock ’n’ rollers . . .
—DAVID BOWIE, “CHANGES”
(David Bowie)
A few years ago, the WWE asked me to talk about The Undertaker and his longevity within the company for a special they were producing. After waxing poetic on his legendary gimmick and ring prowess, I commented that he was “the David Bowie of the wrestling business.” At first that might seem like a strange way to describe The Deadman, Constant Reader, but once you hear my whole theory I’m sure you’ll agree it makes sense.
Ever since Bowie released his first album and became a star (man) in 1969, he changed his look and sound on every record he released until his death in 2016. From Ziggy Stardust’s androgynous alien rock star, to the drug-addled Thin White Duke of the mid-’70s, to the well-dressed lothario of the Let’s Dance era, he constantly altered his style and musical vision. Every album still sounded like Bowie at the root, but contained an updated, rebooted version of himself with each new release. Now if you really think about it, throughout the years The Undertaker has shared the same metamorphosis.
From his debut in 1990 as the white-faced, red-haired walking corpse, to the goateed Satanic priest of the Attitude Era, to the American Bad Ass motorcycle man of the early 2000s, to the MMA-influenced streetfighter gimmick he ended his career with (or did he?), Mark Calaway constantly evolved his character and stayed meaningful. There might be certain eras of The Undertaker that we like better, but much like KISS, Aerosmith, or the Stones, Taker did what he had to do to keep his character fresh, interesting, and most importantly, RELEVANT.
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