18 and Life on Skid Row

by Sebastian Bach

  “Sebastian!! Quit moving your FUCKING HANDS!!!” He jumped out of his seat and ran up onto the stage.

  “Give me your fucking hand!!!!!” Robin, the elder statesman of British Theatre, yelled in front of the shocked cast. None more so than me.

  He took my hand, and placed it directly in his crotch. In front of all present. I could not understand what was going on.

  Screaming at the top of his lungs, in his English accent, he jammed my outstretched palm up in between his legs.

  “Every fucking time you feel like moving your FUCKING HANDS, I want you to think of your fucking hand RIGHT FUCKING HERE!!! These are my fucking balls!!! This is my fucking asshole!!!! Do you fucking HEAR ME?????” Yes, I heard him. Loud and clear.

  I never moved my hands again.

  Rehearsals were intense, detailed, and laborious. They had flown Robin, who was the play’s original director, down from Ottawa, Canada, especially to teach me how to act. He was an incredible mentor, a great friend, and a wonderful man. He knew I could be molded, and would take his direction. Because I respected him. We all thought he was hilarious.

  He used a word I had never heard before. When he got mad at a female actress, in rehearsal, he would call them by the affectionate term “Cunthook.”

  Not just Cunt.

  Cunthook. An astonishing word I had never heard before, nor since. I heard it a lot rehearsing for this play.

  Those crazy Brits!

  We rehearsed six days a week. For a month. By the time we opened the show, I was already almost bored of doing the show. Not bored. Just extremely well rehearsed. I knew exactly what I had to do, and nothing was going to stop me from doing it.

  The night before my Broadway debut was Jason Flom’s fortieth birthday party. He invited me, along with a lot of the other acts he had worked with in the music industry. Dave “The Snake” Sabo was there. It was the first time we had seen each other in years. I saw Jason in the bathroom, where we took a piss next to each other.

  “Why is fucking Snake here???”

  Jason, with his dick in his hand, looked me straight in the eye.

  “Dude!! This night isn’t about you. It’s about me!!” So we all had a good time. Maybe too good of a time.

  This was the first night I met Kid Rock. We hung out and had some drinks. We all ended up at Scores nightclub, getting drunk and doing blow. Mark McGrath of Sugar Ray was also there. Mark, who has since turned into a great friend of mine, turned more and more dark as we got more and more fucked up.

  “What the fuck, Sebastian?? Really? When did you give up???” The alcohol seemed to be hitting him hard and he seemed to think I was not rock anymore, since I was now doing a musical. I couldn’t seem to make him understand that what was important to me in music was singing. Broadway is a place for people that love to sing. I love to sing. There was no shame in doing a musical for me.

  I ended up with Kid Rock and Mark McGrath in the bathroom of Scores, the night before my Broadway debut, drunk and snorting lines of coke off the back of a toilet. When I look back, it is completely shocking. Especially since I hate that stuff so much now. But I remember feeling so rehearsed, that I felt partying, like I was used to, would be a way to quell my nervousness about the situation. It worked. I woke up the next day slightly hung over, but ready to do the show. A hangover worked great for the Mr. Hyde role anyways.

  Opening night was crazy. So many people came out. Jason Flom, Atlantic Records, Frank Wildhorn, Frank Barsalona, Barbara Skydel, my mom, members of the band Anthrax. My friends, family. No doubt some people came just to see me fail. I was not about to give anyone that satisfaction.

  A lot of my rock ’n’ roll friends cautioned me when I got the part.

  “You cannot let any of the Broadway people know about your partying!!” Of course I agreed with them, and thought this would be a bad thing. Little did any of us know that these Broadway mothertruckers know how to tie one on with the best of them. Every night, after a performance, there would be some sort of get-together, a celebration, at a local establishment in the theater district. When I was rehearsing for the play, I went out with Jack Wagner, and with the leading lady of the play. We had a great time. Libations flowed. Cocaine was not unheard of in Broadway circles. I turned down Ecstacy many times. I don’t enjoy that stuff. Jack’s main advice to me was, “Get to the monster. Get to the monster.” That’s what people were paying to see.

  One night Neil Patrick Harris came by to check out the play. Coleen Sexton, who played Lucy with such an incredible voice and stage presence, knocked at the door of my dressing room. My makeup artist Kevin Phillips answered.

  “Dude . . . Doogie Howser is here.”

  It was after one of our performances and I was like, “Oh yeah, I remember that show!” I opened the door and invited in Neil for a couple of beers. Before he came in, Coleen told me, “Oh, he’s a really good friend of mine. He’s super cool. So be nice. Don’t call him Doogie Howser, okay?” So I didn’t. Incredible to see this same dude host the Oscars! It’s a crazy business for sure.

  There was a palpable sexual tension in the play between myself and Coleen. She was about twenty years old and sang so beautifully, it mesmerized me and everyone else in attendance. Every time she opened her mouth. When it came time in the first act for me to make out with her, I was told by the director we didn’t really need to make out. But we ignored him. We made out for real, each and every time. You could set your clock to the collective gasp of the crowd. During “Dangerous Game,” everything you saw on the stage was pretty much really happening between us. Broadway is a very close physical environment, on stage and off. To be believable onstage is everything. My ex-wife really did not enjoy watching this scene, and would leave the theater during this part of the show. I don’t know if she ever watched it.

  Near the end of my three-month contract, I received the awesome news that they were extending my run. Giving me a nice raise, as well. I was very happy to do an extra month as Jekyll and Hyde. It was around this time when the door manager came upstairs.

  “Sebastian! We have a special guest this evening! Paul Stanley of KISS is coming!!”

  Which was incredible for many reasons, one of them being that this was one of the nights when Dad was going to be watching the play as well. Talk about a special night!

  I had adorned my dressing room with vintage KISS posters, including a jumbo-size Dynasty wall mural that totally freaked out the Broadway community for the last four months that dressing room had been mine. These posters would inspire me to go out onstage and give the best show I possibly could. Like my heroes before me.

  Paul was coming with Doc McGhee. Doc had been to see the show a couple of times. It meant a lot to me for him to support me, along with his wife, Wendy. The fact that Paul was coming meant everything to me. I couldn’t wait to do the show for Paul with my dad watching. Afterwards, he could come back to my room, and I would blow him away with my shrine.

  But this was not to be. After the show, Dad came back to the room by himself. He told me the sad news.

  “Son. Great show. You’re not going to believe who was sitting in front of me.”

  “Who, Dad?”

  “Paul Stanley.”

  I was puzzled why nobody came back after the show to tell me he was coming. Dad told me why.

  “Ummm, Sebastian, I don’t really know how to say this, but . . . Paul left at the intermission.”

  Wow. That sucks.

  This was heartbreaking to me. After Dad had put me on his shoulders in 1979 for this guy. After I had adorned my dressing room with pictures of him, on Broadway, out of respect. For dad to have to watch him get up and leave, after everything he had meant to our family, felt like a humiliating slap in the face.

  Doc McGhee came back after that, along with Tommy Thayer.

  “Great, great show, Sebastian. I’m serious. It was tremendous. I’m very proud of you out there. An incredible performance. Bravo!” Doc genuinely dug the play, as he had been
to see it more than once.

  “Hey Doc . . . How come Paul split at intermission?” I felt like a fool asking this as I stood in front of the Paul Stanley poster on my wall.

  “Oh, you know . . . it wasn’t this, it wasn’t that,” were his exact words.

  I can understand sour grapes. The thing that hurt was that I am such a fan. The kid inside me was pained that I may have upset someone I had genuinely looked up to.

  After this, a truly terrifying incident occurred. I was leaving the play. Signing autographs for the fans at the stage door, as I did every night. The limo was set up in front of the gate for me to get inside. As I finished the autographs, I went around to the passenger side of the vehicle and got in the backseat. The left door was opened as well. Fans were shouting, “Sebastian!! Sebastian!! Great show!” As I turned to my right, a man had gotten his head and upper body into the car with me. It was impossible for me to shut the door. As I reached over, he looked at me straight in the eye.

  “Sebastian! Nice show! We’re going to whack you.”

  And with that, he slammed the door.

  I was terrified.

  My limo driver, Bill, turned around from the front seat and looked at me with the same ghostly expression on his face.

  “Did he really just say that?”

  I jumped out of the car and went after the guy. “WHAT??? You want to whack me?? What, you wanna whack off my fucking DICK??” I did this in front of people on the street. So they would see him as well. I was acting tough and crazy, but the truth was I was scared shitless. Who wouldn’t be?

  The mystery man whack-job just kept on walking. Never turned around. I never found out who he was, or what he wanted.

  I tried, through private channels, to find out if this was something to be concerned about. I was told that if someone wanted to whack me, they would just do it. They would not bother to tell me first. Still, I was frightened enough to enlist a security team to get me in and out of the venue for a short time after this. I still wonder who that guy was, and what he wanted. Maybe his chick dug the show more than he wanted her to. It’s happened more than once. Maybe this time, to the wrong guy.

  In after me was “The Hoff” himself, none other than the one and only David Hasselhoff. David and his wife came and met me in the dressing room.

  “Dude!” I said. “Are you doing the show?”

  “I’m thinking about it,” replied the Hoff, pensively.

  It was my job to teach David the track of the show, as Jack had taught to me when I started. This involved David Hasselhoff running behind me as I changed clothes between set changes, ripped off my wig and put on a new hairdo, as fast as I could, to get back onstage in time for the next line. It was a lot of fun. I really miss Jekyll & Hyde.

  I got to play the role for a second time in 2004, in North Carolina, at the Raleigh Theatre for the Performing Arts for a two-week limited Halloween run. It was fun to reunite with George Merritt and sing the songs again, but the chemistry we had on Broadway was impossible to replace. The camaraderie we had as cast members, along with the musicians in the band, the director Robin Phillips, and all of the crew, is one of my most cherished memories. We were all great friends. We all truly enjoyed being there each and every performance. David Chaney was the actor who played my father, David, in the play. His lovely wife was a stage manager. Before every time I would walk on the stage, she would stand next to me, in the wings, and whisper the words, “Sebastian . . . Shine like the star that you are.”

  I would walk out there with those words in my head. Those words are still in my head.

  I wish every project I entered into in this business was as gratifying, fun, and memorable as was Jekyll & Hyde: The Musical.

  It was the year 2000. I had a billboard up in Times Square. I was a bona fide Broadway Star now. Things were going so good. I walked down Broadway, saying to myself, “Things are so good. Things feel almost too good to be true.” The feeling was palpable. I felt there was no way this great feeling could last forever. It was almost as if I felt something just around the corner.

  Then came 9/11.

  September 11, 2001

  New Jersey

  7:00 a.m.

  The day started like any other. Meetings in New York City. VH1 offices. A beautiful, bright sunny morning. I was due in Manhattan at 9:00 a.m. to talk about some new TV show on the horizon. But on this day, there were indeed other things on the horizon. Our country, our world, was about to change. For the rest of time. Never to be the same again.

  I opened up the bedroom windows and let the sun shine in on this glorious morning. Coffee. Started to get my bean on. Flicked on NewsChannel 4 New York City. All of a sudden, they showed the Twin Towers engulfed in flame and smoke.

  Matt Lauer explains that an airplane had somehow hit the North Tower.

  I sip on my coffee and watch the drama unfold. The news is disturbing, but at first seems like pilot error in the worst possible way. But then, as the morning unfolds, it becomes clear that this is not a case of pilot error. This is more serious. Something is going on. But what?

  I knew one simple thing. I want my kids.

  Paris and London had just left for school. Somehow I knew that there wouldn’t be a meeting at VH1 that day. My instincts as a father kicked into high gear. As I listened to Matt Lauer on the TV, I heard in the tone of his voice that something bad was going down. I jumped in the car and went up the street to my son’s school.

  Got to the parking lot. Out of the car. Went to the office where school personnel were present. Everybody was nervously chattering, freaked out about what was happening.

  “Hey. I want my kids right now.”

  The teachers explain their feelings.

  “Sir. We’re aware that something is happening in New York City right now. But we think it best to just let the children have a normal day at school. Let’s not alarm the kids.”

  “Well . . . okay.”

  None of us knew exactly what to do. Their reasoning seemed to make sense at the time. I got a call on my cell phone right then from my ex-wife. I asked her what was going on. She told me that a second plane had crashed into the second tower in the ten minutes that I had been gone from home. I couldn’t believe what she was telling me. A plane has now crashed into the second tower? It has collapsed into the ground below??

  I told the teachers the unbelievable news.

  “There are no more Twin Towers. The Twin Towers are gone.”

  A bunch of them burst into tears. We were more confused than ever before.

  “Oh my God.” Panic in the school office.

  Once again, I ask for my sons. Through teary eyes, the teacher again explains to me, it was probably best that I leave the boys in school so as not to alarm them. Against my better judgment, I walk back to my car. A lady walks towards me. She, too, is on her way to the office I had been just minutes before.

  “Did you get your kids???????” she exclaims to me, her voice thick with the fear of protective motherly instinct.

  “Well, no. The teachers think it best that we leave the kids here to have a normal day. Maybe this will all blow over. So I guess I’m going to just leave them here. Like any other day.”

  “Yeah . . . but you don’t know . . . what they’re going to do next!!!!!”

  Her ominous words hit me like a ton of bricks. I turned with her, and marched back into the office. We had a common purpose.

  “Give me my kids. Right now.”

  I didn’t move till I had Paris and London with me. I took them both by the hand and got in the car. Went back to my house. Got my ex-wife.

  Called my dad in Canada. “We’re getting the fuck out of this country. This is fucked up!!”

  “I know, dude. Come here right now.”

  “Okay, Dad. See you as soon as I can.”

  I pressed down on the gas, with my family in the car, and gunned it. We aimed the car towards Canada. But we didn’t get that far.

  Nobody in New Jersey, or New York,
or the USA, or the world for that matter, knew what was happening. I myself thought that we were under nuclear attack. There were guys working on my roof that day when I returned back from school with Paris and London. “What is going on???” Even they knew, as they were outside working on the roof of my house. The feeling of terror was alive in New Jersey that day. I told them that we were under nuclear attack. They flipped out, jumped off the roof, and split.

  Escape from New York

  I drove as fast as I could. It felt like a movie. Only this wasn’t a scary movie. This was real scary.

  I listened to the radio with rapt attention. Searching for information. Trying to make any sort of sense out of the situation. I heard something on the news that I will never, ever forget. Maybe others heard it too. I remember the radio broadcast as clear as day. We were somewhere in Pennsylvania when I heard the woman broadcaster announce this insane news.

  “We interrupt this broadcast for a breaking news story. This is just in: We have just learned that the U.S. government was forced to take down an airplane on approach to the White House. I repeat. The U.S. government was forced to shoot down one of our own planes as it approached the White House. More on this story as it develops.”

  I left the station on the dial. But I never heard any mention of this ever again. Anywhere. Only by conspiracy theorists years later. But I have a vivid memory of this news story being reported, right around the time Flight 93 went down. This is a memory etched in my mind. Who knows what really happened that day? The day that changed the world forever.

  We never made it to Dad’s house in Canada. It started to get dark around 5:00. I wanted a fucking drink after this insanity. I stopped the car at a liquor store on the side of a rural road somewhere close to Stroudsburg, Pennsylvania. The small store was filled with locals staring at the news on the screen. It was deathly silent as we all collectively wondered what was happening to our country. I picked up a case of Molson Ice. We made it as far as Stroudsburg. I saw a hotel from the highway as the sun went down, and asked the front desk if they had a kick-ass suite we could stay in for the night. Yes, they did. So I brought the case of beer up to the suite and we all went to the indoor pool. I drank beers in the pool and swam with my boys. We were completely by ourselves. I thought to myself that it was cool we had turned a terrifying day into a family adventure. Which ended up with the kids swimming in the pool, and dad drinking beers.