“You might want to get some representation, and call the embassy,” one of my crew called to me as I walked away. This struck me as a particularly ludicrous thing to say. Might? Might?
As we walked from the small room and into the airport proper, my mind shifted gears from disbelief to a hyper-focused awareness of my surroundings. Self-preservation ripped away the gossamer haze that had coated reality just seconds before, and everything became bright and crystalline. As I was led past curious onlookers through Ruzyne International, flanked by eight heavily armed men, I had a very clear thought, simultaneously pragmatic and bizarre:
Focus. Pay attention to everything happening around you right now. Choose every word you say very carefully. This is immensely important to your well being, perhaps even your survival. Do not let your attention waver or wander. Focus. This is going to make a great book one day. Focus.
It seemed very strange, even inappropriate, to be thinking about writing a book at a moment like this, and I wondered what was wrong with my brain; but even as I thought this, my eyes began scanning my surroundings and I heard clicking sounds in my mind, like my Canon’s shutter button being depressed in rapid fire mode. As strange as it was, I knew I was capturing images and filing them away for later use.
The two officers on either side of me were almost dragging me through the airport, their steps hurried and their hands clamped hard on my arms. They seemed strangely nervous to me. What did they have to worry about?
“Relax, okay?” I said to them. “I’m not going anywhere. You guys have a bunch of guns, remember?” The cops eased up a bit, and we walked out through the sliding doors of the airport entrance, and towards a red-colored unmarked car in the taxi lane. The five SWAT team cops walked away from us without a word as soon as we were out of the airport. I supposed they were there in case my band and crew had tried to fight the police and resist my arrest. Now that it was just me, apparently machine guns and face masks were no longer necessary. I wasn’t sad to see them go.
One of the cops told me to face the car and put my hands on its roof, and as I did so I spread my feet apart automatically. I knew the drill, and had no desire to piss them off—that had never worked in my favor before, despite a few valiant efforts. The cop did the standard pat down that always precedes a ride in a police vehicle, emptying all the pockets of my cut-off camo BDUs and placing the contents in a clear plastic bag. As I took my hands off the roof of the car, a last-ditch thought came to me once again that maybe I was dreaming. I pinched my forearm, hard. Regrettably, I seemed to be awake. The cop asked me if I had any drugs or weapons hidden on my person.
“Nope. But could I smoke a cigarette before we go downtown?”
The cop looked confused.
“We are not going downtown. We are going to the police station,” he said “and you can have a cigarette later. Put your hands together.”
Click, click, click. This was definitely real. At least they weren’t assholes about it and didn’t cuff me too tight. Some cops will do that, especially if you have had a little too much of the jerk juice. They opened the car door and carefully guided me into the back seat, making sure I didn’t bump my head on the way in. They closed the door, and I heard one laugh as they spoke briefly in Czech outside the closed doors. They got into the car, and we pulled away from the airport. No one said a word.
Focus, focus, focus.
chapter two
It’s hard for me to explain how uncomfortable I feel when someone describes me as a rockstar. A while ago, I was the only member of my band asked to do an interview for a well-known hard rock magazine’s one hundredth issue, the theme of which was “The 100 Greatest Living Rockstars.” All members of my band are paid the same as equal business partners, there are very few individual writing credits on our records, we all go on the same tours riding the same bus. There is no “leader” of the band. And as far as I know none of my guys lives a more exotic or glamorous lifestyle than any of the others, including me. I suppose I was selected to represent my band simply by virtue of being its front man, a job that admittedly seems to require a somewhat larger-than-life personality by its very nature, at least if you want to be effective at it. Regrettably, often this personality manifests its worst aspects via the full-blown cases of egomania-cloaked insecurity known in our business as L.S.D. (lead singer’s disease). Musicians afflicted with L.S.D. are easy to spot, especially for another musician—they are constantly in the press blabbering on about absolutely nothing, even when they are not promoting an upcoming release or in the midst of a touring cycle (about eighteen months on average, by the way), tend to have no interests outside of promoting their band (and thus, themselves, since they have no real sense of identity or self-worth), and behind the sacred veil of the backstage door are the most demanding, needy, flat-out-annoying jackasses you will ever have the misfortune of rubbing shoulders with. And while lead singers are certainly not the only breed of musician to contract L.S.D. (in fact some of the most hideous cases I have witnessed were in players who would be too terrified to squeak a single note into a microphone in a room full of deaf people), it is called lead singer’s disease, not rhythm guitarist’s disease, for a reason. As my wife likes to not-so-gently remind me at times, I do have a rather, um, loud personality, but on the whole I think I do a pretty good job of keeping my L.S.D. in check.
While I rarely enjoy doing interviews, this particular magazine has done a great deal to advance my band’s career (thanks, guys—you know who you are), so I agreed. I obviously enjoy expressing myself publicly with words, otherwise I wouldn’t sing in a band (and you wouldn’t be reading this book), but not through the often-distorting filter of a journalist’s written lens. Regardless, when I did the interview, I expressed the fact that I didn’t really consider myself a rockstar and wasn’t comfortable with being labeled as such, and to the magazine’s credit they included that in the full-page spread they gave me. When the issue came out, I read it, but it still just felt weird to be included.
On the magazine’s cover, I was drawn in caricature along with twenty or so other musicians. Virtually all of the cartoon dudes adorning the magazine’s cover fall under what I believe most folks’ definition of a rockstar would be, and their bands are light years beyond mine in popularity. Some of them are even household names across the globe. I know about half of these men personally, and several are dear friends, whom I always try to crush in one of my over-exuberant bear hugs whenever we meet in person. But even on the cover of the magazine the illustrator captured my impostor complex pretty well: the cartoon version of me lurks to the side of all the real rockstars, a rueful sideways grimace on my penciled face that says What in the hell am I doing here? I better split before I knock something over and they realize I snuck in through the back door with the help.
Strange or not, after almost twenty years in this business I am finally starting to accept the fact (no matter how distasteful and bizarre I may find it) that some people do indeed consider me a rockstar. And although I never dreamed of or planned on becoming a rockstar, I also never dreamed of or planned on becoming a rampaging alcoholic hell-bent on destroying everything good in my life, repeatedly breaking the hearts of those who loved me most in the process. But somehow both things seem to have occurred, both are fairly public knowledge, and since I’ve been sober a few years now and have returned to what little senses I have left, I might as well face the music (as it were) and make the best out of both situations. For those of you unfamiliar with who I am, my band, and/or my reputation, I better qualify myself and explain a little about my life. I’ll address the rockstar stuff first and get it out of the way upfront, because while it is pretty interesting at times, its impact on my life is inconsequential compared to my alcoholism. For me, being considered a rockstar is just fancy window dressing, a really nice paint job on a worn out sports car in need of constant, daily maintenance. It may look really cool, but underneath the shine a turd is a turd, even if you gold plate it.
&nb
sp; My name is David Randall Blythe. I reside in Richmond, Virginia, United States of America. On the records my band releases (and on the cover of this book) I am credited as D. Randall Blythe. This is because my father told me once when I was younger that one day, whenever I (hopefully) figured out what I was going to do for a living, that “D. Randall Blythe will look really sharp” (his exact words) as my professional name. I tend to agree, and although neither of us ever imagined that I would wind up playing heavy metal for a living (not exactly a realistic or stable career choice in the average parent’s eyes), and my choice of profession has caused him just a wee bit of consternation a time or two (and that’s putting it mildly—I think he’s still waiting for me to “grow out of it”—sorry Pops), I have always remembered his advice. I love and respect the old goat, so D. Randall it is. Thanks, Dad.
Most everyone just calls me Randy though.
The band I sing for, lamb of god, has sold over two million records world wide. The music we make is not exactly what you would call “radio friendly,” but our last four albums have been released on a major label. We have been nominated for the biggest prize the music industry gives, a Grammy award, on four separate occasions, handily losing all four times, might I add (some of my bandmates have been to the Grammy ceremonies a few times, and good for them—they seem to have had a good time walking the red carpet and raging the after parties, but that scene is simply not for me. If I were to attend, it would only result in broken glass, disgrace for my family, and a furtive flight out of Tinseltown). On tour with lamb of god, I have flown literally around the world several times, playing in front of large crowds numbering anywhere from 1,500 to over 100,000 people. On tour and off, fans regularly ask for my autograph and/or to take a picture with me, some of the younger ones’ hands shaking so hard with nervousness at meeting me that I gently grab their camera phones from them and take the damn photo myself after a few blurry attempts. People tattoo my signature, the lyrics I write, and sometimes even my portrait indelibly into their flesh. More than once, fans (mostly female, but there has been a dude or two) have cried when they met me or my bandmates. Lamb of god has been hand-picked to open up for the biggest names in the heavy metal business. Incredibly, people actually tell me that they consider it an honor to meet me.
Whenever I sit and take stock of my professional life, often a part of me says, “Huh? Wait a minute, you do what for a living? Nooooo . . . stop pulling my leg!”
It makes me happy inside that all of these things continue to astound me on a daily basis, that I’m not so jaded and bitter by two decades in this wacky, often ugly, business that I don’t remember how blessed I am to do what I do. I’m so grateful for the unique experiences and opportunities that my job has provided me, and it honestly touches me deeply when someone says, “Hey man, I just want you to know that your music has helped me get through a really difficult period in my life.” This is the greatest compliment a fan can give me, as I feel like I have done my job. Forget the recognition, forget the travel, and especially forget the money—other people’s music has helped me to get through some really hard times, times I was so low that I honestly believe that a song alone kept breath in my lungs. So if a person, even just one person, can use music I helped create to keep their head up in a rough spot, then I feel like I have in some small way repaid a debt to all those who put their blood, sweat, and tears into the tunes that kept me going when I wanted to just crawl into a hole and die.
But no matter how many people say those sweet words to me, the ones that mean so much and make my heart want to burst out of my chest with joy, no matter how many times I hear a few thousand fans boomeranging the words I wrote in some cheap spiral bound notebook back at me, singing so loudly they almost drown out the PA, a part of me is (and always will be, I think) convinced that one day they will find out, and then it will all be over quicker than a duck on a june bug. Who they are and exactly what it is they will find out, I have no clue. But as sure as the sun will rise, I just know they are gonna show up one day, and when that day comes . . . it’s back to sweating in a restaurant kitchen or on a roofing crew for me. Oh well—it was a nice ride while it lasted.
So while some folks do consider me a bonafide rockstar, and all heartwarming artistic rewards and paranoid insecurity aside (obviously symptomatic of my L.S.D.), I still look at things a little differently. Maybe because I don’t enjoy the rockstar label, particularly not when it is thrown in my face, and especially not when it’s slurred out after one too many beers by acquaintances or fans who think they are being cute (you’re not cute, you’re drunk) or are trying to look “cool.” If you say anything remotely resembling the following words to any professional musician, you look the antithesis of cool; in fact, you mostly resemble a dirty convenience store microwave overheating at the tail end of a three-day bender:
“Heeeeeeeey, Mister Rockstar, how’s the big time treatin’ ya? Must be nice to be you, not having to work and all that, cruising around the world in that tour bus and just partying all day and night!”
Give me a break. Anyone carrying these idealized pipe dreams around in their witless noggin of what being a professional musician is has no conception based in any sort of reality of what it actually is we do for a living, or what it requires. There are plenty of jobs that are a lot, lot harder than mine. I know this, because from the time I was twelve until I was thirty-three years old, I worked those kinds of jobs, and not a single one of them involved sitting down in an air conditioned office, or sitting down period until I slumped onto a barstool after busting my hump all day in a kitchen, someone’s yard, or on a roof. The majority of my adult life I worked a regular job and did the band. I know what back-breaking physical labor is, and I know what it means to wonder if you are going to make the rent, and I know the hollow dread that fills you as you try not to cry, looking in your empty wallet and thinking, How in God’s name am I supposed to feed myself and my family like this? How are we going to make it through this month? I lived that way for a long time; in other words, I know what work is. While I wouldn’t trade my job for any other you could offer me, being in a band is work. And if you are crazy enough to try and do it for a living, it is hard work. Very hard.
Another thing that gets my goat to chewing a ball of tin foil is when younger guys or girls who want to do the band thing come to me and say something like this:
“I love your music! Man, you guys are so lucky! You get to just play music to all your fans for a living! I really wish my band could go tour the world like yours! We aren’t that lucky—maybe one day though . . .”
I have some bad news for you, pal—you will never be as lucky as us. Not as long as you think that way, because for the most part it’s not luck, it’s work. For some odd reason, tons of otherwise intelligent people seem to hold a weird belief that luck is a major factor involved in “getting a career” as a professional musician, especially in this day of idiotic reality TV “talent” competition shows. The pervasive cultural myth of the lucky break has only gotten stronger with the advent of these mawkish clown-shoe battle royales, and young players hang their career hopes on getting accepted into some ridiculous contest, not on skilled hands calloused from playing guitar in empty dive bar after empty dive bar for years on end. You don’t hatch out of some rockstar egg, you work and hone your craft.
Just for kicks, I would love to meet an actual brain surgeon at a cocktail party (or wherever it is brain surgeons kick it). I just want to see the look on their face when I hit ’em with this gem: “You are a brain surgeon? Wow, that’s so cool—you are so lucky! You get to crack open skulls, dick around with medulla oblongatas, and save lives all day long—plus you get paid! I always wanted to take a whack with a scalpel through someone’s dome, but I’m not that lucky. Maybe one day they will let me into the ER, though! I just gotta meet the right hospital administrator . . .”
Admittedly becoming a brain surgeon requires more work (and a truck load more education) than becoming a heavy metal
singer (and is certainly a much more important job), but the principle is the same. In the real world, no one is going to “discover” you. Especially if you’re too busy smoking joints and playing video games on your couch to actually play music in front of real, live, breathing human beings. The Internet will not get you a record deal, no matter how many “friends” your band has on all the social media sites. There have been a few lucky exceptions, but there’s that luck word again. Just go play the lottery if you want to try to win something. Your odds are probably better. Plus, even if you won a record deal, that in no way guarantees you a career. If you’re curious and need a more in-depth explanation, there are plenty of ex-professional musicians in New York City and Los Angeles who will gladly tell you all about it, assuming they have a spare moment between delivering you your burrito and running table eight their enchiladas supreme.
There is also the matter of talent. Yes, being a professional musician requires some innate talent, I believe—not tons, as Top-40 radio clearly illustrates, but there has to be something there. I hate to further crush anyone’s dreams, but not everyone has musical talent. There, I said it—yes, I’m a big meanie. No matter how many drum lessons you take, no matter how many feel-good “you can do anything if you set your mind to it” self-help books you read (and I own a shelf full—I never finish them for some reason; maybe because I know that reading that stuff doesn’t get the new record written), no matter how many times you do the visualization exercises you read in one of those wastes of paper, imagining yourself on stage in front of thousands of adoring fans and saying into the mirror “I am a rock God, I am a rock God, I am a rock God”—you cannot cultivate musical talent where there is none. If you have no musical talent, just give up and find something you are good at. It’s okay—not everyone is meant to do this. How will you know if you have no talent? Get out and play in front of as many people as you can (no, your girlfriend doesn’t count), as often as you can, anywhere you can. Trust me, sooner or later, someone will let you know, either gently or not-so-gently with the time honored “don’t quit your day job.” When you hear that more than “I really enjoyed your set,” it’s time to hang it up and take up knitting or something. Sorry.
Dark Days: A Memoir Page 2
