by Scott Ian
“You know, I thought about it last night,” he said. “Why the fuck wouldn’t I manage Anthrax? It’s a fucking honor. Count me in 100 percent.”
I felt a wave of elation. It was like I was adrift at sea and a boat appeared out of the fog and threw me a life preserver. I was convinced Walter would help save the band. My marriage was another story. I started to stay in New York a lot again, because every time I was at home, Debbie and I would fight or just coexist. Eventually she moved out of our house and in with some guy friend of hers because she “needed her space.” It was a mess, and truthfully, as much as I hated the idea of getting divorced again, I knew I couldn’t go on like this. I was supporting her, and it seemed like she had no respect for me at all. When I was in New York, I’d stay at the rehearsal place the band was paying for or with friends because we couldn’t afford a hotel. Manhattan was my escape, and John and I were raging again.
I was reckless. I took stupid risks, and I developed an obsession with snowboarding, which isn’t particularly bright when your world is unraveling and you sometimes feel like a leap into the abyss would be preferable to another day in hell. I attacked slopes like I was an Olympic champion, only I wasn’t. I was an overachiever. I’d go down sheer drops with no fear. In Austria I went snowboarding on a show day with Joey Z, the guitarist from Life of Agony. I came out from this tree run, and there was a blind drop I couldn’t see. I figured I would traverse right back onto the trail and head down, but there was a two-foot lip I didn’t know was there. It looked like the trees just continued into the flat. So I came flying out of the trees, hit the lip, and pitched forward, and my head smacked right into the hardpack of the trail. I was unconscious for a minute and there was a big welt on my head that was bleeding through my hat. I got back up and continued riding for the rest of the day, and I played a show that night. I was super dizzy from the fall and felt like shit. Blood was running down my face during the show; it was very black metal.
I saw a doctor the next day in Warsaw, and it turned out I had a full-on concussion. I felt like crap for the next three days then I had a headache for another week. But we didn’t cancel any shows. For five gigs blood dripped down my face when I headbanged. The crowds loved it. After the snowboard accident, I started wearing a helmet when I rode. That protected my head from injury, but the shit going on in the rest of my life—there was no protection from that. Debbie started calling me in the middle of the night: “You’re off having fun and I have to deal with all this bullshit! There are bills coming in and I don’t have any money. Why am I dealing with this crap?”
Finally, I came back from New York, and we had one of our rare adult, civil conversations. It was one of those discussions that starts with, “We need to talk,” just like the one I had years earlier with Marge, only Debbie initiated this one. I opened the door and sat down, and she said, “We have to separate. We need to see what it’s like not to be a couple anymore.”
By that time, I was fine with that. Our relationship sucked and reminded me of being a kid and hearing my parents fight all the time. We didn’t have kids, so there was no reason to stay together. The only thing we shared anymore was a house, and I was hardly ever there. I had a mortgage of $3,800 a month I was throwing away for a symbol of the American dream. I told her I needed to sell the house. We put it on the market. Not only would it put the final nail in the coffin of our shitty marriage; when someone bought it, it provided some much-needed income.
Before the house sold, we stayed in different bedrooms down the hall from one another. If I knew she wasn’t going to be home, I would bring chicks to the house, which got really uncomfortable. We weren’t officially divorced, but we might as well have been, so I didn’t feel bad about living this other life. At the same time, when couples are no longer together, they shouldn’t have a window into one another’s lives anymore. I knew she was dating people, and I certainly suspected she had already been cheating on me. She never brought anyone home, but I saw her go out. The whole scenario was just fucked. I couldn’t afford to get my own place, and I was stuck sharing the house with someone who didn’t want to be with me but I was still supporting. Good times.
That’s around the same time I went to Tampa and got arrested for trying to steal the on-deck circle at the Yankees spring training stadium. It all seems stupid and funny now. I was on page 6 of the New York Post, and my mug shot was in Rolling Stone, but Yankees owner George Steinbrenner wasn’t amused. He pressed charges for breaking and entering and grand theft, since the thing was worth over $1,000. Those were both felonies, so I had to hire a criminal lawyer. It cost me $25,000. Luckily, money had just come in for the next record, so I had the cash, but my stupid shenanigans cost me money I needed to live on. During that whole summer going into the fall, I had this case hanging over my head, and I had no idea how it would play out. There’s a saying that any press is good press, and oddly enough my drunken stupidity turned into positive publicity for Anthrax. I would walk down the street in New York, and people would say things like, “Hey, Scotty, where’s home plate? Yeah, right on, man!”
Fans were stoked about this stupid fucking prank that I pulled in Florida. A lot of people thought I broke into the actual Yankee Stadium. If I had done that, I’d probably still be in jail. I’d smile at anyone who made jokes, but I was freaking out inside. My lawyer told me I wouldn’t go to jail since it was my first offense. He said I’d probably have to pay a decent-sized fine and I’d end up doing a hundred hours or so of community service. I’d probably have to put on an orange jumpsuit and clean up shit on the side of the road. But the big problem was that the charges were felonies, and I couldn’t get visas and travel around the world if I had felonies on my record. It was a real concern and my lawyer didn’t have any answers. Then Gary Dell’Abate, the executive producer of The Howard Stern Show, called and said, “We read about you on page 6. Howard wants to know if you want to talk about it on the radio.”
I’d been a huge Howard Stern fan for years, so I said, “That would be awesome. I just have to check with my lawyer and see what I can talk about.”
“You absolutely cannot appear on the show and make fun of this situation in any way, shape, or form,” my attorney said. “This is serious. If Steinbrenner’s lawyers get wind that you’re not taking this seriously, things could get worse.”
I was bummed out. I called Gary back and told him what my lawyer said. The next day Gary rang me back. “Listen, we weren’t going to tell you this, but we already spoke to Steinbrenner, and he’s going to come on the show, and you’re going to get to apologize to him if you do this.”
Steinbrenner was a semiregular guest on Stern, and if he was willing to talk to me, I would be more than happy to apologize on the air. I told my lawyer what Gary said, and he said the plan sounded good, but he’d look into it further and get back to me. Fifteen minutes later he called me and told me he had just gotten off the phone with Steinbrenner’s lawyer, who didn’t know anything about Steinbrenner going on Howard Stern. “I don’t know what these people are trying to do to you, but you’d better call this guy back and tell him you’re not coming on.”
I was pissed. I called Gary and said, “Why are you fucking with me? My attorney just told me Steinbrenner doesn’t know anything about this. This is my life, dude.”
“Scott, I swear to you George is calling in tomorrow,” Gary insisted. “Howard wants you on at 7 a.m. You call in at 6:55. I’ll put you on with George, and if you’re not satisfied that it’s him, hang up.”
I called my lawyer back, and he said to go ahead with it but not to say anything that might get me in worse trouble. That meant no jokes. I was fine with that. I just wanted this to go away. I called at 6:55 the next morning and Steinbrenner was there. They put us on the air. Howard gave a synopsis of what had happened. He talked to George about the Yankees making the playoffs. Then Howard busted my balls a little bit. Finally he said, “All right, Scott. The reason we have
you here is so you can apologize to Mr. Steinbrenner about what you did in Florida.”
I had spent the previous night writing, “Dear Mr. Steinbrenner, I am very, very sorry,” like a fuckin’ sixth grader who was caught shooting spitballs and has to go to the principal’s office. But I put down my scribbled notes and apologized from the heart because I’m a huge fan and I never meant any harm. I certainly wasn’t trying to besmirch the name of the Yankees.
“Sir, this was an anomaly,” I said. “I’ve never been arrested in my life, I’m not that person. I drank too much and I made a big mistake. I didn’t hurt anybody. I had no malicious intent. I swear this will never happen again. I’ll never be in trouble with the law in any way, shape, or form for the rest of my life.”
“Scott, you sound like a nice young man, and most importantly, you’re a Yankee fan,” Steinbrenner said. “The playoffs are coming up and we need all our fans. We can’t have our fans in jail, now, can we?”
He told me he would talk to the Yankees’ lawyers and see what he could do. I thanked him and apologized again. Two weeks later, his lawyers called my lawyer and said they were dropping all charges because of lack of evidence, even though they had the videotape of me running around the bases like a lunatic and trying to steal the on-deck circle. Steinbrenner had found it in his heart to let me off the hook. Not only did they drop all the charges; my record was expunged like it never happened. It was a good day in Mudville.
I stayed true to my word and never got arrested again, but I definitely didn’t walk the straight and narrow. And when we went on tour with Pantera in November 1997 for two months, I kind of jumped off the cliff. I had known Dimebag since 1986, and we had many nights between then and 1997 when I would have a few beers while Dime went wild on bottles of whisky and beer. He had a trademark drink, the Black Tooth Grin, or Black Tooth, or just Toooooth, which was a shot of Crown Royal and a splash of coke. He’d down those all night long. Dime made that drink famous.
Every night with Dime was a party whether I was drinking heavily or not. I always felt like I was in the eye of the hurricane when we were hanging out—like everyone else was moving around me at high speed and I was in the center of it, nursing a beer, people-watching, and pointing shit out. “Ha, that was funny. They just blew up that guy with firecrackers.” Or “Shit, that looked expensive. Someone smashed a soda machine with a sledgehammer.” Or “Boobs!”
Dime was always hysterical, paying people to do stupid shit. He’d find kids who were working for an opening band and not making any money and get them to do disgusting things. Once we played a show with Pantera for 6,000 people, and afterward the floor was covered with empty beer cups and cigarette butts. Dime told this guy, “I’ll give you $20 for every cigarette butt you pick up with your tongue. The kid fuckin’ picked up about thirty of them, and Dime just laughed and handed him $600. Some people made good money off Dime. He didn’t care. It was the price for entertainment.
When Jackass became popular on MTV, Darrell was irate. “Jackass. Fuck that shit, I’m the original Jackass. They’re just following in my boots. Give me their money, give me their fucking lawyers. I’ll show them a jackass!”
One time Type O Negative and Biohazard were playing with Pantera, and Biohazard singer Evan Seinfeld came up to Dime at a show and said, “How come you never give me a chance to make any money?” So Dime said, “Well, what do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. Whatever.”
Halfway through Pantera’s set that night, Dime had to pee. He always had a bucket behind his amp stacks where he would piss during shows. He went back there between songs and then saw Evan standing by the side of the stage. Instead of peeing in the bucket, he asked his tech to get him a cup. The guy came back with a red Solo cup, and Dime peed into that, went up to Evan, and said, “You wanna make some money, hip-hop? $200 if you drink this cup.”
“No way,” Evan said. “$1,000.”
Darrell said, “Fine,” and handed him the cup. Evan drank it and instantly threw up. But he did it! I would have asked for $83 million to do something so gross. Dime told me his piss isn’t clear and watery like healthy urine. He described it as “fluorescent yellow, thick, and glowing.”
Dime always amused everyone around him. He took pride in it. He was also insanely generous. One time he was wearing some kind of western shirt, and Charlie said, “Cool shirt, Dime!” The next day we showed up at the show, and Dime had bought not just the shirt for Charlie but boots, pants, and a hat to go with it. It was the kind of thing you would wear to go line dancing. Dime had a heart of gold. He was the ultimate host and went out of his way not to disappoint anyone.
He was so grateful that he was getting to do what he wanted with music, and all he ever wanted to do was give back. He would tell me, “I’m going to end up fucking broke on the street with a guitar case open with people throwing money in. I know that’s where I’m ending up because I’m going to spend every fucking thing I ever make on stupid shit. As long as I’m playing guitar, I don’t give a fuck.”
“You could always stay at my house,” I told him.
At the end of 1997, Pantera invited Anthrax to spend two months on the road. It was them and Coal Chamber. I knew touring with Pantera meant upping my game when it came to drinking. Beer wouldn’t cut it anymore. I had to prepare myself for the hard stuff, so I made an adult decision to let Darrell teach me how to really drink. I was at another crossroads in my life. My second marriage had failed and I needed a change. More importantly, I needed to really let loose for the first time—just let go and have fun, and being on the Pantera tour was a crash course in losing all inhibitions. When I told Darrell about my decision, he asked me if I was sure and if I understood how hard it would be. I told him I did. I wanted him to be my Yoda, and I would be like Luke learning from the Jedi master of partying. He didn’t get the reference at all. He said, “A yo da what?” He thought it was some “Yo, yo, yo rap shit.” But he told me if I put in the time and effort the shit would pay off. I said, “Never mind Yoda. I’m all in. See ya in a few weeks.”
The only other time I drank whisky was in England with Lemmy, and I got alcohol poisoning. I knew I’d have to up my game big-time. I did my first Black Tooth Grin on the Pantera tour—the first of many. I put myself on a drinking schedule because I knew if I was going on tour with those guys, I was gonna do shots with them, and I couldn’t play guitar drunk. Dime had this muscle memory where he could do the most amazing shit totally wasted. Me, I could barely play “Louie Louie” after a few beers. I had only tried to perform wasted once in my life, at the Megaforce party in 1989 at the Ritz in New York. We only played four songs, but I was literally looking at my hands saying, “Why won’t you work?”
I wasn’t going to fuck up the shows with Pantera, so my one caveat was that I stayed sober until 7:00 p.m., which is when Dime usually showed up with a shot. I would do one shot, then I’d do another right before we went on, which was about 8 p.m. after Coal Chamber. Then during the show, Dime would stand on the side of the stage and feed me between three and five shots. I’d be seven shots in by the time we got offstage, but I wasn’t drinking it all at once so I was able to keep my shit together. After we got offstage I’d hang out with Pantera in their dressing room for thirty minutes leading up to their set and we’d do shots the whole time. Then, while Pantera was onstage, Dime and I would do another two hours of endless shots. There was no escape, which was kind of the point. I was going to become a heavy drinker even if it killed me.
By then I was hammered, and Pantera hadn’t even started drinking backstage after the show yet. Dime used to live by a code he called “drink it or wear it.” If he poured you a Black Tooth, you had a choice. He’d say, “Shot, Baldini?” Baldini was just one of the many names he had for me. He came up with it when he was driving by a store in New York City on Third Avenue in the Fifties. There was a shop called Dino Baldini Men’s Clothing. Somehow Baldini beca
me my nickname from that. Sometimes it was Dino Baldini, sometimes it was Jew Baldini—whatever he felt like at the time. I didn’t care. I loved the guy.
He’d hold this shot, and if I didn’t want to drink it, he’d say, “Okay,” and splash the shot on me. He didn’t do it to be a dick; it was just the way he was. It was part of the game, and that game had rules, just like baseball. If you hit the ball to second base and the second baseman throws the ball to first before you get there, you’re out. That’s the rule; it’s not the second baseman being an asshole. Drink it or wear it. After the first time I wore a shot I decided I didn’t want to spend the rest of the tour with my clothes smelling like Crown Royal. If I was gonna smell like whiskey, it was gonna be because it was seeping out of my pores from doing so many shots.
Pantera turned me into a real drinker. No more of this beer bullshit. Those first two weeks were brutal, straight-up booze boot camp. I was puking a lot and Dime would say, “Get back on that horse Baldini!” I always thought that after you puked you were done. That was your brain and body telling you that you can’t drink anymore. I have memories of being on the bus with Darrell after the shows because I wasn’t allowed to just escape to my bus. No, I’d ride with him and Vinnie Paul, and we’d drink and listen to KISS and talk about KISS and watch KISS videos all night. I was in the moving bus bathroom puking, trying not to mess up their bathroom. I was worried about that. Ever the good Jewish boy. I came out of the bathroom thinking I was done, it’s time to go to bed, and there was Dime with this look of mischievous expectation holding out a Black Tooth for me. I told him, “I can’t drink that. I puked, I’m done.” I thought only crazy people kept drinking after they vomited. And if you did have another drink, your brain would go, “Oh yeah, well fuck you then, how do you like this? ANEURYSM. Dead.” I said this all to Dime, and he just looked at me with that Cheshire Cat grin and said, “Ya ain’t gonna die Baldini, you just have more room in yer stomach now!”
