Death Punch'd

by Jeremy Spencer

  We’d originally met at a party. I really didn’t like parties, because I’d been clean and sober since I was sixteen (way more on that later). So there I was, sober and insecure, trying my best to hang but failing miserably. I was just about to leave when I walked past this sexy brunette who was wearing a little jean skirt. I paused in front of her, and we started talking.

  She was originally from New Jersey . . . and Italian. This was long before Jersey Shore, but you get the picture. Little did I know then, but she came with a lot of baggage and a couple of aliases. Jersey, Italian . . . get it? Relocation had been a big part of her adolescence. For the sake of protective custody, I’ll call her Angel.

  I thought Angel was attractive, so I put on my most charming self. I said a bunch of funny shit and she seemed to dig me. When I mentioned I was a vegetarian, she said she was into health food and was a vegetarian cook.

  “You have ADHD, right?” she asked, matter-of-factly.

  I’m betting the fact that I was bouncing all over the place was what gave me away. I’ve always been a hyper, spastic dude who could never sit still or focus on anything for very long without my brain moving on to something new. Unlike me, she was completely calm and chill, almost hippie-like.

  I thought, She may be the type of person I need in my life. Someone who could help ground me and focus on positive things.

  She gave me her number, and I walked her to her friend’s car. I went home that night more excited than I’d been in a long time. I’d been asking the universe to send me a different kind of relationship, and it hadn’t taken long to appear.

  We started dating. For the first few weeks, it was great, but it wasn’t long before things got a little sideways. I soon learned that she was used to being treated like a princess. If my attention deviated from her one little bit, she’d vibe me out.

  At the time, I was playing in a band with some friends. After shows, if I walked around talking to people, Angel would get all fucking weird. If I turned away from her to talk to someone, she’d make a big deal about me “ignoring her.” What was really being ignored were signs that she was as insecure as I was. Early on, she appeared so self-confident that I thought I needed to change—needed to become someone I wasn’t in order to be worthy of receiving love from someone I assumed was out of my league. It didn’t take long for that facade to crumble.

  One weekend, we went on a mini-vacation to San Diego. My focus was completely on her, and that was the way she liked it. We had a good time until, on the way back, we stopped for lunch. The topic of my sobriety came up, and it was obvious that something was bothering her.

  With a look of stony seriousness, she then delivered her own death punch. “I don’t think I can be in a relationship with someone who can’t even have one glass of wine.”

  I literally felt a sharp pain stab my heart. I couldn’t respond.

  “You were young when you partied before. You’re a man now. I’m pretty sure you can handle having a glass of wine.”

  I let that thought sink in. The more I considered it, the more it seemed to make sense. She’s right, I thought. I’m not some fifteen-year-old kid. I could have a glass of fucking wine without losing it. I was tired of feeling like a victim. Everyone I knew could party and numb themselves from uncomfortable feelings—everyone but me. I wanted to be able to enjoy social situations. All I knew was, I was tired of being miserable and ready to have “fun.”

  When I got home from work the next Friday night, two bottles of wine were sitting on her dining room table. The bathroom was aglow with candlelight. While she ran a warm bath, she poured us a glass of red wine. I lifted the glass and stared at it like it contained the answer to some ancient mystery.

  “You think I’ll be cool, right?”

  “Your choice. But you’re in a totally different place now than you were when you were fifteen. You’ll be fine.”

  Truer words were never misspoken. When I pressed the glass to my lips, the familiar bouquet swirled up into my nostrils. The fragrance was, if you’ll forgive the pun, “intoxicating.” I took a sip. And, with it, I ended fifteen years of sobriety. Fifteen years when I’d never relapsed even once . . . not even when I had nothing or no one, even when the career I’d pursued since high school had fallen apart. Over 5,500 days of resisting the temptation to medicate my feelings—all that ended with that first little sip.

  That August night in 2004 changed my life—or redirected it. And, though I was oblivious to the consequences of that first innocent sip, it reactivated my descent into hell. I didn’t just ease into my old addictions, I was propelled into them like trampolining into a whirling helicopter blade. As my drinking accelerated, my intolerance of Angel’s codependent behavior did, too.

  To add to our problems, only a few weeks before the Sedalia gig—while we were still mixing our record—I found out she was pregnant. We decided the last thing either of us needed at that point was the responsibility of taking care of a kid. That most certainly added pressure and strain to an already rocky relationship. Selfishly, I was so wrapped up in our album and getting signed that I didn’t really care about anything else. She said she needed $700 for some kind of pill that would “magically” end the pregnancy. At the time, it might as well have been $1 million. (Thank God for credit cards.)

  So when the gig in Sedalia materialized, I couldn’t wait to get the fuck out of town and away from Angel and our confining relationship. All I wanted to do was play music . . . and party! However, I had no way of knowing that America’s heartland would turn out to be its anus as well.

  We flew to Sedalia, the home of the Missouri State Fair, on an airline a pilot friend of ours had worked for. He let them know we were personal friends, which meant “perks”! The stewardesses immediately made us feel welcome by opening the minibar. No sooner was the seat-belt sign off than we took full advantage. I grabbed a fistful of vodkas and the party was on. Matt walked up and down the aisles serving drinks on a tray to total strangers. Within minutes, everyone went apeshit. The flight was quickly out of control. The only thing missing was Denzel Washington as our coked-out pilot.

  I sat with Darrell and got so blotto I nearly blacked out. In my drunken haze, I ended up in the back of the plane with a stewardess. As they say, one thing led to another. Zo said that when he looked back, all he could see were legs sticking up in the air, and it wasn’t a demonstration on how to buckle a seat belt or secure an oxygen mask. I’d never cheated before, but I was so messed up, I wasn’t aware I did it until he informed me later. Had I not been so miserable at home, it might not have happened, but the alcohol removed any restraint. Booze soon became my default excuse for any fuck-up.

  By the time the party plane from hell landed, we were all destroyed—except Zo. Cars were waiting to take us to the hotel; I passed out in the backseat. We got to the hotel and someone shook me awake. I staggered inside. Darrell, also shit-faced, fell up the stairs while carrying his guitars. I dumped my stuff in the room and headed for the bar. With no thought about how being hungover might affect my performance, I was hell-bent on getting even more blitzed.

  Darrell and I shared a room. We drank all night. At some point he wandered out into the hall—ending up in the wrong room. After I retrieved him, he fell out of his bed and passed out. A few hours later, he was awakened by a phone call—from his roommate back in LA—informing him that his dog had to be put down. Devastated, he hung up and burst into tears. I felt terrible for him. We were both wrecked and in no shape to play that night.

  It was hotter than the sixth level of Dante’s Inferno. The combination of a 95-degree temperature and 100 percent humidity, plus hangovers from Hades, did not bode well for a sterling performance. The venue, a deserted midway and the perfect setting for a zombie invasion, was a vast fairground that made the tiny crowd look tinier. Those who stopped milling about to honor us with their presence were restless and unimpressed. No one had any idea who we were, but they made it pretty clear who they weren’t: fans. Heavy metal
wasn’t exactly the genre du jour in Bumfuck, Missouri. Besides, we only knew five of the songs on our album, and our lack of enthusiasm was pervasive.

  Fortunately, the gig was over almost as soon as it began. Had you polled the indifferent crowd, Five Finger Death Punch would have received only one finger, and it wasn’t the pinkie. No one could believe we’d come halfway across the country for this shitful disaster.

  The whole weekend ended up being a total bust, a page right out of a hideous soap opera (wait, that’s redundant). The promoter, who may have been the inspiration for The Biggest Loser, lost his ass on the show. (As it turned out, we were one of the few bands who got paid, as our manager would not let us go onstage until he forked over the cash. Credit to our manager for the one good thing he did before we fired him.)

  The promoter came to our hotel to deliver the pitiful news—perhaps hoping for a refund. When that wasn’t forthcoming, he promptly had a heart attack. While the medics, risking hernias, hauled him down the stairs on a stretcher, they dropped the behemoth, who landed on a chick—fracturing her leg.

  We’d entered the musical Twilight Zone. Following the barf-a-rama gig at the Wiltern, Sedalia was chapter two of what I like to call the Death Punch Curse. Anytime we’re around, so’s the potential for major drama. At least that’s how it’s been so far. When the Death Punch is a-comin’, it’s like death in Final Destination—inescapable!

  Once back in Hollywood, we played a local venue called the Knitting Factory. One of Angel’s girlfriends from out of town was staying at our apartment, and the two of them were excited about coming to the gig. The last thing I needed was someone I barely knew added to the mix.

  I was over feeling trapped in a lame domestic situation. Angel was way too vibey. I didn’t like the way I felt around her. The more I endured it, the worse I felt about myself. I’d been numbing myself as much as possible. I didn’t need any reason to drink and clock out; however, this relationship made it seem totally justified, and I took full advantage.

  After we finished our set at the Knitting Factory, I came off the stage and went to talk to some friends. Angel had been drinking, and when I failed to acknowledge her first, she went completely psycho. She stepped in front of me—blocking me from my friends, who were complimenting me on the show. I was pissed and I let her know it.

  She and her friend left before I could finish loading gear. Once home, no sooner had I walked in the door than I became the focus of a nuclear meltdown. She went ballistic—accusing me of ignoring her. I was over her neediness and tired of the fucking drama. Since I had to get up early for my construction job the next morning, I decided to go stay at Jason’s pad. I hurriedly packed a few things. When I headed for the bedroom door, Angel tried to stop me from leaving. I managed to push past her, but she grabbed me from behind and started crying hysterically.

  I needed to get out of there, but every time I tried to leave, she’d grab hold and pull me back. I finally flung her off onto the bed, but she came back at me, punching me. As I turned to leave, she jumped on my back. I finally managed to yank the door open, and there stood her girlfriend—staring at us. I held my hands straight up to show I wasn’t fighting, that she was punching me.

  I finally calmed her down, pretending everything was okay so I could fall asleep. The next morning, while at work, I texted her saying I was turning off my cell phone, but we needed to talk when I got home. I’d already made up my mind we were through. That night I told her I couldn’t do this anymore. Though she was predictably dramatic—big tears and promises—I was over it. Fucking done!

  That is . . . until the next time.

  Josh, a friend and an independent construction contractor I’d been working for part-time, agreed to let me move into his two-bedroom apartment in Burbank. It didn’t take long for the two of us to start getting drunk almost every night. When we got home from a job, we’d be up until four or five in the morning, plastered (construction pun intended).

  In a drunken stupor, I’d ask, “Why the fuck are we up drinking at four in the morning?”

  His stock reply was, “Because it’s Tuesday!”

  We’d laugh and keep drinking until I’d finally pass out. Up early, I’d struggle to pull myself together so I could go back to work. Somehow I always managed to shake it off and do my job. Though I was probably kidding myself about how well I handled it, it was just the beginning of a routine I would perfect once we hit the road.

  In addition to being drunk every night, I began to hook up with several different women—including a porn star. Angel and I were still speaking, but since we spent less and less time together, I took full advantage. That first little fling on the airplane ride to Sedalia made me realize I never wanted to be in a monogamous relationship again. Like anyone who’s repressed a desire, once freed . . . I went apeshit.

  After The Way of the Fist was finally mixed and mastered, we threw some songs up on MySpace, and right away started getting tons of fans. It was surprising to us, considering we didn’t have a record deal. There was so much traffic coming to our page that it caught the attention of what was then one of the most powerful management companies in the business: The Firm. Once a major artist- and talent-management company—at one time representing Kelly Clarkson, Korn, Ice Cube, Backstreet Boys, Snoop Dogg, Dixie Chicks, Linkin Park, Jennifer Lopez, Audioslave, Limp Bizkit, and other major acts—they’d undergone catastrophic departures and now represented only Korn. They also had a record label: Firm Music. Rather than question why they’d dramatically downsized or been dumped, we were eager to be on their roster, or anyone’s for that matter. It’s called getting in the game, and it usually comes with a high price tag. (Permit me to translate: we were on the verge of getting fucked without the benefit of a full-metal jacket or the courtesy of a reach-around. Too obscure? Get with the program!)

  One of The Firm’s employees, a specialist at radio promotion, loved our band. She’d been following what was happening through our MySpace page. She was so into the band that she contacted us to request an invite to a show we were playing at the Whiskey. She came and was blown away. She told the bigwigs at The Firm they needed to sign us, because we were gonna be fucking huge. As a result, they sent more representatives to come out and see a show.

  We were now a tight-knit group, and our set was impressive. Several of her coworkers got excited with what they saw and decided to schedule a private showcase for the honchos—including one of the head honchos, Peter Katsis—at the Viper Room. We knew this was our shot; if we nailed it, we’d get signed and be in the Game. Though we’d played only five shows, things heated up fast and we were just rolling with it.

  Try to imagine the feeling of knowing you’re this close. I’d never been so excited and innervated. The anticipation was filled with equal parts delight and dread. If this didn’t work, I’d be back in fucking Tennessee—where the men are men, the women are women, and the sheep are nervous—installing drywall or drumming for some lame pseudo-country act. The days preceding the showcase were torturous. True to my ambivalent nature, I was both certain of success and plagued by the thought of failure.

  The night of the showcase, we slayed! I mean, the place was electric and we were on fire. It was obvious to everyone we were going to get signed. I celebrated the evening by going with the rest of the band to the Rainbow.

  I’d invited the porn star I’d been banging. We started tossing back drinks the minute we arrived. She quickly got buzzed and began asking about our “relationship” status. Gimme a fucking break! Relationship? I’d just gotten out of one nightmare situation, and I most certainly didn’t want to get into another, especially with a chick who got railed out every day on camera by huge fucking black dudes with massive Louisville Slugger–size cocks. Just hearing that tone put a damper on a terrific evening.

  The day after the show . . . it came: THE PHONE CALL. They wanted to sign us! This was what I’d waited for my whole life, and now—after more bands than I could count, sleeping on floors
, in closets, in ghost-infested crack houses, making millions of boring data entries, drywalling and enduring years of utter loneliness—it was happening. My dream was finally coming true. We were all sky-high.

  When The Firm got the contracts together, we went to our newly hired lawyer’s office to sign on the dotted line. This is one of those moments you envision for years, and one you know you’ll never forget. How true. We hadn’t been there five minutes before Ivan started being an asshole and causing a ruckus.

  “Hold everything! I ain’t signin’ nothin’!”

  We looked at him in disbelief. He was adamant. He wanted his lawyer to look the contract over before he’d sign. He’d been fucked over in a previous band, and he was scared of it happening again. We were incredulous.

  This close! Another roadblock, and one that could have been avoided had Ivan alerted us to the fact before we all gathered to ink the deal. But no, that would have been too convenient. Little did I know it was a sign of things to come, the beginning of how things would always have to be: pushed to the limit and as dramatic and traumatic as possible.

  To be fair, Ivan didn’t really trust Zo—or any of us, for that matter. We’d only known each other a few months. But, man, he started in on Zoltan and the verbal sparring accelerated; they really went at it. I was pissed they were fucking up this special day—one that was supposed to be the happiest we’d known. Our memorable day would be forever memorable for all the wrong reasons.

  When the yelling looked like it was going to turn physical, Matt and I went to a bar and got shit-housed—my default for anytime I needed to escape. I always had plenty of excuses: insecurity, anxiety, relationships, no job, horrible job, no recognition, lack of success, pressure, expectation and ego: you name it. All I knew was, this band had barely been signed, and I was already fucking miserable.