Bottoms up!
We invited everyone we knew to our record-release party at the Roxy. There were tons of industry people in attendance. At least four of the chicks I was fucking all showed up, so I had to scramble around and do my best to juggle time between them and not get caught. Like the flimflam man I’d become, I pulled it off beautifully.
Booze was flowing freely, and before I knew it, Angel and I hooked up. (My inability to say no and mean it was, once again, proudly on display.) In a matter of minutes, we found ourselves upstairs with one of her friends. They began dancing and rubbing around on each other. Her friend’s boyfriend was off drinking somewhere in the club, and she started flirting with me, telling me how hot I was. At this point, I still had an ounce of integrity; I wasn’t the complete pile of shit I would soon become. I knew she was drunk and could have easily pushed that envelope, but I opted to play it cool.
Following the signing, we shot a music video for our first single, “The Bleeding” (more on that later). We were all excited about getting Death Punch launched. We’d rehearsed our asses off preparing for the start of the first tour. Our management had arranged for us to go out on the Family Values tour featuring Korn, Evanescence, Hellyeah, Flyleaf, and others. It was far from my dream line-up, but I was stoked, as this was my first real tour. Management sent us an e-mail saying, “Do any of you guys have a van?”
A van? Did they actually think we’d agree to tour in a fucking van? We were jaded, angry, and set-in-our-ways motherfuckers who’d been disrespected enough. No fucking way were we going to sink that low.
Zo replied back, sarcastically, “Why . . . is somebody moving?”
We basically forfeited any money we might make for the next year and a half by getting a touring bus, but we wouldn’t have survived a week without it. I had to sell my truck in order to have enough money to exist, but at that point I was willing to do whatever it took.
The big day finally arrived. We were at our rehearsal space, rounding up all our gear, ready to leave for the tour. We heard a horn blowing outside. Our tour bus had arrived! Man, were we pumped. We all ran out to see it. In unison, our jaws dropped: we stared in disbelief. The ugliest, most embarrassing-looking bluish-purple tin can on wheels greeted us. It looked like something for the Wisconsin Gay Men’s Bowling Association or Priscilla, Queen of the Fucking Desert! A Dodge (Dead or Dying Garbage Emitter) minivan might have been preferable after all. This was my first taste of the big time. I shook my head and laughed in disgust. Even greater indignities awaited us . . . as anyone who’s ever toured can attest.
Resigned, we loaded our gear into the Purple Placenta. Matt had gone to Costco and purchased ten industrial-size barrels of booze. Of course, Zo had a shit fit over that. He knew we’d be drunken ’tards, partying our asses off. How right he was! After pulling out of Burbank, we’d barely made it down the road ten miles before we busted out the vodka. We weren’t playing the next day, so why wait? Anytime there was a day off, massive quantities of booze were consumed. It wasn’t long until—show day or no show day—the party was on.
No doubt about it . . . touring was gonna be EPIC!
CHAPTER 4
INFLUENCES
THE ’80S
If there’s a body part that best defines me as a musician, it’s my . . . (fooled ya) . . . foot. Or, more accurately, feet. From the moment I started playing double bass, it’s been my ability to coordinate two alternating foot petals at speeds reaching 210 beats per minute. That’s pretty fast, unless you’re comparing it to a hummingbird flapping its fucking wings. And if one characteristic best describes why I’m the musician, songwriter, and producer I am, it’s my childhood love of all kinds of music and groups whose emphasis was the song. It didn’t hurt if they were visually exciting.
First, a closer look at some of my early musical influences. Then, a couple of horrific stories about my tootsies.
Fans who follow me on Facebook know that growing up, my musical influences were vast and varied. One of my favorite songs was “Whip It,” by a band called Devo. Not a lyrical gem by any means, but rhythmically, it killed. My parents purchased the 45, along with a Devo picture disc. It was rad and bizarre. I’d stare at it, thinking, Man, these dudes are cool!
Though they were weirder than KISS, like that face-painted quartet, Devo was character-based, and I was really into their trip. Though they didn’t realize it at the time, they made an indelible impression as far as what a live presentation should be: over-the-top and visually spectacular. Hall & Oates had cool shit on stage, but KISS and Devo were whole different animals. It was about more than just the music, it was about spectacle. (In his Poetics, Aristotle lists “spectacle” as the least important of six theatrical elements. Had the Greek philosopher and polymath seen Devo and KISS, I’m sure he’d have moved it to second, right behind “sound”—not to mention gotten off on “Whip It” and “Detroit Rock City.”) The music from those two bands was constantly blaring from my room, while the rest of my family was still jamming those goddamn musicals.
These years coincided with the best time on the radio: the ’80s. Though I still admired KISS, I began to branch out in my musical taste. And what incredible songs populated that magical musical decade: everything from new wave to Madonna to “Puttin’ on the Ritz” by Taco; pop groups like Duran Duran and the Cars. Bryan Adams and Phil Collins fucking ruled. I relished all kinds of amazing pop culture.
My next-door neighbor, Harvey, turned me on to some incredible music—introducing me to rap (not gangsta—this was good old-school shit). And he turned me on to break-dance music. Suddenly everyone was into break dancing. We flattened out cardboard boxes—sprinkled them with talcum powder and perfected our back spins. We spent hours practicing our gravity-defying moves. It wasn’t enough to bust a groove—you had to look “fresh and fly.” We sported nylon vests and parachute pants. Replacing our Walkmans with jumbo jamboxes, we blasted the Beat Street soundtrack: LL Cool J, Run-DMC, Grandmaster Flash, and the Fat Boys.
This was also around the time Michael Jackson was everyone’s idol—long before the accusations of child molestation, bariatric sleep chambers, chimpanzees, and other weird shit. MJ was the most popular thing since the Beatles. I persuaded Mom to buy me a red leather jacket like the one he wore in the “Thriller” video. Off the Wall and Thriller dominated my cassette player. Soon, another pop icon would rivet me way more than Wacko Jacko. This guy was the absolute shit in every way. He wrote, played, and produced everything on his records. I’m talking about none other than Prince.
Prince Rogers Nelson was an incredible, multitalented artist. I thought his edgier material and stage performances were way cooler than MJ’s. I still liked Jacko, but Prince and the Revolution was more my vibe. I was obsessed with all things Prince.
Purple Rain was an iconic album and film. Of course, my parents wouldn’t let me see the movie or permit me to have some of his albums, because they thought his lyrics and some of the titles were too explicit—the prudes. At eleven, I found nothing obscene about “Head,” “Jack U Off,” and the earnest lyric “I sincerely want 2 fuck the taste out of your mouth,” from “Let’s Pretend We’re Married.” (Okay, even I knew they were indecent . . . but that’s why I wanted them.) Forbidding it only made me want them more. Like most people with an addictive personality, tell me I can’t have something, and it becomes an obsession. As a result, I sought out each and every one of his records and secreted them away. I also tried to sneak into the film—after purchasing a ticket to a Muppet movie—but I got nabbed.
I couldn’t wait for the follow-up to Purple Rain. The night before its release, I was so wired I couldn’t sleep. It wasn’t until daybreak that I suddenly realized I’d have to wait, because I was being forced to go to VBS. (That’s Vacation Bible School for all you Philistines.) I begged not to go, but Mom insisted. To appease me, Dad said he’d buy the cassette and it would be waiting for me when I got home. Rather than throw my typical tantrum, I chose to be grateful I�
�d only have to wait a couple of hours.
Forget prayer, scripture, and singing the B-I-B-L-E—I couldn’t concentrate on anything but getting that new Prince record. The first one out the VBS door, I sprinted all the way home. But when I arrived, breathless, Dad wasn’t there and neither was the promised cassette. Jesus Christ! Now I could justifiably have a shit fit. However, before I could get too worked up, I spotted his car coming down the street. I rushed to meet him curbside. I didn’t even bother to say thanks. I grabbed the cassette out of his hand, raced back inside, bounded up the stairs, and popped it into my jambox.
My heart was racing. Then it hit me: what if it sucked? I wasn’t prepared for a letdown. With trepidation, I hit the play button. The intro to the first song was the title track. It began with a weird flute sound that caught me off guard; however, within seconds, I already loved it. Next up, “Paisley Park.” To this day it remains one of my all-time favorite Prince songs—so unique and cool. It was a serious fuck-you to everyone anticipating Purple Rain II.
What a brilliant move, I thought. Little by little I was forming an idea of how I would approach the music business: never give ’em exactly what they’re expecting; keep it interesting; have solid songs and don’t forget the spectacle!
I jammed Prince even more than KISS; I was seriously mental with everything about him—a true fanatic. I acquired every Prince album and every twelve-inch he released: imports, colored vinyl . . . everything. One of my most prized possessions was a life-size cardboard stand-up of Prince on his purple Harley (which I kept for years, to the dismay of several girlfriends). It stood like a shrine in the corner of my room.
What an incredible time in music. These were my musical favorites—or they would be, until I discovered METAL!
And now, how I developed a world-class foot phobia. (That’s phobia, not fetish!) This is significant not only because it’s affected me for years, but for a drummer known for his rapid-fire double-bass playing, having a foot phobia’s akin to a competitive swimmer being terrified of getting wet.
This particular incident occurred several years before I discovered Prince. It was a typical Midwestern summer, filled with humidity thicker than a redneck’s skull and infested by swarms of bloodsucking mosquitoes. Had the mosquitoes known how my blood was about to flow, they’d have been lying in wait, ready to feast.
I’d been playing in my room when Dad called me downstairs. A writer, he’d run out of typing paper, and because Mom had taken our only car to the rehearsal of yet another musical, he would have to tote me on his bike to get more paper at X-Market, our local grocery store.
When he saw my bare feet, he insisted, “Put on your house slippers.”
I ran upstairs and slipped on my thick brown leather cowboy boots, which looked retarded with my pajamas, but I didn’t care. (It’s like my higher power knew something I didn’t.) I came back down with my boots on and Dad frowned. “I told you to put on your slippers.”
I’m not sure I understood why the fuck it mattered what footwear I wore, but this is a prime example of the super-critical bullshit I would be subjected to my whole childhood. I was still wearing my royal-blue pajamas, but that was no big deal. Apparently the big deal was all about having proper, stylish footwear to wear to a shithole convenience store. I ran back upstairs and slipped on my little brown house shoes.
There were some steep hills to deal with, which made the bike ride challenging. I hopped onto the back of his Schwinn, wrapped my arms around him, and we took off, my feet dangling by the spinning spokes. We hit one of the major hills, descending at a pretty good clip. Though Dad kept braking, we were still flying down the asphalt. I was a little freaked out, but it was also kind of fun.
We’d just reached top speed when all of a sudden . . . bam! We stopped like we’d hit a brick wall. Both of us went flying off the bike, then tumbling onto the pavement. Neither us understood what had happened, why we’d gone from twenty-five miles an hour to a complete halt. That’s when Dad noticed some of the spokes on the rear wheel were bent and broken. He quickly examined my right ankle and it was skinned, but not bleeding. Instead, it was as white as cottage cheese. Though my foot had caught in the spokes—bringing us to a sudden halt—I’d somehow survived being seriously injured.
No sooner had he breathed a sigh of relief than the white patch on my ankle, which was fat, not skin, started gushing blood. The skin had not only been completely scraped off, it had been shredded like Big League Chew along with a huge chunk of ankle meat. I was in instant shock, and so was Dad. We needed to get to the emergency room at Warrick Hospital, and fast. He pulled off his shirt, wrapped it around my foot, picked me up in his arms, and took off running.
We made it to a gas station and spotted a couple filling their tank. JUST MARRIED and HOT SPRINGS TONIGHT adorned their car windows. Dad frantically explained to the newlyweds what had happened and how serious the injury was, and they agreed to give us a ride to the hospital.
Dad’s T-shirt was already blood-soaked, but the groom handed him a rag he pulled from under the front seat. Nothing like using a stranger’s dirty rag—probably infected with Dutch elm disease or his bodily fluids—to cover an open wound. In the process of replacing the T-shirt with the rag, blood dripped everywhere.
When we finally made it to the hospital, the driver, who couldn’t have been more than twenty, pulled into the circle drive and up to the emergency room doors. Dad thanked them and we hurried inside. (I’m sure the sight of minced ankle meat made their wedding night a more joyous affair.)
The whole concept of an emergency room is a fucking joke—like the express checkout lane in most grocery stores. Usually the cashier in the express lane is there because she’s too inept to handle a regular checkout lane, so she’s slower than molasses in the dead of winter, which pretty much fucking defeats the idea of “express”! Likewise, emergency rooms are often staffed by mental midgets, stuck behind the admission desk with a huge stack of forms that must be filled out before a doctor can tend to the “emergency.” (Judgmental, yes . . . but all too true.)
“Gonna need to see yer insurance card,” said a woman who could have subbed for Jabba the Hutt’s kid sister.
“I don’t have it with me right now . . . I was riding a bike. We had an accident. My son’s hurt. He needs a doctor immediately—his foot’s—”
She silenced him with: “Hold yer horses . . . gotta make a call.”
“Please hurry . . . my son’s bleeding to death.”
“Be patient, sir . . . this will only take a . . . Hello . . . this is Fern in admissions. Uh-huh . . . it’s packed as usual. Is Joan there? Lunch, huh . . . ? Know when she’ll be back? 12:30. [checks clock on the wall: 12:10] Hmmm . . . maybe you can help. Appreciate it. I have a man here . . . Yer name, sir?”
“Heyde.”
“Heidi. Love that story! [back to the phone] Name’s Heidi. No . . . it’s a gentleman. . . . that’s what I told him. What’s that . . . ? I think so . . . That’s right, the Alps . . . Swedish or one of them. Uh-huh, yer right . . . Swiss. Anyway, he don’t have his insurance card with ’im. No . . . his son. . . . I’ll ask ’im. Been here before, sir?”
“No!”
“[Into phone] That’s what I told ’im. She wants to know if you have insurance.”
“Yes, of course. Look . . . my son needs a doctor right now!”
“Don’t be raisin’ yer voice. We got us some real sick people in here.”
“Sorry, I just—”
“Said yes, he has. Oh . . . all right, then, I’ll tell ’im. [hanging up] She said all I need fer now is the name of your insurance company. Just call us with the policy number later . . . okay?”
Jesus Horatio Christ!
It went on like this for another fifteen minutes: address, phone number, occupation, place of birth, weight, height, birthmarks, hair color, eye color, emergency contact, and next of fucking kin—while I sat there, still in shock, bleeding another pint.
At long last we were d
irected to one of the patient stalls. You know the ones: examination table, metal cabinet topped with an antique autoclave filled with stethoscopes, needles, bandages, and cotton balls, and a sliding curtain—the only thing separating you from the screaming man whose leg’s been amputated in a car wreck. A curtain sooo thin you can read a fucking newspaper through it. Ironically, it’s called a privacy curtain!
The doctor, who was probably banging one of the candy stripers in the utility closet, finally showed up. He examined my foot, then instructed a nurse to start cleaning me up. She poured what felt like battery acid on the wound.
With a very concerned look on his face, the doctor explained the severity of the injury to Dad.
“Jeremy’s lost a lot of skin, so I’m not able to stitch it. If I did, it would most certainly tear apart . . . and that would greatly complicate matters.”
He said it would probably require a skin graft sometime in the future, but first it needed to heal, and that process would take weeks. He instructed Dad on how the antiseptic medication had to be applied and how often the wound had to be cleaned. And then he leaned forward and whispered (like I couldn’t fucking hear), “If gangrene should set in, Jeremy could . . .” Realizing I was hanging on his every word, he made a pitiful face—indicating they’d have to chop off my foot!
I liked my foot and I needed my foot: to walk, to run, to pedal my bike. And, someday, I would need my fucking foot to shred double bass. Little did I know then that in five years, the drummer for Def Leppard would lose his entire left arm and still be able to play using foot triggers for snare and toms. Even if I had known, this information wouldn’t have cheered me up one fucking bit. I wanted both arms to play drums and cymbals. And both feet for more than cosmetic reasons. Without my left foot, I guess I’d be forced to use my dick to trigger one of the double-bass petals!
Dad finally reached Mom, who rushed back from rehearsal to pick us up. She was hysterical. With the Heydes, especially my mother, there was always more drama offstage than on. I was too drained to join in with explanations or answer a ton of how-are-you-feeling questions. Once at home, Dad carried me to the couch. Mom got me some ice cream, and I eventually passed out for the evening. What a piece-of-shit day!
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