When Jason finally returned my call, he asked if I’d heard anything.
“Dude, I’m fucked up . . . I haven’t heard anything.”
Finally, Zo called to say he’d delivered the bad news. By then I was completely useless. I hung up, knowing Darrell would be calling any second. Before I could even exhale a sigh of dread, my phone rang.
Darrell acted as if he was in total disbelief. Even though he suspected it was happening, the reality shook him to the core. I tried to comfort him because he was a good guy and I felt bad about it. But there was no consoling him. I knew things would never be the same between us.
The more I reflect back on it, he was no more fucked than any of us. But in order to move forward with the vision of the band, it wouldn’t have worked with Darrell, because he was just too negative—always seeing the glass half empty, always seemingly depressed about something.
I spent a half hour on the phone trying to soothe him. I ran out of Crown, so I transitioned to wine. I could barely even string sentences together. When I finally ended the conversation, I called Jason back, letting him know the deed was done. The Jason Hook era had begun.
To get Jason up to speed, I went to our rehearsal space and recorded the drums of our entire live set. Playing from memory, I tracked the whole show with all the little additions we’d made from performing them live. He dumped the tracks into his Pro Tools rig and ran the set as if it were the actual show. By mastering our set list from day one, he hoped to not miss a beat. He wanted to impress the guys, but they were already impressed. They liked him as a person and knew he was a badass guitarist. To fine-tune everything, the two of us got together five or six times. When we finally rehearsed as a band, he nailed everything. We were convinced we’d made the right choice.
Next up: a European tour, the perfect opportunity to assimilate Jason. This was our first time going to Europe, and we were all stoked. The Defenders of the Faith tour was to kick off in the United Kingdom, specifically England.
To amuse ourselves, we developed stilted British accents and wisecracked, “We’re having a jolly ol’ time here in England . . . gallivanting about, sucking cocks and whatnot!” To help us get started on the wrong foot, a British magazine actually used that quote in an interview article. (As a result, I’ve never really trusted anyone in the press. All most reporters care about is a headline. They’ll do anything to interest readers. I get it. So if I feed a line of bullshit to the press, now you can understand why.)
The trip to England was a complete drag. I wasn’t a fan of the food or the dreary weather. Most of the shows were just adequate . . . all except one. We were opening for Lamb of God as usual, but just as we were starting to close our set with “The Bleeding,” Jason’s tech (who was teching for all the string players) handed him a seven-string guitar. I counted in on the hi-hat and Jason began the pick-and-roll beginning, but no sound emerged. It flubbed him up so badly that he stopped. Apparently, one of the strings had slipped out of place and gotten caught on a crack in the neck of his guitar. Ivan made some kind of wisecrack, and we started over with the same result. Ivan got pissed and encouraged the audience to start chanting, “Fuck you, Jason!” They were more than happy to oblige. We started “The Bleeding” a third time, and by now everything was fucked and out of tune. The crowd began heckling, and as we continued, the jeering grew louder. By the time we finished, the whole place was booing. Had this been a music hall back in the day, they would’ve been throwing heads of cabbage and rotten fruit. We exited the stage as quickly as we could. It was a fucking disaster. We were all shaken by it.
Ivan roared into the dressing room like a bull that had been threatened with castration. He started throwing shit all over the place. We’d witnessed this behavior before, but this time it was monumental. That scene, especially the booing crowd, set the tone for what would be a pretty tough trek across Europe. (I’ll spare you the flag-waving, but after traveling around the globe, I understand why people say America is the greatest country in the world. And it’s not all about burgers, fries, and adequate plumbing.)
To be fair, it wasn’t all a downer. We rode the “Ferry Cross the Mersey,” stayed in cabins, and had a royal blast. Some of the crowds were great . . . small but enthusiastic. It quickly became obvious the shows weren’t being promoted. Our management had shipped us to Europe (at our expense), hoping to create an international audience. Had they done their job beforehand, the numbers would have been significantly greater. Though disappointed, we still threw down. And, as always, we hung out with the great fans that were there.
The tour was a good way to break in a new bandmate. With Darrell, we’d become a tight unit. But Jason afforded us a totally different energy. Once we figured out the nuance and technical skill he added—making the requisite adjustments—we started to crush.
Jason had been to Amsterdam numerous times with other bands. He made it sound really kick-ass. “Wait till you see the Red Light District . . . it’s insane. It’s like window-shopping for chicks who are all 10s! I mean, Cindy Crawford hot!”
As soon as we closed the first show, we slammed some booze and headed out to sample the infamous Red Light District. The brick streets were jam-packed with bicycles. It was bizarre seeing few cars but mobs of people cycling.
Everyone but Zo was already pretty tanked . . . especially Jason. He’d brought along his tiny flip-cam video camera, about the size of a small cell phone. He’d used it to record backstage antics, parts of the show, and our exploits on the bus and in airports. Hoping to capture all the glory of our walking tour through “the district,” like an inebriated Einstein he’d taped the camera to the front of his jean jacket.
None of us knew he was recording all the girls, who were assembled in the storefront windows like seminude fashion mannequins. We were laughing and commenting on which ones were the hottest. Because we were hammered, none of us noticed the signs—posted everywhere—saying that taking pictures of the girls in the windows was strictly verboden!
All of a sudden, one of the chicks spotted Jason’s camera. She jumped down from the window platform, flung open the door, and came barging out like an enraged pit bull. Grabbing Jason by the hair and jacket, she started yelling for the other girls, who quickly followed her out. They were all screaming and tearing at him like banshees—drawing all kinds of attention from dozens of onlookers.
Then, from out of nowhere, these two mobster types appeared. They grabbed Jason and pulled him into the alley. Ivan and Zo were trying to keep up with them—fearing they were going to beat him up. Matt and I just stood, frozen like complete wusses, watching it go down.
These guys weren’t playing around. When one thug ripped off Jason’s camera and started waving it in his face, Ivan began pleading to let Jason go. They weren’t having it, so he offered them money. His first offers were ignored, but when he reached 150 euros, they agreed and released him. They also gave back the camera, but not before deleting everything—including all the tour footage.
I was relieved Jason wasn’t hurt, but I was so shit-housed and horny that I wandered off and continued window-shopping. I found a chick, a gorgeous brunette, who was about a 12 out of 10. She could tell I was enamored (and hammered) and invited me inside.
This was not to be a casual get-to-know-you. She smiled and said a phrase she’d obviously memorized, “Take off your clothes.” I immediately complied. She was wearing neon yellow lingerie, which glowed in this room decked out in black lights. There I stood, glowing purple, with my drunk-ass cock dangling, limp as a noodle. She led me to a twin-size bed and had me lie down while she wrapped a condom on my flaccid joint. When she finished, she took my latex-coated penis into her mouth, and in no time it rose to full attention. Though she was a pro, it helped that I’d popped a Viagra before we left the venue.
Without pause, she climbed on top of me and instantly became a champion bucking bronco rider. Fortunately, I was still numbed-out enough that this wasn’t going to be an eight-second ride. I m
ean, this girl was fuckin’ hot! All I could think was that for sixty euros, I was getting an amazing fuck job that hadn’t required even one second of “auditioning.” Suddenly, the whole idea of paying for sex up front seemed awesome, unlike “paying for sex” by buying booze, dinner, and expensive entertainment (not to mention the emotional expense) back in the States.
She was so skilled that I came rather quickly. I hurriedly got dressed and, as I walked out the door with a huge smile on my face, I ran right into Zo. Before I could tell him what a fantastic time I’d had, a grubby guy pushed past me. I turned to see him walk through the door with the same chick I’d just fucked. That’s when it dawned on me how disgusting it was—knowing those chicks fucked dozens of guys every day. I was too drunk to consider how shitty for her it must be to have to earn money that way.
When I rejoined Matt and Ivan, they were pissed because I’d wandered off and gotten laid. Knowing Jason was going to be all right, my attention had turned to something more important: me. I needed The Conquer for my damaged self-esteem. Add to that being hammered and hoping to avoid confrontation, and I could always be counted on to do the selfish thing.
Next we headed to Germany. Unlike England, I loved everything about it. The incredible scenery, the badass architecture, and the fabulous weather were a pleasant change. Plus the chicks were really hot. And, oh, yeah, did I mention the chicks were hot? There was this scorching blonde who recognized me. She was into drummers, and her two favorites were Tommy Lee and yours truly. It had to have been a drummer thing, because I sure as fuck didn’t have his bank account or his cockage.
The first night we got together, I brought her up to the dressing room with one of her friends. She wanted to meet the band. Ivan, Jason, and I had all been drinking. Ivan could really get out of control when drunk. We got in an argument about God knows what, and he started pushing Jason and me—breaking bottles and throwing shit. Jason shoved Ivan back. It quickly escalated. The chicks huddled together, terrified. I walked them out and apologized. Nice introduction to the band, right?
We made plans the next night for her to come to another show in another town. As promised, she was there. Right after the show, I escorted her into the dressing room, where we began making out. She wore this great-smelling perfume called Miss Sixty. I told her how great she smelled, and she gave me the bottle to use as air freshener in the bus and dressing room. We christened her Miss Sixty.
Angel had been stalking my MySpace page, so she knew the chick was traveling with me. She grilled me six ways from Sunday about it. Big mistake! I was pissed, and to show how much, Miss Sixty and I banged each other’s brains out for the rest of the German tour. Passive-aggressive, anyone?
Death Punch returned home shortly after Germany. Predictably, Angel and I resumed our unhealthy relationship. She was so codependent she actually let me buy her Miss Sixty perfume because I told her how much I liked it. That scenario perfectly sums up our twisted relationship. But being a total fuck-up myself, I couldn’t see it . . . much less care.
CHAPTER 10
REHABBA-DABBA-DOO
1989–91
Going to rehab meant getting the broken parts of myself fixed, like taking an ailing car to a mechanic: the engine sputtering, overheating, making strange noises, the brakes squealing, a headlight out, a taillight busted, a fender mashed, and a trail of noxious smoke billowing from the exhaust. But, after the mechanic works his magic, it looks and performs like a race car. Same thing with rehab: you come in fucked, someone you barely recognize and someone you can no longer stand to be around, and thirty days later, after therapists wave their magic wands, you leave shiny and new . . . whole again. Right? Wrong!
Without giving away the whole story, just know that out of the twenty-eight teens who entered rehab with me . . . only two would make it eleven months without relapsing. And by the end of the first year, only one of those two would still be alive.
On day three of my residency, my roommate, let’s call him Melvin, was admitted. Tall, lanky, and looking as if he’d slept in his clothes for months, Melvin was a nice guy but really fucked from drugs. From all the shit he’d smoked and ingested, he’d been damaged so severely that he appeared to be retarded (the politically correct “mentally challenged” was not yet in use).
From a small town—across the state line in Kentucky—Melvin could have been his own grandpa, might have had a sister-momma, an aunt-grandma, or a cousin-daddy, if you catch my drift . . . inbreeding being the name of the game. Like a dimwit, he made a series of weird noises, constantly mumbling to himself. It didn’t matter if another human was present: he’d talk to a dresser, a urinal, an unmade bed, carrying on quite the conversation. He was borderline nuts, and his percussion section of noises quickly drove me to the brink of insanity.
I’d be doing my assignments for group—due the next day—and my concentration would be destroyed by his snorting, clicking, humming, moaning, and grunting like a pig.
“Mel! Stop making noises, man, I’m trying to study.”
“Huh . . . ? Oh . . . Sorry.” He never failed to apologize, but less than a minute later, he was doing it again.
Instead of focusing on my work, my mind was judging how unlucky I was to be stuck with this oddball: Great, I’m trapped in hell with this fuckin’ ’tard while I’m legitimately trying to get shit done and be productive. I figured this was the universe making sure part of my rehab was a “patience lesson.” Like I needed the extra challenge. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, right? Maybe . . . but it still sucks.
I quickly settled into the daily routine of rehab. I was really enjoying it—learning a lot and still having fun with the other patients. I liked to have a good time and joke around, and most everyone was receptive to my humor.
It wasn’t all fun, though. That first visit with my folks was tough, because the therapist had me read the laundry list of drugs I’d taken. Though they tried not to react, I could tell they were sickened when they finally knew all the shit I’d been doing to my body and brain. The therapist told them I was lucky I hadn’t suffered permanent brain damage or died from huffing gasoline, because it was so deadly.
The second week of treatment: family group therapy commenced. That’s when things got even heavier. Everyone’s parents came to the facility to visit loved ones and work on issues. This was when we fessed up to all the bad shit we’d done, whether to our families or in general. Serious topics were explored in depth, and there were few dry eyes; even the most macho fathers caved when confronted with the pain-filled stories their children recalled.
This was the first time I’d taken inventory of exactly what I’d been doing, who I’d become, and whom I’d harmed. I felt shitty about most of it. Having a little clarity allowed me to look back on how fucked I’d been. Telling my parents all the times I’d stolen from them and all the times I’d lied was difficult, but it ultimately started a healing process. They were always super cool about everything. They were just relieved their son wasn’t going to die, that he could finally start having a real life.
Understand, I’m not saying everything was perfect in rehab. We were still a bunch of fuck-ups, thrown together for various reasons. Many of the kids in my group were court-ordered to be there. Some were forced into it by their parents. As far as I knew, I was the only one who actually begged to go into treatment.
Even though visitors were checked, some snuck in drugs to their friends. One of the girls and I almost had sex in her room. It would have happened, but we heard noises in the hallway, and I was afraid I’d be caught and kicked out. Even had there been more oversight, it wouldn’t have mattered. As a group, we’d spent years perfecting our anti-authority behavior.
By the third week, I was convinced I no longer needed the environment, the counseling, or the routine. Certain I’d gotten my shit together, I was ready to be free of the institutional surroundings. I missed my family and I wanted to go home. What I didn’t know was that the therapist had warned my parents t
hat by the end of week number three, patients often asked to leave. They were told to be ready to stand firm if and when I asked to be released from treatment.
Right on schedule—knowing my parents were coming—I’d prepared all the reasons why I shouldn’t have to stay the full thirty days. “Some of these kids are really fucked, Dad.” “I’ve worked really hard and I know what I have to do to stay clean.” “I miss you guys!”
My mom wanted me home so badly, I could see she was buying it. Not Dad.
“Here’s the thing, Jeremy. It’s a thirty-day program, and you still have another week. You need to stay until you complete the process.”
I was having none of it. I fired the big guns. “If you don’t let me come home, I’m gonna walk out of here.” I had no doubt that threat would work. Wrong again.
“This isn’t easy to say . . . but if you walk out of here before completing the program, just keep on walking. We love you and want you back home, but we’re not going through this hell ever again. It’s your choice, son.”
I knew he was dead serious. Wow, I wasn’t expecting that. Fuck! This tough-love shit was brutal. I relented.
At the beginning of the last week, my parents came for visitation and I pulled Dad aside. I had something I wanted to ask, and I really needed an answer.
“Who’s this God they’re always talking about? They mention a higher power all the time, but the only God I’ve known is drugs.” I don’t know what I expected him to say, but this is what he told me:
“If you asked a hundred people who God is, you’re likely to get a hundred different answers. Personally, I believe we’re connected to something greater than ourselves. It’s that still, small voice inside, the one that knows what you should be doing and is telling you—through feelings—what’s right and wrong. It’s just a ‘knowing,’ and it can’t compete with your ego voice, that loud one that’s always telling you that ‘If you do this . . . that will happen . . . and how great it will be.’ The true voice is simple: ‘Do it. Or don’t.’ Your spiritual voice is your gut, it doesn’t lie. The ego voice is full of bullshit details. And though it sounds convincing, it’s the one that always leads you into trouble.”
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