Several weeks after receiving that bizarre news, I was practicing in the basement. Out of nowhere I started playing some chops I’d never played before. They just started coming out of me, spontaneously—through me, rather than from me. Excited, I ran upstairs and asked Dad, “Did you hear those licks? Isn’t that wild?”
Then, a few months later, Dad and I were headed to a basketball game in Evansville. On the way, we stopped at Coconuts record store to check out some music. While rummaging through a cutout bin, he found an old cassette of a famous drum battle, recorded in 1952, between Buddy Rich and Gene Krupa.
“You’ve always wondered what Buddy Rich sounded like,” he said. “Now you’ll know.”
When we got back in the car, I put it on, and right in the middle of one of Buddy’s amazing solos were those same licks that had “magically” appeared to me, weeks before, out of nowhere. Dad and I just looked at each other . . . and smiled.
My association with Coconuts would reemerge later that summer when I got a call from the store manager. His name was Joe Smith (not nearly as original or unique as Joe turned out to be). Besides being the record store manager, he was also a shredding guitarist. I’d purchased lots of music from him over the years. He asked if I’d be interested in auditioning for his band, C.O.D.—Cornucopia of Death. They were the local metal kings, with some punk influence as well. Ever since Anesthesia split up, I’d wanted to be in a heavy band; this was my opportunity to get to the next level, playing with a local band that toured the surrounding tri-state area. I said I was definitely interested.
Joe and I got together at my house and talked about what C.O.D. had going on. Then we went down into my basement so I could audition. I basically did the most shredding double-bass drum solo I could, and he was like, “Yeah, man!” He offered me the gig, and I didn’t hesitate to accept it. Finally, I was going to be in a band that was serious about doing it for real. He called me later that night with more good news.
“We’re going into the studio in two weeks, so we have a lot of work to do. And, oh, yeah, your cost to help for the recording is six hundred dollars.”
I was seventeen with no job, so it might as well have been $6,000. When I told Dad, he said, “Call him back and tell him you’ll join his band if he’ll give you a job at the record store.”
I explained my proposal and Joe laughed and said, “You fucker! Okay . . . I’ll do it.” Then he added, “You don’t get a paycheck until you work off your share of the recording expenses.”
I agreed, even though I’d only be making $3.80 an hour. (At that rate, I figured I’d be on Social Security by the time I recouped.) Coconuts also required dress shirts, slacks, and ties, so Dad bought me dress clothes. Since my hair was really long, dressing up definitely made me look like less of a scumbag. Chicks seemed to like it, too.
We started working on material for the recording session. Joe showed me eleven songs, and they weren’t like three-minute pop songs. These had extravagant arrangements, requiring a lot of work. Thankfully, he was patient and positive and helped me get the stuff down. The best part was that he encouraged me to play my ass off, saying not to worry about overplaying. He wanted me to shred. This was my big chance to show off what I’d learned, to showcase my chops.
Life became a steady routine of rehearsing and working at the record store. I loved checking in new releases at the store and making displays and talking to customers about what was new. I enjoyed selling music. This was the most fun I’d ever had. Music had become my life . . . and life was good.
The two weeks passed quickly. It was time to start recording the album. The studio was over an hour away, across the state line in Illinois. Before we left, we stopped off at Coconuts and we picked up the major-label debut of a new band called Pantera. Joe had been a fan of their indie releases and was super stoked about the new record. It wasn’t scheduled to be released for a couple of days, but because we received new releases early, we jumped the street date and bought it, jamming it all the way to the studio.
Cowboys from Hell was a different animal with an incredible sound, better songs, and more balls! I was blown away by the guitar sound and the riffs—plus it had the best metal drum sounds ever. I knew Pantera was gonna change the metal scene. They instantly became my favorite new band, taking the crown from Metallica. I hyped the album and sold a shitload to customers.
Once at the studio, we loaded in our gear. I had a massive double-bass drum kit that took forever to mic up. By the time we got ready to start tracking, I was already exhausted from having to pound every drum a hundred times so the engineer could get levels. Had he been half as competent as he thought he was, it wouldn’t have taken nearly as long.
I got through a couple of songs relatively okay. Then we got to a song called “Roadkill.” It had a little drum break at the end of every chorus. I kept fucking it up because it had a tricky double-bass part with a cymbal choke I couldn’t execute. I must have done twenty-five takes or more; the singer and bass player started to lose patience.
Joe was cool about it and yelled at them to be supportive. He encouraged me to stay positive until I nailed it. I was getting super frustrated because I just couldn’t get it down: I’d developed a mental block. I tried several more takes—after having flubbed at least forty—when the other guys left the studio to get some food. Thankfully, Joe persevered. He had my back and was always keeping me positive, praising me as much as he could.
I’d never recorded in a studio before, so I was virtually clueless. I’d just learned eleven hard-ass songs in two weeks before being thrown to the wolves. I wanted to be great and hated that I wasn’t performing the way I thought I should be.
After what seemed like the same amount of time Han Solo was frozen in that cryogenic metal shit in The Empire Strikes Back, I managed to nail one. Burnt, we decided to call it a day and headed back to Indiana. It took a couple more sessions, but we finally completed our debut album, Nip It in the Bud.
Listening back to it even now, it’s a fun record with lots of crazy drumming . . . some of the most adventurous drum parts I’ve ever recorded. It was raw, sloppy, and had an energy I miss in the way things are recorded today. Now everything is “fixed” and made perfect. It takes the personality out of the music. CDs were just becoming popular, but not enough to mess with, so we printed up a thousand cassette copies to sell at shows. I was excited to show my friends and family the finished product.
The next step for C.O.D. was to start preparing for a yearly concert in Evansville called Mother Mesker’s Homemade Jam—a huge show where I’d make my debut with the band. It featured all of the top local acts at a big outdoor amphitheater.
We started practicing, rigorously. Not only was it gonna be the biggest crowd I’d ever played for, but there would be local media coverage of the event. I was on fire with energy and more ready than ever to show everyone what I could do. Anxious, with that excited burning sensation in my stomach, I didn’t sleep much the night before the show. I finally managed to nod off for a few hours before waking up ready to go.
When we arrived at the venue, I couldn’t get over its size: five thousand chair-back seats and room for three thousand lawn chairs. Though a little unnerved, I couldn’t wait to perform. When our number was called, I began loading my massive drum kit onto the stage. There was a palpable vibe in the air. Once the show began, I’d never felt energy come through me like that—ever.
We hammered our way through a few songs, finally reaching my drum solo. This was the moment I’d been waiting for since I got that first cheap-ass Sears drum set when I was younger. As it began, I honestly checked out. I could feel myself floating out of my body. As cheesy as this might sound, it felt like I was being led by a spirit guide. I shredded my ass off, and when I finished, I jumped to my feet and: total silence. However, a few seconds later, the most thunderous roar I’d ever heard rained down from the crowd of four thousand. The drugs, the booze, and the bullshit that went with them didn’t even come clo
se to matching that feeling. I couldn’t stop smiling, because I knew this was the breakthrough I’d fantasized about for years.
No sooner had we finished our set than it all began to blur. I wasn’t sure what had just happened. Though seventeen, I was a young, insecure kid who’d spent most of his teenage years emotionally stunted from using drugs and alcohol. So I was really vulnerable. I ran off the side of the stage and up to Joe.
“Did we suck . . . ?”
“Listen to the crowd, man! What do you think?”
I looked out, and everyone was still standing and going crazy. It was the best feeling ever. Backstage, the buzz was all about me and the band. I could overhear people talking about our performance. I thought my night couldn’t get any better . . . that is, until the headliners took the stage.
It was another local band called Chet & the Molesters. They had a killer drummer, the best I’d ever heard. His name was Chet Harger, and to this day he remains one of my biggest influences. The guy was like a reincarnated Gene Krupa. His choice of tasty chops, combined with his confident stage presence, schooled most of the planet. He was in total control. I couldn’t stop watching him, soaking in as much as I could.
After the show, the two of us made an instant connection. He invited me over to his house to jam. I think he appreciated my choice of drum parts and chops, even though my execution wasn’t fully developed. This was by far the best day I’d ever had. That night, I lay in bed reliving the whole experience—thinking that if I could get this kind of incredible reaction in little ol’ Evansville, Indiana, imagine the kind of reception I’d get when I showed them what I could do once I got to LA.
Oh, the hubris of the tragically naïve.
CHAPTER 11
THE ANSWER . . . WAR IS HELL
2009
A month after returning from Australia, Jason and I packed our bags and went to stay at Zo’s house in Vegas. It was time to start writing the next album. The guest rooms were unfurnished and we slept on air mattresses. Forget comfort, this was going to be a spartan experience at best. We turned his living room into a studio with a Roland V-kit, a really nice electronic drum kit we bought for this project. We jammed ideas during the day and drank our asses off at night. Our hangout time was spent up on his roof deck . . . just the three of us.
Matt had just moved his girlfriend and her kid into his house. Since he was a difficult guy to have around—especially when we were trying to write—we told him to just go have fun, and when it was time to record, we’d call him. Not a bad deal: equal pay for doing very little work.
Ivan was back home in Denver. We sent him tracks as soon as we created them, and he began writing lyrics. It took a while for us to get in the flow of making the record because it seemed like every day we’d develop another computer problem. Either Pro Tools wouldn’t work or the computer itself would die. We went through three different computers before we found one that actually functioned. The Death Punch Curse was in full effect.
We decided to bring in someone to help us record the drums and vocals and make them sound killer, someone who had a great ear and musical sensibility along with great recording techniques. Making a record can be fucking tedious, and we were looking for anything to help make it a more pleasurable experience. Luckily, we found Kevin Churko, who lived in Vegas and had produced the last two Ozzy Osbourne records. An up-and-coming producer, Kevin had worked for Mutt Lange, one of the biggest producers of all time: Def Leppard, AC/DC, Bryan Adams, and Shania Twain, to name a few. From the master, he’d learned how to record bands and capture the best performances. He was also a drummer, so he and I hit it off right away.
I’d edited my own drum tracks, in addition to the other guys’ tracks, on the first record. Kevin was a killer editor, so I was more than happy to relinquish that task. I hit the studio juiced and ready to go. I recorded six songs the first day. Thanks to his recording method, it was the most fun I’d ever had in a studio. I felt a great sense of relief, and, for the first time, I started to get excited about making a new record.
Back at Zo’s, we continued working on ideas. Trying to get three people on the same page and creating in close quarters for long periods of time began to beat me down. I couldn’t wait to finish every night so I could get as drunk as possible. The promise of a good buzz sustained me through much of the process. I wasn’t the only one stressed out. We all drank . . . even Zoltan, who hardly ever drank. We’d pound German Riesling, jam music, and bullshit for hours.
Once, Zo was in his cups and disappeared upstairs. A few minutes later, I heard a yell, then a crashing thud, followed by an “OW!” He’d fallen down the fucking stairs. We all laughed about it, then passed out in the hallway. Hours later, his girlfriend woke us.
Jason was under so much pressure, he bought bottles of Jäger and emptied them throughout the day. Zo would come in to listen to ideas and Jason would be fucking hammered. Jason always preferred to work by himself, or to have me there to bounce something off of. However, this arrangement—working in close quarters, bombarded with alcohol-soaked ideas—really got to him.
Surprisingly, I never drank during the day. I had to have a clear head to write and track drums. Editing was also a major part of my contribution as the first arranger of a song. Many times, Zo would give me his riffs; I’d sift through what I liked, then start editing them together as songs. After everyone did his thing, it would morph into the songs you’ve come to know. Other times, he would do a whole song, musically, by himself, and it would live almost untouched. Often he looked to me to see what I liked. He’d fart out a bunch of riffs, and I’d say “That one’s cool” or “That one’s not rockin’ me.”
Only a few minutes into editing, I’d start growing impatient. Because the process is so repetitive and often mind-numbing, it reached the point where I couldn’t do it without drinking. Once, while editing “Succubus,” a party erupted. I was really fucked up but still trying to edit, and it was a disaster. Drunk, I forgot to save the original edit before I started hacking away. Zo got furious and yelled at me. That was the first time he’d ever gotten angry at me personally. It really freaked me out . . . not that I didn’t deserve it. After that incident, I never felt comfortable editing around him.
On our first album, The Way of the Fist, Zo had all the songs nearly completed when I came in to help fine-tune them. But this record was a different. He leaned on me quite a bit. When I got fried, I’d turn to Jason for help. He added a whole new dimension. Jason has an awesome musical sense, and he took the guitar work to a new level. His talent—and the way he made people feel comfortable while working—was a welcome bonus. Creatively, this was going to be a good marriage.
It was during this time that I decided I to buy a house in Vegas. Because of the crash in the housing market, they were really inexpensive. Both Matt and Zoltan already owned houses and had been living there a while. Angel wanted to move out there with me. I was reluctant, but my codependency was at an all-time high, so I agreed for her to move from Los Angeles. We started house shopping and found one in two days. I put in the offer on a brand-new model home, and it was accepted.
She was super excited to move with me, but I was already dreading the thought of it. I wanted to have my first house all to myself. I’d never had a nice place of my very own. Like a selfish teenager, I wanted to do whatever I wanted with whomever I wanted whenever I wanted—and not have to answer to anyone. I decided not to move her out and to end the relationship once and for all. I called her and told her that I was over being with her. She was devastated. Of course, by the time I informed her of my decision, she’d put in her notice at her job and with her landlord and was already packed.
She sounded so pathetic, I instantly felt bad about crushing her. Being a people pleaser sucked! She pleaded with me to come to LA and talk face-to-face. I needed to follow what my heart was telling me, but I agreed. Although our relationship had been a disaster for years, I couldn’t get my shit together enough to end it. My greatest f
ear was where I put all my energy . . . and I was the one creating it. The cliché “I just knew that was going to happen” shouldn’t be a surprise. It didn’t take her an hour to convince me that moving to Vegas was “the best thing for both of us.”
All this extra stress occurred while we were in the process of making the record. I decided I needed one more blowout before Angel moved to Vegas. Jason agreed to be my partner in crime. Leaving Zo’s, we headed to the Strip to check out a cover band. We knew the keyboard player, Brent Fitz, who was Slash’s drummer. We were hanging out in his dressing room along with Bruce Kulick, who was the guitar player and used to be in KISS. For some reason Kulick decided he didn’t want us in there and yelled at us to get out. Being the passive-aggressive pussy that I was, I said to Jason, “Fuck mister fourth-string KISS guitarist, let’s get the fuck out of here.”
We bolted from that show and went to see the Sin City Sinners, another popular cover band. We wasted no time in getting ripped. Emboldened by lots of booze, Jason decided he wanted to join the band onstage, jamming to Queen’s “Tie Your Mother Down.” They were happy to let him join in until he stated blowing it. That’s not an easy song, especially when you’re fucked up. Embarrassed, Jason decided to end the song in a 1980s flourish by slinging the guitar around his back while it was still attached to the strap. To put a memorable ending on a less than stellar performance, the strap broke and the guitar went flying into the Marshall amp. The guitarist who’d lent Jason his axe was really pissed. Unfazed, Jason jumped off the stage, and he and I hit the bar.
Death Punch'd Page 16
