Death Punch'd

by Jeremy Spencer

  We also added a great new sound guy, Bruce Reiter, to the fold. He’d engineered sound for a lot of heavyweights. We now had a major-league team in place. Our sound crushed every night and our lights were fucking rad. The popularity of the band was increasing, as was my use of drugs and alcohol.

  One night I was sharing a bag of blow with a guy who’d scored some after a show. We were drinking our nightly greyhounds, vodka and grapefruit juice. I took the coke into the bathroom to do a keyer, but I was having trouble opening the bag. I pulled on the fucking thing—trying to be careful—when, all of a sudden, it ripped open and exploded into a colossal white cloud of “Nooooooo!” Most of the blow fell on the bathroom rug. I frantically got a credit card and scraped up what I could, arranging it in a line on the sink. I went outside with a hangdog look on my face.

  “You blew up the fucking baggie, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, but I saved most of it. I even carved you a line. It’s waiting for you.”

  He looked at me suspiciously before disappearing into the john. A few seconds later, I could hear him choking and coughing. When he returned, his nose was burning. “You motherfucker! You scraped up a lot more than blow!” God knows what kind of nasty DNA and excreta I added to the coke, but he ended up with a bad sinus infection.

  Shock and Raw was a shitful experience. I was chemically depressed and my body was fucked. As a result, my playing suffered, which, in turn, made me even more depressed. Booze and blow were all I cared about . . . well, besides sex. But even that was slowing down.

  That tour, I went through several drum techs. They were either good at teching but drama starters, cool people but average techs, or great at both but only available for a couple of weeks. It didn’t matter, really. I missed Bobby, my sidekick. Time off was a much-needed break.

  Being off the road was supposed to be an opportunity to recover from all the damage done on tour. Not for me. I drank every day and my cocaine usage increased: lots of all-nighters that turned into two days of wreckage. Plus, the comedowns were horrible. The guilt I felt was the worst ever. I’d lie there—trying to sleep—with one thought repeating in my mind: You’re a loser, Jeremy. What are you doing with your life? I started popping sleeping pills to come down, and if and when they worked, I’d wake up completely fucked. The grogginess would linger for days. Instead of recovering, I was getting worse.

  I ventured out to see Bobby, who was in Vegas teching for a band opening for Megadeth. His girlfriend, a porn actress, was there, and we all went out for drinks. I managed to get Bobby the drunkest I’ve ever seen him, and he told his girlfriend to come fuck both of us back at their hotel. I’ll spare you the details, except to say that afterward, I went home and crawled into bed with Angel. No, shower—only the smell of guilt emanating from every pore. I’d turned into the worst shitbag I knew.

  I did bring Bobby back to tech for me again. We went to Canada for seven shows with Korn. Canada was fun and the chicks were willing. My latest debauchery took the form of doing lines off various female body parts. Name a location, and I’ve snorted there . . . the funkier the location, the better. Maybe I was just waiting to see if someone would finally say, “No way.” But it never happened.

  I did lots of psychedelic mushrooms. Jason had never done “magic mushrooms,” and he gobbled them like candy. Once he got past feeling queasy, he was off and flying. There were plenty of trippy experiences traveling in the bus, frying balls on ’shrooms.

  One night while I was peaking, Bobby sidled up to me and said, “Imagine having to listen to the entire Deicide catalog on ten . . . right now.” I fucking laughed so hard I think I pissed a little. That was one of the rare times when the effects of mushrooms made touring seem like fun. Other times, when I was depressed, they just intensified the feeling.

  Though only seven shows, that little trek above the 49th parallel left me pretty feeling desperate and destroyed. I knew I was in trouble, but I didn’t have a clue what to do about it. Getting clean never occurred to me, because I was certain I couldn’t face the rigors of the road, the dysfunction of the band, and my rocky relationship sober.

  Had I been able to write a country song to describe my life at the time, I would have titled it “Raisin’ Hell and Livin’ in It.” Yee-fuckin’-haw!

  CHAPTER 12

  GO WEST, YOUNG MAN

  1991–92

  C.O.D. started gigging on a regular basis, and I learned really fast what it was like to deal with performance adversity, especially physically. Our material had tons of blistering double bass. We practiced for hours at a time, and it never occurred to me that I needed to stretch first. All I cared about was shredding my ass off.

  It wasn’t long until I noticed that my legs weren’t responding properly. I’d lose muscle control and consistency. This freaked me the fuck out. Anytime I played, I was in constant fear my legs would give out. At night I’d lie in bed and stress over it. It quickly became an OCD thing for me. Not only was I depressed, I got on everyone’s nerves talking about my “leg problems.”

  I was far from being a seasoned pro. We’d only done a handful of dates. One show I’d be insanely on fire and nail every shredding double-bass part; the next show, my legs just wouldn’t operate the way I wanted them to. Though it was torturous, I still had a blast playing the shows—living off the biggest adrenaline rush.

  Due to the rigor of playing constantly, I was forced to take better care of myself. I stopped smoking cigarettes and quit chewing tobacco. Originally, I’d started chewing Kodiak to help me get off cigarettes. Chewing was a short-lived, nasty habit, one almost harder to break than quitting smoking. It’s not a huge seller to girls either. Nothing like kissing someone with little black pieces of shit stuck in his teeth and breath like the south end of a horse going north.

  I was getting up at five A.M. to go to the high school track and run, or to the gym and work out. When it came to drumming, I was as serious as two dogs fucking. I wanted to go to the next level with the band and as a drummer. School was nothing more than an unnecessary burden. I couldn’t wait for it to end so I could buckle down and do nothing but practice, perform, and work at the record store. When the end finally came, I was stoked.

  C.O.D. practiced all the time. We added another guitarist to the band, an awesome guy named Scott McEllhiney. He was a shredder and a super nice guy. With the addition of Scott, killer guitar parts became our stock-in-trade. Now we were just focused on being the most insane and technical shredding band we could be.

  It was a weird combo, though, because our lead singer was punk style, a more narrative-type vocalist, with limited metal-style vocal ability. However, he ruled onstage and was funny as hell. He always talked mad shit to the crowd and was a sarcastic asshole! I loved him and the fact that he got a reaction out of people. I think he got a kick out of me, too. He was always hyping me up and putting a humorous spin when he would announce me after a drum solo.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, give it up for Bobby Brady on drums!” The crowd ate it up.

  We gigged our asses off throughout the Midwest before branching out with dates in West Virginia. We finally got a big opportunity when we were approached to open for Pantera in Indianapolis. At only seventeen, I believed I’d reached the big time.

  The day of the gig, while doing a sound check at the venue, I spotted someone watching from the wings. Could it be? It was! Dimebag Darrell was watching us perform a song that featured brutally fast double bass. After we finished, he caught my attention and yelled, “Faster, man. Play it faster!” Here was an idol of mine, and he was into our trip. When I got a chance to talk to him, he was super cool. We gave him a C.O.D. T-shirt. He thanked us and said he would wear it. A few months later, I was looking at a Metal Maniacs magazine, and there was a picture of Dimebag wearing our T-shirt. Things were definitely on the upswing.

  Encouraged, we sent our promo packs to record labels in hopes of getting signed. It was a retarded promo pack that included the CD, an 8x10, and a cover let
ter. We also included a bag of Fruit Loops and a check from the band account made out for five dollars! We sent dozens. One went to Monte Connor at Roadrunner Records. He actually responded, saying of all the promo packs he’d ever received, ours stood out as the most “creative.” He said he’d hung up the check in his office. However, when it came to getting signed, he had no idea what to do with us.

  Encouraged, I talked to a few different labels, including Big Chief Records, a subsidiary of Metal Blade Records. The A&R guy’s response was, “This is joke rock! I get this stuff all day long.”

  We thought everyone was crazy for not understanding our brilliance. I’m pretty sure every band thinks they’re the shit and deserve to be huge. That’s part of the fun of being in a band: fantasizing about the dream.

  We kept plugging away for months, gigging and sending out promos. Nothing was happening. Some of the guys weren’t digging the vigorous show schedule—dragging themselves to work the day after brutally long drives and no sleep. It didn’t bother me. I loved bleeding to try and make it; not everyone felt the same way. This started creating a division in the camp.

  Joe and I were on the same page. We pretty much made all the decisions—musically and businesswise. The rest of the dudes didn’t have the same fire. It finally reached the point where Scott wanted out. He’d grown tired of the schedule and the musical direction. The grunge era had come in, and it seemed nobody was really digging metal anymore. We pleaded with him not to leave, but it didn’t help. His departure meant the end of the band. The singer was over it, too. The new material was even further away from what he was looking to do musically. The band broke up in the summer of ’92. Not only did this dampen my spirit, it affected my relationship with Joe.

  I was still working at Coconuts, but due to our strained relationship, I was ready to do something new. We had taken the progressive stuff as far as we could, as far as I wanted to, and it seemed the natural thing to do was to look for something completely different. It’s like when you break up with someone, you often look for the opposite of what you had.

  I wasn’t into the whole grunge thing. I felt a little lost musically. I still liked regular metal and hair metal. This grunge thing to me was bullshit: sloppy playing and boring stage shows with no vibe. There were a handful of grunge bands that were good at their craft, but to me, most of that movement was a complete waste.

  Even before grunge took over, I liked Soundgarden. I also liked Jane’s Addiction. I thought Nirvana wrote good songs and Alice in Chains had a cool dark vibe. But shit like the Smashing Pumpkins killed my soul. Pearl Jam, too. Thank God bands like Pantera and White Zombie plowed through and made kick-ass records, because grunge really bummed me out.

  I wanted to press forward musically and be in a band with a record deal. After the demise of C.O.D., I knew being stuck in Indiana would prevent me from reaching my dream. If I was gonna have a chance at making it in music, I had to get the fuck out of there. But first I needed to address the most important relationship of my young life.

  For the past year, I’d been in a relationship with a girl I’ll call Hailey. She consumed my thoughts to the point of obsession, no doubt enhanced by my addictive personality. I quickly put Hailey on a pedestal, and part of me felt that if I won her approval, I was more worthy. In no time, I built things up to be way bigger than they actually were. I always bought her flowers and the latest music. I thought if I did those things, she’d love me more. It was almost like a drug fix—constantly craving the rush of approval.

  I was 100 percent codependent. In its own way, it was as sick as doing drugs, just not likely to kill me. However, it was equally distracting, because I used her to fill a void in myself. By focusing on her wants and needs, I could win her approval and get my fix, which made me feel better about myself. I was absolutely blinded by it; it was all part of learning and discovering my path.

  In a lot of ways, Hailey, who was two years younger, was more mature than I was. Only later did I realize that she was just as into me as I was into her; however, at the time, I was so insecure that I thought if she couldn’t see me one night, or even if she was busy, it was a form of rejection, which was devastating to my ego.

  By the time C.O.D. ended, our relationship was suffering. I started resenting her for what I perceived as her not being into me “enough.” My obsession with her meant constantly wanting her around, wanting to have sex, wanting to have her reassure me that I was “the one,” too. I needed her to be emotionally on the same page as me, or so I thought. My insecurity kicked into high gear. Looking back, I see a needy, codependent person who was clueless about how to be in relationship. Everything was about me: how much things hurt me, how things weren’t going my way. I was plagued by the thought that she didn’t love me like I loved her because I was unworthy. I felt out of control, and having no control really frightened me.

  I decided that the only way to keep from getting hurt was to break up with her. I broke it off, and it shattered both of us. It turned out she really did love me a lot. Unfortunately, I was so insecure I couldn’t see it. As that old hit song by Neil Sedaka—and later the Carpenters—said, breaking up is hard to do! (Like any of those homely motherfuckers would know!)

  It wasn’t long until Joe had had enough of me working at the store. My attitude had turned negative. I couldn’t wait to get out of the Hoosier State. I started fucking up at work—not on purpose, but maybe it was my subconscious guiding me out of there. One day while I was managing the store, I committed the crime of the century: I sold someone a Wayne’s World VHS tape the day before it was to be released. Holy fuck! I’d committed retail homicide! (Back in those days, it was a big deal if you sold something before it was officially released.) Joe got written up by the higher-ups, and they suggested he fire me.

  He called me at home. “I need you to come in today, but don’t dress up. I have to let you go.”

  At first I was hurt, but then I realized this was the best thing ever. He was totally right to fire me. My attitude sucked, and now I’d made a heinous mistake. Thank God for Wayne’s World! Without realizing it, it set me free . . . free to move to where I needed to be. I picked up my final paycheck, told Joe good-bye, and that, as they say, was that!

  The universe finally heard my plea. Within days of losing my job, I heard from an old neighborhood buddy who’d just come back from the Marines. Bill had been stationed near San Diego but had recently moved back home. He told me he was thinking of moving back out there and said if I wanted, I could go with him and we’d get a place together. This was my escape from Hoosierland!

  I informed my parents I was moving to California, and they were completely supportive. The timing was perfect because Dad had recently had two country songs recorded (one by Tammy Wynette), and they’d already decided to move to Nashville. Everything happened so fast. They sold the house, Bill and I helped them pack, and then we loaded up the car my grandma Helen had given me.

  It was an ’81 Ford LTD, the size of a fucking yacht (the perfect roominess for getting laid). It was a tank . . . built to last. With a whopping $600 in my pocket, I was ready to go make it as a drummer. My whole life had pointed to this moment. All the nights of visualizing had finally manifested in my escape from the constricting buckle of the Bible Belt. I told my parents and friends good-bye, and in December ’92 watched Boonville, Indiana, fade in my rearview mirror. Thank ya, Jesus.

  Heading west was so freakin’ awesome. Bill and I took turns driving, and, since the car didn’t have a stereo, jamming tunes on my boom box. Pantera, Cypress Hill, Helmet, S.T.P. . . . we even jammed death metal, like Malevolent Creation and Demolition Hammer. What well-rounded tuneage.

  We stayed cranked on shitloads of coffee. Stoked, we stopped to sleep only once during the whole 2,500-mile trek. It was a truck stop somewhere in Texas, and mother of God, was it freezing outside. The car was too packed for us to stretch out; otherwise we’d have crashed there. Frozen, I carried blankets into the bathroom, where it was w
armer, and slept on the floor. The aroma of piss, shit, and gasoline swirled up in our nostrils. The perfect balm for sleeping . . . not!

  After an hour of trying, I still couldn’t get comfortable on the nasty concrete floor. Plus the wind was howling so loud, whistling in the vents, it was hopeless. Add to that how excited and amped I was, sleep was impossible. By then a frozen Bill had joined me in the john.

  “Bill?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You asleep?”

  “What the fuck do you think?”

  We decided to go back to the car. Leaning against the door, we nodded off for a few minutes at a time. When it got so cold we couldn’t stand it, we’d run the heater for a while, then turn off the car to save gas. In no time we were completely frozen again. We finally said “Fuck it,” popped a few NoDoz caffeine pills to keep from passing out and wrecking in a fiery crash, and headed out.

  We drove like maniacs. We were the Duke Boys outrunning Roscoe! In all, it took around forty hours to get from Boonville to California. At last . . . the Land of Sunshine!

  We went to the military base where Bill had been stationed, Camp Pendleton. We met his friends, whom we’d be staying with until we got our own place. I thought they seemed cool. They were two gay dudes who worked at MCX, a big department-store complex on the base. We got the keys and went back to their place to get settled while they finished out their workday.

  When they showed up a few hours later, we’d already had a chance to get cleaned up and relax a little. Instead of just two, it turned out there were three gay dudes living there: two were a couple. It didn’t take long for them to get comfortable around us, either. They were kissing each other and shit. It was like, Great! My new life in California is starting off on a gay porn set.