Writing sessions soon began, and the first thing I heard that could be turned into a song was something Jason wrote. It later became “Coming Down.” We worked up the track and I helped dial it in before we turned it over to Kevin Churko, who was once again producing.
Since Angel was out of town, Jason made up some excuse to his girlfriend so he could stay over for a night of partying. I was drinking and doing blow, which I called “doing the gas and the brakes.” Jason wasn’t drinking, only doing coke, so he was on full acceleration. I managed to get two hours’ sleep; Jason was up all night. He freaked out when he got a call from Kevin to come to the studio to record “Coming Down.” Irony abounds.
When we arrived, Jason tried to play it cool, but he looked mangled. When Kevin left the room for a minute, Jason turned to me in a panic. “Dude, I can’t play . . . I’m ruined.” I’d never seen him so weirded out. We heard Kevin returning. “Man . . . help me out here. What am I gonna do?”
When Kevin walked in, he could tell something was amiss. I explained that Jason was ill and that we’d have to reschedule. It was obvious Kevin knew that was bullshit, but he said he understood. We hadn’t been back to my place five minutes when Kevin called. First words out of his mouth were, “Was Jason high?” I felt reluctant to narc out my friend, but anyone could have told that Jason was fucked up, so I said yes. We talked for a while longer and I assured him that Jason would be fine, that it wasn’t a big deal, and that it wouldn’t happen again.
“Coming Down” became our first No. 1. The irony of its creation is that it influenced so many people in such a positive way. We still receive feedback about how that song gives people hope. It just goes to show that people get what they need from music, because coming down was just the opposite of what we were doing at the time.
A week or so later, while Jason and I were dining at a local restaurant, I heard an older song playing in the background. I loved the chord progression. I told Jason to get inspired by the vibe, a vibe that resulted in the powerful ballad “Remember Everything.” We now had two of the four singles we needed for the record.
“Back for More” was a track that came off Jason’s first solo record, one he and I had done together back in ’04. We overhauled it and made it more Death Punch. When we were asked to contribute a track to Madden 12, that was the song they chose.
Believing it could make us or break us, I knew our third record had to be awesome. Now that Matt was gone, I didn’t want to project the appearance that there were any cracks in the foundation. I became obsessed with the whole process, and it stressed me out. Part of the stress was that I didn’t feel the same fire from certain people, and it frightened me. So I did what I thought was necessary to rally everyone and get us on track. When Ivan came to stay with me to start recording vocals, I joined him nightly for vast quantities of alcohol.
With Ivan around, it wasn’t long before the two of us were getting fucked up on a regular basis. One night I took him to my local watering hole, Bomas. Though we ate, the majority of the night was spent drinking. We guzzled our way through eight or nine greyhounds each when I decided that what was missing was cocaine. By the time the dealer arrived, we were both hammered. After snorting some key bumps in the john, I decided to take the party back to my house. To prove how fucked I was, I let Ivan drive my Mercedes.
Somehow he managed to keep it between the lines—barely missing a median or two. We made it home unscathed. But when he pulled into my garage, he ignored the hanging tennis ball and smacked into the metal pole that guarded my water heater—denting the bumper. I would have been pissed, but I was more interested in getting inside to do more blow.
Other than jamming tunes on the patio and constant drinking for the next few hours, I don’t remember much. What I do remember is Angel and Ivan shaking me awake as I lay on the patio. I could barely pry my eyes open. She was yelling, and everything was a blur.
“You stopped breathing!” she shouted, obviously relieved I was alive but still angry because I’d scared her.
They helped me upstairs and into bed. I lay on my side so if I vomited, I wouldn’t choke to death on my own puke. I said I was sorry, but I wasn’t. I didn’t care. Sure, my body had finally reached a toxic level of booze and blow, but it was my mind that was poisoned. The last thing I was worried about was leaving the planet. Life was shit, and I welcomed any exit strategy.
When I dragged myself downstairs later that afternoon, Ivan said that before I passed out, I was swilling vodka straight out of the bottle. “Dude, you looked like Chris Holmes in The Decline of Western Civilization, Part II.” He said it as a joke, but I could tell he was concerned. Shaken, Angel obviously didn’t find anything humorous about any of it. Can’t say I blame them for being upset, but at the time the thought of not being able to breathe, of just slipping away, seemed very attractive. My response to their being so serious was to laugh, which wasn’t well received.
The only thing that kept me from repeating that sorry spectacle was the realization that we had an album to complete. Getting it finished and making sure it was the best it could be was important enough for me to postpone a meet and greet with the Grim Reaper.
With that current mental state, it didn’t take long before Zoltan and I were at odds for a variety of reasons. It seemed to me he was more interested in doing his martial arts—and promoting his participation in various tournaments—than focusing on writing a record. In his defense, he’d written shitloads of material for those first two records. Also, he handled most of the band business, as well as designing our merchandise . . . so he couldn’t be expected to do it all. Still, what I perceived as his lack of participation on this project became a bone of contention.
Ivan hadn’t prepared much either, so he struggled at first to get going. The “problem” was that Ivan wasn’t particularly angry at this particular moment in time; since anger had always served as his muse, not having it to feed on made the process all the more difficult for him . . . and us.
Jason had yet to move to Vegas, so he was working at Kevin’s home studio. Tons of people were constantly running in and out, which made it almost impossible for him to concentrate. It didn’t take long before he became frustrated with that situation, joining me in boozing it on a daily basis. Now back into a full-blown alcoholic haze, I was completely worthless. At this rate, it was questionable whether or not we’d be able to produce any album, let alone one we could be proud of.
Not long into the process, Zo, Ivan, and I had a major falling-out. The pressure to deliver had gotten to everyone, and what needed to be a creative atmosphere had become a fucking nightmare environment. I pulled away and slipped into heavy cocaine use. I needed any endorphin rush I could get, even if it was fake.
To add to the turmoil, Angel and I were at each other night and day. She was determined to “save” me and micromanage my life. And I was determined to get rid of her once and for all. I bought her a ticket to fly back East to visit her mom. After dropping her off at the airport, I wasted no time in calling one of her friends to come meet me at a local bar.
By the time she showed up, I’d already downed five greyhounds. I continued to drink and managed to get her drunk, one of my specialties. A stripper, she said she had to stop because any more booze and she wouldn’t be able to work that night. I asked her how much she’d make that night stripping, and she said that since it was midweek, a slow night, she’d probably only rake in a couple hundred. Without pause, I went to the ATM and got enough money to more than pay for her lost wages and purchase enough cocaine to get us both trashed.
We were so completely destroyed by the time we got to my house that I dented my Mercedes pulling into the garage. Like the last time, I didn’t care because I couldn’t wait to get inside and do more blow. While she poured drinks, I broke a Sharpie in half and used it to snort up huge rails of coke. The minute we sat down on the sectional in the TV room, she took out my cock and started sucking it.
“See what two hundred buc
ks gets you?” she said. For a second, it occurred to me how much Angel would be hurt if she knew how easily her “friend” could betray their friendship. But that thought quickly passed as she continued to blow me.
At some point the party moved to my bedroom, where the debauchery continued. After banging each other and doing more blow, the night ended with me jerking off and her using Angel’s vibrator while we watched every kind of porn imaginable. Yes, I said Angel’s vibrator. How fucking low was that? Always a “gentleman,” I did wash it off before I put it back in the drawer. My shittiness knew no bounds, but I didn’t spend five minutes on the guilt train. I was beyond caring, because I knew where this train was headed. It had already entered a darkened tunnel . . . with no light visible at the end. What I didn’t know was when it would finally go off the rails.
The creation of our third album was slow to emerge, but that didn’t prevent management from demanding a lead-off single. I was confident we had singles two and four covered, but I also knew we had no “breaker.” Zo finally came to the table in a big way with a riff he put on top of some drums I’d done for another song with Jason. It ended up being our title cut, “Under and Over It.” Because I thought the verses were too aggressive, I wasn’t sure it was the single we needed. Still, the label pushed for it, and in hindsight they were right. As my grandma Helen used to say, “Even a blind sow finds an acorn now and then!”
Because the whole experience of making American Capitalist was so nightmarish, I couldn’t even bear to listen to it for a long time. Hearing it rekindled the pain of making it. To relieve my agony, it debuted at No. 3 on the Billboard charts and sold more than ninety thousand units the first fucking week! Had Adele’s freaking supernova not still been selling megamillions, it would have charted even higher.
As they say, No rest for the weary. Our producer had recorded all the bass tracks on the album, but we had to find a new bass player to replace Matt. I hated the thought of having to audition someone new. The process itself was mind numbing. I could tell within thirty seconds if someone could fill the bill. Having to endure dozens of would-be players wasn’t something I had the patience for, but it had to be done. It went exactly the way I expected. We auditioned several guys who were good at playing but not adequate at singing backgrounds. Others played and sang well, but had the wrong vibe. Finding the right combination proved to be difficult.
One night, Jason received a message from a dude on Facebook saying, “You don’t know me, but I’m your guy.” Jason thought that was pretty ballsy, and asked if he could sing backgrounds. Having fronted his own band, he said, “No problem.” He sent over some songs he’d played and sung on. We thought he sounded pretty good, so we asked him to come in for an audition, which he seemed excited to do. Within half a song, I looked at Zo and nodded my head. We both knew he was the guy.
His name was Chris Kael . . . and he was just what we needed. Not only was he a better player and singer than Matt, but he was also a really positive guy. Extremely enthusiastic and hungry, he had the right look and vibe—plus he lived in Las Vegas like the rest of us. Though fans are usually resistant to someone new, I knew Chris would quickly erase Matt’s shadow once people got a chance to see him.
We did a few radio festival dates with him. It didn’t take long to work out the kinks. And Chris turned out to be a fan favorite since, unlike his predecessor, he actually welcomed the interaction. At least that problem had been solved. Now I just had to find the strength to get through the gigs.
I decided, once again, to get sober. (Detecting a pattern here?) I needed some way to stop drinking besides sheer willpower. So I started taking Antabuse, a drug that’s supposed to prevent you from drinking, because if you drink, you not only get sick, vomit, and become barely able breathe—you also swell up like a fucking balloon. All in all, a fairly effective deterrent.
We finished up the last of the summer dates right before making the video for the first single. Somehow, a few of us ended up at the Bunny Ranch in Reno. When we pulled up in the bus, ten nearly naked girls ran out the front door. I knew I couldn’t handle what we were getting ready to experience, so I poured a drink.
I instantly started breaking out in hives. Within minutes I’d swollen up like Violet Beauregarde in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. I staggered into one of the rooms to lie down. Feeling so bad I wanted to die, I called Jason and asked him to help me out of there and onto the bus. While he was walking me to the bus, I began violently puking up my guts. When he got me to my bunk, I tried to pass out. Before I could, I heard chicks’ voices. Then my bunk curtain slid open.
“Are you Jeremy?” asked one of the Bunnies.
“Just barely . . .” I mumbled—using all the strength I had to turn my head in her direction.
“Do you want us to suck your cock?”
I started to ask who “us” was, when I spotted the other two huddled behind her—brandishing big toothy smiles.
“Yeah, sure,” I said. “Could you come back . . . in an hour?”
She frowned and glanced back at the other two, who seemed equally confused. I mean, who turns down a blow job other than a human dirigible, someone who looked like he’s been stung by an entire beehive?
Once they left, I staggered to my feet, barely making it into the bathroom before I tossed my cookies again. Just as I finished, I heard people getting back on the bus. After discovering the Bunnies wanted a thousand bucks an hour for their services, no one opted for a blow job or anything else. We promptly hauled it out of there.
We decided that we needed a rockin’ video for “Under and Over It”—something that epitomized the capitalist theme. So, we arranged to shoot it at a mansion belonging to a friend, Gavin Maloof, owner of the Sacramento Kings NBA team. We also were given the use of his private jet for some of the scenes. To make sure it was as decadent as possible, our security guard brought in a vanload of scantily-clad hot chicks for the shoot. Even so, I was dreading it until I saw the enormous open bar and found out that one of my drug dealers was scheduled to be in the video.
In preparation, I started slamming shots of Jäger. By the time shooting began, I was already buzzed. To keep it going, the second the director yelled “Cut!” I’d grab a different chick and hit the bar. Though this was more fun than usual, something was still missing; that’s when I realized that something was coke. To ensure the shoot would continue on a positive note, I bought a bag from my dealer as soon as he arrived. Once the cocaine orgy began, it wasn’t long before I started getting sketchy. Knowing the “cure,” I guzzled booze to balance it out.
Now sloppy drunk and cranked, it was time to film the scene in the enormous swimming pool, where Zoltan tackles me. Bikini-clad beauties were macking on each other, water jets were squirting from every direction, lights were flashing . . . it was sheer chaos. While underwater, I suddenly realized my bag of cocaine was still in my pocket. Fuck!
Not waiting for a director’s “cut,” I scrambled out of the pool, ran inside, and pulled the bag out of my pocket. Thank ya, Jesus—it survived the chlorine bath! We were shooting a million-dollar video, yet all I cared about was my bag of cocaine: the perfect example of my fucked-up priorities and perspective. Somehow the video turned out great, but it wasn’t due to my contribution.
The daily struggle of cocaine addiction was total misery. Finishing my drum tracks early, I did nothing but party or lie on the couch for days at a time. I’d avoided playing drums for weeks. I needed to learn a bunch of songs from the new record, but I was in horrible shape. Rehearsals were about to begin. My legs weren’t working, and I was mentally fucked. Just thinking about going on tour kept me depressed, scared, and miserable.
One night, before rehearsals were to begin the next day, I went to dinner with Kevin Churko and Kelly Paiste from Paiste cymbals. I’d promised her I wouldn’t be drinking, because I had rehearsal the next day. But even before she showed up, that promise had evaporated. Deciding it would be okay to have just one little glass of win
e with Kevin, that one promptly turned into ten, followed by God knows how many vodka shots. By the time we started dinner, I was wrecked. Ever the cool one, Kelly said nothing.
While they continued to eat, I excused myself and went to the john, where I phoned my drug dealer. Returning to the table, I ordered more food and drinks. I waited a few minutes before excusing myself again to go meet my tardy dealer. The meet-up took forever, but I scored blow and went to the bathroom to do several lines.
Kelly started blowing up my phone. “Chop, chop! Food’s getting cold.”
I raced back and made up an excuse—which no one believed—that I’d had to take a call from Angel. I took one bite of the overpriced steak, and that was it for food. The dinner ended with me contributing incoherently to the conversation. Kevin and I split the bill, which was nearly a thousand bucks. Boy, did I ever know how to have a good time!
We said our good-byes, but before I could depart, I ran into some old friends from LA. Never one to put a quick end to a bad thing, I bought drinks and did blow every ten minutes. We drank until 5:30 in the morning, and when it was obvious the party had finally ended, I announced it was time to drive home. My friends thought better of it and put me in a cab. Once home, I was still so amped I couldn’t sleep.
Rehearsal was at noon, and I was a zombie. I had my drum tech pull the kick drums out of the monitors so the guys couldn’t hear how fucked I was. I felt horrible guilt that I was about to start a tour in such shitty condition. How much lower could I go? My life had become the cliché of every rocker who ever fucked it all away. Always one to make big declarations, I announced that I was really going to clean up . . . and this time I really meant it!
The Share the Welt tour would be a sober journey or else . . .
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