I thought he was ribbing me. There’s a famous nightmare that a lot of wrestlers have where your music is playing and you don’t have your boots or your tights on and you’re running around like a lunatic trying to get ready.
This was that nightmare come true. I threw on some pants and sprinted as fast as I could from the dressing room to the stage. As I barreled past Kid Rock and rounded the corner I heard him say, “Don’t fuck this up, Chris!”
I took the stairs two at a time and plowed into Gorilla just as a roadie put a mic in my hand.
“What do you want me to say, Vince?”
“Whatever you want, you’re the rock star. Just get out there and do it now!”
I ran onstage with the microphone and said in my best David Lee Roth voice, “Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome, straight from Detroit, Michigan, the Early Mornin’ Stoned Pimp:
“Kid Rockkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk!”
My head exploded Scanners style.
After I finished being Kid’s hype man, his band came out and I was trapped. I couldn’t stay on the stage, I couldn’t run down to the ring, and I couldn’t go back into Gorilla because his band members were filing out and the song was about to start. Plus a bunch of pyro was supposed to go off, but I didn’t know where it was coming from and didn’t want to get Hetfielded. So I was scrambling around trying to find a place to hide when I noticed a hole between the stage and the back area and jumped into the seven-foot drop. I was safe from the pyro and out of everybody’s way, but then realized that I had a whole new problem: there was no way out of the hole. I was too short to pull myself out and I was surrounded by crates and wires, so there was no way to weasel my way out from underneath the stage.
When Kid Rock finished playing “American Badass” and walked offstage to massive applause, I was still stuck in my rock and roll foxhole. Finally a stagehand popped his head over the edge and helped pull me out. As I climbed out of the hole I saw 15,000 people pointing their fingers at me and laughing. I gave them a golf wave and sheepishly walked back through Gorilla.
Vince was shaking his head in bemusement. Court Jester Jericho had struck again.
As much as Vince loved my Kid Rock intro and ape promo, he absolutely hated my all-time favorite Stephanie Insultapalooza.
Raw was in Chicago (which has the loudest fans in the United States by far), and the idea was for The Rock and me to trade insults on Stephanie and her minions Rhyno and Booker T. Stephanie had just gotten a boob job, which was a comedic gold mine, and I started off by showing before-and-after pictures of her on the Tron. Then I hit her with as many mammary jokes as I could.
The theme for the PPV was Drowning Pool’s biggest hit, and I said, “Never mind ‘Let the Bodies Hit the Floor,’ Steph. How about ‘Let the Boobies Hit the Floor’!”
“Stephanie, I’m sorry about all this miscommunication. Let me take you to lunch and we’ll talk about it. There’s a Hooters right down the street.”
“Stephanie, you’re the breast—I mean the best!”
The crowd was eating it up with a silver spoon and it was one of the best promos of my career. Everything was going great until it was time for Rock to deliver his final line, which was a short rhyme describing Booker and Steph as “a punk-ass sucka and a silver-spoon motherfu—”
At this point Steph was to cut him off before he finished.
But she didn’t cut him off in time and The Rock delivered the line as written on live television.
“ ’Cos you’re a punk-ass sucka and a silver-spoon motherfuckaaaaaa!!!”
I figured they would just beep out Rocky’s faux pas and that would be the end of it. But when Rock and I came through the curtain buzzing about how great the segment was, the boss’s face was bright red and cordlike veins were bulging out of his neck.
“It’s not my fault,” The Rock said. “She didn’t cut me off on time!”
Maybe so, but did he have to actually say that word … and with such gusto?
Of course not—but it was the Attitude Era and that was The Rock. Motherfuckaaaa or not, it was a classic bit.
Stephanie kept on taking the abuse like Lindsay Lohan’s ankle monitor, but she would always get her retribution by doing something dastardly. She was involved in a relationship with HHH by then (both in the ring and out), and it was only natural that he would stand up for his woman at some point. When he finally did, it led to my best match in the WWE yet.
HHH and I built up our angle, which culminated with a Last Man Standing match at Fully Loaded. The PPV was based on the concept of three established headliners working with three up-and-coming superstars. Besides our match, the other two main events were The Rock vs. Chris Benoit and Undertaker vs. Kurt Angle. It was a big chance for all of us and we had earned it.
Stephanie was in HHH’s corner, and the fans in Dallas were pumped to see the match. H was on fire as a heel and was at the top of his Game (aren’t I clever?), and he showed up prepared to steal the show. HHH is first and foremost a great worker, and he proved that to me forever on that day.
The rules for Last Man Standing are no pinfalls, submissions, or DQs, and it can only end when one of the participants fails to answer a ten-count. This made it easy to get the crowd involved as they cheered and counted along with every tally. We constructed it with so many twists and turns, that the crowd was on the edge of their seats for the duration.
Hunter held my arms as Stephanie tattooed me with a vicious slap to the face. Then he hit me with the Pedigree but I was able to stagger up at eight. I whacked him with a chair and he collapsed in a heap, his face a crimson mask (thanks, Gordon), but was able to answer the count. Then I locked him in the Walls and he tapped out, but it was all for naught as there are no submissions in an LMS. We ended up on the floor and hit each other with the television monitors simultaneously, but both of us made it up at nine. Then the actual finish was going to be me standing on the announce table, preparing to moonsault HHH through the Spanish announce table directly beside it. Hunter would stop me and give me a belly-to-back suplex from one table through another, taking us both out. We would stay down as the referee counted, but HHH would stand up at nine, breaking the count and winning the match.
Sounds great, right? Well, in theory it was, until my old buddy Chyna screwed the pooch and messed it up. Earlier in the night she had a match with Perry Saturn where despite the huge signs at Gorilla saying STAY AWAY FROM THE ANNOUNCE TABLES, they slammed into the table that had been specially constructed to break for our finish and broke it first.
This was a scant twenty minutes before we were supposed to go on, and I was taping up in the trainer’s room when I saw our table (and our finish) fall apart.
I told HHH casually, “Chyna and Perry just went through the announce table. We need a new finish.”
Such are the trials and tribulations of live TV, folks. You have to go with the flow and roll with the changes, and after we discussed it for about three minutes, I suggested that we could still do the belly-to-back through the table, only start from the barricade right next to it. The problem was we had no idea where I would land. Would I slide right off the table and whack my head on the cement behind it? But it didn’t matter as we had run out of options. It was time to remove all the wheel blocks, there’s no time to waste. So when it came time for the finish, I rammed HHH onto the table and climbed the barricade to moonsault him. He clocked me from behind and away we went. It was a strange and slightly terrifying feeling because I had no idea where I was going to land and couldn’t see where I was anyway. I held my breath and prepared for the worst, but we landed on the table at the same time and it blew apart easily. My head whacked the edge of the table but luckily not the concrete itself. I breathed a sigh of relief as the crowd began chanting, “Holy shit!”—their equivalent of saying, “Nice work, gentlemen, we appreciate the hard work and oh my was that ever impressive.”
When HHH got up at nine and a half, answering the count and winning the match, the crowd wasn’t
happy but they knew they had seen something special. Sure, H had his hand raised, but I had taken him to infinity and beyond and he had barely survived in the process. I had taken the mighty HHH to the absolute limit, and it had light-yeared me into a different galaxy in the eyes of the fans.
Even though I lost the match, I felt I was the real Last Man Standing that night.
CHAPTER 11
Be Froot
After Fozzy’s dismal first week of sales, even though Megaforce pretty much gave up on us, we never gave up on ourselves. We continued to play as many shows as we could no matter if there were one, one hundred, or one thousand people in the crowd, doing gigs everywhere from Chattanooga to Atlanta, Macon to Montreal, New York to Norfolk. We mostly headlined, but on the odd occasions when we opened for established bands like Seven Mary Three or Sum 41, we blew them off the stage.
We learned very quickly that between Rich and me, Fozzy had two showbiz vets who had no problem going the extra mile to entertain. We took our music very seriously, but not ourselves, and we began to develop a reputation as a great live band.
One of the reasons for that was even though I was relatively new to being the frontman of a rock and roll band, I wasn’t new to the concept of being a party host. I’d always treated wrestling as show business, and part of being a successful wrestler for the past ten years was having the ability to command an audience. I had a knack for involving the audience and setting the tone for everyone to have a good time. The most valuable lesson I learned from all my favorite showmen, from Paul Stanley to Hulk Hogan, was that by making the crowd a part of the show, the gig became an interactive, exciting experience that people would pay to see the next time we came to town.
The WWE opened a first-class nightclub and concert venue in the middle of Times Square called the World. Every time Fozzy played there we had a wild, responsive crowd, which was so important, because whether it’s rock and roll or wrestling, the energy from the crowd inspires the performance and vice versa. The boisterous crowds were a great confidence booster for the band, because even though our album wasn’t selling like hotcakes, our live shows were tearing down the house.
We had a pretty loose backstage area and anybody who wanted to hang around was welcome. Every time we played the World there was always this guy hanging around who worked in the restaurant as a magician, going from table to table doing tricks for the customers. He had long straight black hair and wore the coolest leather clothes that he made himself.
“I know you like to wear stuff like this, and if you ever need me to make anything for you, here’s my card,” he told me as he gave me his card with his cell number written on the back. We invited him to eat dinner with us before the show one night. In the middle of the meal, he asked me an odd question.
“Chris, will you please hold up your fork?”
I held it up, and he just stared at it until it started bending in half. It was unbelievable, and he didn’t stop until it looked like a 7. I had taken the fork out of the random napkin it was wrapped in, so there was no way it was a gimmick or a plant. It was totally amazing, and to this day I still don’t know how he did it.
Even though I’d seen him a few times at our shows, I still wasn’t sure what his name was.
“That was incredible, man! What’s your name again?”
“It’s Criss. Criss Angel.”
A mindfreak indeed. Damn, I wish I still had that card.
Months later I saw him at the World and he told me that he was planning on submerging himself in a tank of water for twenty-four hours in the middle of Times Square. I was wrestling at Madison Square Garden that night, so I told him I’d stop by to lend my support. After the gig I went to the World where he had set up shop, stopping to grab a slice of pizza and a strawberry yogurt first. I walked into the lobby and there he was, submerged in a tank of water. He’d been in the drink for over twelve hours at that point, but when he saw me he waved weakly in my direction. His skin was fish-belly white, and with his mane of jet black hair floating around him he looked like a gothic Luke Skywalker floating in the bacta tank.
I was damn proud of him and gave him a thumbs-up as I took a bite of my delicious pepperoni pizza. He stared back at me glassy-eyed and feebly clawed at the glass that separated us. I figured he was delirious at that point but was probably happy to have a friend to cheer him on. I finished the scrumptious slice of ’za and peeled the tinfoil lid off the yogurt, shielding myself from the inevitable storm of tiny strawberry splotches that followed. As I licked them off my fingers, Criss kept staring longingly at me, and even though it was starting to get a little creepy, I gave him the A-OK sign. I took a big spoonful of the delectable dessert, and just as I put it to my lips, a hairy arm slapped on my shoulder and dragged me around the corner.
I looked up as a burly guy with a mustache (Eli Cottonwood represent yo) got in my face.
“What the hell are you doing? You can’t stand there in front of Criss eating! He’s been in that tank for twelve hours … he’s starving in there and you’re taunting him!” I sheepishly threw my yogurt in the trash and waved goodbye to my valiant friend whom I’d been torturing for the last ten minutes like a college student in Hostel. Criss gawked at me longingly, and even though he was completely submerged with a scuba mask on, I’m pretty sure I saw him drooling.
* * *
What Fozzy lacked in original material we made up for with our live show. During our concerts we would tell jokes, bring fans onstage for beer-chugging or stage-diving contests, have them sing the choruses and rock the shit out of some of the best rock and roll songs of all time. After doing enough jumping, running, and headbanging to make the cast of Celebrity Fit Club sweat, I would always close the show with the same farewell to the faithful:
“We are Fozzy and We Are Huge Rock Stars!!”
I’d learned from wrestling that to market yourself, you needed a great catchphrase, and we had found ours. We expanded from two guitar players to three and for a short period we boasted the first ever four-guitar lineup when Andy Sneap, a Grammy-winning (Petty Author’s Note: It was a Swedish Grammy so it barely counts.) producer who had worked with Fozzy and Stuck Mojo, joined us whenever he was available.
Sneap became Lord Edgar Bayden Powell, a direct descendant of King Arthur. His stage garb consisted of a full-body chain-mail outfit that made him look like one of the Knights Who Say Ni. Rich liked having him in the band because he was a good friend and a good guitar player. I liked having him in the band because he liked to drink.
Over the years, I had been bestowed with the nickname of Drunkicho, due to a complete personality change whenever I got really loaded. Drunkicho was famous for throwing glasses against the wall, insulting anyone who got in his way, and generally acting like a barmy buffoon no matter the situation. Quite frankly, Drunkicho was an idiot.
After a gig in Charlotte, Sneap and Drunkicho went out on the town and ended up in a diner for a late-night grease meal. Covering the walls were dozens of eight-by-ten photos of various celebrities who had eaten there over the years, and much to my amusement I noticed that one of those eight-by-tens was mine. In my state of intoxication, I decided that because my picture was on the wall, I could do whatever I wanted in that establishment. I hopped up on my table and proclaimed myself the “King of the Diner,” and threw my water glass against the wall to christen it. This led to Sneap and me getting into an argument over whether Canadians or Englishmen could drink more. Eventually, I started throwing punches around and preaching from my chair. Sneap tackled me and we rolled back and forth under tables and over the other patrons’ feet, knocking plates off of tables and laughing like imbeciles. Finally, the owner threatened to call the cops if we didn’t stop.
I have no idea where I was or what I’m doing here … which was standard operating procedure whenever Drunkicho showed up.
“It’s okay,” I stammered matter-of-factly as Sneap poured a packet of sugar over my head. “My picture is on the wall!”
; “Not anymore,” the owner said, and he hurled the frame at my chest.
The Duke and Andy Sneap onstage live in 2001. Rich loved playing with Sneap and I loved drinking with him.
Sneap and I spent the rest of the night driving around our hotel in circles while honking the horn in time with the radio.
The ridiculosity continued after one of our gigs at the World, when one of the bouncers told us about another club he worked at. It was 2:30 a.m. when Sneap, Willis, myself, and Paul Gargano, the editor of Metal Edge magazine, stumbled into the biggest gay bar in New York City.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
So an Englishman, a Canadian, and an American walk into a gay bar and begin to move to the music. It sounds like a bad party joke, I know, but let me assure you that there was nothing bad about the brilliance of the dance that followed.
Surrendering to the beat, we let the music take us away on a magical mystery tour and started performing moves so provocative, even Adam Lambert would cover his eyes in embarrassment. I did an old-school electric boogaloo, moonwalking and pirouetting like Baryshnikov on crack. Sneap spun on his back as Gargano held his legs and turned him. The three of us joined hands and did a chorus line kicking routine that would’ve made the Rockettes jealous—and we had better legs.
We jived when it was time to jive, discoed when it was time to disco, and African anteater ritualed when it was time to African anteater ritual. The three of us were James Brown during the T.A.M.I. Show, Michael Jackson during the 1983 AMAs, and Pee-wee Herman during Pee-wee’s Big Adventure all rolled into one. The crowd formed a circle around us, clapping in unison and hanging on our every move, as haters skulked away realizing they couldn’t keep up with our brilliance. We evacuated the dance floor faster than Cascada ever could, and no man (and there were plenty of them there) could match us. We reveled in our ritual of interpretive blood, sweat, and tears until it was time for the grand finale. While Sneap and Gargano stood side by side in a half crouch, I did a running roll and sprang up with both of my feet landing solidly on each of their thighs. At that moment we were golden Gods; a perfect human pyramid basking in the glory of the standing ovation provided by our newfound fans. Then we took a bow and walked the fuck out of their lives forever.
Undisputed: How to Become World Champion in 1,372 Easy Steps Page 10
