Bringing Metal To The Children: The Complete Berserker’s Guide to World Tour Domination. Rob Zombie
style. We are stranded in a lifeboat in the middle of the fucking Atlantic. We’ve got food and water for three days. We can all fucking bitch and moan about it or start fucking paddling—there is no argument. Shut the fuck up, get it fuckin’ done, or die. So after that little Black Label/General Patton pep talk, the comedy tour was about to begin.
Now, like I said, after two commercially unsuccessful albums, then being let go by a major record label, in the business I was viewed as a bust, a failure, washed up, damaged goods, a has-been, done, or whatever word you want to use for “Go fuck yourself, douche.” And I completely understand it. As a businessman on the outside looking at me, how could you not think that? The way I looked at it was, the Appetite for Destruction first-album success didn’t happen. The road in front of me was going to be rougher, bumpier, colder, stormier, a flat-out pain in the fucking ass. So fucking what. I’ve been with Barb for twenty-six years and we have three kids—and you’re gonna scare me with this horseshit? Go away and come back when you got something real. Victory is for the fucking brave, not the timid and excuse-riddled weak. And like I’ve said, a lion is a fucking lion and does not need to be told, or reminded, what it is and what it has to do. So roll up your sleeves, hike up your skirt, and let the balls—or in my case, labia—that the good Lord gave you hang down, and get to fucking work.
Excuse Me, Mr. Wylde, Would You Like to Eat Some Ass?
SO NOW THE SUCKING-DICK, EATING-ASS, “CAN YOU PLEASE GIVE ME A record deal, mister, pretty please?” bullshit began. It is rather amazing how within a few short years, you could go from golden child to damaged goods—to the point where no chick wants to fuck you because your dick is so covered with herpes, gonorrhea, crabs, and whatever pus is slowly dripping out of the head of your cock (which we will also discuss later; I told you rock ’n’ roll was a rather odd religion—these types of things are actually applauded as opposed to frowned upon). In my case, whoever would actually pick up or return a phone call, me and Barbaranne took a meeting with them.
Now, these record companies and promoters—the first thing I tell them is, “Look, I know you don’t give one cunting-flying-fucking rat’s ass about me. And I don’t give a fuck about you. I don’t need birthday fucking cards sent to me, the wife, and the kids to show you care. Although I appreciate all the thought that went into the anniversary card you got for me and Barb that folds out into a twelve-inch cock. I will most definitely use it on Barb to create a true Hallmark moment. I know I’m a fucking piece of cattle, and I mean fucking money. I get it. All I ask of you is that you do your end of the fucking deal and I’ll do mine. And that’s that. This way, if things don’t work out, it’s just business, nothing personal, and we can still be friends and move on.”
Remember how I mentioned unimportant people making important decisions? Anyway, I’m at one of these record company fucking meetings, where this fucking Einstein unleashes these words of musical wisdom to enlighten me as, I know, I’m a clueless dumb motherfucker who’s never been to the dance before. He says to me, “Zakk, you know this whole Viking-Jesus’s-biker-henchman thing you’ve got going on?”
I said, “Yeah, you forgot to throw in the fact that we bake all the cookies that the fucking Girl Scouts sell. What about it?”
“Well, I was thinking, if you changed the image of the band to maybe more of a Limp Bizkit type of thing, that would definitely help.”
I didn’t know whether he was making a fucking joke or he wanted me to knock his fucking teeth out, or see if I could cave his fucking skull in with my Wesco mining boots. I was like, “You’re fucking joking, right?”
“No, I think it would really help,” he said.
“Hold on a minute, you mean to tell me that if I put on a backward fucking baseball cap, throw on some baggy motherfucking clothes, a pair of fucking Vans, and start rapping “Yo yo yo”—that’s gonna fucking fix everything? Are you out of your fucking mind? Are we supposed to make believe that I never fucking played with Ozzy? Instead of being proud of the fact that I stood in the same spot as my hero Randy Rhoads and shared the same stage with my hero and mentor Ozzy, I’m supposed to be embarrassed of where I came from? Fuck you, douche! And fuck Limp Bizkit! I’m in Black motherfucking Label Society!!! Why don’t you just take your fucking record company, and Limp Bizkit, and cram it up your fucking cunt sideways.”
Needless to say, that meeting didn’t pan out as well as expected.
So that’s where the Black Label war on Limp Bizkit began. Right then and there I felt like my whole musical existence had been attacked and fired upon. He could have mentioned any other band that was popular and that I should be more like, but he said Limp Bizkit. If they are responsible for the trend that means Black Label won’t taste victory, then they must be fucking destroyed!!! I kid you not, this was my complete fucking mind-set, as I felt it was kill or be killed. So during every Black Label mass after this record company meeting, “Limp Bizkit sucks fucking dick!” became the war oath as the Black Label armada rolled on seething strength from one Black Label mass to the next and refused to be denied. That’s why I’ve always said Black Label is not a band, it’s a mentality where lions gather and adversity is the fucking air we breathe.
As far as the Limp Bizkit guys go, I’ve never met them. Guys who have worked with them or roll with them have said to me, “They are all super-cool guys and good people.” God bless them. Any band saying they wouldn’t want a smidgen of their success is full of shit. I’ve never wished bad on anyone in my life (except for JD, obviously), as it takes away from your concentrating on getting the fucking job done that’s in front of you. And if they are complete fucking cunts, just forget their existence altogether. Instead of wasting my time thinking about some douchebag, I would rather have Barbaranne suck me off and fist me, preparing me for my next prostate exam, to ensure that I have a clean bill of health, so I can continue to play this magickal music—which makes me feel like a giddy little schoolgirl—called rock ’n’ roll.
But if Limp Bizkit was in the same position as I was thirteen years ago, during the birth of the almighty Black Label in 1998, I’d expect nothing different from them if some record company know-it-all douche who obviously knew what was best for them and probably isn’t in the music business anymore said the same thing to them. Here we are thirteen years later with our Black Label family growing stronger and stronger, and Order of the Black entered the Billboard charts at number four. Now let’s say some record company guy tells the fellas in Limp Bizkit, “Guys, your shtick is getting old. That was thirteen years ago. Maybe if you dressed more like . . . Black Label? They have a number four album!” I’d expect them to say, “Black Label can suck my left fucking ball! We’re Limp fucking Bizkit, asshole!”
You think I’m joking but established artists who have sold millions of records have fucking idiots who don’t even know who’s in the fucking band or anything about their past telling them what kind of music they should be playing or what kind of clothes they should be wearing. Always remember—play what you love and what moves you. And have a set of fucking balls and don’t be afraid to stick up for yourself. I’ve been put in positions where I’ve felt uncomfortable about doing something, and in the end they pretty much all turned out with me asking myself, “Why the fuck did I listen to that asshole?” If you believe in what you are doing, those beliefs are yours, and not anybody else’s, to change.
Weekend at Bernie’s
A BUDDY OF MINE TOLD ME WHEN HE WAS WORKING AT SOME RECORD company that they were about to release a new Jimi Hendrix album of lost tapes of Jimi snoring or stubbing his fucking toe, or God knows whatever else they could find recordings of Jimi doing—brushing, flossing, mowing his lawn, eating potato chips, you get the idea. So the record company was having its weekly boardroom meeting discussing the battle plan of how they were going to promote the new Jimi Hendrix offering. Everybody was firing off ideas, bouncing them off each other, when in walks a twenty-two-year-old girl who works for the label. She says to everybody at the table, “I’m going to book Mr. Hendrix’s flights and take care of