Bringing Metal To The Children: The Complete Berserker’s Guide to World Tour Domination. Rob Zombie

      In Witness of Unity

      BY ERIC HENDRIKX

      SAN BERNARDINO, 2002: THE BLACK LABEL SOCIETY TOUR bus rolled up to the Blockbuster Pavilion. Within a few hours of their arrival every single ticket holder at the venue was made aware of their presence.

      Sirens pierced through the scorching desert air, instantly setting the tone to one of terror and aggression. It was a warning signal identical to the alarm for incoming air raids heard during the kamikaze attacks on Pearl Harbor. The alarms clutched the attention of every society dweller within their reach. But this time, the alarms were not sounded to warn people that their lives were in danger. Instead they were fired up from the Ozzfest main stage to alert fifty thousand crazy motherfuckers that Black Label Society was about to pummel their eardrums with the Metal sounds of Valhalla. The crowd gathered below the stage with fists and devil horns raised by the thousands in anticipation of the fury about to be unleashed.

      And then it began.

      Draped in denim, leather, and unbreakable chains, the Viking Zakk Wylde, graduate of Jackson Memorial High School in New Jersey, class of 1985, marched to the center of the stage, raising his battle-axe of choice above his head for all to behold, a Bullseye Les Paul guitar. His heavy brow and jaw, Hessian hair (which was washed and double conditioned using Gee, Your Hair Smells Terrific), and paralyzing stare into the eyes of his audience were all testimony to his uncontested command. And while the alarms continued to rupture the air, his band commenced with the pounding of thunderous drums and bass. Taunting guitar harmonies bled through stacks of Marshall cabinets as Wylde and his evil twin guitarist Nick Catanese cranked their Marshalls up and stroked their first chords.

      “How many of you motherfuckers believe in rock ’n’ fuckin’ roll?”

      The San Bernardino Berzerkers roared as Zakk yelled back, “So do I! And that’s why I still live at home with my mommy and dada, and occasionally sleep on the floor of my buddy Andy’s van—down by the river!”

      The crowd roared like a pride of lions as the band tore into what sounded like war between the gods of Olympus and Titans of Tartarus.

      The mosh pit beneath the stage flowed with reckless abandon. Berzerkers who populated the circling masses of Metalheads had donned the same attire as the band. Their black leather and denim, with BLS emblazoned upon their clothing in Old English lettering, was testimony to their loyalty to the Metal giants before them. Just then, Black Label manager Bob Ringe whipped out his trusty calculator and started counting heads among the sea of Black Label T-shirts, headbands, and vests—and started to beam with sheer unbridled enthusiasm, knowing he was that much closer to purchasing a forty-thousand-square-foot home sitting atop beachfront property in Malibu.

      The band began doom-trooping into “Battering Ram,” “Graveyard Disciples,” “Bleed For Me”—as each song merged into the next, Wylde challenged the Black Label family to raise the bar and bleed even more. Mosh pits formed by the crowds throughout the modern Colosseum. “13 Years of Grief,” “Demise of Sanity”—the open lawn of the venue looked like a dusty swarm of locusts where hordes of moshers circled to the hostile rhythms of the music.

      Wylde’s fixation was unbreakable as he ripped through guitar solos with precision and speed. One hand continued to play while the other worked to empty a can of beer down his throat, foaming down his long beard, all over his clothing, before he crushed the can into his forehead and chucked it into the crowd. His voice could be heard for miles as he delivered line after line of his lyrics through the main stage’s PA system.

      Leading in with his wicked bass line, Trujillo fired up the anthem of the Berzerkers as Wylde pierced the ear canals of his listeners, screaming, “Let me hear you, motherfuckers!” and then went into the final jam before hurling his guitar into the sky, allowing its inevitable crash into the stage floor. Feedback and resonance struck listeners as the band took its exit.

      And as I wiped the dirty sweat and blood from my eyes and brow, I gazed around at the rest of the moshers in the pit with whom I’d shared the last forty-five minutes of physical chaos, forever bonding with those who also beamed with pride and sonic satisfaction. My colors were soaked with the sweat and blood of hundreds of other diehards who had joined in the success of what just took place. We looked like we had emerged from the trenches of a desert war, having just survived a fury of colliding bodies and flailing limbs, animated by the sounds of Black Label Society. Our union was much more than that of ordinary fans. We were Berzerkers.

      Note from Zakk: By the way, this bullshit about me throwing my fucking guitar in the air and it coming crashing down is an utter load of garbage . . . never fucking happened. Like the majority of this waxed-poetic load of bullshit—“emerged from the trenches of a desert war”? Here’s my question: When was the last fucking time Eric got laid? And did he write this crap in between playing with his Star Wars dolls or whatever make-believe shit he comes up with when he’s all by himself? One word: wow.

      World Tour Survival Technique: Play What You Love and What Moves You

      IT’S SAFE TO SAY THAT A LARGE NUMBER OF YOU BERZERKERS ARE NOT only interested in learning about my majestic world of Metal, you are also interested in carving a slice of this musical beast for yourself. That is to say, you play guitar or another instrument of rock, and you plan to attempt some global domination of your own. My first words of advice for you are: Don’t Do It, Save Yourself, Run for Your Life, Turn in Your Badge, Sell the Farm, Run and Pray! That’s what I opted to do when I realized that I would be surrounded by JDesus and his odor for the rest of my life—but to no avail, as his stench still permeates the buses, hotel rooms, and stages wherever I go. However, if you decide to travel down the same imminent Road of Doom that I have, a road of countless back-door reamings, sleepless delirium, and tour buses that smell like prison ass, then I have a few pointers to help you out along the way.

      People always ask me, “Hey, Zakk, got any advice for me or my kid about starting a band?”

      Yeah, here’s some advice—play what you love and what moves you. The running joke, I always say, when me and the rest of my Black Label brethren have driven thirty hours, crossed the sea in a ferry for another seven hours, and arrived in some rat-and-piss-infected shithole, is you better love the music, ’cause sometimes the music doesn’t love you.

      But getting back to playing what you love and what moves you—it sounds easy, right? Well it ain’t.

      I knew a guy, a friend of mine, who would basically change his image more often than I change the blades in the razor to shave my wife’s back, chest, and stomach hair. (Barb told me this is the norm so she probably won’t mind that I mention it here.) In the eighties, when the whole Hair Metal thing was going on, the guy threw on the full look: the big hair, bright clothes, and leather jacket—the works. Then when grunge hit, he switched it up to the flannel shirts and beanies and shit. When the Green Day thing hit, I shit you not, I saw him cruisin’ with a green fuckin’ Mohawk! (This is also something I considered for my wife’s back, chest, and stomach as she looks fantastic in green—it really brings out the color in her eyes.) As each phase of music came and went, so did my buddy’s personal style. He had no real identity of his own or belief in what music he enjoyed listening to, let alone playing.

      If you’re doing that shit, you’re pretty much startin’ out a day late and a dollar short. When Hair Metal was big, the grunge guys, like Alice in Chains and Soundgarden, were already doing their thing. When grunge came in, the Green Day guys were already being who they are and playing their music. All of these