Mustaine: A Life in Metal. Dave Mustaine

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СКАЧАТЬ never heard of. The first version of Metal Massacre was released in June, and within a month we found ourselves in a studio, working with a record company executive by the name of Kenny Kane. This guy owned a punk label and apparently had gotten the impression that Metallica would somehow appeal to the label’s demographic, so he offered us a chance to record an EP. When he heard the tapes, well, I guess he wasn’t thrilled, since (obviously) Metallica was not a punk band. He withdrew the offer and we kept the tapes. The resulting demo, titled No Life Till Leather, consisted of seven songs: “Hit the Lights,” “Mechanix,” “Phantom Lord,” “Jump in the Fire,” “Motorbreath,” “Seek and Destroy,” and “Metal Militia.”

      I was the primary writer on four of those songs: “Mechanix,” “Phantom Lord,” “Jump in the Fire,” and “Metal Militia.” Without meaning to sound bitter, it’s important to note that this demo, which provided the spark for the underground phenomenon that Metallica became, stands as a rather indisputable piece of evidence in the war between those who think my contributions to the band were significant (Megadeth fans, mainly) and those who don’t (Metallica fans). When Metallica released its first album, in 1983, all four of those songs were included (although “Mechanix” had been reworked and given a new title, “The Four Horsemen,” I still received a writing credit).

      No Life Till Leather became our calling card, and we used it to build an audience from L.A. to San Francisco. We had no formal contract, no means of distributing songs, but that was far from an insurmountable obstacle. Tapes were copied and passed around, and pretty soon we were playing in front of fans who knew the words to our songs, which I have to tell you is about as thrilling a thing as a young rock star can experience. We were getting better and we knew it.

      We also were completely out of control. I will never deny that I was a handful in those days. I was aggressive, driven, and unpredictable, and I drank way too much. But so did everyone else in the band. We practically lived in our cars, driving up and down the coast, drinking before and after rehearsals and gigs. It wasn’t unusual for one or more members of the band to pass out during those trips and wake up to discover that his face or body had been painted. We shared homes, money, equipment, drugs, alcohol, girls. It was a life of utter decadence (and at times one hell of a lot of fun). For all of us.

      The difference, and I suppose it is an important distinction, is that we were different types of drunks. I was often an angry, hostile drunk; Lars and James were happy drunks. Harmless, for the most part, although their antics were juvenile.

      As word of No Life Till Leather spread, so too did our reputation. We found ourselves spending increasing amounts of time on the road, driving up and down the coast between L.A. and San Francisco. Invariably, those trips became exercises in humiliation. On every trip, it seemed like someone’s shoes would be tossed out the back of our truck, just so Lars or James could watch them get pissed off. If they had treated me that way, I would have left.

      Admittedly, the person I was onstage—pissed off, trying to play my guitar so fast that it would nearly burn my fingers—was not far from who I was off the stage. When I drank, I would often get combative. I didn’t always go looking for a fight, but I certainly never walked away from one. Even when it involved my friends and bandmates.

      Prior to the formation of Metallica, I’d bought a couple dogs to dissuade people from breaking into my house (which had happened on occasion, in part because of my “business” interests). These were formidable pups—Staffordshire terriers (which are similar to pit bulls) cross-bred with Rhodesian ridgebacks—and they quite naturally scared the shit out of most people. But they were also very affectionate and loyal, and I cared for them immensely. When I traveled to Ron’s house for rehearsal, or to a gig, I’d usually leave them behind to protect the house. Sometimes, though, one of the dogs would keep me company. One day in the summer of 1982, I drove to rehearsal, and when I let the dog out of the car she began running around. Dogs do that when they’ve been cooped up for a while. At some point the female jumped up on the front quarter panel of Ron’s car, a beautiful Pontiac GTO, prompting James to give the dog a hard kick across its chest. The dog (she was still just a puppy) let out a yelp and scampered away.

      And I went nuts.

      “What are you doing?”

      “She’s scratching the car, man,” James said, as if that was an acceptable excuse for kicking a dog.

      “Fuck you!”

      The actual fight didn’t happen right there. They call it a hang fire, like when there’s an unexpected delay between the trigger of a gun being pulled and the actual discharge of the weapon. You know it’s coming, and there’s no stopping it. It’s just a matter of time. James and I alternately cursed at each other and refused to speak, until eventually we were both in Ron’s house, preparing to rehearse, and tensions boiled over. There was another round of accusations and insults, more cursing, more threats.

      “You keep talking like that, I’m going to punch you in the mouth,” I said.

      “Fuck off!”

      In the middle of this exchange, Ron walked out of the bathroom and into the living room. He and James went way back, and despite the fact that James often treated him like shit, Ron instinctively defended his friend.

      “You hit him, you’ll have to hit me first.”

      “Shut up and sit the fuck down,” I said.

      And then James jumped to Ron’s defense. “You touch him, you’re going to have to hit me first.”

      Jesus, I thought, what is this, some kind of fucking game show?

      I realized I would have to make a decision.

      “Okay, you win,” I said, and with that I threw a right cross that landed flush against James’s face, turning his mouth into a pile of bloody Chiclets. To my surprise, Ron immediately jumped on my back. Reflexively, I gave him a hip toss; he flew across the room and landed on an entertainment center, sending shards of particleboard all over the place and destroying the old Pong video game hooked up to the TV. The fight might have gone on longer if not for the presence of my friend and martial arts training partner Rick Solis, who quickly intervened. I was enraged, ready to kill both Ron and James, when Rick came up from behind and grabbed my elbow, pinching the ulnar nerve and rendering me incapacitated.^* We stood there together for a moment, saying nothing, when suddenly James began screaming at me.

      “You’re out of the band! Get the fuck out of here!”

      Ron was yelling, too. Lars, meanwhile, was standing in a corner, just sort of twirling his hair, and trying unsuccessfully to mediate a settlement. “Come on, man…I don’t want it to end this way.”

      “Fuckyou! I quit!”

      “Good! Fuck you, too!”

      

      WHILE OUR DISAGREEMENTS had never reached this level of intensity, it should be noted that by this time Metallica was already a band struggling with personality conflicts. Each of us was guilty of pointing the finger of blame at one time or another. My job was safe, as far as I could tell, although obviously I’d failed to assess the situation properly.

      The dismissal lasted roughly twenty-four hours. I returned for rehearsal the next day, apologized to everyone, and was welcomed back into the fold. Everything was fine. Except it wasn’t. Some things can’t be undone, and this was one of them. In many ways, it was the beginning of the end. Ron and СКАЧАТЬ