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

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СКАЧАТЬ if your life has been sucking balls lately and you’re contemplating committing fucking suicide, trust me, after you hear Father Cornell singing these classics Cornell-style on an acoustic guitar, all of your troubles will just melt away, as your only problem will be trying not to die from fucking laughter. The point is, all of these artists that I mentioned are successful. Whether it’s talent, hard work, luck, or whatever the fuck it is that gets you to Madison Square Garden, there’s one thread that ties all of these artists together—they love and believe what they’re playing. Remember, you gotta play what you love and what moves you. Which brings me to another classic moment in the music business history of unimportant people making important decisions.

      

      Unimportant People Making Important Decisions

      THIS WHIM OF STUPIDITY HAPPENED TO BEFALL ME SOMEWHERE RIGHT around the birth of the almighty Black Label Society.

      At this point, I had signed with Geffen Records after the multiplatinum success of No More Tears with the Boss. I was kind of viewed like a number one draft pick in the NFL—I had all these meetings with all the legendary record company people and everybody in between. It was wonderful, with everybody blowing smoke up my ass and telling me how great I am and asking how one human could possibly contain all the cute and cuddly and flat-out fucking adorable qualities that I possess—and telling me that their record company would be the best home for me.

      When all this goofy business shit was settled, me and Barbaranne decided Geffen Records would become our new residence. So off we rolled into the land of a gazillion records sold, packed sold-out stadiums, private jets, the whole fucking nine yards, right? Not quite. Actually not even fucking close.

      After my first two albums—Pride & Glory and my solo record Book of Shadows, both of which I am still very proud of to this day—didn’t go into the charts at number one and stay there selling more records than Thriller and Back in Black combined, when it came time to do record number three, Geffen bought me out as opposed to me even making another album. As I signed the release contracts with Barbaranne at my side, it was bittersweet. Me and Barb were getting a nice chunk of change for us and the kids to live on for a bit. But I was now viewed as a bust. In the NFL that’s a big number one draft pick that can’t get over the hump and make the transition from college to the pros, or gets injured before he even enters the NFL. At this point, you could say I was a bit of both. So instead of getting fucking pissed off at anybody or feeling fucking sorry for ourselves because me and Barbaranne couldn’t invest in our dream of opening up our own restaurant called Schlongs—which is the opposite of Hooters, where the guys have to be built like brick shithouses with a six- or even an eight-pack of abs, and cocks ten inches and over, where Barbaranne gets to interview them and sleep with each and every one of them, which you’ll read more about in my next book, How to Keep Your High School Sweetheart Happy—what did we do? We went out and took our record buyout money and got our first Rottweiler. I had always wanted a Rott as a kid because they represented strength to me. So we found this little guy with paws bigger than his body, whose birthday was January 14, the same as mine, and he was born in Freedom, Oklahoma, which represented our being free from the Geffen contract, with the world being ours for the taking.

      I named him Dorian after my favorite bodybuilder Dorian Yates, who represented strength not just in his physique and blood-and-guts training style, but in his mentality and mind-set of overcoming injuries and setbacks only to destroy all and everything in his path to conquering six Mr. Olympia titles. So we drove little Dorian home and plotted our next move.

      Like I’ve said, along your musical fucking journey of doom, don’t get pissed to the point where you’re smashing shit, blaming every fucking thing with or without a pulse for why shit didn’t pan out for you—because it does fuck-all. Trust me, I’ve tried it. Not so much blaming other people for my not achieving my goals. I dump all my excuse-riddled pathetic bullshit on my loving wife, Barbaranne. She could very well thank me exclusively for her conversion to Buddhism—serenity now. By the way . . . you’re welcome, Barb.

      Anyways, what I recommend is approaching your problems, or whatever fucking dilemma in life the good Lord places upon your shoulders, head-on in pure Black Label/General Patton 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 СКАЧАТЬ