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

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      “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 all of his travel arrangements. Does anybody know where he prefers to stay?”

      My buddy said there was dead silence, and then they broke out dying laughing. The girl handling the travel asked, “What the fuck is so funny?” Then she said, “When you find out where he likes to stay, let me fucking know because I have to book this shit.”

      At least the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders have to take a test on the history of the Cowboys’ players and its franchise history. That’s why the music business is so fucking awesome—you don’t even have to know the name of the deceased person you’re working for! Being involved in this shit truly is a gift that keeps on giving.

      At the end of the day, play what you love and what moves you. Plain and simple. GIFD.

      

      Gotta Promote the Record!

      OVER THE YEARS, GOING TO RADIO AND PROMOTING WHATEVER ALBUM was out at the time has always been a blast. And I’ve met some great people who, whether they’re still in the business or not, when we run into each other again, we always have a great time catching up, laughing our asses off telling war stories. Now here’s another gem of radio fucking comedy.

      The record company and their radio staff people are the absolute fucking best when they get all jacked up. Especially the radio people in their market or territory, when we are gonna pay them a visit with our cuddliness, compiled with the sheer adorableness of the fucking grand whatever-the-fuck-it-is that we bring to the table. Anyway, at one particular radio station we visited up in the Pacific Northwest, in walks the radio guy or gal from the label, and my brother-in-law and tour manager, and fearless field general, much akin to General George S. Patton—Father Mark Ferguson—along with the general of the Black Label guitar army, Moby. And then there’s the wonderful blond-bomber douchebag—me.

      So basically the game plan is that I will tantalize them all with my unbelievable fucking greatness, push the album, and bless them with a Carnegie Hall–worthy performance, and in turn they will be so abso-fucking-lutely blown away that they just have to add the single to their playlist! Right? Oh, you sad, sad, pathetic little man.

      Now, get this. I jam about three or four unplugged, un-Blackened fucking tunes on the acoustic guitar and piano, tell them a batch of funny fucking Ozzy and Black Label stories, tell them about how wonderful the new album is and how if you buy it, everything in your life is going to be peachy keen and all the other bullshit that makes life worth living! Mission accomplished, right?

      Here’s the grand prize, kids.

      While Moby was breaking down the gear, and I was taking a piss, Father Fergie was talking with the radio programmer (the guy who decides what does and what doesn’t get played on their radio station) and some of the gang at the station. The programmer guy told Mark, “We love when you Black Label guys come down to the station. Zakk tells the funniest stories and we love it when he performs for us. It’s just so awesome!”

      Mark answered, “Yeah, Zakk’s a funny fucker. So listen, boss, are you guys going to spin the single?”

      The guy looked Mark straight in the fucking eyes, everything went silent, and he said, “Ahhhhh . . . No. But anyway, СКАЧАТЬ