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

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СКАЧАТЬ about marijuana were from the Vietnam generation. They knew fucking nothing about drugs.

      That said, Karen brought home this drug-riddled motherfucker she had met at the Playboy estate. I’ve never seen anyone polish off as much booze as this motherfucker! He literally cleaned out the liquor cabinet that was usually reserved for fifty people coming over for the holidays. Later in life I learned that any of my friends who did do cocaine could fuckin’ drink until the cows came home and never cop a buzz! They could drink all fuckin’ night, drink Jack Daniel out of booze if they had enough cocaine to hold the story—a Titanic full of fuckin’ whiskey—and not even get the least bit sloppy.

      So this cat was telling my folks that he was a producer and about how he was making a record at the time. These were big words flyin’ around for my mom, her being in showbiz and having a sixteen-year-old son who played the guitar. Obviously my mom jumped at the opportunity to let him know that her son played the guitar. And he instantly invited me to be on his record.

      I had never been in a recording studio before. I had always dreamed about being a professional musician, but I never had a clue how to make that happen. And now my mom had just booked my first gig. I figured this, the recording studio, was where all my dreams were about to come true, where all the “magick” happened, where the Wizard of fuckin’ Oz existed, and this Dorothy was on her way to the Emerald City.

      Jerry gave me the address and the date and told me to meet him at this place to record some guitar tracks. So me and Barbaranne, now my wife and mother of our three children, made the excursion up north toward the Poconos and ended up getting to this big-ass mansion-type house. I grabbed my amplifier and guitar, we knocked on the door, and it was opened by this guy with his dick hangin’ down to his fuckin’ knee! He was completely naked, and Barb was standing there staring at this guy’s schlong!

      “Do you want some of that?” I asked her.

      “Yeah,” she said, “you go play with your guitar and I’ll play with this massive pussy-gaping cock of his.” It’s moments like these that reassured me of my deep penetrating love for Barbaranne. Good times indeed.

      Despite Dirk Diggler and his dangling dong show, we still went into the house, not really knowing what to expect. The next thing you know, we saw people fucking everywhere! It was like we had just walked onto the set of Caligula—people were on the floor, on couches, even up on the tables, just fucking everywhere.

      We were led into this room where a full-on recording studio had been built. Not only was the studio outfitted with a nice-looking mixing board, but the console came complete with a rock ’n’ roll–sized mountain of cocaine piled up at the end of it. It looked as if Scarface was engineering the damn thing on a porn set.

      Once again I found myself staring at this fucking cokehound Jerry, still sweating profusely, like he was in the fuckin’ Sahara desert or something. Mind you, the air-conditioning was blasting, and to me and Barb it felt like we were in a meat locker, but this guy was still sweating his fucking balls off. That’s what happens when you’re gacked to the motherfucking gills.

      It turned out that the record was for Ginger Lynn, a famous porn star—she was basically the Jenna Jameson of her time. They were trying to have Ginger cross over from porn into music, you know, and have her become the next Madonna. Well there I was, my first “professional” recording session ever (since I got paid for it), and I was knocking out tracks for a porn star’s album.

      We laugh about that now, and the funniest thing is that my mother was the one who sent me, her son, to the gig! I can hear her now, saying shit like, “Oh, my little Jeffrey is making a record! I’m so proud of my Jeffrey . . . ,” as she sent her son out on a quest to the land of cock and balls, and pussy and ass and tits—cum and cocaine everywhere. “That’s my boy!” Mind you, Barb couldn’t walk a straight line for two weeks after that. Once again—good times indeed.

      Welcome to the wonderful fucking world of Metal.

      Yay, I’m on my way! I’m gonna make it!

      Congratulations, asshole,

      Zakk

      To my Brothers and Sisters, Berzerkers and Berzerkerettes, for the Immortal Beloved sayeth, do we not reside in Asgard?! For the immortal strength of the OdinForce shall carry them to victory and make all of Asgard Proud! And we shall celebrate with drink and feast, another glorious day in our holy lands, brimming with the enlightenment and enchantment of Rock.

      And whilst I break away from the highest peaks of Valhalla, where I forge the Metal of the Gods, after once I hammer the Immortal Beloved with mine crotchal Mjöllnir, thou shalt don thine axe and join me in allegiance as we wage war against the enemy that has brought Vaginal countenance to our sacred rites!

      So shall I return to Asgard victorious or upon mine own shield. And I shall once again drink from the cup and savor the Nectar of the Gods!!! What sayeth thee, mine battle-ready brethren? Shall we march forth in unison to the measures of the sounding drums? For the quakening of the earth is near upon us, and all shall hail the flags of Asgard! Let us beseech the blessing of almighty God as we begin this great and noble Black Label Crusade!

      

      Zakk, you are so cute when you imagine yourself a Viking.

      —BARBARANNE WYLDE

      Note from Zakk: Trust me, I don’t think I’m a fucking Viking. But the fact that everybody keeps throwing this shit in my face ’cause I’ve got long hair and a fucking beard—all the while taking the fucking piss out of me—I guess we’ll just run with it. With all the little chuckles I hear from you motherfuckers, you guys seem to be enjoying yourselves.

      The Berzerkers were the most crazed motherfucking Vikings that ever lived. To give you a little history lesson on these ancient warriors, they fought in a nearly uncontrollable, trancelike fury, much like the Incredible Hulk on a cocktail of steroids and acid. They battled in the name of Odin, chief god of war and ruler of Asgard, one of their mystical Nine Worlds. In battle, many Berzerkers fought bare-chested to prove to the enemy their immunity to iron weapons. And if they had to wear clothes it was surely pelts from bears or wolves. These motherfuckers were fearless and brutal, eating their enemies and toasting with the blood of their foes. On a side note, this kind of behavior also exists in my home. When my wife, Barbaranne, comes at me with an iron weapon, I simply expose my manly chest and she freezes in astonishment. Mind you, it’s probably from my sheer patheticness, but she freezes nonetheless.

      Going “berserk” back then usually happened during the heat of battle, but the condition could also kick in during heavy labor. Men, who were chosen by the OdinForce to become berserk, were capable of crazy, superhuman feats. The condition would begin with tremors, chattering of the teeth, and finally, a deep chill would set in; then their faces would swell up and turn red with fury. These symptoms of mightiness developed into an all-encompassing rage, under which the Berzerkers would howl like wild animals, bite the edges of their shields, and cut down everything and everyone in their paths with their mighty blades, and without discriminating between friend and foe. It took up to several days for Berzerkers to come down from the adrenaline. These warriors were so infamous that many of the Viking kings chose to use Berzerkers as their personal bodyguards. They were so ferocious and uncontrollable that they were even afraid of themselves. And I’m positive that’s СКАЧАТЬ