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

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СКАЧАТЬ Mjöllnir, and she has given it many endearing nicknames—bather of conquest, hole puncher, rod god, labia stretcher . . . you get the idea.

      To get ready for battle, the Berzerkers would lose their fucking minds by powering down fistfuls of hallucinogenic mushrooms and buckets of booze spiked with a spice called bog myrtle. This battle brew was known to maximize aggressive behavior but left them with massive hangovers. The Berzerkers also drank wolf’s blood, believing that it helped to really kick in the frenzy.

      Raging, alcohol-fueled warriors with relentless determination, battling in the name of the Metal god Odin—yeah, that was something our boozed-up, pilled-up brothers and sisters heading out to their children’s school PTA meetings could get behind. The Berzerker moniker fuels our pursuit of wreaking havoc across the globe, tearing new assholes, stealing farmers’ daughters, and drinking all the towns’ whiskey—just to live up to our merciless Viking namesakes.

      

      Note from Zakk: Listen, don’t literally go around wreaking havoc, tearing new assholes—as opposed to old assholes—stealing farmers’ daughters, or whatever other goofy-ass shit Father Eric is talking about here that might get your ass kicked, killed, or put in jail. Don’t listen to Father Eric here. Eric is a fucking idiot, okay? We love him. But he’s an idiot nonetheless. Trust me, he has never done any of the ridiculous bullshit he’s talking about here—maybe with his GI Joe doll collection, but that’s about it. Why do you think he doesn’t have a girlfriend? What chick in her right mind is ever gonna hook up with a guy talking stupid shit like this with a GI Joe doll hanging out of his back pocket? Don’t be like Eric. Which literally means: Don’t be a fucking idiot.

      P.S. Love you, buddy! :)

      

      Bleeding Black Label

      JAPAN, 1991: I WAS WITH OZZY FOR THE NO MORE TEARS TOUR. One insane night, while firing off some really heavy riffs next to the Boss, I swear Odin came straight down from Valhalla and shot a fucking lightning bolt right up my ass. It was either that or I got shocked by my own gear, and since this is my book I’m going with the Viking story. I mean really, for all you know I could have been zapped backstage in the dressing room while plugging in my makeup kit to apply some rouge before the show. Just pay attention, I’m only five sentences into my book and we’re all over the fuckin’ map with it already.

      There I was onstage, pummeling through these heavy fucking jams with Oz and the guys, getting zapped in the rectum, and then the vision came to me. All of a sudden I saw the crowd not as what they were but as what they would become—a legion of Berzerkers, or as my manager would prefer to call them, “cash crops with legs.” And as Ozzy and I continued blasting out songs from No Rest for the Wicked, No More Tears, and some of the works of genius that Lord Iommi, Saint Rhoads, and Father Lee blessed us with, I could not stop these electrified visions. And neither could my manager, as he was already making phone calls to place a down payment on a new mansion in Malibu. One second I was looking at a row of cheerful fans, singing along to these musical masterpieces of doom and head-banging to the complete Armageddon of Metal, the next second I was looking on as my manager placed his order for a new Maserati, loaded to the hilt with all the options. The audience looked like a horde of battle-ready Vikings awaiting the command to attack. As I was cranking the shit out of my Marshall wall of doom I could see on the horizon the day of the Berzerker Nation. That was the first night I was drawn into the OdinForce and the first night my manager was drawn into the nearest Prudential real estate brokerage. It also dawned on me during this pinnacle moment of genius that not only do cowboys like Jon Bon Jovi come from New Jersey, but Vikings are from New Jersey as well—along with a high teen pregnancy rate and an even higher involvement with alcohol and getting high by inhaling Freon.

      The further we got into our show, the more I could see the Berzerker Metal madness grow, as well as the sheer enlightenment and joy on my accountant and manager’s faces, not so much over the mountains of Valhalla, but over the mountains of potential earnings and 401(k) contributions, as they envisioned paychecks that dwarfed anything they had conceived of. The thought of the piles upon piles of dollars upon dollars set their eyes gleaming like the stars on Orion’s Belt. I was literally blinded by their money-grubbing glares, and the audience was illuminated by the intensity. Each and every fan had an inner warrior, armed and ready to explode into a frenzy of rock ’n’ roll–infused destruction and debauchery. Wait . . . Is this a rock show I’m talking about or the Festivus miracle going on inside my wife Barbaranne’s baby-maker? It wasn’t about me, it was about bringing all Metal fans into one family, one horde, one society, and one womb. All of us joining forces against the world in hopes of keeping JD out of the unemployment line—a line in which he has spent most of his adult life.

      And so began the almighty Black Label Society.

      And much like Jimmy Page was called upon by the spirit of the dark poet Aleister Crowley to lead mass services in the name of Rock, I was called upon by my boss, the produce manager of Fine Fair, to restock the Granny Smith apples before I clocked out for my ten-minute break. Jimmy is a living god, and much more than just a guitar player. He conjured his art on the guitar, but he also took the lead as a songwriter, producer, mixing engineer, and art director—his band was his baby, his calling. Playing in the Yardbirds put him on the map, but it didn’t sum him up as an artist. Jimmy wandered deep into the forest of dark souls to master his craft and create the heart that would one day beat in the name of Led Zeppelin. His journey was otherworldly. Unlike my journey, from the stockroom to the produce aisles. From Pope Page’s conversations with Crowley in the netherworld, he gathered the ingredients he needed to brew the mind-altering compositions that live on today. And from my direct order from the produce manager, I gathered the freshest and greenest Granny Smith apples I could obtain from the produce gods in the back of the store.

      

      Note from Zakk: Again . . . “Forest of dark souls”? “Netherworld”? I have no fuckin’ idea what the fuck Eric is writing about here. Gimme a fucking break—the guy just loved music. We’ll let Father Eric run with his illustrious bullshit though, since he is a Black Label brother—and I use the term brother in the loosest way. I do, however, still enjoy a fine Granny Smith apple from time to time. Try them with caramel, kids, and if you want to really live on the edge, combine it with peanuts—its netherworldly.

      

      Page formed his band, a concept far greater than himself, and they circled the earth, converting ordinary masses to his rock ’n’ roll religion. And let me tell you, it’s quite the religion—what the fuck this religion advocates is completely wacked. I’ll just say this—morals and overall cleanliness don’t rank too high in this religion. Anyway, moving on . . . So this is what the Nordic gods intended for the Berzerkers and what one cattle-prodding deity beckoned for me to create . . . one global nation of merciless motherfuckers intact with all the insanity and comedy one could possibly hope for.

      The Berzerker Empire was founded upon the most important elements of life: God, family, music, and fearless drinking—unlike my manager, whose foundation is Satan, selfishness, dead silence, number crunching, and the utter fear of ending up spiritually broken and penniless. Hold on a second, my manager has no fucking spirit. In fact, he’s completely soulless when it comes to pillaging the pockets, wallets, and purses of anyone he comes in contact with. And that, kids, is exactly why I hired him. It didn’t take long for the concept to progress, for the good word to spread, and for people to gather. Although the foundations of Black Label are expressed in the music, the message is much deeper than drinking and listening to epic tunes. It is greater than the band and the show. It is a family, a brotherhood, a unity, a mind-set, and a way of life. And as long as the money keeps rolling in, management, record companies, and whoever else is on the Black Label payroll will let me believe СКАЧАТЬ