Shut Up and Give Me the Mic (32 page)

W
ith Jesse born and Twisted Sister’s first album released (albeit available only as an import in the United States), I was sitting on top of the world. Then the news came that we would be touring England, in support of our album, with the band Diamond Head. Today, they are best known for being a major influence on Metallica (who have famously covered a few of their songs); in 1982, they were a popular English metal band, and we were stoked to tour with them.

With our dream of being an international recording and touring rock band finally beginning to be realized, we hit the tristate club circuit one last time, for a big, farewell run of shows. The time had come to officially say good-bye to our longtime, stalwart supporters in the bars before we left in October for good. With an album in the record stores (remember those?) and international stardom on the horizon, every one of those shows was packed to the rafters. Every loyal Twisted fan wanted to see their rock ’n’ roll heroes off. It couldn’t have been more glorious.

Upon finishing our run of club shows, we were readying ourselves to leave on the Diamond Head/Twisted Sister tour, when the bottom fell out of our world.

There had been ongoing delays with Secret Records getting us our plane tickets to the UK, but they always seemed to have a good reason. We had no reason to doubt them, so we continued with
our preparations. Just days before we were scheduled to leave, we received word—Secret Records was unable to put up the tour support for the band. Without their economic backing, we could not afford to do the Diamond Head tour.

It had been incredibly ambitious for this microlabel to sign and import an American rock band. Unlike the Exploited, who all lived “down the road,” Twisted Sister required plane flights, accommodations, ground transportation, per diems, equipment rentals, and more. Bringing us over for the recording of
Under the Blade
, then back again for the Reading Festival, must have pushed the label to its limits. The tour was off. Twisted Sister was facing a long, cold winter ahead.

Without a tour, we had no income. Having just played our big “farewell tour” of the tristate area, we couldn’t very well go back to the clubs for a “Psych! We Were Just Kidding” tour (though that does seem to have worked for Kiss). We did have some money in our war chest, but who knew how long that would last, or even how long it would have to last for?

In October of 1982, only weeks after the birth of my son, I sat with Suzette and Jesse, in our studio apartment, essentially hiding, because everyone thought Twisted Sister was on tour in England. After all my preening about how we were leaving the bar scene behind, I was too embarrassed to have people know the truth. I had no record deal, no shows or tours—and I had no idea what the hell I was going to do next. Twisted Sister had pretty much run out of options. Now what?

AS THE NEW YORK
weather got colder, the band’s spirits took a nosedive. Just when we thought we were finally getting a leg up, we had slipped and fallen to our lowest point ever. Weeks turned to months, and though—remarkably—our ability to draw minimal salaries held out, without an end to our problems in sight, we had no idea for how much longer it would.

But how
were
our salaries holding on? Had we really saved so much cash we could continue to float the whole band and key crew personnel indefinitely? Not quite. Unbeknownst to the band, our
intrepid tour manager, Joe Gerber, feeling our plight, and being one of the most loyal and dedicated people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing, began to put his own money into the band’s coffers so, as the holidays approached, we wouldn’t be quite destitute. It wasn’t that Joe was independently wealthy or anything like that. He had received a small inheritance and was loaning it to the band—no interest; no guarantee of repayment.
¹

Our temporary ability to pay our bills aside, the frustration and anger, already raging inside me, were compounding exponentially.

ONE COLD AND RAINY
, nasty fall day, while Twisted Sister was sitting out those dark months, Suzette and I were out running some errands in our older but mechanically sound and dependable ’76 Mustang. We had just picked up dinner for the night and a cheap video rental (ninety-nine cents!), and as we drove along, safe and warm from the bone-chilling weather outside—a delicious, hot cup of coffee in my hand—I had this wonderful, all-consuming feeling of contentment. Our healthy newborn son was in his car seat, I had a precious few dollars in my pocket, and somehow the bills for our studio apartment were miraculously paid (thanks, Joe Gerber) for another month . . . and I realized that this was
it.
That intangible thing we all struggle to find and achieve . . . was right here. I realized that it’s not money or success, fame or extravagant worldly possessions.
It
is all around us, all the time . . . we’re just so busy looking for some big, significant moment, thing, or “sign,” we don’t even see
it
. This would be the feeling I would fight to re-create the rest of my life. If I could die with this feeling, I would go a happy man. I knew from that point on that all the things I was so desperately struggling for were merely the icing on the cake. No doubt it would
make, did make, and has made my life that much better, but it all would be nothing without
it
. Before I had even come close to making my mark in the entertainment business, or realizing my rock-star dreams, I had already achieved my life’s goal. I’d found
it.
So know that throughout the rest of this tale, I was never without the joy, warmth, and love of my amazing wife and children. I am blessed. They are my everything; I am
nothing
without them.

IN NOVEMBER OF 1982
, a couple of disturbing articles came out in
Sounds
and
Kerrang!
One was an interview with the Finnish band Hanoi Rocks, the other with fellow American metallurgists Manowar. Hanoi Rocks—another makeup-wearing band—had made a joke at Twisted Sister’s expense, calling us “Cinderella’s ugly stepsisters.” Manowar called us a joke and said, “Back in the States, Twisted Sister plays wet-T-shirt contests and dollar beer nights.” Both lies.

While Hanoi Rocks’ comments were an affront (in retrospect, it was a great line), Manowar’s comments were particularly infuriating. Their guitar player “Ross the Boss” was a former band member and touring roommate of Mark Mendoza’s in the Dictators, had been to Twisted Sister shows, and had even jammed with the band. We considered him a friend.

As trivial as both bands’ comments sound (and are to me now), in the darkness of my mood at that time, they were fighting words. The only problem was, I was in America, they were in Europe, and I could do nothing about it. Or was there?

They say the pen is mightier than the sword, so with a razor-sharp pen (actually a typewriter), I wrote a letter to the editors of both
Sounds
and
Kerrang!
In it, I broke down the lies, indignities, and aspersions cast on both myself and my band by Hanoi Rocks and Manowar and demanded a public apology. Either that, or Twisted Sister and I were calling them out.

A couple of weeks later—much to my relief—my letter was published for all of the English heavy metal community to see, and both Hanoi Rocks and Manowar were contacted about my challenge.
Hanoi Rocks completely laughed off my letter—further infuriating me—and Manowar accepted my challenge for what they thought was a battle of the bands.

My response—this time by phone, in an interview—was swift. My calling them out was not meant to be musical, it was meant to be physical. “My fist, your face” I believe were my exact words. If Twisted Sister didn’t get an apology from both bands, there would be a nonmusical, physical showdown the next time we were in England . . . whenever that might be. We still had no clue as to what the hell we were going to do next.

I now see the complete stupidity of the whole thing. A psychiatrist once explained to me that when we lose control over the bigger, more significant issues in our lives, we tend to lash out at little things we feel we should have control over. The husband who has to put up with his demanding bosses and clients all day, catering to their every whim, flips out when he comes home and dinner isn’t on the table. Why? Because in his mind it seems reasonable that at least
this
he should be able to control. With my whole world crumbling around me, this bullshit from these bands was something I
could
do something about. And I was pissed!

When the opportunity for us to return to the UK finally presented itself in December (much more on that shortly), I made good on my promise. I notified the rock press that we were officially challenging Hanoi Rocks and Manowar to a fight in London’s Covent Garden on Sunday, December 19, at high noon. Very dramatic.

When the day finally arrived, we charged into Covent Garden—with press in tow—to face our accusers and have our revenge. Not surprisingly, a lot of fans were awaiting this confrontation. We prowled Covent Garden looking for Hanoi Rocks and Manowar (both had made it clear, in advance, they had no intention of showing up and fighting us) in every possible location, from garbage cans to even the ladies’ room. Shouting into a megaphone (or
loud-hailer
as they call it in England), I did my best impression of David Patrick Kelly from
The Warriors
(which would come in handy on a future album).

“Hanoi Rocks . . . come out to plaaaay! Manowar . . . come out to plaaaay!” Everyone enjoyed a laugh at Hanoi’s and Manowar’s expense.

After a thorough search, it was officially declared (by the press) that Hanoi Rocks and Manowar had “chickened out.”

While Hanoi Rocks weren’t tough, image-wise, to begin with, this declaration was more than a bit damaging to Manowar, whose entire shtick was built on “mannishness.” Performing and being photographed in loincloths, with oiled bodies, they prided themselves on being heavy metal warriors (more like medieval Chippendale’s dancers), ready to do battle for the cause. I guess they just weren’t ready to do battle for their
own
cause.

The press proclaimed them “Man-o-Wimp” and a photo was taken with the victors (Twisted Sister) and all of their supporters. In the post-“nonconfrontation” interview, I let it be known that it didn’t end there. If they weren’t men enough to face us, unless they formally apologized, we were going to come for them. My plan was to show up at one of their concerts, climb onto the stage, and throw them a beating right in front of their audience. I’m nothing if not committed.

Shortly after the article about the showdown came out, Hanoi Rocks sent a letter to the rock press apologizing for what they’d said about us and declaring themselves the “new flower children.” Fair enough.

Man-o-Wimp—er, I mean
War
—took another tack. Ross the Boss directly contacted his old friend Mark “the Animal” Mendoza. While I can’t reveal what was said, there were no further issues between Manowar and Twisted Sister. But if they do mouth off again, Ross’s plea—er, I mean
request
—will be fully disclosed.

By now you should be wondering, “What the hell were Twisted Sister doing in England in December of 1982?” Ahhh, the plot thickens.

26