The Iommi Job (Part 1)

They sent him to Los Angeles to steal Tony Iommi’s fingertips.

It was an earn-your-stripes type of deal. Word was, Iommi had left a set of his custom leather fingertips at the house in Bel Air where Black Sabbath had stayed during the recording of Vol. 4. The Boys said: Deliver the fingertips to us and you’re in. A made man, more or less: A steady gig plus a nice percentage of the slot machines operation. They gave him a round-trip plane ticket and a grand in cash for expenses. Accomplish the task and Curtis Merriweather could look forward to a silver future in the organization.

The Boys were not exactly Johnny-come-latelys on the Iommi Job. Their interest went back to the early ’70s, when Mickey Cohen was still nominally in charge. Cohen was their patron saint and founding member. He’d been tight with Don Arden, Sabbath’s manager and Sharon Osbourne’s estranged father. Arden had cut Cohen in for a percentage of Sabbath’s earnings back in those days. And not just Sabbath’s: ELO’s as well. Word was both Arden and Cohen bought new houses off of “Don’t Bring Me Down.”  The reason Arden made the deal was never explained. The Boys never explained anything. They just gave orders. His orders: Pinch Iommi’s fingertips, STAT.

But first Curtis had a stop to make.

Cut to: 1621 N. Hoover, a cul-de-sac in Hollywood. Curtis parked the rental up the street and inhaled a double-double from In N’ Out.  The zit-faced burnout in charge of wax paper had accidentally wrapped it in the regular cheeseburger packaging. Thus, Curtis’ hidden Christian missive of the day was Revelation 3:20 instead of Nahum 1:7. He knew the passage by heart.

Behold, I stand at the door and knock: If any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me.

Curtis interpreted the passage differently than the congregation at Our Mother Of Good Counsel just up the street. It wasn’t God knocking. It was opportunity. And he who heeds the knock of opportunity is a wise man indeed. This, Curtis was convinced, was the prevailing narrative of his life.

He checked the rearview. She was just leaving the house: Janice Merriweather, DOB 7/13/55. She was probably headed to church right now. Curtis watched her ease into her ’83 Pontiac Parisienne and drive off.

He picked the lock in under a minute. He walked into his old bedroom and grid-searched it, up-down-left-right. At the back of the closet, he hit what he thought would surely be the jackpot: Three boxes of LPs in alphabetical order: A-J, K-Q, R-Z. He tore the lid off of R-Z and went directly to S. There they were, in chronological order: Show No Mercy, Haunting The Chapel, Hell Awaits, South Of Heaven, Seasons In The Abyss…wait… just wait a minute. WAIT.  Where the shit was Reign In Blood?

Curtis flipped through the rest of R-Z. No dice. Same deal for A-J and K-Q. The fucker was gone. But where? Did it get mixed up with Janice’s Engelbert Humperdinck LPs? He had a flash: Janice had hauled the Humperdinck records to St. Vincent de Paul back in ’95, when she finally switched over to CDs. Curtis had moved out by then. Fuuuuck. Did his pristine copy of Reign die an agonizing death in the 4-for-a-buck bin surrounded by musty, ring-worn copies of Hotel California and Frampton Comes Alive?

Curtis went back to his rental and cranked the AC. He saw Janice pull around the corner and into the driveway. He wanted to confront her about the missing record, but he didn’t think he could withstand an actual conversation with his mother. Besides, he had a set of leather fingertips to hunt down. Reign In Blood would have to wait. 

This bullshit originally appeared in the September 2012 issue of Decibel magazine.

Wimmen In Metal

We here at Decibel magazine were hoping to bring you an in-depth interview with Sharon Osbourne for our “Women In Metal” issue. Unfortunately, she was busy hosting the latest incarnation of The Gong Show with Howard Stern and that ass-clown from St. Elsewhere, so the scheduling didn’t work out. But Sharon was kind enough to let us know—through her assistant, Hedwig—that she had been planning to revive Ozzfest this summer with a second stage featuring all-female and female-fronted acts. In fact, she told Hedwig to forward us the notes she (Sharon) had made in preparation for the contract negotiations. At first we thought Hedwig had mistakenly sent us the wrong document. But then we decided that we didn’t give a shit.

From the desk of Sharon Osbourne

re: Wimmen for Ozzfest

1) Jada Pinkett Smith: Is her band still a thing?  Will hubby bankroll second stage if we make them headliner?

2) Runaways reunion: Major fucking coup.  Step 1, Talk to Joan: Will hubby bankroll second stage if we make them headliner? Wait, no hubby. Duh.  Brainstorm: Come on to her in attempt to lower the band’s fee?  Also, get Lita to join Ozzy onstage for “Close My Eyes Forever” during Ozzy’s encore. Don’t tell Joan.

3) The Donnas: Are they still a thing? Do any of them have husbands and/or boyfriends who could bankroll second stage?  Will any of them go in for a free nose job/tit job/liposuction on my new plastic-surgery reality show before the tour starts?  Remember: Cross-promotion! Branding! Fucking dollar signs everywhere! Can we get Red Bull involved?

4) Kat Von D:  Can we get her to lip-sync some Mötley Crüe songs or something?  If so, will they bankroll second stage?  Also: discuss possible onstage “wardrobe malfunctions” caught on camera for maximum publicity. Brainstorm: Possible lip-sync/”malfunction” duet with Bombshell McGee? And then Jesse James rides a motorcycle onstage like Rob Fucking Halford. GENIUS.

5) More fake tits. Obviously.

6) Lemmy says Bitch is back. I thought he meant me! Cheeky bastard.

7) Girlschool: Ozzy says they’re still a thing. Couldn’t fucking believe it. Have Hedwig scour Internet for recent photos. I bet they all look like proper slags these days. Maybe have them on plastic-surgery show instead of The Donnas? 

8) Wendy O. Williams hologram. Boo-ya! Coachella can lick my arse.

9) The Great Kat. Is she still a thing?  Fucking hell, I hope not.

10) 30 Seconds To Mars: No brainer, but maybe too expensive?  What about blackmail? Tell Hedwig to offer bounty for photos of Leto with possible boy toys.

11) If all else fails, let Kelly play second stage. Hire Cyndi Lauper to write new songs. (NO Kelly “originals.”) Pay her with the money we plan to screw Bill Ward out of.

This bullshit was originally published in the August 2012 issue of Decibel magazine.

Apocalyptic Visions

If civilization falls apart like nearly all of us seem to think it will, only the uncivilized will survive.
- Jim Goad, “Taming The Wild Nugent,” April 23, 2012


Dearest Randy,

The end is near. I can see it. It’s written in the sky. The weather here in Nebraska—your true & rightful home—tells me everything I need to know. I can feel it. It’s in the air, like that song you used to listen to all the time when we were kids. You know, the one with the drum solo or whatever. God, you used to love that song. Do you still listen to it, I wonder?  If there’s anything I’ve learned in the long years we’ve been apart, it’s that sometimes songs can tell you the future if you listen close enough. And not just songs, Randy. Newspapers and the TV can give you glimpses of what’s to come if you know how to sift through the nonsense and look for the signs. The world around us is the same way. I often see things written in the birch trees near the old grain silo. Ripples in the lake whisper portents in my ear. The herons speak to me without ever opening their bills. We communicate, the birds and I, with our minds. Telepathy, Randy. Our old friend Mrs. Keating calls it “ESP.”

And you would not believe the things they tell me about death. Firestorms sent from heaven to burn us down. Big-breasted she-demons with pin teeth ready to sink poison into our very veins. Undead armies of teenagers with their heavy metal and their Internet phones and their erection pills riding a wave of pornography down Main Street. Right here in Lincoln! Sometimes I think those birds are crazy. I think they’re trying to confuse me. But then I think about the economy and the gays and that bulge in Pastor Titus’ crotch that seems to call me like a coyote at midnight and... oh, I don’t know, Randy!  I wish you were here to help me make sense of all this. You could meet the herons and they could tell you the things that they tell me and together we could make the necessary preparations.

Uncle Teddy thinks I’m going soft. He says there ain’t no such thing as birds that can talk to humans about Revelations and such. But he’s getting ready in his own way. Every time I peek into that old barn of his, I see more canned beans, more tuna fish, more cling peaches and fruit cocktails than last time. Sometimes he stays up all night butchering a deer he’s shot. He salts the meat and heat-seals it with this fancy new contraption he got at the auction a few months back. Into the freezer it goes, with all the rest. Right on top of my Klondike bars.

I want to tell you something else. Things here in Lincoln ain’t what they used to be. The latex factory shut down a few months back, and Ma Herring says she might not be able to keep the diner open past Christmas. Pastor Titus didn’t say it out loud, but I could tell by last Sunday’s sermon that the church is hurting for finances. Could you imagine if they had to close the church, Randy?  Last week I asked the herons if I could do anything about it. I know I’m just silly farm girl with no fund-raising talents to speak of, but if I can help Pastor Titus keep the church doors open for all us sinners, I’ll be doing God’s work, won’t I?  But the birds said there was nothing I could do. Do you know why, Randy?

Because Satan is coming, Randy. SATAN IS COMING. And we are truly powerless against his unholy wrath. I want you to remember that out there in Los Angeles, Randy. I want you to think about it when you listen to that song that I know you still listen to. “It” IS coming in the air, Randy. “It” has cloven hooves and a forked tongue and every word from its mouth spells S-A-T-A-N and certain death.

Gotta run now. Uncle Teddy wants me to milk Gladys before supper. If you have a chance, please send more of those nice grapefruits that Momma and I love so much. 

Love,

Carol Ann 


This bullshit originally appeared in the July 2012 issue of Decibel magazine. 

Astral Assassins

Rossignol’s curious, albeit simply titled book, the Origins of a World War, spoke in terms of secret treaties, drawn up between the Ambassadors from Plutonia and Desdinova the foreign minister. These treaties founded a secret science from the stars. Astronomy. The career of evil.

—Sandy Pearlman, Blue Öyster Cult’s Secret Treaties

To the endless soundtrack of Burzum’s Filosofem, Randy considered his fate. He’d been up all night reading conspiracy theories. Again. His latest was a scintillating thrift-store paperback entitled Satan’s Assassins. Its front and back covers touted its vast inner wealth: “Thoroughly documented! All fact! Earthshaking evidence for a bold new theory: that history’s most notorious slayers have been controlled by the Occult...the only book that dares to suggest that a power from beyond may be dictating the murders of our public figures... and offers history’s documents to prove it... by internationally known experts on the occult.”

Publication date: 1971. Dedication: “To Jay Garon, who cares.”

A quick Google search revealed that Jay Garon was—probably—the literary agent who would later become famous for being only guy in the universe who called the phone number at the top of an unsolicited manuscript by an aspiring novelist named John Grisham. After adaptations of Grisham’s bestselling legal thrillers—The Firm, The Client, The Pelican Brief—hit the bright lights and big titties of Hollywood, Garon would, according to his obituary in the Baltimore Sun, “regularly negotiate multimillion-dollar movie rights for books Mr. Grisham hadn’t written yet.”

It all made perfect sense. To Randy, anyway. And Randy was one of those people for whom the dots always connected, even when they didn’t. Satan’s Assassins asserted, basically, that Charles Manson, Lee Harvey Oswald, Sirhan Sirhan, Ramón Mercader (Leon Trotsky’s assassin), Chuck Guiteau (President James Garfield’s assassin) and other similarly positioned villains and/or patsies were the automatic agents of Satan. Well, duh.  In Randy’s world, both public figures and anonymous everymen sold their souls to the devil on a regular basis. These transactions were in no way figurative or metaphorical. These people spoke, out loud, with Lucifer himself. Hasty, often desperate negotiations took place. Concessions were made. Deals were cut. It was a routine exchange, like buying a loaf of bread. And that’s exactly why nobody in a position to expose the phenomenon—journalists, the government, academics, NASA—gave it a second thought. In fact, most of them had probably sold their own souls long ago. It was a closed circuit, a never-ending wheel.

Fuck them anyway, Randy thought. I’m keeping my soul no matter how bad shit gets. Even when the 9000-pound cock-hammer drops. And by Randy’s watch, the 9000-pound cock-hammer was due to drop any second. This is 2012, after all. The Mayans knew what was up. None of their prophecies were in any way bullshit or the result of sunstroke or some delayed after-effect of whatever mysterious herbs they were ingesting. No way.

There was something else, of course. There was always something else. Randy considered himself something of a virtuoso in the field of astral projection. He had discovered this ability by accident sometime in the late ’90s, when he left his body while masturbating and was able to achieve an aerial view of his own jerk-off session.  He got so excited by this startling development that his dopamine receptors misfired and he lost his erection. But by that point he didn’t care.

Randy started jacking it three times a day. By his count, he successfully embarked on at least one psychic voyage every few months. As a result, he’d seen a few things. Like the signing of the Magna Carta. Like the moon landing (which took place on a soundstage in Newark, just as he suspected). Like his own grandfather being conceived in an outhouse in Nebraska. Randy was also pretty sure he’d spoken at length with Carlos Castaneda somewhere in the Fifth Dimension. Or at least his soul had talked at a shadow that vaguely resembled Castaneda’s profile. At one point, Randy felt he had projected himself into the day room at Pleasant Valley State Prison and smoked weed with Sirhan Sirhan.

It was all part of what Randy understood as a collective consciousness. A lattice of coincidence. Satan’s Assassins was just another brick in the wall between himself and those who couldn’t or wouldn’t comprehend. Which was totally fine. There was no doubt in Randy’s mind who would prevail—who would achieve total consciousness—and who would languish in the stale, dark corners of perception. His path was clear: Onwards, upwards, astrally and forever. Or at least until the cock-hammer drops.

This bullshit originally appeared in the June 2012 issue of Decibel magazine.

Memorandum

31 August 2011

Attn: All crew, the Rock Never, Ever, Ever Stops Tour. Ever.

1) Let’s get this out of the way right off the bat: Those shitbirds up front can go get fucked. The band does not care how much the douche lords from Merrill Lynch paid for their tickets. It does not give them the right to throw half-full $15 beers at the band. It does not give them license to whip those shitty plastic “Gold Circle” champagne glasses at the band. When did we start serving champagne to these entitled pricks, anyway? Charging them an extra three bills for a bottle of bottom-shelf Moët might seem like good business to the geniuses over in accounting, but it’s just not worth the aggravation. So let’s consider the plug officially pulled on that score.

2) The backstage meet-and-greets need to be scaled back. WAY back. There are only so many greasy teenagers, toothless speed freaks and flat-assed soccor moms the band can be expected to cozy up to each night. The band have remarked on numerous occasions about the staggering array of pendulous Midwestern titties they’ve been compelled to autograph over the course of the last few months. Meanwhile, the radio stations seem to be bringing in the tweakers en masse. Not sure if ROXX 106 up in Boston is out trolling for them in their notorious “Pahty Wicked Hahd” van or if meth heads just have an abundance of downtime to call 1-800 numbers for free concert tickets. Either way, we need to institute some sort of profiling scheme before we haul all these dimwits backstage. Jimmy, please call your boy over at the TSA and see if he has any tips vis-à-vis this issue. Make sure to stress that we’re not particularly concerned about “sand niggers.”

3) You are all no doubt aware of the recent rash of collapsing outdoor stages. Cheap Trick and Blue Öyster Cult had a close one up in Ottawa recently. And then there was the tragedy at the Indiana State Fair last month. Needless to say, the band is understandably concerned about being decapitated—or worse—by falling stage rigging. We’ve got that big outdoor gig/wet t-shirt contest/demolition derby lined up for next week in Omaha with FireHouse and Big Daddy Don Garlits. Under normal circumstances we’d cancel, but let’s face it: We’ve all got child support payments to make here. As of right now, the only bright ideas our esteemed crew chief has come up with involve crossed fingers, four-leaf clovers and scratch tickets. We need a viable structural solution, post-haste.

4) Keep this one on the DL, but it is officially time to give Joey D. his own dressing room. He’ll think he’s finally getting the prima donna treatment he “deserves,” but the rest of the band are sick of him two-fingering all the catering before they even arrive at the venue. On more than one occasion, the band has discovered Joey backstage scooping handfuls of potato salad or Beef Stroganoff onto his plate with his bare hands.  Not only have they expressed their dismay and disgust at this situation directly to Joey, they have also pointed out the serving spoons that are almost always right next to the food.  Though he is unaware of it as of right now, the Joey D. solo dressing room plan goes into effect for the Tacoma show. Your discretion is appreciated.

England prevails,

The Management.

You've Been Caught In A Laugh Riot

Heavy metal comedy audition # 117

I just wanna begin by saying that it’s an honor to be here tonight at the Comedy Sack in Dubuque, where so many heavy metal comedy giants have graced the stage before me. I mean, wow. To think that right now I’m standing in the exact same spot where Chris Holmes, “Philthy” Phil Taylor and the really angry mustache dude from Mortician once busted guts? Amazing. Sensational. I can feel their aura of superb comic timing all around me, enveloping me like the folds of a warm va-jay-jay after a couple of Bacardi Breezes, thus fulfilling the two-drink minimum here at the Comedy Sack.  Thank you very much for having me. I’m just … wow. Okay, okay, I can see you’re eager for me to get this party started. 

Okay, okay, so I forget how this one goes, but it starts with, “Four white guys walk into a bar…” and the punch line is “Metallica.” I know, I know: You’re thinking, “What about Robert Trujillo? Isn’t he…?” Yeah, I was thinking the same thing. But trust me, the joke is hilarious.  

Okay, Okay, here’s another one: That Norwegian black metal dude, you know, the chubby one, he comes up me and goes, “Are you gonna finish that?” But before I can even figure out what he’s talking about (it’s chocolate cake), I punch him right in the balls. We all got a huge fucking belly laugh out of that one. See what I did there? Belly laugh? No?  Fuuuuuck. Tough room, dude.

Okay, okay, okay. I can see you’re running out of patience here. What about that other black metal dude, the one with the assault record and the gay boyfriend? What?  Too soon? Too insensitive? I wasn’t gonna make a gay joke. Just a joke about, you know, butt sex.  I figure butt sex is hilarious no matter who’s doing it. I mean, right? 

Okay, okay, okay. So you’re one of those sensitive crust-punk types. You’ve got your homemade His Hero Is Gone patches sewn onto your fourth-hand Canadian military jacket, and I can see you’ve got Fido there on a rope. You’d probably get your panties in a bunch if I made a joke about showers or, like, soap. Especially dropping the soap in the shower. So I feel like my hands are tied here. Kinda like how you’ve got Fido on that rope. I feel like you’re jerking me around and giving me mange at the same time. 

Okay, okay. I didn’t mean that. I swear. I’m just nervous ‘cause I really want the gig, you know? Did you ever see that old SNL skit, the one with Chris Farley and Patrick Swayze, and they’re at Chippendales auditions? That’s how I feel right now—fat and sweaty and shirtless. Only I’m not dead like those guys are… oh, c’mon! Too soon again? Those dudes have been gone for years now, man! 

Okay, okay. You into grindcore?  Okay, what do you get when you cross a grindcore vocalist with, like, a pit bull?  Can you guess?  A pit bull that won’t shut up!  No? Seriously? Fuuuuck, dude. I mean, I know I’m not the next Rodney Dangerfield or anything, but this shit is gold. Okay, maybe not gold.  Oh, it’s like cobalt?  Comedy cobalt? That’s hilarious, dude.  Yeah, I mean, what do you need me for? Or anyone else for that matter?  You should do the whole show by yourself. Dick.

This bullshit originally appeared in the October 2011 issue of Decibel magazine. 

Like Ebony & Ivory (Only Much, Much Worse)

We thought the final nail had been driven into Metallica’s jewel-encrusted coffin a long time ago, but when they announced their forthcoming album collaboration with Lou Reed, it became clear that we’d need a bigger hammer. And a shitload of extra nails. Unfortunately, certain veteran thrashers have apparently caught the latest mental illness that Lars and the boys seem to be suffering from. It’s like syphilis in that it starts with an ill-advised coupling followed by a hasty exchange of fluids and ends in severe delusions, painful lesions, and sadness.

Slayer & Sade – (This Is) No Ordinary Reign

Emboldened by their successful collaboration with Ice T on the Judgment Night soundtrack, Kerry King and company up the ante by cutting an album with the ’80s R&B nightingale who purred America to sleep at night with ubiquitous hits like “Smooth Operator” and “The Sweetest Taboo.” The unholy deal was sealed when Tom Araya rang up the British-Nigerian songstress after hearing that she covered a Thin Lizzy song during one of her concerts earlier this year. As it turns out, Sade is a massive Slayer fan who thinks Seasons In The Abyss is the band’s finest hour. “I never understood why Reign In Blood is the one that everybody sweats,” she recently told Decibel. “I mean, ‘Dead Skin Mask’ is the fucking tits, am I wrong?”

Megadeth & Jackson Browne – So Far, So Good… Sew Buttons!

For once, MegaDave beats his old bandmates to the limp-wristed punch by finding someone even more lame to work with than Lou Reed. What started as a duet of “Running On Empty” –eventually discarded for the severely under-appreciated “Somebody’s Baby” from the Fast Times At Ridgemont High soundtrack—turned into a 78-minute full-length featuring a guest shot from Glenn Frey, 400 cases of red wine, and a long-lost piano track contributed by the estate of the late, great Warren Zevon. Suck on THAT, Lars!

Anthrax & Meat Loaf – Fistful Of Meatloaf

Though their work with Public Enemy on “Bring Tha Noize” resulted in one of the few rap-rock unions that doesn’t completely blow dead dogs for quarters, Anthrax never could leave well enough alone. Or pass up the opportunity to work with The Loaf, especially now that Scott Ian is having a kid with his daughter. (Meat Loaf’s daughter, that is—not his own daughter. That would be fucked up.) Unsurprisingly, the band’s collabo with the artist formerly known as Marvin Lee Aday on “Paradise By The Dashboard Light” is third-rate and tepid when compared to similarly bloated AOR hits covered by the rest of the Big Four. Plus, Joey Belladonna totally butchers all of Ellen Foley’s lines.

Testament & James Taylor – Live at Tanglewood (Bootleg)

Inspired and invigorated by one too many midnight viewings of Two-Lane Blacktop, Chuck Billy decided to find out just how boring a James Taylor concert could really be. The answer? Really, really fucking boring. And yet it didn’t stop him from getting shitfaced on wine spritzers and singing along to “How Sweet It Is (To Be Loved By You)” with all the semi-retired investment bankers and their summer-cottage mistresses. Billy even braved the lactating throng of 60-year old dental hygienists to sneak backstage and meet Taylor in person. Their conversation—and impromptu renditions of “The Star-Spangled Banner,” Taylor’s “Fire and Rain” and Testament’s “Return To Serenity”—were surreptitiously recorded by a member of Taylor’s road crew, who reportedly sold the mp3 files to “the Internet” for “big, big money.”

This bullshit originally appeared in the September 2011 issue of Decibel magazine.