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  Copyright © 2017 by Scott Ian

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  Da Capo Press

  Hachette Book Group

  1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104

  www.dacapopress.com

  @DaCapoPress; @DaCapoPR

  First Edition: November 2017

  Published by Da Capo Press, an imprint of Perseus Books, LLC, a subsidiary of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Editorial production by Christine Marra, Marrathon Production Services. www.marrathoneditorial.org

  Book design by Jane Raese

  Set in 9-point Parable

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data has been applied for.

  ISBN 978-0-306-82523-1 (hardcover), ISBN 978-0-306-82524-8 (ebook)

  E3-20171115-JV-NF

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Bald of Confusion

  Meet Me Under Ace Frehley

  Fruit Loops

  What If We Were the Dicks?

  Everybody Hurts: NYC Suite, Part One

  Sorry Never Felt So Good: NYC Suite, Part Two

  Married with Children

  The Wrath of Kirk

  A Lesson in Violence English

  All-In: Part One

  The Land of Rape & S.O.D.

  Beware the Leshy

  The Most Boring Tour Story

  Tsunami

  Madonna

  We Gave the Sun the Finger

  The Walking Dead: My Life as a Zombie

  That’s Not a Rock

  All-In: Part Two

  The Conversation

  Bathtub Pike

  In The End…

  Your Hero Should Never Wear Daisy Dukes

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Scott Ian

  FOR PEARL AND REVEL,

  I’ve been waiting my whole life for who came home today

  You came in shining all this light so I could find my way

  Now I can’t wait to live this life you give

  I’m not afraid.

  Thank you for this beautiful lyric, Pearl.

  It mirrors my heart.

  You are my life, my love, my family.

  BALD OF CONFUSION

  Hi, my name is Scott, and I play in a band called Anthrax.

  I know you know who I am. You wouldn’t be reading this book right now if you didn’t. I just don’t like to assume that you do because I feel like that would be kind of a dick move and lame to just assume that people know who I am. Like when people come up to me and say, “Hi, my name is _________ and I am a really big fan,” and then when we shake hands I always say my name as well. If I was to just stand there staring back at them with a jerk attitude thinking, Why yes, of course, you are a big fan and know who I am, and I’m not even going to recognize you as a human being by introducing myself, that would be really shitty. Imagine if I were walking down the street and happened to see Angus Young and said, “Oh my God, it’s Angus Young! It’s really nice to meet you. I fucking love you and AC/DC so much! My name is Scott—how are you?” And he just said, “Uh-huh” like I’m supposed to know who he is. I’d be thinking, “I love you, Angus Young, but you’re kind of a dick.”

  For the record, I’ve never met Angus. He’s my hero, and he could probably put a cigarette out on my arm and I’d still pee my pants meeting him.

  So I don’t assume. I don’t expect that everybody knows who I am, even though I have to say I know I have a recognizable head.

  Bald. Heavy browed. Very beardy.

  Recognizable.

  And apparently very confusing.

  I get it. I’ve been on TV. You may have been flipping channels late one night and glimpsed my face as you passed VH1 and it made an impression. And then you see me somewhere in public and are thinking, It’s that guy from that thing—I know him from somewhere. I KNOW HIM. I know exactly when these thoughts are running through someone’s brain. I can see it on their faces, the look people get when they are obviously not an Anthrax fan but just know my non-hipster-bearded-head from somewhere and can’t quite put their finger on it and get really excited and come up to me and usually say something like, “Hey, uhh, I know you. You’re famous—where do I know you from?”

  My general answer to that is, “I don’t know, sorry” because I really don’t know who they think I am, and it’s really not my responsibility to engage and educate the public at large. If they persist, I’ll tell them I’m in a band called Anthrax. Sometimes that confuses them even more because they only remember seeing me as a talking head on some TV program and have no idea about the band. I’m very polite, mind you. I can only hope someone may be curious about Anthrax and go home and check it out.

  Sometimes the recognition is stronger, and the person will know I am in a band (actual conversation):

  DUDE IN THE AIRPORT: Hey, hey, HEY! [Actually yelling at me and then grabbing my shoulder to get my attention] You’re that guy in that band! You’re in a band, right?

  ME: [A tiny bit annoyed at being grabbed waiting in line for coffee] I am.

  DUDE IN THE AIRPORT: Which band?

  ME: I’m in Anthrax.

  DUDE IN THE AIRPORT: Nope… that’s not it.

  I’m not really sure how to answer that so I don’t. It’s not like I have a business card to prove it: Scott Ian—Anthrax. And this never happens in a record store where I could go grab a record out of the racks and show them.

  Then there are the people who I think are actually fans, just very confused. I’ve had so many people ask me over the years, “Aren’t you the singer of Anthrax?”

  This is so confusing to me. I look nothing like Joey Belladonna.

  And, “Aren’t you the bass player of Anthrax?”

  I look nothing like Frank Bello. Those guys have flowing locks of luxurious hair, and I have a stubbly egg for a head so, no, I’m neither of those guys, and I don’t take the time to explain all of that and what I actually do in the band. Remember, these conversations are usually happening when I’m catching a flight or eating dinner with my family and it’s neither the time nor the place.

  I know a lot of these people who have made those mistakes have probably gone home and grabbed an Anthrax record, looked at the picture on the album, and said, “He couldn’t just tell me he was the rhythm guitar player? What a dick!”

  No, I couldn’t tell you. It’s not my responsibility. And maybe don’t interrupt my conversation with my son about who would win in a fight between Batman and Darth Vader. Oh and also, I would never walk up to Steve Harris (if I need to explain who he is, you’d better put this book down right now, back away slowly, go home, and rethink your life choices) and say, “Aren’t you the lead guitar player in Iron Maiden?”

  It’s not just that I get mistaken for guys in my own band either.

  Back in the early 2000s there was a band from Los Angeles who got really big, and seemingly every time I got in a taxi the driver would look at me in his rearview mirror and do a stunned double take and yell, “System of a Down!” To this I would reply, “Yes! I am them!”

  System of a Down are made
up of four Armenians, and I guess there were a lot of Armenian taxi drivers in Hollywood in the early 2000s. At least this case of mistaken identity made sense because System’s bass player, Shavo, was bald and also had an abnormal beard, so I understood. I would always go with this one because who am I to bum out the nice taxi driver? Who am I? I’m the prick, remember? I could act like a total jerk, and Shavo would get the blame. And then I see Shavo and he tells me, “You know how many times people come up to me and ask me if I’m Scott Ian?”

  “Oh, really?” I mischievously answered. And then Shavo says, “Yeah, and then I act like a dick, and they get pissed at you.”

  Shavo wins.

  All of this pales in comparison to a story my father-in-law told me. I also don’t assume everyone knows that my father-in-law is Meat Loaf, so if you didn’t know, now you do. He told me that he was sitting in his seat on a plane, and the woman sitting next to him asked, “Excuse me, sir—are you Jim Morrison?” This didn’t happen in 1968; this was in the 1990s. Meat stared at this lady and finally said to her, “Yes. Yes, I am. I am Jim Morrison.”

  That’s why Meat Loaf is my hero.

  This whole confusion bit doesn’t bother me all that much. Maybe it seems like I am crabby about it, but really it’s pretty funny. Being someone who people recognize walking down the street because of my band is odd and cool at the same time. And now you, dear reader, know not to call me the hurdy-gurdy player in Arcade Fire.

  There is something that I love about being famous, and it only happens exclusively in the worlds of hard rock and heavy metal. When I am walking down the street and a fan will see me and yell my name or the name of my band as loud as they can, usually prefaced with or dissected by the word fucking. Example: “FUCKING ANTHRAX!” and “SCOTT FUCKING IAN!” You know what I’m talking about. Maybe you’ve done it. We’ve all yelled, “SLAYER!” at bloodcurdling volume at some point in our lives. I have and worse.

  In 1986 Anthrax got to open for Black Sabbath. Our first-ever big arena shows, and we’re opening for Black fucking Sabbath. It was the second night of the tour, and their tour manager came to our dressing room to tell us that after the show Tony Iommi wanted to say hello and thank us for being on the tour. I was out of my mind thinking, He’s gonna thank us? We should be kissing those magic metal creating hands of his for all eternity. After the show we got escorted down to some meet-and-greet room, we hung out for a couple of minutes, and then in walked Tony Iommi. I can still feel the sense of amazement I had at that moment, that I was standing in the same room as the man, let alone being on tour with him. So he walks in, and the temperature drops about ten degrees because he’s so cool. He looked like a giant to me—I guess gods usually do (and I am a tall Hobbit at best). With his perfect black hair and his evil mustache and beard, and he’s wearing a long leather coat that goes all the way down to the floor—I mean literally, if you told me he was Satan, I would have believed you. He was just so fucking powerful when he walked in that room. Maybe it was just because, gee, he only invented heavy metal, so you know, he is a little bit important to my life. But yeah, Tony Iommi walks in the room and shakes our hands and is thanking us, and in my fucking head I’m going shithouse bonkers and screaming, TONY IOMMI! TOE NEE I OWE MEEEEEE!!! HOLY FUCK! I wanted to grab him by the lapels and shake him and yell, “DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN TO ME MOTHERFUCKER?!”

  Of course all that hysterical screaming was done with my inside voice. I kept it inside because even the idiot twenty-two-year-old that I was knew it wouldn’t be cool to grab Satan’s lapels. And he had a giant security guard who would have kicked my ass right out of the room as soon as I even raised my voice, and then I never would have had a conversation with this proper English gentleman who invented heavy metal.

  If we would’ve been outside on the street and I happened to see Tony walking by, different story altogether. I never would’ve been able to hold it in. I will never lose that feeling. Don’t you ever stop screaming.

  You may think I’m being sarcastic, but I’m not. I get it because I’m a fan too. I truly love that visceral can’t-help-yourself reaction of screaming out the name of something you love so much. That feeling you get deep in your gut when you’re at a show of a band you’d kill for and you just can’t help but scream, “IRON MAIDEN!” You just can’t help it; it’s a primal emotion and a truly cathartic experience when you’re surrounded by thousands of like-minded people.

  Now imagine what it’s like to be on stage and have thousands of people losing their minds for your band. It’s an energy unlike anything anywhere else on the planet, and I love it. I live for it.

  Like I said, this only happens in the world of hard rock and metal. It’s very specific. It’s not the high-pitched siren of pop adoration. It doesn’t work in jazz. Or maybe I am totally wrong and back in the 1950s it’d be totally normal to hear someone gutturally scream, “CHET FUCKING BAKER” as loud as they could when they saw him walking down 52nd Street in New York City.

  On the opposite end of the spectrum in the context of all this, the total bummer of being recognized, the most annoying thing, the bane of my pseudo-notoriety is people touching my beard. Men, women—they feel this need to touch it. What the hell is up with that? My beard is not public domain, yet people feel they have the right to just get their hands right in it, without even asking. I don’t do that to people. I’ve never once thought at the sight of a bearded man to walk up and get my fingers entwined in his facial hair. Gross. What if I just walked up to a woman on the street who had beautiful hair and started running my hands through it? I’d get my ass kicked and arrested, yet ladies, you think you get a free pass at my beard because you’re a lady? Fuck off. Your hands are filthy too, and I don’t want them anywhere near my face. The only exceptions to the rule are my wife and son, and even my son, as much as I love him, gets the brush sometimes because he can have some dirty little hands. Call me nutso, but personal space is important to me.

  If you are a bearded gentleman reading this, I know you feel my pain.

  Now, all of that being said, I know a couple of guys in bands who feel much differently about beard invasions. They actually like it.

  Next time Slayer comes to your town maybe they will be doing a record-store signing appearance or some kind of meet-and-greet at their show. Now pay close attention to these instructions—it’s very important you follow these to the letter so you don’t fuck it up. Wait your turn in line, and when you get to the band to get your stuff signed, shake hands, take a picture, etc., etc., and then you make your move. NOT ON TOM. Did I say that loud enough? Do not grab Tom’s beard. He does not like that shit, and he’ll get really pissed off and yell at you. Tom has a really loud and scary voice. Do you want him screaming at you in front of the band and a whole line of people? I don’t think so. It’s Kerry you want to engage. Now I know what you’re thinking: Kerry? Are you crazy? That guy will kill me if I touch his beard. No, he won’t. He has a very tough exterior, but underneath he’s a big ol’ softie, so get your fingers right up in his beard and give Kerry a good chin scratching like you would a cute little kitty cat and watch him purr!*

  Zakk Wylde with his All-Father Odin beard wins when it comes to beards. His beard is like a rope that they use to tie cruise ships to the dock. It’s truly the king of beards, and why wouldn’t he want to show it off? So if you ever have the chance to hang with Zakk, grab onto that bridge cable of a beard and yank it hard. He’s a big guy, so you may even want to use two hands to pull on it so he feels it.*

  By the way, this is top-secret, behind-the-scenes info that we’ll keep just between us, okay? I wouldn’t want this to get out there publicly and then everyone will be all over those guys even worse than they are now.

  I am the jumpy rhythm guitar player for Anthrax! Photo by Leon Neal.

  * In the history of the written word no one has ever written this sentence. Ever. You know why? Because it’s completely insane and ridiculous. It’s a joke. Don’t touch Kerry’s beard. Don’t
even think about touching Kerry’s beard. One more time in case you got distracted: Do not ever touch Kerry’s beard.

  * If you touch Zakk’s beard, he will hammer you into the fucking floor like a nail.

  MEET ME UNDER ACE FREHLEY

  In New York City in the late seventies, if you told someone to meet you under Ace Frehley, they knew exactly what you were talking about. Hold on, let me clarify that: if the person you were giving those particular directions to were somewhere between twelve and sixteen years old, they definitely knew what you were talking about.

  To a generation of kids raised on Kiss in the seventies, Ace Frehley became our designated meeting point, our landmark. Except instead of a sign with an–i–on it, we had a giant live picture of Ace in all his smoking-guitar glory on the wall on the side of the entrance to Penn Station in Manhattan. This totemic landmark was a source of pride for all of us Kiss fans. We were an army always on the defensive, constantly ridiculed for liking a “comic book band.” Publicly subjected to the derision and sometimes violent mockery of the older kids who wore their Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd T-shirts aggressively like Gestapo uniforms, with our Kiss T-shirts the yellow stars of the oppressed. Heavy metaphor, I know. But when you’re fourteen and are walking down the hallway in high school wearing the Kiss T-shirt you saved up your allowance for a month to buy and you walk past a crew of seventeen-year-old dudes who would knock your books out from under your arm, grab you by your beloved shirt, spit “KISS SUCKS, FAGGOT!” in your face, and then push you down onto the floor, ripping your shirt as you fell, well, that was certainly a fascist fashion statement. I’d be on the floor gathering my things, doing my best to ignore their taunts and smiling, not letting them have the satisfaction of getting to me, and all the while I am imagining myself grabbing a baseball bat from the equipment locker in the gymnasium and cracking their heads, singing “God of Thunder” as I swung. “What are you smiling at, faggot?” Pink Floyd snarled at me, snapping me out of my violent fantasy. I boldly stared back at him, smiling, the Demon on my shoulder nodding his approval. “Fuck him,” Led Zep said as they turned to walk away. Pink gave one of the books I hadn’t picked up yet a kick down the hall.