Shut Up and Give Me the Mic (31 page)

We would be taking the stage in the early afternoon for a short set, but we made sure to stack the deck in our favor. (Twisted Sister
were never ones to fight fair.) A call was put in to our friend and producer Pete Way, inviting him to join us on our last song of the set, a cover of the Rolling Stones classic “It’s Only Rock ’n’ Roll (but I Like It).” Twisted Sister had been closing shows with an anarchic rendition of the song for years, and it had always been a crowd-pleaser, but why not bring out a bona fide English heavy metal legend to further legitimize us? Pete was currently in the studio rehearsing with Fastway, so he suggested bringing Fast Eddie Clarke along to jam as well. Even better!

We arrived at Reading at just past noon, a few hours before our set, and the place was already up and rocking. On this third day of the event, more than thirty-five thousand people were in attendance. Finally, a bigger crowd than we had ever played to on our own. The band and I made our way to the stage to get a better look.

With a large camping area off to the right, the two stages were side by side, and the huge crowd was split between them. The people who wanted the best view of the band currently on would pack themselves in front of that stage. The people who were more interested in the band coming up next would wait impatiently in front of the second stage while it was being set up. This way they could still see the band currently on while securing a good spot for the next band. This alternating system allowed for no major break between bands.

The band Terraplane was currently performing, opening the day, and they were getting quite a bit of stuff thrown at them. Apparently, the just-waking Reading crowd didn’t like having their beauty sleep interrupted.

On my way backstage to check out the dressing room, I ran into our new friend Lemmy Kilmister, who was there for the weekend’s festivities. I gave him the heads-up that Fast Eddie Clarke was going to be jamming with us, then shared with him the same little lecture I gave Fast Eddie when we were recording. You know, the one about how the press were manipulating the feud between them and their relationship was like a marriage? Did I mention I was an ass? I don’t think I can say it enough.

My first official realization something wasn’t quite right was when Terraplane finished their set. The throwing of things didn’t stop. Now the audiences in front of each stage were pelting each other. When I inquired about the reason for this, I was told it was a
band thing. The fans of the band about to go on and the fans of the band going on after them were going at each other. It seemed idiotic to me, but whatever.

As we were getting ready for our set, the whole truth of the Reading Festival audience’s bizarre actions became clear. They throw things at every band and each other. This violent behavior had become so epidemic, and so many bands and fans had been hurt that the promoters had banned all glass bottles and metal cans from the festival grounds. This shit was moronic and serious!

It was finally time for our set.
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As we stood off to the side, waiting for the point in our intro tape when we walk out,
stuff was being thrown at the empty stage
. I guess they were warming up their arms because when we made our entrance, all hell broke loose. That we were performing in broad daylight turned out to be a blessing in disguise. At least we could see the deluge of projectiles being hurled at us. What’s that line from the movie
300
? “Our arrows will block out the sun.” “Then we shall fight in the shade.” Well, we rocked in the shade.

We were bombarded with anything and everything those assholes could throw. Glass bottles and metal cans being banned didn’t slow them down one bit. They would throw plastic liter bottles filled with soda, water,
or even urine
at the stage. Some members of the Reading audience even took the time to slowly, methodically fill the bottles with dirt or small rocks and then hurl them at the stage. It was insane! The truly terrible thing was that a lot of the stuff would never even make it to the stage and slam down into the backs and heads of the concertgoers closest to the band. Some of them even wore helmets for protection, in anticipation of this happening. I was livid!

Under the heading of “the coolest thing I’ve ever seen a record company executive do,” our label president, Martin Hooker, caught a peach that was thrown on the fly, gave it a quick once-over . . . then ate it! Waste not, want not, I guess.

As the band tore through “Bad Boys (of Rock ’n’ Roll),” followed by “Shoot ’Em Down,” I was getting angrier and angrier. It was so incredibly frustrating to be unable to do anything about what was happening, standing high above the crowd on a stage, with a moat of a space between us and the barricade.

Our recording of “Shoot ’Em Down” on the
Under the Blade
record ended with the sound of a machine gun firing. While in the new millennium a song about shooting people who mistreat you (albeit in metaphor), finishing with a gun firing, would be considered insensitive and un-PC, this was 1982. No asshole had yet taken song lyrics that literally. At my request, Secret Records had rented a military-grade Uzi filled with blanks for me to fire off dramatically at the end of “Shoot ’Em Down.” Like I said, Twisted Sister doesn’t fight fair.

When we got to the end of the song, I pulled out the Uzi. It was a damn good thing I didn’t have live rounds in it because, I’m telling you, I would have used them on those fucking pieces of shit. I was out of my mind with rage. When the song finally ended, I had my first opportunity to tear into the audience. And I did.

I had been warned about using profanity and told our band would be banned from all outdoor venues if I cursed. Though I was (and still am) a renowned user of expletives in concert, this was not a problem. Not being drunk or high, I have total control of the language I use (which has come in handy) and can fairly easily modify my speech, while still getting my point across . . . though there is nothing quite like the F-bomb to communicate one’s innermost feelings.

I told the crowd that the people throwing things were a bunch of pussies who didn’t have the balls to say or do something to my face. I told them those same pieces of crap were hurting innocent people in front of the stage. Then I delivered my ultimatum. I called out the entire audience—all thirty-five thousand of them. I said if they were men and women enough, I would meet them all on the side of the stage after the show and fight every one of them, one at a time; I didn’t care how long it took. And I meant it!

Suddenly, the audience stopped throwing things and began to laugh. Not at me, but at the audacity of this makeup-and-costume-wearing Yank who was clearly out of his mind and not kidding.
They’d never heard or seen anything like it. The band then ripped into “Destroyer” and the tide turned. The Reading audience started to rock! By the time we got to “It’s Only Rock ’n’ Roll,” the crowd had been completely won over, but the best moment was yet to come.

Toward the end of “It’s Only Rock ’n’ Roll” we have a breakdown where I get the audience to yell “I like it!” after I sing “I know, it’s only rock ’n’ roll but . . .” Using various audience-participation tricks I’d perfected over the years in the tristate club scene, I would never fail to get the audience screaming their lungs out. And tonight I had an ace up my sleeve.

After a couple of okay tries, I introduced Pete Way and Fast Eddie Clarke. The audience lit up! These guys were rock gods and totally unexpected by the crowd. The two deities plugged in their “axes” and joined the band for another go at getting the audience screaming . . . and scream they did. While I was talking to the crowd, getting them ready for the big finish, they suddenly, inexplicably started to roar. I was confused. Being a professional “crowd revver-upper,” I was an expert in cause and effect. I say something reaction inciting—the crowd reacts. That’s how it works. But this audience was reacting and I hadn’t initiated it. And now they were pointing at something. I turned to look where the audience was gesturing and saw an unmistakable figure, dramatically backlit at the rear of the stage. With his Rickenbacker bass guitar (did he bring it with him just in case?) slung down by his side, Lemmy Kilmister walked out to join the fray.

For the first time since their breakup, Lemmy and Fast Eddie Clarke were brought together. The crowd absolutely lost their minds! Lined up across the front of the stage, guitars pointed at the crowd like the Magnificent Seven, were myself, Eddie, Animal, Jay Jay . . .
Pete Way, Fast Eddie, and Lemmy!
Holy shit! We tore into the finale of “It’s Only Rock ’n’ Roll” and completely turned the Reading Festival on its ear.
²
What a complete audience turnaround in forty short minutes!

We exited to the backstage area where cameras were flashing and everyone wanted to know about this crazy makeup-wearing
band from New York who had not only won over the vicious Reading crowd, but had just orchestrated the reunion of Fast Eddie and Lemmy.

Maybe I’m not such an asshole after all.

After the press barrage, Mark Mendoza, A.J., and I headed over to the side stage to see if there were any takers on my offer to fight. The place was packed . . . with new Twisted Sister fans ready to do battle against any would-be takers with us!
There were none.

Later, after we’d changed out of our stage clothes and taken off our makeup, the band and crew were standing around, marveling at what had transpired. What a day! The drummer (Danny “Piss Flaps” Heatley) and guitar player (Big John) from the Exploited had done us the enormous favor of being roadies for us that day. Eddie Ojeda joked that we should have put our amps
in front
of us as a protective wall.

The usually quiet Big John piped up, in his thick Scottish brogue, “I canna believe-a someone-a threw-a shite.”

“What?” I said, completely confused by what Big John clearly thought was English.

“Someone-a threw-a shite.”

“A what?”

“A shite man, a shite!” Big John exclaimed again, frustrated by my inability to understand him.

“A what?”

Danny Heatley chimed in with his “Scottish to East London” translation: “A shit man, somebody threw a shit!”

Wow. Somebody had thrown human shit at the stage. My mind was blown. So many questions about this needed to be answered. How much do you need to hate a band to throw human shit? Whose shit was it? The thrower’s, or somebody else’s? Where did they get the shit? From a Porta Potti, or did they just have it on standby in case they hated a band enough to throw it? Or were they so angered by us, they dropped trou, laid a fresh one, then hurled it? Which brings me right back to my first question: how much do you need to hate a band to throw human shit? It’s a conundrum.

I pondered that brainteaser on and off during my flight home to the States, but I had other, more important things on my mind. It was time for my wife to have our baby.

ON SEPTEMBER 19, 1982
, my life was changed forever. My son Jesse Blaze Snider was born.

Suzette, my twenty-two-year-old wife, had a brutally long labor and natural birth, and I sat by her side through it all feeling completely useless. Sure, we took Lamaze classes, but let me tell you, saying “Breathe, breathe” and “It’s going to be all right” to a woman dealing with the pain of mind-numbing contractions rings hollow and makes a man feel impotent. Men are instinctively programmed to protect the women we love and want to help them, but as women go through this incredible ordeal, we are helpless to do anything but stand and watch.

After a long night of suffering (my exhausted wife slept through painful contractions that would bring a grown man to his knees), Suzette was finally brought to the delivery room. My feeling of helplessness was never greater than when I watched her pushing so hard to deliver our baby, blood vessels were bursting in her face. What had I done to the woman I loved?

Then suddenly, a baby’s cry and the words “It’s a boy,” and my emotions completely reversed; from the lowest of lows to the highest of highs in a split second. Was this what it felt like to do drugs? Maybe I was missing out on something after all. Moments later, without warning, the nurse put my newborn son into my arms. I had heard about and thought I understood the incredible feeling of being a father. It seemed a simple enough concept. The reality is, you cannot understand the feeling until you experience it yourself.

Back in the day, the guys thought they appreciated what I was going through, being so far away from my family for such long periods. Years later, Jay Jay, who had a daughter
after
our heyday, asked me, “How did you do it? I can’t imagine being away from Samantha the way you were away from Jesse.” Well, we do what we have to do.

From that day forward, the road was total misery for me. I couldn’t
not
pursue my life’s work, but the only place I ever wanted to be was home.

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