Shut Up and Give Me the Mic (37 page)

The shoot was an education to a world I knew nothing about, but the possibilities were not lost on me. This new medium allowed music to be communicated with a visual component, something the band and I had always embraced. The big difference was that we as a band could only present ourselves in one city or town, and for one limited audience, at a time. With a rock video, your musical presentation could potentially reach millions at a shot (the operative word being
potentially
). This was exciting. Arthur Ellis taught me that the visual element for a song didn’t have to be exclusively traditional performing. You could do a lot with this medium.

THERE WAS A MOMENT
during the shoot, where my entire band’s lives could have been dramatically changed for the worst had things gone differently. At the beginning of the “You Can’t Stop Rock ’n’ Roll” video, the band races out of an empty lot in a van, followed by the Taste Squad. Nothing crazy speedwise, but as I drove the van during one of the takes, with the entire band on board, it bottomed out, hit a curb, and ripped the gas tank open! We didn’t realize what had happened until the van stalled a couple of blocks away, out of gas, but it would have taken only a small spark to ignite that ruptured tank. We thought we might get some press from out near catastrophe, but not one press outlet was interested since no one was actually hurt. Hey, “if it bleeds, it leads.”

With the album done and released, two hit singles, a sold-out tour, and now a video in the can, it was time for the band and me to head home. We had been gone almost five months . . . and I’d missed
more than half
of my son Jesse’s life.

THE THING I REMEMBER
most about Twisted Sister’s triumphant return to the States was the confused look on my eight-month-old son’s face when he saw me. He had no idea who I was. I’d left when
he was three and a half months old and returned almost five months later, having had no contact with him whatsoever.

I didn’t expect much from him as he stood there (he was standing?!) in his adorable khaki outfit, all tanned and his hair (he had hair?!) bleached blond from spending so much time in Florida, with his mom. I didn’t allow myself to feel hurt by my son’s lack of reaction. This was the life I had chosen; what did I think would happen? I just scooped Jesse up in my arms and hugged and kissed him until he got used to me. The kid loved (and still does love) the Muppets. I must have looked like a real-life Sweetums (one of the biggest, hairiest Muppets).

My choice of employment isn’t the only job in the world that requires a parent to be away from home for long periods. The only thing you can do is be the best father you possibly can when you are home. Two things I have no doubt my kids always knew: I’d only be away as long as I absolutely had to . . . and I would always come back. I love being a dad.

WE ALL START OUT
thinking we live in a yes-or-no world, everything black and white, good and bad, right and wrong. Vanilla or chocolate? Ah, the innocence.

As we get older, the reality of life begins to hit us. One is rarely confronted with easy choices.

DEE LIFE LESSON

Life is shades of gray, and our goal becomes trying to pick the lightest shade possible, and hope for the best.

Sad, really. We start out with such conviction and strong beliefs, and life slowly beats us down and forces us to accept and compromise for the so-called greater good.

The summer of 1983 I was forced to make one of those adult choices.
I still feel bad about it today.

WHILE THE BAND HAD
finally broken into the big league and accomplished an incredible amount in the UK, it quickly became apparent we would get no help from our record label at home. While the New York office had some “friendlies,” such as Jason Flom, our label president was less than happy (understatement) to have our band on the Atlantic Records roster. To compare the two, Phil Carson and the UK branch couldn’t do enough for us.
Atlantic Records US made us a poster.
Seriously. They made a poster, announcing the album’s availability, to be hung in stores. Other than that, the only evidence we had that the label gave any thought to our record or band at all was that the back-cover photo on the album was changed. Atlantic’s US president demanded it, saying, “What the hell are we doing, advertising dentistry!?” He wasn’t a fan of my “wide-mouthed, showing all my teeth” pose—you know, the one I became famous for? So, the back-cover photo was changed, as well as the color of the US-released album cover (to black) and the typeface as well (both for the better).

What wasn’t the record company doing for us? Any kind of promotion at all and no tour support (money advanced to offset the costs of a new band’s touring). Our video was submitted to MTV, but at that time most record labels still didn’t take the “music television” network seriously.

Without strong label support, a new band is left completely to their own devices to finance any performances to promote themselves and the record. This meant touring conditions would be rough at best. Not to whine and moan—Twisted Sister was always prepared to do what it had to—but with other new bands out there being fully supported by their labels, it sucked to have a sometimes daily reminder of just how little your label cared.

We’d been home for a several weeks when our manager called us all into his office for a “career meeting.” We had these from time to time, but only when a “dinner with the band” or “everyone listen up” quickie meeting in a gig’s dressing room wouldn’t do. We all sat and listened as Mark Puma told us that while we had done some amazing work in Great Britain, we had hit a wall in the United States. Of course, the tristate area fans were gobbling up the album,
but without the support of the label, our chances were slim to none of doing something with our record in the States. The band’s spirit completely deflated.

Mark Puma continued, informing us there was
one
ray of hope. We had been offered a tour in the United States—the band was instantly reinvigorated—but there was a problem. Uh-oh. The tour was with Blackfoot (a Southern rock band, looking to go more mainstream, hard rock) . . .
and Krapus.
²
With that utterance, the entire band slowly turned and looked at me.

WHILE WE HAD BEEN
on tour in the UK, I’d received a message to call home. I was assured Jesse and Suzette were fine, but I needed to call immediately.

Suzette didn’t just make costumes for Twisted Sister. Another band who had hired her were Swiss heavy-metal rockers Krapus. Being half-Swiss, I actually liked Krapus and was proud of a metal band from my mother’s native land. That pride was about to disappear.

Upon hiring Suzette, Krapus had paid her the traditional half of the total cost down (for materials), the other half due upon delivery. While I was away, Suzette agreed to meet with Krapus and deliver some of the costumes she had finished. She showed them the pieces she’d made and they loved her work. Naturally, Suzette asked for the balance of the money, $1,500. Krapus’s towering, six-foot-five-inch, 275-pound tour manager tells my wife that they’re not going to pay her. Suzette immediately tells him she wants the costumes back. With Krapus looking on, he steps up to my five-foot-three-inch, 110-pound wife, holding my five-month-old baby boy, and tells her they aren’t giving them back, they aren’t paying her any more money, and if she doesn’t send them the remaining costume pieces she’s working on, they are going to have her “taken care of.”
What the fuck!?

I was on a pay phone, in England, hearing this story and losing my friggin’ mind. These guys threatened my wife—with my son in her arms—ripped her off, and I could do absolutely nothing. However, other people
could
do something.

My wife’s godfather and uncle, Hugh MacIntosh (RIP), was at that time the enforcer for the Persico crime family. “Hughie Apples” was a real-deal, no-bullshit mob hit man, and he didn’t deal in idle threats. Google him. “The Icepick” fucked people up. When Suzette’s family got wind of what had happened,
the call
was made to have Krapus and their management taken care of . . .
for real.
But Suzette wouldn’t have it.

“You don’t kill people for fifteen hundred dollars,” she told her family. (They did in Uncle Mac’s world!) My wife is a too kind, and benevolent woman. Krapus, you have no idea how close you came to buying the farm . . . or should I say, the bottom of a lake. Be careful whom you rip off.

SO NOW THE CHOICE
was mine. Would I stand strong for my wife’s honor and say, “‘Fuck that! I’m not touring with the assholes who threatened my wife, with my son in her arms!” It would effectively kill my band’s chances of promoting our record and pull the plug on what we had all worked on for over seven years. Or, would I swallow my pride, opt for the big picture—the greater good—and agree to grab on to the one vine left for the band to swing out of that suffocating jungle of defeat. (How’s that for a metaphor?)

On the one hand, it was nice of the guys to leave the decision up to me—they would back whatever I chose. On the other hand,
they left the fucking decision up to me!
No one said “Don’t do it.” “We wouldn’t do it if the same thing happened to us.” “Don’t worry, Dee, something else will come along; the band will survive.” No. They just looked at me with puppy-dog eyes (they hate it when I say that), and said, “It’s up to you, Dee.” And I caved.

As I agreed to do the tour, in my mind I was plotting,
Okay. When I see Krapus and their piece-of-shit tour manager, I can get even with those fucks for the way they treated Suzette. PAMF!
That’s when my manager added a caveat.

Krapi’s (that’s the possessive plural for
Krapus)
management had anticipated my plan and stipulated that if I did
anything
to their band in retaliation, Twisted Sister would immediately be kicked off the tour. To that our booking agency had added that Twisted Sister would be blackballed from any future tours, that they would cease to represent us and that no other agency would take on a band that beats up the bands they tour with. Curses . . . foiled again!

I went home and broke the news to Suzette, who could not have been more disappointed in me. She could not understand or accept why I was doing the tour. I felt like shit and still do. Though years later, when our fame and notoriety surpassed Krapi’s, I would have them banned and dropped from concert bills and refuse to play them on my international radio show,
The House of Hair
(effectively killing a prime source of airplay for their music), it still is not enough to make me feel I got even with them for what they did. I let my best friend down. That can’t be changed.
I’m sorry, Suzette.

THE BLACKFOOT TOUR WAS
“bargain basement.” With no financial support from the record label, Twisted Sister traveled in a motor home (as opposed to the tour buses Blackfoot and Krapus traveled on), which quickly turned to two Ugly Duckling rent-a-cars
³
when the motor home’s engine blew up in the middle of nowhere in the Southwest. We stayed, three to a room, in the cheapest fleabag motels we could book and lived off a
$7-a-day
allowance.

I became an expert at finding buffets for the band. Mendoza, our resident wheelman, would drive and I’d ride shotgun with all of my senses on high alert, barking out seemingly nonsensical directions, which would ultimately lead to the promised land . . .
EAT, SIT ’N’ GULP! ALL-U-CAN-EAT BUFFET!
(or the like). I got so good at nursing my daily pittance, at the end of the week I’d have money left over for toiletries and gifts to bring home.