back pocket? Don’t be like Eric. Which literally means: Don’t be a fucking idiot.
P.S. Love you, buddy! :)
Bleeding Black Label
JAPAN, 1991: I WAS WITH OZZY FOR THE NO MORE TEARS TOUR. One insane night, while firing off some really heavy riffs next to the Boss, I swear Odin came straight down from Valhalla and shot a fucking lightning bolt right up my ass. It was either that or I got shocked by my own gear, and since this is my book I’m going with the Viking story. I mean really, for all you know I could have been zapped backstage in the dressing room while plugging in my makeup kit to apply some rouge before the show. Just pay attention, I’m only five sentences into my book and we’re all over the fuckin’ map with it already.
There I was onstage, pummeling through these heavy fucking jams with Oz and the guys, getting zapped in the rectum, and then the vision came to me. All of a sudden I saw the crowd not as what they were but as what they would become—a legion of Berzerkers, or as my manager would prefer to call them, “cash crops with legs.” And as Ozzy and I continued blasting out songs from No Rest for the Wicked, No More Tears, and some of the works of genius that Lord Iommi, Saint Rhoads, and Father Lee blessed us with, I could not stop these electrified visions. And neither could my manager, as he was already making phone calls to place a down payment on a new mansion in Malibu. One second I was looking at a row of cheerful fans, singing along to these musical masterpieces of doom and head-banging to the complete Armageddon of Metal, the next second I was looking on as my manager placed his order for a new Maserati, loaded to the hilt with all the options. The audience looked like a horde of battle-ready Vikings awaiting the command to attack. As I was cranking the shit out of my Marshall wall of doom I could see on the horizon the day of the Berzerker Nation. That was the first night I was drawn into the OdinForce and the first night my manager was drawn into the nearest Prudential real estate brokerage. It also dawned on me during this pinnacle moment of genius that not only do cowboys like Jon Bon Jovi come from New Jersey, but Vikings are from New Jersey as well—along with a high teen pregnancy rate and an even higher involvement with alcohol and getting high by inhaling Freon.
The further we got into our show, the more I could see the Berzerker Metal madness grow, as well as the sheer enlightenment and joy on my accountant and manager’s faces, not so much over the mountains of Valhalla, but over the mountains of potential earnings and 401(k) contributions, as they envisioned paychecks that dwarfed anything they had conceived of. The thought of the piles upon piles of dollars upon dollars set their eyes gleaming like the stars on Orion’s Belt. I was literally blinded by their money-grubbing glares, and the audience was illuminated by the intensity. Each and every fan had an inner warrior, armed and ready to explode into a frenzy of rock ’n’ roll–infused destruction and debauchery. Wait . . . Is this a rock show I’m talking about or the Festivus miracle going on inside my wife Barbaranne’s baby-maker? It wasn’t about me, it was about bringing all Metal fans into one family, one horde, one society, and one womb. All of us joining forces against the world in hopes of keeping JD out of the unemployment line—a line in which he has spent most of his adult life.
And so began the almighty Black Label Society.
And much like Jimmy Page was called upon by the spirit of the dark poet Aleister Crowley to lead mass services in the name of Rock, I was called upon by my boss, the produce manager of Fine Fair, to restock the Granny Smith apples before I clocked out for my ten-minute break. Jimmy is a living god, and much more than just a guitar player. He conjured his art on the guitar, but he also took the lead as a songwriter, producer, mixing engineer, and art director—his band was his baby, his calling. Playing in the Yardbirds put him on the map, but it didn’t sum him up as an artist. Jimmy wandered deep into the forest of dark souls to master his craft and create the heart that would one day beat in the name of Led Zeppelin. His journey was otherworldly. Unlike my journey, from the stockroom to the produce aisles. From Pope Page’s conversations with Crowley in the netherworld, he gathered the ingredients he needed to brew the mind-altering compositions that live on today. And from my direct order from the produce manager, I gathered the freshest and greenest Granny Smith apples I could obtain from the produce gods in the back of the store.
Note from Zakk: Again . . . “Forest of dark souls”? “Netherworld”? I have no fuckin’ idea what the fuck Eric is writing about here. Gimme a fucking break—the guy just loved music. We’ll let Father Eric run with his illustrious bullshit though, since he is a Black Label brother—and I use the term brother in the loosest way. I do, however, still enjoy a fine Granny Smith apple from time to time. Try them with caramel, kids, and if you want to really live on the edge, combine it with peanuts—its netherworldly.
Page formed his band, a concept far greater than himself, and they circled the earth, converting ordinary masses to his rock ’n’ roll religion. And let me tell you, it’s quite the religion—what the fuck this religion advocates is completely wacked. I’ll just say this—morals and overall cleanliness don’t rank too high in this religion. Anyway, moving on . . . So this is what the Nordic gods intended for the Berzerkers and what one cattle-prodding deity beckoned for me to create . . . one global nation of merciless motherfuckers intact with all the insanity and comedy one could possibly hope for.
The Berzerker Empire was founded upon the most important elements of life: God, family, music, and fearless drinking—unlike my manager, whose foundation is Satan, selfishness, dead silence, number crunching, and the utter fear of ending up spiritually broken and penniless. Hold on a second, my manager has no fucking spirit. In fact, he’s completely soulless when it comes to pillaging the pockets, wallets, and purses of anyone he comes in contact with. And that, kids, is exactly why I hired him. It didn’t take long for the concept to progress, for the good word to spread, and for people to gather. Although the foundations of Black Label are expressed in the music, the message is much deeper than drinking and listening to epic tunes. It is greater than the band and the show. It is a family, a brotherhood, a unity, a mind-set, and a way of life. And as long as the money keeps rolling in, management, record companies, and whoever else is on the Black Label payroll will let me believe whatever bullshit BLS represents to me in all that is sacred and holy.
We live by a creed—Strength, Determination, Merciless, Forever. Our code, honest and meaningful, is rooted more than a thousand years deep. That is, unless you go by my manager’s timeline, because then it goes back to the first time someone discovered that they could pawn some useless horseshit off on some dumb motherfucker and come out on top. Just like the minute the Indians started selling fuckin’ pelts, it was game fuckin’ on. Getting back to our Viking ancestors, among whom physical, mental, and spiritual strength ruled all and each individual was part of an indestructible fortress. We are relentless in our pursuit, merciless in our behavior, eternal in our hearts. And with the gods of Valhalla watching over our Order, and my manager, wife, accountant, and team of lawyers watching over my expenditures, we stride forward on our path of global domination, spreading the word to the masses at our nightly Black Label church services. Our venue is our electrified cathedral, our music is our sermon, and all who attend are our family. And if you happen to spot a truly shady-looking character passing around the collections basket during our Black Label masses, that would be my manager, lining his fucking pockets with silver and gold to keep up his fleet of Mercedes and to complete construction of a fully equipped wet bar near his heated outdoor pool in Malibu.
SDMF: Strength, Determination, Merciless, Forever
(UNLIKE JD’S MOTTO: WEAKNESS, AMBITIONLESS, HEARTLESS, SHORT-LIVED.)
I placed this motto on a crucifix, just like INRI, which is often on crucifixes but means “Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.” And when you see me play, you might notice that I do the sign of the cross twice, once for the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, and then again for Strength, Determination, Merciless, Forever. While I’m onstage counting my blessings and thanking the good Lord for the strength he gives me and my Black Label family to continue following our passions, my manager is counting his