Dave Mustaine - Mustaine - A Life in Metal

When I got the call from my sister Suzanne, I kind of freaked out.

“Dad’s in the hospital,” she said. “You’d better get down here right away.”

“What happened?”

“Just hurry.”

The first thing I did—the very first fucking thing—was grab a pint bottle of Old Grand-Dad whiskey. I tucked it into my shirt pocket, then ran outside, hopped on my moped, and drove off down Goldenwest Street toward the Pacific Coast Highway. Funny thing is, I hated whiskey; it wasn’t even my bottle, just some shit left behind after a party, no doubt. But I saw it and knew I wanted to hurt someone, and I figured whiskey would help get the job done.

The trip to the hospital in Costa Mesa was one I could have made in my sleep, even though I’d never been there before. I knew my way around the whole region because I’d been like a flea, jumping from dog to dog through Orange County, Riverside County, Los Angeles, and San Diego. I raced down the highway, drinking with one hand, opening the throttle with the other. When I got to the hospital room, my father was in the fetal position, wires snaking from his body to various monitors and life-support equipment. My sisters were already there, lined up at the foot of the bed like the Three Wise Monkeys. Nobody said a word, until finally Suzanne drew close, smelled the liquor on my breath, saw my bloodshot eyes and the near-empty bottle of Old Grand-Dad poking out of my shirt pocket.

“You know what?” she said, her voice dripping with disdain.

“What?”

“You’re going to end up just like him.”

She put the emphasis on the last word— “him” —in such a way that I wasn’t sure which one of us—me or my father—was the true object of her contempt. I knew only that I was furious. I was angry that my father was dying just as I was getting to know him. I was angry that my sister saw in me the same character flaws that had led my father to such a miserable end. Most of all, though, I was angry at myself. I feared in my heart that she might be right. Maybe I would end up just like my father, curled up in a hospital bed, my brain drowning in its own juices, surrounded by blank-faced people who didn’t seem to give a shit whether I lived or died.

“You got the job.”

PANIC DIDN’T SO MUCH BREAK UP AS DISSOLVE, THE RESULT OF A LACK OF COMMITMENT AND CHEMISTRY.* ONE OF OUR LAST SHOWS, IN LATE 1981, WAS ALSO ONE OF THE MORE MEMORABLE. IT WAS A BENEFIT CONCERT FOR A BIKER WHO HAD PASSED AWAY. NOW, COMPILING A SET LIST FOR A GROUP OF BIKERS-AND I’M TALKING ABOUT SERIOUS BIKERS, NOT THE GUYS WHO TRADE THEIR BEEMERS FOR HARLEYS ON THE WEEKEND-CAN BE A CHALLENGE. MY OWN TASTES WERE KIND OF ECLECTIC. I REALLY LIKED A LOT OF STUFF BY INDIVIDUAL BANDS I’D DISCOVERED JUST BY KEEPING MY EARS OPEN.

For example, there was a little-known band called Gamma, which was Ronny Montrose’s follow-up to his solo project. I loved Montrose, loved how they sounded and what they stood for. They were just a really solid rock band. Most of the bands you saw at backyard parties in this era were all playing the same stuff: Robin Trower, Rush, Ted Nugent, Pat Travers, Led Zeppelin, KISS. Some of it I liked more than others, but I digested all of it and figured out what it was people wanted to hear. In that way I could formulate a reasonably satisfying set list. But figuring out what kids from the suburbs want to hear is a little easier than meeting the expectations of a gang of drunken bikers. So one of the songs we learned specifically for this show was “Bad Motor Scooter” by Sammy Hagar. If nothing else, at least we’d done our homework.

The show took place out in the boondocks, at a big campground in a nature preserve. And I have to say, it was exciting—probably the most intense night Panic had known, or ever would know, as it turned out. These were hard-core bikers. Gang members. Now, I had seen Gimme Shelter, the 1970 documentary about the Rolling Stones’ infamous and tragic performance at Altamont, during which security provided by the Hells Angels resulted in murder and mayhem. So I had some idea what to expect. Was I scared?

Hell, no!

I thought I had arrived.

But the night was both more and less than I had anticipated. There were two distinct odors filling the air throughout the evening: pot…and chili. That’s right—chili. Vats of it, the result of a chili cook-off; these, unbeknownst to me, were fairly common at this sort of event. There were thirteen kegs of beer at the center of the compound—I specifically remember the number because of its symbolism (good luck, bad luck, as the case may be). We didn’t do a sound check or anything like that. We just hung out, smoking dope, eating chili, drinking beer with these guys, until one of them yelled, “Start playing!” And that’s what we did.

We roped off an area at the front of the compound and set up our gear. This was a time when cordless gear was still relatively rare (and often prohibitively expensive). But I rigged a cordless setup using a Radio Shack stereo, an amp, and a device known as a Nady wireless system. I was one of the first guys I knew who had a wireless setup, and I could tell it freaked out the bikers who watched us play that night. You could almost see them thinking, How the fuck is he playing that thing without any wires?

Anyway, we ripped through our set, playing fast and flawlessly. Tons of energy, no mistakes (none that were noticeable, anyway). We finished with a scorching version of “Bad Motor Scooter,” thanked the crowd for their support, and began to pack up.

That’s when things got ugly. The guy in charge approached the “stage.”

“The fuck are you doing?”

At first I said nothing, which was clearly the smartest approach. I thought about getting right in his face. I mean, I was a drug dealer, right? I understood the rules of marketing and fair trade. They had paid us to play. We played. How dare they not honor our contract?

Well, they were bikers, of course. They did what they wanted to do. And what they wanted, at that moment, was more music. Fortunately, we had a diplomat in our midst: Pat Voelkes, who, as I’ve mentioned, was the oldest member of the band and easily the most mature when it came to dealing with other people. Pat negotiated with them for a few minutes, then returned with a new contract. Here were the terms: we’d play another set; they wouldn’t pay us another dime. They did, however, agree to give us a bag of hallucinogenic mushrooms.

Deal!

So we did one more set, and everybody ate the magic mushrooms and tripped out spectacularly, resulting in one of worst experiences of our professional lives. We all said things we didn’t mean, divulged secrets that should have been left unspoken. By the time we got home, the brotherhood had been destroyed. And getting home was no small task. Our primary means of transportation, Tom’s Volkswagen Rabbit, had blown a clutch on the way out. At first, we tried to push the thing home, and what a sight that must have been: a bunch of scrawny, anemic teenagers leaning into a couple thousand pounds of unwilling steel. It was hopeless, so we ended up sleeping overnight in the back of a flatbed truck that we had used to transport our equipment. With us that night were two buddies who had been helping with my drug trade—basically just keeping an eye on my house while I was traveling with the band or working at the garage. These guys were Dumb and Dumber but likeable enough under most circumstances. Unfortunately, their minimal brain power was diminished even further by the mushrooms, and at some point they thought it would be a good idea to steal a keg from the bikers.