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40 Oz. Of Hell -- Zombie, Dokken and the Truth of Metal Inside Lemmy’s Mole

By Jeff Kerby, Contributor
Sunday, April 28, 2002 @ 11:31 PM

The Rock n' Roll Ranting Of A

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Welcome to the dump where Jeff Kerby lives in his Pinto and swills mind numbing alcohol case after battered case. I have been assured that every couple of weeks I will receive a column from him undoubtedly written on one of the torn up bags which he uses to house his malt liquor. It seems this poor guy lives with all that society throws away only to find solace in a bottle of fire. Here it is, Kerby’s 40 Oz. Of Hell. Be glad you only get to visit -- he has to live there. – Ed.

Today’s Episode: Forever Wild -- "Zombie, Dokken and the Truth of Metal Inside Lemmy’s Mole..."

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Remember when I said I actually enjoyed being employed at McDonald’s?

Well… a sense of accomplishment only goes so far when you’re staring face to ruddy face with a 43 year old insurance agent who’s running late for work and feels the compulsion to sustain his astronomically high cholesterol level with two Egg McMuffins, a sausage-egg biscuit and a diet coke. When I first started this job I had a positive outlook, but now it seems like every asshole in the world gets a superiority complex when dealing with someone attired in a red and yellow paper hat.

“Hey, I need that order in a hurry.”

“Can I get the egg on the side and the biscuit without salt?”

“The last time I came in here I didn’t get my hash brown. Make sure I get it this time, will ya? Jesus…”

At first, I actually kind of gave a damn, but now I hate them. I hate them all -- every fat bastard one of them. Sometimes, when they’re in the midst of complaining about some perceived food related atrocity, I just start to drift off and think of ways I would like to see the customers die. You know, strategically placed nails through the orbital socket -- battery acid violently eating at every porous opening in their flesh -- railroad ties jammed up their rectums with a sledgehammer -- nothing could be painful enough -- they were the enemy. Shit, I may be making minimum wage and currently living in a shelter, but dammit, I still have some dignity.

Last Monday, some guy came in -- he completely fit the profile -- cheap suit, mustache, pissy attitude. This customer was doubtlessly the kind of guy who listens to Kansas, Night Ranger and Journey…and loves it. My mood was already darkened that morning by the realization that I had to work a double shift that evening, so I wasn’t going to be able to see Rob Zombie who was playing later that night at the Convention Center. If that wasn’t bad enough -- I also had to play the role of dumbass in that morning’s theatre of grease. See, there was this guy, and he had just ordered a Big Breakfast with a small coffee. Seems the cooks were running a little behind, and I was having to bring the food out to the people after they had sat down. I know, I know, customers hate this -- shit, I hate it too. I do honestly understand their frustration, but the thing is, this guy hadn’t even been waiting for very long before he came running like hell up to the counter and huffing and puffing and wanting to know where his “Goddam breakfast” was. When I told him that there was no “Goddam Breakfast” on the menu and that he had just ordered a “Big Breakfast,” he called me a fucking smartass.

"When I first started [McDonald's] I had a positive outlook, but now it seems like every asshole in the world gets a superiority complex when dealing with someone attired in a red and yellow paper hat."
As fate would have it, his food appeared right at that moment under the heat lamp, so I took it. As I was about to hand it to him, he said, “Yeah, you’d better hurry.” Now listen here, I have suffered many indignities in my life, but taking shit off some guy who thinks “Open Arms” was great music is just too much to bear. That’s when I took his order and maliciously threw it over the counter and onto the floor spilling his coffee everywhere. In retrospect, maybe I shouldn’t have done that because this guy ended up grabbing me from across the counter and hitting me a helluva lot harder than I would have ever thought him capable. Upon impact, I went directly to dream land where only the weirdness of the subconscious resides.

It was during my period of near coma when I was first introduced to a God-like apparition who I found looked a lot like Gary Coleman. Even though I instantly felt the aura of the supreme being, I still expected him to ask me something like, “washutalkinboutwillis?” but instead all he said was “yo dog, in da next couple weeks you gonna see a Zombie, a Dokken and dat be nice and all, but yuse gotsta know dat da secret a true metal be found in Lemmy’s mole.”

What the hell did that mean?

Upon regaining consciousness, I just tossed off my hat and walked directly out of the restaurant and into the sunlight with a new commitment -- to find out what God was talking about. I was going to find the secret. The only secret that mattered. The absolute secret of metal.

Now that I was without my normal occupational obligations, I found that Gary was right -- I could go and see a Zombie show if I wanted too. The venue for this concert was pretty full as Albuquerque hadn’t had a really high profile heavy metal bill since the Merry Mayhem tour in December -- Static X, Soulfly and Soil is as close as it’s gotten, but they played a much smaller venue here. The last night I saw Rob Zombie live was when he opened for Ozzy and I ended up in jail after the infamous midget-screwing incident. Even though the rest of that night probably changed my life forever, it didn’t alter the fact that Zombie put on a show that evening in which all the little hellbillies could be proud.

The stage for this concert was set up mostly the same as it was when he toured with Ozzy and the order of the songs was pretty similar too. Without a doubt, the highlight of the show came when Rob talked to the crowd and basically said that it was time for the women to go ahead, find some shoulders to sit on and show him what they had. The good thing was that when these breasts were revealed they didn’t look like the kind you’d see at your average Poison show -- meaning they were boobs that hadn’t long since succumbed to the laws of gravity and the unforgiving fleshy ravages of time. It was mostly what you’ve come to expect from a Zombie show -- there was fire, dreadlocks and a couple of go-go dancers who gyrated to the beats of such Zombie classics as “Superbeast,” “Dragula,” “Never Gonna Stop,” “Deadgirl Superstar,” “Living Dead Girl.” Of course, “Thunderkiss ‘65” and “More Human Than Human” were also thrown into the mix. The only real low point of the show came during the song “House of a 1000 Corpses.” Let me just say for the record that I wish someone would release this fucking movie already so that Rob can quit promoting it in his concerts. I mean, the clips of the film were fine, but the song is a droner. Extremely weak.

When I left the show, I passed on purchasing a thirty-dollar t-shirt, and instead, I put up the money for a cheap hotel downtown. You know the type -- the kind where you sleep with your clothes on to avoid direct contact with the crusty semen residue doubtlessly left by the room’s previous inhabitants. In between bouts of restless sleep, I watched the complimentary porno on the twelve-inch Mitsubishi in front of me. Even this activity didn’t provide its usual satisfaction. The plot was unfulfilling as it dealt with a guy -- named Guy -- coincidently enough, equipped with a surgically enhanced penis who worked as a nurse in a room full of paraplegics… Needless to say, there was a lot of oral going on. The video was so sick that I couldn’t even get an erection. That says a lot. I just ended up falling into a half-assed sleep which was followed by me walking aimlessly around town before going back to McDonald’s to see if I couldn’t get my last pay check. “You want your what?!” The manager told me.

“I want my fucking check.”

“You know what? We’re getting sued because of your little stunt yesterday.”

“You’re getting sued? I’m the one who got knocked out. That guy was an asshole.”

“You think I don’t know that? Let me tell you, buddy -- I’ve been in the fast food business for six and a half years. I didn’t just make it to assistant manager overnight.”

"I was going to find the secret. The only secret that mattered. The absolute secret of metal."
After a long, tedious dissertation about dealing with the attitudes of contentious customers, he and I finally ended up settling on the idea that I would continue to work until he could find a replacement. Seems the guy was desperate -- so was I. The only condition was that I was to only work during the same shifts he did. This, of course, meant that I got the best hours and that most of them were during the week. Of course, my new schedule meant that I was free to go and see Dokken on St. Patrick’s Day.

Yeah, they were playing that night in a tent by a restaurant.

Yeah, I had just seen them a couple of months before.

Yeah, the beer was going to be too expensive, but what the hell?

Actually, I’ll tell you what the hell --

I bought two 40’s of Mickey’s instead of St. Ides -- you know, because of the green bottle. I wanted to be in the spirit of the holiday at least a little bit. It turned out that it was a good thing that I had purchased eighty ounces of alcohol filled enjoyment too because although I had already purchased a ticket, I still had to wait in line for over an hour to get into the tent. The station that was putting this on was 94 Rock from here in Albuquerque, and you would think that after doing this a couple of times they could get their act together -- you would think anyway. Too bad it didn’t work that way, and even though the station touted the tix for this spectacle as being $9.94, by the time people got done paying service charges, they ended up paying fifteen bucks for admission.

Once I made it into the tent, I had to piss so bad it felt like I had a twenty-inch needle shoved through the top of my penis. And dammit if I didn’t have to wait another half an hour before I was finally in position to stand over the sickest, stench-filled excremental stew ever created and shoved into a porta potty. I wish someone would please explain to me why every time I look down into one of these abominations of filth, it seems as though everyone who preceded me had to have had some of the worst cases of diahrrea on record. As I stood there, I was buzzed just enough to be able to stand completely transfixed over this anal bile. I have to admit that although part of me was completely disgusted, the other part was just mesmerized. Besides, I figured if I stood in there just about ten more minutes, I’d probably have to take another leak.

Eventually I had to leave the grotesque confines of the toilet, so I tried to maneuver my way underneath the tent. The beer lines ran into the crowd, and I quickly found that all you got for the price of a good 40 in this joint was a thin plastic cup of draft. Hell, I barely had a chance to even take a good look around before Dokken walked onstage. This was probably fortunate for me since it was obvious even from first glance that this crowd was jam packed full of drunks and skanks -- in other words, it felt too much like home. At first, the band sounded fine -- of course they started things off with “Erase the Slate” just as they have the last four times I’ve seen them.

That was when the equipment problems began. During the second song, “Kiss of Death,” Don started having difficulty with his microphone. It got so bad that after “The Hunter,” the band had to leave the stage for a few minutes altogether. Obviously, I like Dokken. I think Don gets a bad rap a lot of time when in reality, he’s just doing his job -- being the leader of a band. All that aside though, I would be lying if I said this was their night -- it clearly wasn’t. The crowd was getting unsettled, and I was trying to spot any potential pockets of violent activity when I saw a blast from the past -- my old locker mate, David Chipps. I hadn’t seen this guy since high school -- even then, all I could remember was that he wore an Iron Maiden Powerslave t-shirt every day on Monday, Wednesday and Friday from his sophomore year through his senior. The other two days were covered by a well-worn Led Zepplin tee. This guy slept through every single class we had together, since it looked as though I wasn’t going to have anything else to amuse myself with, I struck up a conversation.

“Hey, dude.” I said.


“Haven’t seen you in awhile. What’s up?”

“Not much, motherfucker. I heard you were living in a shelter now.”

“Uh, yeah. Temporary, you know.”

“Why’s it temporary? No midgets in there? What the fuck?”

“So, you heard then?”

“Motherfucker, everyone has heard about you. Let me tell you a little secret… come on, come closer --WHEN YOU STICK A DWARF’S HEAD UP THROUGH THE ROOF OF YOUR CAR WHILE YOU BONE HER, PEOPLE ARE GONNA KNOW. Dude, you better skip the fucking class reunion.”

“Oh yeah, hey, uh -- I get your point. Do you still get a lot of sleep these days? …And uh, how’s that Powerslave shirt?

"Obviously, I like Dokken. I think Don gets a bad rap a lot of time when in reality, he’s just doing his job -- being the leader of a band. All that aside though, I would be lying if I said this was their night -- it clearly wasn’t."
“What the fuck are you talking about?!? Oh, the shirt. Yeah, man, I wore that fucker ‘til it was falling off my shoulders.”

“That’s great, dude. So… uh, you like the show?”

“Are you fucking kidding me? Dokken sucked then and they suck now. I’m looking forward to that Motorhead concert coming up. The only reason I’m here is to get drunk and hopefully get laid. Fuck this. Motorhead is a fucking rock band.”

Uncomfortable silence. This was a sign.

“Uh. You know, I’ve seen Dokken four times. I interviewed him too -- “

“Whoopdiefuckin’ do, buddy. You know what, Kerby? I just met some guy named You Suck Mutherfucker over at the gas station the other day. You wanna hear about that?”

Damn, he still hated me. Thankfully enough, Don and the rest of the band eventually came back out. Since it was obvious that this unplanned intermission had ruined the momentum of the set, the best thing the boys could have done would be to crank into “Just Got Lucky” or some older song. Nope -- that wasn’t gonna happen. The next scheduled tune on the set was “Sunless Days,” and that’s what they were gonna play whether anyone wanted to hear it or not. Most didn’t. Many of the spectators were visibly bored and getting restless. Even respectable renditions of “Into the Fire,” “Breaking the Chain” and “Alone Again” couldn’t bring the fans back. As I stood next to my high school classmate, the area in front of me which had only a short time ago been densely inhabited was now sparsely populated at best with plastic cups strewn all over the blacktop that crinkled sadly underneath the dirty feet of the few who were left.

By the time Dokken played the encore, “In My Dreams,” it looked as though me, Dave, a couple drunks and few dozen whores were all that was left. It’s too bad that the whole tone of the evening seemed to be dictated by the technical difficulties at the beginning of the show. To be fair, most bands have the occasional off night where things just aren’t going well, but in those cases it is up to the band to adapt to the situation. In this case they didn’t -- playing new songs after unplanned delays in the program just tests the patience of those who are there to be entertained.

As I left the venue, the words of that little plump deity, Gary Coleman, seemed to resonate poignantly in my mind. “The secret of metal is in Lemmy’s mole. The secret of metal is in Lemmy’s mole.”

After attending these two concerts, I decided that it was time to stop running from the Lord—er, Gary, so since Motorhead was coming to Albuquerque, I knew that I should just capitulate and get a ticket, so that’s exactly what I did. The entire day of the show, I wondered what great truth would reveal itself in what is indisputably the largest, hairiest facial growth in the history of rock n’roll. You’ve got to admit -- Lemmy might be one of the ten most recognizable symbols of metal, but his mole has got to be in the top two. It seems ever since I first heard Journey and realized that living could be painful, I had been looking for the secret of what lies behind the music that truly pounds, and now that I had been promised by the great ebony being himself that I was about to find it. I could hardly contain my exuberance.

When I walked into the Sunshine Theatre, I could see the paint coming off the roof, and I wondered just how long it would be before the plaster started to fall once Lemmy and the band took the stage. It was precisely for that reason that I made sure the place I positioned myself was nowhere near being underneath the damaged roof. That’s the last thing I figured that I needed--a trip to the hospital that I couldn’t even begin to pay for on what I make. After further investigation, I realized quickly that it looked as though the lead singer of the opening act had just been kicked out of his fraternity and, as punishment, was forced to endure the pain of a budding Flock of Seagulls hairstyle. As this guy barked his drill sergeant lyrics into the microphone, some lame ass hanger on who was with the band went running around with a video camera and recording the actions of the group and crowd.

This quickly grew tiresome, so I went to the bar and purchased a beer and sat down at a table by myself. There were some preppy looking people next to me -- three girls with blonde hair and all dressed in Tommy Hilfiger attire. There was only one guy with them, and I think he was gay -- figures. As the first ear decimating chords of the first Motorhead song filled the theatre, my beer fell from the table, and upon looking down to catch it, I saw a kind of hole in the floor. Inside it looked like Gary Coleman’s head. When I reached down into the abyss, I suddenly could feel my soul getting pulled away from my physical being. It felt as if I was being transported though a dark portal. The last thing I remembered before being sucked under was one of the Buffys looking at me and pointing to her friends before going, “he’s drunk…and dir-ty. He looks like a homeless.”

"...I became the Earthly embodiment of Lemmy’s mole. I experienced the entire duration of the concert from the vantage point of the growth on the cheek of the lead singer of Motorhead."
The rest of what happened has changed my outlook considerably about what it means to rock, live or truly turn up the volume in my life. See, instead of eventually blacking out in an inebriated stupor, I guess you could say that for the next two hours I was unwittingly transported into a kind of Being John Malkovich-type of experience, although instead of becoming an entirely different individual, I became the Earthly embodiment of Lemmy’s mole. I experienced the entire duration of the concert from the vantage point of the growth on the cheek of the lead singer of Motorhead.

I shook and tremored under the volume of the Gods of Metal. As they played tunes like “Sacrifice,” “Brave New World,” “Ace of Spades,” I could feel the sweat beading up on me and glimpse the hair protruding from my form. At different times, I would find myself dying for an irritation relieving scratch, but invariably this type of thing would only occur during a frenetic portion of a song -- hell, when you’re talking about Motorhead, they are ALL frenetic portions of songs. The trio even managed to perform kicky renditions of “God Save the Queen” by the Sex Pistols and “R.A.M.O.N.E.S” by… uh, you can figure it out. As the performance progressed, I began to think of my new reality as an oily, follicle-covered, bastion of hell raising rockitude.

It didn’t even matter that every time Lemmy spoke that I couldn’t understand a fucking word he said. Hell, I didn’t even care anymore if the roof caved in because I figured that if the world ever suffered some type of cataclysmic holocaust, the only things left to survive would be cockroaches, Pamela Lee’s implants and Lemmy’s mole. I also took delight in the assumption that if this aesthetically challenged lead singer were to delve into some type of sexual liaison backstage, I figured that I would doubtlessly be doing double duty as some type of sexual device -- surely any growth that large could be inserted somewhere desirable.

I never got to find out though, since once the show was over, I was spewed forth and back into my normal, poverty stricken, smelly body on the other side of the tunnel. Funny thing though -- part of me actually wanted to go back and burrow in my previously warm, hair-covered home. While the crowd dispersed, one of the preppie girls tossed a quarter at me and walked away. I no longer cared though because I had now achieved total truth. Gary had been right. The secret of aggressive music does truly exist as a sweaty, hairy, disfiguring growth on the face of music, which we all know of as heavy metal. When done correctly, it has the ability to shake you and cause you to lose all perspective of what your reality may truly be. I know it did in this case for me. I may very well be some poor guy working at McDonald’s who longs for his old days at the dump, but at least I can take solace in knowing that for the time Motorhead was onstage, it all ceased to matter -- everything. When I get up tomorrow, I know I’ll hate those bastard customers and their greasy Egg McMuffins just as much as ever, but I also realize that when things get too rough, I can always just go back into my mind’s inner mole to achieve true perspective on what’s important.

God bless Lemmy… and his mole.

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