Shut Up and Give Me the Mic (55 page)

I called his mother a few days later to ask what had happened—not that I wasn’t absolutely overjoyed. She told me that while Robert had gone into remission, the doctors had told her not to get her hopes up. In time the disease would take hold again and the end would come. In the meantime, she was incredibly happy to have her son back even for a while and so thankful for my help. I assured her that I had done nothing and expressed my joy for her family and Robert’s happiness. It was simply amazing.

Decades later
I would be contacted by Robert again. He is not only still alive (now in his forties), but married and with children of his own. The leukemia never returned.

A while after my hospital visit, I received a letter from the Make-A-Wish Foundation thanking me for my participation and explaining that wishes are
only
granted to
terminally ill
children. It was the first time
any
recipient had survived.

Do I think I’m special? Sure . . . but not in that way. I simply think positive thought and energy is an incredible thing that has been proven to have life-changing effects. It’s that same type of PMA that propelled Twisted Sister’s success. Unfortunately, in the band’s case my will and drive would one day not be enough.

41

O
ur return to heavy metal mecca (LA) with Iron Maiden could not have been more triumphant. With now almost 2.5 million records sold in the United States alone (close to 5 million worldwide) in less than a year’s time, Twisted Sister had gone from up-and-comers to heavyweight contenders. The Iron Maiden/Twisted Sister tour package was the hottest ticket in town, and every metalhead came to bear witness. But deep inside I sensed something wasn’t quite right. I couldn’t put my finger on it—and I wouldn’t dare put my finger on it if I could—but the night of our first of five Los Angeles–area sold-out performances, I got the feeling Twisted Sister had overstayed its welcome.

The audience was responding, but it almost seemed as if they were afraid
not
to. That wasn’t the reaction I was going for. I would later find out that was the case at many Twisted shows. Some people in attendance shouted and cheered out of fear they would either be targeted by me from the stage (no one was safe from my all-seeing eyes) or get their asses kicked by rabid Sister fans. Either way . . . not my goal.

The voice of a single metalhead from that night rings in my ears to this day. As Twisted Sister walked off after our set, I heard a male voice in the seats to the side of the backstage shout down to Blackie Lawless from W.A.S.P., who had been watching our show from the wings, “Twisted Sister sucks! W.A.S.P. rules!”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Blackie turn to fully accept the accolades of this fan and, with that, silently agree with the fan’s assessment. Yes, Twisted Sister does suck, he implied.

Click.

That was the sound of a tumbler to the combination lock of Twisted Sister’s
demise
falling into place. Something in the tone of the asshole’s voice, Blackie Lawless’s silent acknowledgment, and the
measured insanity
of the sold-out crowd that night told me this was more than one idiot’s opinion. This was a growing feeling in the metal community. I said nothing to anybody about this—I denied this momentary lapse in positivity even to myself—and went back to my dressing room. Swallowing the bitter, glimmer-of-a-dark-future pill, until now I never said anything to anyone about it again. But subconsciously I knew.

THE SECOND DAY OF
our run with Iron Maiden at LA’s Long Beach Arena was my thirtieth birthday. While the road to the top had been long and arduous, success was finally mine. You would think it would make the celebration of such a significant birthday that much sweeter. That’s what I thought. I had fame, fortune, an incredible wife, and a son. I had achieved my life’s goal and I was performing at a sold-out arena show. I was ready for the thirtieth birthday of all thirtieth birthdays. But it wasn’t to be.

I hate to admit I had an issue with turning thirty, but I can’t deny I had an unprecedented breakdown (for me) that night.

Leading up to the date, I had no trepidations whatsoever: I couldn’t have been in a better place at that point in my life. Since that infamous day, I’ve had a fortieth and a fiftieth birthday, and I’ve taken them both in stride. My fortieth birthday party was held at a kids’ indoor playground, I had Suzette carve the number 40 into the shaved hair on the side of my head, and I wore an adult diaper on the outside of my pants the entire night.
No—I didn’t need it!
My fiftieth birthday was televised (maybe some of you saw it?), and I celebrated that milestone for almost two weeks, taking my entire family to Universal Studios, then Suzette and I went away for a romantic week in the British Virgin Islands. I’ve already got
big plans for my sixtieth birthday. I don’t shy away from the decade markers of my life. I embrace and celebrate them. (Ignoring them isn’t going to make them go away.) But not my thirtieth. Something came over me that night that I just can’t explain . . . or maybe I can.

Because of my realization the night before, I was angry and upset when I hit the arena stage and gave one of my stronger performances (anger has always brought out the best/worst in me). I remember smashing my microphone stand repeatedly onstage and screaming with rage (not into the mic) as the raw emotion I was feeling but couldn’t explain overcame me. The audience response was particularly great that night.

After the show, Suzette had planned a backstage party for me, but I was having none of it. Feeling on the verge of tears (I’m telling you, it virtually never happens!), I wouldn’t come out of my dressing room, and I wouldn’t let anybody in besides Suzette and Jesse.

In a fairly famous episode of
The Mary Tyler Moore Show
, Mary throws a surprise party for her boss, Lou Grant, and he flips out when he arrives at Mary’s apartment and finds out about it. Lou doesn’t want a party and won’t let any of the guests enter. One by one, Mary tries to sell Lou on the people waiting out in the hall. “You like Murray. Why don’t we just let Murray in?” “It’s just Ted. You know Ted. What do you say we let Ted in?” And so on and so forth. Well, that’s pretty much what happened to Suzette. As I sat hugging my son like a security blanket, she tried to convince me to let into the room various people who wanted to see me.

“It’s Marty. You like Marty. Why don’t you just say hi to Marty?”

I was far less cooperative than Lou Grant. Eventually, Suzette told everybody the party was off and put away the cake. I was not in the mood to see anyone or celebrate. We had a custom cake the next day (made with a hand-“painted” picture of me, long before it was commonplace to put photos on cakes), but it wasn’t the same. I had ruined my thirtieth birthday and everyone around me was walking on eggshells.

Accepting that I may just have had a problem with turning thirty like so many others, I do have another theory for my reaction that night. Remember that
click
moment I told you about? I think the true weight of what I knew in my heart to be true about the future for the band and me had got to me on a deeper level. I would never
have suggested this then, and I know I couldn’t explain my behavior at the time, but looking back now, I’m convinced the reality of what I subconsciously knew was happening had shaken me to my core. Somehow I knew I had blown it.

The one thing I did allow myself to acknowledge was that I (Twisted Sister) was
becoming
overexposed. It was time to shut down interviews and press of any kind, but there was one problem. Magazines had a three-month lead time. Meaning, it took three months from the time you did an interview for it to hit the stands. For me to stop doing interviews at the end of March meant plenty of articles and photos would still be published all the way to the beginning of summer. By the time you
think
you may be overexposed, you are done!

Click.

Another tumbler fell into place. I knew inside it was true, but I still wouldn’t accept it as a fait accompli. I could fix it. I had everything under control.

TWISTED SISTER FINISHED OFF
our last few dates with Iron Maiden, and on March 24, 1985, ending eleven months of touring and four months of recording and preparing for the biggest record and moments of our career. Almost a decade after I joined the band, I was officially a rich, famous rock star (I know I say that a lot but I like the way it sounds.), and I was going to enjoy the fruits of my labor.

Returning home couldn’t have been more glorious. Suzette, Jesse, and I had moved into an expensive home on the North Shore of Long Island, in an exclusive area (I still remember singing
The Jeffersons
’ “Movin’ on Up” theme song as we drove there for the first time), and I had so many “rock-starry” things I wanted to do. We completely fenced in and gated our acreage, installed a built-in pool, and bought a boat and more cars, including a 1950 Cadillac hearse. We had so many
daily
driving cars our insurance company dropped us because they couldn’t understand why two people needed so many vehicles. I had a mechanic who would come to the house just
to service the vehicles for
lack of use.
They were breaking down because they didn’t get driven enough!

We had service people do everything for us: landscapers, handymen, housekeepers, and assorted workmen. I remember one day Suzette, who wasn’t buying into the whole “living like a rock star” thing, asked me to help her put down a carpet in one of the small rooms in our house (she’s a hands-on kind of person), and I said to her with disgust, “I don’t lay carpet, I
pay
people to lay carpet!” Man, did I live to regret making that statement.

I stopped handling my day-to-day finances, opened charge accounts in every store in town, and had my accountant deal with the annoying detail of paying the bills. We would just walk into stores, tell the salesclerk/butcher/pharmacist/grocer/etc. what we wanted, and they would pack it up and send my accountant the bill. Cash? We don’t need no stinking cash!

Understand, for a blue-collar guy who grew up in a large, middle/lower-middle-class family, having to work my ass off for anything I wanted, never having any real money or truly nice things, and always having financial problems, this was an incredible dream come true. To not have to do it myself—or get a friend or family member to do it for me—worry about the cost, look for a deal, or ask “How much?” before buying something was positively mind-blowing. I
should have
done all those things, but I didn’t. I wasn’t rich enough to just throw money away—few people are. But this was
my
rock ’n’ roll dream and I was living it the way I envisioned it. Plus I was sure there was a lot more money to come.

I would get up at the crack of dawn each morning, hand-wash my totally restored 1969 Boss 302 Mustang (nobody ever touched my Mustang but me!), then drive to
my
gym (still called Iron Masters) before it opened, weight-train with
my
personal bodyguard, Vic, then head back to
my
beautiful home for a day with
my
wife and son. Rock star time, and the livin’ was easy.

THAT SPRING AND SUMMER
were great, but I had work to do as well. Each month I would film an episode of
Heavy Metal Mania
for MTV
at various locations, including my gym, my mechanic’s garage, and touring the town I grew up in, in my open-top Jeep. I had also signed a deal to write a follow-up to Pat Boone’s bestseller,
’Twixt Twelve and Twenty
, on the teen years, so I had to do regular interviews/meetings with my cowriter Phil Bashe (more on this later).