American Outlaw - Jesse James [50]
He grinned. “So, why should I hire you, you think?”
I looked him over and shrugged. “Don’t know.”
Glenn looked at me hard. “Chuck Biscuits says his little brother saw you at a show at Fender’s last night.”
“Vandals,” I confirmed.
“What did you think?” Glenn asked.
“Pretty okay,” I said. “They play music you can fight to.”
Glenn laughed. “Music you can fight to?”
My rival scoffed. “Real mature attitude for a security guard.”
“No, I’m curious,” said Glenn. He looked amused. “Tell me more, Jesse.”
I cleared my throat, shifted in my seat. “Well, I just think punk, it’s about letting off steam.”
“True,” Glenn said.
“You gotta pump people up,” I continued. “Otherwise, I mean, what’s the point? All this hair metal crap—Def Leppard and Guns N’ Roses and Skid Row—it’s just soft. It’s a waste of time, if you ask me.”
“Makes me sick,” Glenn agreed.
“I like intense music,” the black dude interjected. “Just with soul. That’s all I ask.”
Glenn ignored him. “What’s your take on Danzig?” he asked me. “Are we tough enough for you?”
“I’ve always dug your music,” I said, honestly. “I was listening to the Misfits when I was twelve.”
“Gee, thanks for making me feel like an old man,” Glenn said, laughing. “Well, okay. You wanna come aboard? We have a few shows left in the U.S., then a European tour right around the corner.”
“Fuck yeah,” I exclaimed. “I’m ready to go.”
The other candidate crossed his arms sourly. “I like to fight, too, okay? It’s just not, like, my first option.”
——
Doing security was a lot like being back on the football field—only with a super-intense sound track.
“Just make sure no one touches Glenn,” Chuck Biscuits told me. “That’s your main challenge. Glenn whips everyone into a fucking frenzy, and for some reason, his fans always want to fight him.”
I laughed. That made sense to me. “Keep them off the stage, huh?”
“Yeah, keep us safe. Keep the crowd safe, too—scare people, but don’t touch them unless you have to.” He grinned. “Basically, make sure no one gets too bloody.”
My first Danzig show, in Portland, Oregon, was unbelievably loud, and almost comically intense. I spent two and a half hours on stage, hovering nine feet above the writhing masses, watching them fight and bash one another like enraged beasts. Standing directly in front of the speaker, the deep bass vibrated through my body as the barricade pulsed with the force of a thousand death-metal punks.
“I can feel it jabbing!” Danzig screamed.
The near-delirious band beat the shit out of their instruments, as if they never intended to use them again. The music was so deafeningly loud, it made my brain itchy inside my skull.
“Make me—come alive!” he screamed.
Glenn Danzig was a monster on stage. Every lyric of every song, he growled forth a primal howl, whipping his long black hair around his head like it was a rabid animal he was trying to shake off. His front-row fans emulated him: they screamed at him, challenging him to fight, giving him the finger, and showering in the nasty sweat flying off his hulking, compact frame.
After the show, we headed to a Portland strip club to unwind. The Acropolis was kind of a dive, but I suppose it could have been worse. At least no one was wearing plaid.
“So what’d you think, Jesse?” Chuck asked me.
“Blew my mind,” I answered, truthfully. “My ears are still ringing, man.”
“Pretty easy?” Danzig asked.
“Definitely.”
“Well,” Glenn said, “I don’t mean to nitpick, but I think there were a couple of things you could have done better. I was getting some bad vibes from this one shithead right in the front row. He looked dangerous, like he was getting ready to jump the barricade and come on stage.”
“That one kid with the tats on his face?” asked Eerie Von, their bassist.
“Exactly.” He turned to me. “Did you see him, Jesse?”
“No,” I admitted. I had been too involved with the overall experience: the music blasting relentlessly from the speakers, engulfing my body and my head.
“So, you gotta have better eyes, okay? Remember, we’re all depending on you. I’m sure you’re great at reacting