Undisputed_ How to Become the World Champion in 1,372 Easy Steps - Chris Jericho [114]
Fozzy, 2005: Delson, The Duke, me, Frank Fontsere, and Mike Martin. We had to get a government permit to film the “Enemy” clip on a rooftop in downtown San Diego. Doesn’t the city have better things to do than demand a permit from a rock band shooting a video?
Despite being banned by MTV (or maybe because of it), we were invited to tour England for the first time. (That “madmen across the water” line doesn’t seem like too much of a stretch, now does it?) We didn’t know what to expect, but the response was incredible. Most of the shows sold out and the crowd knew all the words to our songs. After all of Fozzy’s trials and tribulations, we had found our second home.
It was also the first time we’d traveled together in a tour bus—although in reality it was more of a tour van. It was the size of a small rental car shuttle with makeshift bunks on the side, and there was barely enough room for the five guys in the band and our two crew members. But it was Fozzy’s first bus and I loved it.
Although this was my debut tour of the UK with Fozzy, I had been there a dozen times with the WWE. The rush I got from doing the shows was the same for both, but the difference in accommodations was night and day. I went from staying in five-star hotels to sleeping on a thin mattress on a piece of plywood and taking showers at truck stops. But I was paying my dues and making my name as a musician the same way I had in wrestling all those years ago (Harrison represent!).
Fozzy started catching on in England, Ireland, Scotland, and Wales, and we toured the UK five times on the All That Remains— Touring the World and Elsewhere jaunt. We did such good business that we were booked at the Astoria, one of the most prestigious and historic venues in London. The Beatles played there. Metallica played there. Now Fozzy was playing there, and that was pretty fucking froot in my book.
It was a big night for us, so we decided to do something special at the expense of a male version of the Spice Girls called the S Club. If you put Ashley Simpson into a blender with 98 Degrees, sprinkled in a little Miley Cyrus and a whole lot of suck, you might have an idea of what the S Club sounded like.
The Astoria was jam-packed with over a thousand Fozzy Fanatics, with dozens more hanging from the rafters (term used courtesy of the Rock ’n’ Roll Express). The show began as the lights went out and a single spotlight shone down on a footstool with a boom box placed upon it. Then our tour manager extraordinaire Toad wandered out on the stage and pressed play. At that moment our sound guy cued the S Club as if they were blaring out of the box. The audience started booing and screaming “This sucks!” until I strolled onstage, baseball bat in hand. The entire crowd understood what was about to happen and the jeers turned to screams of appreciation. I stood beside the boom box and stared at it with disgust, swinging the bat over my shoulder. I slowly raised it over my head and brought it down like the Hammer of the Gods, smashing the shit out of the hapless box and to the delight of the crowd silencing the S Club forever. The rest of the band came charging out and we blazed into “Nameless Faceless,” the opening track off All That Remains.
There was a lot of press in attendance prepared to drag us over the coals for having the audicity to play original music, but we caught their attention and changed their minds pretty damn quickly. They found out that Fozzy had come to London to chew bubble gum and kick ass—and we were all out of ass.
After the show we had to pack up our gear and leave quickly, as the venue was turning from a concert hall into a trendy discotheque. As the bus pulled away I glanced out at the marquee and burst out in laughter when I saw the name of the club underneath the name of our band.
TONIGHT:
FOZZY
GAY
You can’t make this stuff up….
The marquee says it all.
CHAPTER 32
Rage Raspberry