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Who the hell are the Murder Junkies, might you ask?

Well, dear reader, the Murder Junkies were the backing band for G. G. Allin, an underground punk rock legend who was famous for slicing himself with razor blades, punching his band members in the face, and chasing fans with pieces of his own shit in hand. And the shit didn’t fall too far from the Allin, as after G.G. died, his brother Merle continued touring in tribute to his departed sibling.

I had no idea what to expect but I found out quickly when after our intro played, we ran onstage, launching into “Nameless Faceless,” and were met by forty mohawk-sporting, swastika-wearing, safety-pin-through-the-nose drunken skinheads. These guys were the real deal, completely 100 percent serious in their Aryan beliefs. When they saw our long hair and heard the pounding metal, they started laughing, playing overexaggerated air guitar, and headbanging goofily. In between songs, they yelled out, “Dokken!” or “Ratt!” They weren’t having fun, they were just full-on taking the piss out of our performance.

Normally, I pride myself on being able to entertain any crowd no matter the situation, but not even the mystic powers of Jericho the Voodoo Mon could turn them on this night. They were antagonistic, apathetic, unruly, and confrontational; they made Ogre from the Motörhead gig look like a thirteen-year-old girl at a Jonas Brothers concert.

During “Wanderlust,” when I invited a guy with a ring through his lip to sing along, he told me to fuck off. So I eliminated the middleman and tried to lead a “ Fuck ” chant during “Feel the Burn,” but not even blatant cursing was going to win this mob over and I was met with total indifference.

We finally lurched our way to the end of the show and began playing “Freewheel Burning,” the last of the set. Unfortunately, the song that cracked the Motörhead crowd didn’t work for the Junkie faithful, so I decided to go down swinging. During the song’s lengthy guitar solo I jumped off the stage and physically tried to get the stone-faced crowd to rock. I figured if they wanted punk I would give them punk and spit attitude into their faces. But my attempt bombed bigger than a Randy Savage rap album. Nobody moved.

I was frustrated and pissed off, so when I saw a guy propped up against the wall smirking at me, I snapped. I got right in his face and snarled, “You better rock!”

He still didn’t move.

“You better rock, man! I’m warning you.”

He continue staring at me nonchalantly, so I shoved him on the chest as hard as I could. He got a surprised look on his face and began to sway back and forth.

“That’s right!” I thought. “I finally got this guy to move!”

Then his swaying turned into teetering, his teetering into tottering, and his tottering turned into a complete Kramer pratfall onto the ground.

That’s when I noticed the cast on his leg and the crutch in his hand.

Bollocks.

We got an offer to tour Germany that I insisted on taking despite Rich’s reluctance. He felt that Fozzy didn’t have a big enough presence in Germany and wouldn’t do well, and he was right. We played complete shitholes for sparse crowds of lethargic fans every night.

The second night in Berlin was especially bad. The gig took place in a club that was little more than a big empty room with hardwood flooring like you’d find in a high school gym. The room remained almost empty for the show, I blew out my voice, and halfway through the set somebody threw a roll of toilet paper onstage. Rich glared at me as he wrapped the TP around his neck mid-song, and I could tell by the look on his face that he was furious.

Afterwards he asked, “How did you like that show?”

“It wasn’t good.”

“Yeah, it was the shits. Not even that roll of toilet paper could wipe that turd up.”

Then he proceeded to tear a strip off me. “Listen, you don’t know everything. You need to listen to me sometimes. You insisted that we come to Germany, even though I knew it was a bad idea, and I was right. Contrary to popular belief, I