"Go fuck yourselves. You're all a bunch of fucking weak-willed fucking pieces of shit. I'm outta here."
This was the last thing that Black Label Society's perennially unruly guitar hero Zakk Wylde said at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting—right before storming out for good.
"You won't see me fucking visiting that shit again," he says, pounding a silver ring into one of Revolver's desks for emphasis. "I said to my wife, 'Barb, you might as well take me shopping with the girls.' It's about as fuckin' interesting as that… Dude, I got shit I gotta do. I'm working on fuckin' merch ideas right now, the backdrops, the sets… and then I gotta go feed the fuckin' dogs. I got a million fucking things going on right now. Hanging out with these motherfuckers is not one of the things."
For starters, Wylde was constructing BLS' eighth studio album, Order of the Black (E1), his heaviest, meanest, ugliest record in forever—a bulldozer attack of martial double kick, blackened chug, Southern-fried groove work, and more than one inhuman guitar solo fluttering off like a swarm of locusts. You'd never know from the album's shit-kicking riffs or Wylde's unflappable spirit, but Order arrives after a year of tumult: He was unexpectedly fired from Ozzy Osbourne's band after 20 legend-making years, he suffered a disgusting umbilical hernia, and he had to cancel a summer tour after being diagnosed with blood clots that traveled from his legs up to his heart and lungs. Add to that, drinking-related diseases like pancreatitis and fatty liver disease and the wild man who once named an album Alcohol Fueled Brewtality was forced to go strictly coffee and Gatorade.
"Going to the doctor, he just told me, if you go out berserking with the guys, and you fucking pound a case of beer while you watch Monday Night Football… You might just be sitting at Hooters watching football, but internally you're bleeding. Next thing you know, you'll be shitting blood, pissing it out of your ass, pissing it outta your dick, throwing up… Put it this way, if you don't like going to the dentist, don't go to the boardwalk and start eating taffy.
"And on top of it, the doctor goes, 'Pancreatitis? Half the fuckin' guys I operate on don't even make it off the table. And if they do make it off the table, their body rejects it and they don't make it home.' I guess the bar's closed for my dumb, Mick-Kraut ass! You don't need to fucking go to AA to know that. You eat another doughnut, your head's gonna explode? You fat bastard, Krispy Kremes is out for you!"
Wylde is the friendliest, cuddliest 600-pound gorilla in metal. From his hulking frame to his sheer volume, he is the definition of larger-than-life: six-foot-one without the Frankenstein boots, enormous bike chains faithfully jangling at his side, a boisterous megaphone of a voice abetted by its third cup off coffee. His version of "Did you hear me correctly?" is a forceful-but-loving nudge on the shoulder; his version of "I agree" is reaching out his huge hand for a high-five. When Hurricane Zakk blows through, you know.
Revolver had prepared a photo shoot for our cover with Wylde in the outer reaches of our sanctum. He was surrounded by lights and cameras and publicists and magazine editors and scurrying production assistants—but even if he wasn't, Wylde would be the center of attention. He stands on a rock before the first photo is snapped and blurts, "Does my labia look OK?" He captivates a room of nine people like an X-rated stand-up comedian dominating a 2 a.m. set. Led Zeppelin's "Babe I'm Gonna Leave You" pops on the stereo, and he begins an impressive improv routine: "Girls, back in the day, which one would you sleep with—Robert or Jimmy?" Through a flurry of cackles, the women register their ruling. "We got two Roberts and two Jimmys," Wylde howls. "I think I gotta break the tie. I'm a 'D.P.' kind of girl. I gotta be airtight. I gotta include the rhythm section in there, too."
His publicist impulsively attempts to turn off the Zep and put in the new Black Label Society disc. "No, keep Led Zeppelin on!" he shouts. "I was talking about getting hammered by the Gods—all of them!" Once the instantly recognizable, pummeling riffs of his own songs fill the room, he leans off the rock and deadpans, "I never heard of Black Sabbath before."
Wylde explains the quality of his music by explaining how he adheres to the four elements of "Black Label Law": Strength Determination Merciless Forever (the "S.D.M.F." he prints on CD art). He also applies these qualities to his life. During a quick blow-dry session, one of the throngs watching the shoot, who has gone through Alcoholics Anonymous' 12 steps to managing addiction, attempts to make small talk about their experiences quitting alcohol. Wylde promptly mows him down: "No, fuck that. There's one step: Stop." Wylde's wife co-manager and, uh, "coffee getterer" Barbaranne sits in the corner and plays diplomat. "Zakk… It does help some people." Zakk counters, "There's a reason I got the patch G.I.F.D., Get It Fucking Done. That's the Black Label motto." After all, Wylde says alcohol was never really a problem for him. "I never had, you know…like when you hit that rock bottom," he explains. "It just gets fuckin' silly and stupid and you go, I think we're having a little too much fun."
Even so, Wylde checked out an AA session on the recommendation of famous friends like Ozzy and Jerry Cantrell. He recounts his tale with abandon. "It's fucking comedy," he says. "It woulda made a great Seinfeld episode, you know? The guy goes, 'Well, you know… I was asking God about something today and nothing happened, so I just wish sometimes that I had a fast-acting God…' I just go, 'Dude, as a fucking Catholic, I oughta knock your fucking teeth out right now, man. Bro—a fast-acting fucking God? God's got a million fucking things going on right now, more than worrying about your candy-ass, excuse-riddled bullshit, dude. You're a fucking douchebag. Fuck you and fuck all you motherfuckers in there.'"
It's been about a year since Wylde tasted booze—and he doesn't really care. Barbaranne dutifully counts the days and months, but Wylde remains completely oblivious. He still goes to the bar to watch ESPN and play Patsy Cline on the jukebox. "This one dude was like, 'Well, Zakk, what are you gonna do when you go on tour?' What am I gonna do? I'm gonna fucking work," he says, looking ahead to a busy few months playing on Ozzfest then his own Black Label Berzerkus tour this fall. "You think when I see a fucking Budweiser commercial, I'm gonna jump through the fucking window and rob a Budweiser truck? I go to a restaurant and somebody buys a bottle of wine, you think I'm gonna beat the shit out of them and throw the table up in the air? Have you ever seen a fucking Black Label family get together? It's a fucking berserker fucking boozefest from doom. It's just more booze for the rest of the Black Label community."
He even remains steadfast in his plans of releasing a Black Label microbrew. "Have our own beer, open our own clubs, shit like that. Just because I don't drink doesn't mean I can't own a bar. I'm like Sam from fuckin' Cheers now, man. Fuckin' hell," he says. "I'll have you to get wasted all the time! And you'll be like, 'This tastes like rat piss! This is the good shit over here! Too bad you can't drink it, asshole!'"
Through his sobriety, Wylde maintains his hard-as-nails attitude to adversity and otherworldly ability to work through anything. He claims he gets it from his father, an orphan who, when he came of age, fought in WWII, worked his balls off at General Motors, cleaned grandma's house every weekend, never missed one of little Zakk's little-league games, and certainly never complained—Get it fucking done. Wylde implemented this work ethic early on, sitting in his room and practicing diatonic scales on his guitar for 10 hours a day. His father passed away in January 2009, but his sense of perseverance lives on in his son. He still runs his backing band like a military division, handing them a set list and saying, "See you in two weeks." His idea of a vacation is getting to sleep in his own bed.
When Wylde sees an obstacle, he rolls up his sleeves, keeps working, and looks on the bright side. After Ozzy let Wylde go in a seemingly unceremonious fashion in favor of a 20-something young buck named Gus G., the metal press was overflowing with "Ozzy dumps Zakk" stories. Ozzy had mentioned that he felt Zakk was turning his music into BLS II, but the metal legend recently admitted that, towards the end, it was just hard to be around Wylde. Ozzy told Guitar World, "I love his playing; he's one of the greats. But it was the drink getting the better of him. I couldn't watch him die."
Wylde seems unfazed and unhurt by the dismissal—hell, they just had a big steak dinner together. "I've known Ozzy for 24 years," Wylde says. "He's a part of my life. I'm blessed. I don't know where the fuck the bad news is, know what I'm saying? Gus gets fuckin' hurt in a bizarre masturbatory accident in the back of a tour bus having too much fun, treating his body as a 'wonderland'? Dude, just give me the set list. But if it's Gus' gig now, God bless him. You think, when I got the gig, [previous Ozzy guitarist] Jake E. Lee was all like 'Oh, Zakk fuckin' Wylde'? Being with Ozzy is like playing for the Yankees… I was wearing the pinstripes and now Gus is wearing the pinstripes. I always want the Yankees to win—which is Ozzy."
Essentially, what seems like a painful breakup is actually pretty painless. For real suffering, it's best to ask Wylde about his recent throat surgery. Wylde's voice gave out a week after a Brazilian tour. He went to Ozzy's doctor, who pulled Barbaranne aside and said that he would probably never sing again. "While the doctor was scoping me, my gag reflex was going [retching sounds] because the camera was going down my throat," Wylde says. "One day I threw up on the floor. And he goes, 'I've never seen anyone with this bad of a gag reflex before.' I guess I won't be giving blowjobs anytime soon!"
And then there was the equally icky umbilical hernia, which manifested itself after lifting weights. "I felt like my balls dropped. It didn't even hurt. I just noticed it one day and was like, 'When the fuck did I ever have an outie bellybutton?' It went out this fuckin' far—like half your pinkie. It's been like: tour, hospital, tour, hospital. It was like a fuckin' Evel Knievel tour… Ridiculous. Beyond fuckin' gay."
But, since Wylde is always willing to grit his teeth through anything, he'll be the first to tell you that this is really nothing new or special. In the '90s, when he was touring with his swamp-stomping banjo-metal crew Pride & Glory, he cracked three vertebrae while attempting to simultaneously crowd-surf and play guitar. He even once blew out his knee after a hair-metal–related incident way back in 1989. "The Cinderella guys were in town playing the Hammersmith Odeon," he says. "We're having a good time getting fuckin' hammered. The guys were up there whuppin' ass and about to play some Stones shit, and I walk out there onstage and Tom [Keifer, Cinderella frontman] gives me one of his gold-top [guitars]. We're fuckin' jamming 'Satisfaction.' I'm looking at Tom—he's got one of those ego ramps there for the singer. I'm numb nuts over here and I'm just looking at Tom, walking with him. He keeps going, and I'm just like, 'Ahhhhh!' into the abyss, man. I went flying down, lying there on my back, and all I remember is seeing them looking at me, going, 'You fucking idiot!' The guitar was still in tune, man."
Wylde seems in impossibly good spirits, completely unmoved by all the things life has thrown at him, a rock in any situation. "I'm doing fucking music and I've sustained more fuckin' injuries doing this shit than playing football," he jokes. He coyly squeaks out, "Zakk Wylde's had a really rough year," gently mocking a recent Guitar World article that ran down a laundry list of the obstacles he's faced—the health problems, the death of his father, the three pulmonary embolisms, getting booted from Ozzy's band. He laughs at the very idea that any of this could keep him down for long. "Let's see… I'm still fuckin' breathing. I just put 300 fucking pounds up on the bench. Dad's in a better place, up in God's tavern. I'm making a new Black Label fucking album. Ozzy's still the godfather of my son and he's got an ass-kicking new guitar player. So where's the fucking bad shit?"
So is "Stay positive" the moral of the story?
Says Wylde, "The moral of the story is: "Drink heavily… You can, I can't.
