Metallica, Celine Dion, Goat Boy, and Me
Metallica recently played Nashville’s Sommet Center. I’ve
never been big on the metal scene or lifestyle, but this band commands my
respect and attention for hammerin’ out the hard stuff for more than two
decades.
These guys specialize in face-melting, head-banging rock ’n’
roll for dudes. It’s audio fuel for working out at the gym. At this minute, I’m
actually blogging to “Enter Sandman” and throwin’ the horns between keystrokes.
Did I go to the show? Hell, no. Are you kidding? What a pain
in the ass. I rarely go to concerts unless I’ve got free tickets, all access,
and a ride. Or if I’m gigging.
Am I spoiled? Yes. But that’s beside the point. Since
childhood, I’ve always had issues with being in the midst of large groups of
people. This applies to sporting events, malls, church, traffic, airports,
airplanes, tour buses, etc.
My anxiety level rises and I fight myself to keep it
together. Maybe I’m agoraphobic. But isn’t that a fear of large groups of
people? I don’t think anybody’s trying to hurt or kill me; I just want my own
space.
But I digress. I’ll get back to Metallica, just bear with
me.
Although I’m a rocker at heart with country music
tendencies, I’m also uncharacteristically fond of a certain female
singer—Celine Dion.
Yeah, I said it.
This woman’s voice is not of this earth. She’s an alien …
actually, French Canadian. Seriously, I sincerely believe she’s got the best
pipes in the biz.
I remember her debut appearance on the Tonight Show with Johnny
Carson. I wasn’t one to gravitate toward that kind of music, but her vocal
chops were stunning and I wanted to hear more.
So I bought her shit, OK? I admit it … I own Celine Dion
CDs.
I’m a musician and a songwriter. So I reasoned my craft
could only improve by studying her a bit. If I could be half as expressive on
my instrument, the guitar, as she is with her vocals, then I would be a good
steward of my profession.
I feel the same way about Mariah Carey. But that’s another
blog.
Which still doesn’t bring me back to Metallica, but I’m
gettin’ there.
First I need to talk about Sirius/XM satellite radio. I’m a
subscriber and regular listener of the Raw Dog comedy channel and comedian Jim
Breuer’s show, “Breuer Unleashed.”
Breuer was a Saturday Night Live cast member in the mid-90s.
The guy is piss your pants funny. He was primarily known for the character
“Goat Boy,” which to me was the least comical thing he did.
His impression of Joe Pesci killed, not to mention his
hilarious takes on AC/DC, Judas Priest, and Metallica.
His weekly satellite radio show is a respite from current
events and pop culture. Following a burnout with SNL, stand-up comedy, and
other show-biz bullshit, Breuer is back on track with a two-hour talkfest about
life, family, comedy, and hard rock.
Which finally brings me back to Metallica.
I did go to their show last February. It was at the
Prudential Center in Newark, New Jersey on a Saturday night. I was flown from
Nashville to New York City the night before, met by a limo, and taken to the
Helmsley Hotel.
The next day, I walked around Manhattan and was later limoed
to Morris Plains, New Jersey to pick up my younger brother, Deke. We were then
dropped off at the Metallica gig.
This weekend excursion was totaling up to about three grand.
Fortunately, I wasn’t picking up the tab.
How did I do this? I won a contest on Breuer’s show.
Sponsored by Klondike, “What Would You Do for a Klondike
Bar?” was a contest that encouraged Breuer’s audience to call in and sing a
song they’d never sing in front of their buddies. The funny gets the money.
The winner and a guest get to fly to NYC for the weekend and
rock with Jim Breuer and Metallica.
On a late-night lark, I called in. While strumming some
pretty chords, I introduced myself, apologized to the listening audience
(affectionately known as “regulators”), and proceeded to sing “My Heart Will Go
On.”
Near. Far. Wherever you are.
I believe in my heart that my heart will go on and on.
That’s right, I mangled the chorus of Celine Dion’s megahit
from the movie Titanic, left my number, and hung up.
Two weeks later, I’m out mowing the yard. It’s November,
cold, and thankfully the last mow until spring. My wife comes out of the house
holding the phone with this puzzled look on her face.
Clueless to what I’d done, she said, “You’ve won some
contest to go to New York and see Metallica?”
The trip remains ultra-memorable for obvious reasons. It was
a free ride to the big city and great seats at the Metallica show. I also got
to meet and hang out with one of my favorite comics.
But the coolest thing was being able to take my brother
along with me. For the last 20 years, we’ve only connected during the holidays.
That doesn’t count as a hang. Wives and kids are in tow.
This was a HANG! We drank irresponsibly, rocked Newark,
laughed our balls off, and had designated transportation to get us safely back
to our respective cribs. These days, that’s the only way we can roll.
True story. Ya can’t make this shit up.
So, an eternal thanks to Sirius/XM, Klondike, Metallica,
Goat Boy, and especially my sweet Celine for getting the Crowe bros together
for the ultimate boys night out.
Long live rock!