I always took the long way home after school so I could smoke two cigarettes. I’d light the second smoke with the butt of the first, and slowly scuff and stroll home enjoying the headrush. So there I was, looking the way I did with the hair, the tight jeans, narrow hips—the whole deal. My brother loves telling this story, by the way. I was about three or four houses from our place when Rich and his friend Brad drove up behind me before turning in to our driveway. As they got a little closer, and only seeing me from behind, Brad tapped my brother on the leg so he wouldn’t miss out and said, “Nice ass! Wonder what her face looks like.”
“Dude, that’s my brother,” Rich said.
My dad never really gave a shit about how I looked. I mean, I’m sure there were times he wished I’d dial it down just a bit, but mostly he just got a kick out of it. I’d walk out of my room with a fresh piercing, full-length spandex, cowboy boots with a bandana tied around my thigh, and a T-shirt I had just taken apart and sewn back together. The most I’d get was a “Nahhhhhh, come on. Really?” followed by one of his famous laughs. To which I’d always answer something like, “Ohhhhh yes, Pop! Really!” This drove people nuts. People had such a hard time believing I was the son of a marine, which only made me realize how all those people got my dad so very wrong.
In those years when I was trying my goddamn hardest to become a teenage glam rock nightmare, I didn’t dye my hair a little blonde—I went full platinum. I always made sure my jeans were tight enough to throw people off. You’d know right away these weren’t anything you could buy at a regular store. Somehow going over the top made me less insecure. There was a power to it, but a power I ate a lot of shit for. I’ve been beat up, had knives pulled on me, got kicked out of more places than you could count, had fathers dump me on behalf of their daughters, been refused service and ripped off—all because of how I looked.
Which was fabulous, by the way. The times I heard the word “fag” followed by a sharp pain to some part of my body while walking through a crowd were more than I’d like to remember. Even years later, when I’d get lost, alone on the middle of a dance floor or high up on a speaker while people threw stuff at me and bouncers grabbed at my feet to pull me off, I never went a little. I was always extra. Over the top. I never left the house with some makeup on, it was never subtle. I’d cake on eyeliner and rub it in with my pinky, so it looked like it had been there for days. I never wanted anyone to ever ask, “Are you wearing makeup?” That’s what I feared most. Talking about it or having to justify it. That’s what made me nervous. I never wanted to be the topic of conversation, so I never gave people a place to even start.
Even today, I’m never really what anyone would call “appropriate.” If I had to, I’d describe my current personal style as someone who’s doing a pretty good job at handling a very bad day. I’ll never fully fit in. When I started working on TV, I’d get all these crazy invites to these glossy, strict-dress-code-only parties and I’d show up wearing actual garbage. I looked like I had just come from a bachelor party—but one that started two days earlier. I’d wear the weirdest, most destroyed and wrinkled outfit I could put together, just to see if they’d let me in. And when they did, once inside, drinking their free booze, I’d cheers to sixteen-year-old me.
Being over the top—or flamboyant, for lack of a better word—and making myself a target gave me something to fight against. Gave me an enemy. Dealing with judgey strangers allowed me to push my own shit deeper and deeper. It was a perfect distraction.
Managing ego with crazy insecurity is a contradiction most of us live with. For me, it’s every day. Every minute. Always has been.
Growing up in a small town, you quickly realize that how you treat people matters. No one was anonymous—you couldn’t be an asshole to someone and get away with it. If I was a dick to the guy who ran the corner store, when my dad stopped there to buy smokes on his way home after work he’d hear all about it. How you treat people matters. That’s the lesson.
So there I was, polite, pretty, and clueless. Desperate to be famous and desperate to fit in. You need to know all of this so you understand why what happened next happened. This is the story of when I was definitely almost molested by Sebastian Bach’s manager.
It was around 1989, and my friend drove us out of town to go to the record store: Sunrise Records at Stone Road Mall. I always knew what I wanted to get before we even left the house, but I’d still spend hours in there, just flipping through cassettes and listening to whatever the clerk decided to spin, while fantasizing what it would be like to have my own album in a place like this while some other kid, just like me, came in to spend their allowance on something I made. I was cruising the aisles with a Skid Row tape in my hand when this guy walks up to me and asks, “Are you a fan?”
In my head I was like “Obviously, you dumb shit—LOOK at me!” Sebastian Bach, the singer for Skid Row, was my style icon. “Uh,” I mumbled.
This guy was older, like my father’s age. Short-sleeve dress shirt tucked in, dad jeans, thick glasses. He looked like he could have been a pen salesman or a Radio Shack model.
“You like Skid Row? You a fan?” he said. “I’m asking because I manage him. Sebastian Bach.”
There was a part of me that wanted to call bullshit right away, but I knew Sebastian was from a small town not that far from where I grew up, so I gave this guy two seconds of my attention. Just as I was about to shoot back with “Oh yeah, how long you…” he jumped in with “You know he’s gay, right?”
I was stunned. Not surprised but stunned. As someone who lived off every piece of information I could get my hands on about my favourite bands, I was enthralled and intoxicated by the fact I had dirt that nobody knew. Secrets. So I responded with a very polite, “Fuck off, man.”
To which he immediately replied, “You look like him.” He paused, then added, “You have great hair. He’d love that. He’s really into that.”
That was it. That’s all it took. Up to this point no adult had ever acknowledged the way I looked with anything other than “Cut your hair” or “No” or “Not with my daughter.” This guy was into it. And he was Sebastian Bach’s manager. And now I believed him.
At this point I was losing my shit over the idea that Sebastian Bach might be into me—even though I was pretty sure he wasn’t gay, and even more than sure that I wasn’t. But for some reason the idea that I might be his type was blowing my fucking mind! What do you even do with that?
The guy introduced himself. “I’m Mick Nickle, ‘keeper of the case.’ ” He laughed and waited for me to pick up the bait. I must have taken a beat too long, because he said, “I’m closer to him than anyone in the world, and I’m in charge of his case.”
I took it. “His case?”
“Every time he’s with a guy, Sebastian cuts a piece of their hair off, wraps one end with an elastic, and puts it in a briefcase. He takes this case around the world with him. With us.”
In my head I was like Wait. What? You’re fucking with me. Gross. But for some reason, maybe because I didn’t want the gossip to stop, or maybe I was enjoying feeling like I fit into this story and this world, flattered that this dude, who knew Sebastian Bach, was into the way that I looked, I replied with “Cool.”
The next five minutes were a blur. Mick went into this long, involved story about how he’d discovered Sebastian Bach, how he got him hooked up with the right people, and how he landed Skid Row their first record deal. He knew everything. Dates, places, names, and every detail I’d read, and already memorized, from the metal magazines I devoured.
I started to think I’d just got discovered! The ’80s were full of stories of young women being discovered in American malls who went on to become supermodels. Their discoveries couldn’t have been any less weird than this one!
Mick asked if I had a demo tape—which I did. I always carried it with me on cassette in the top left pocket of my purple jean jacket. He then asked if I wanted to head out to the parking lot, to his truck, to hear the new Skid Row album before anyone else. He said I’d love it, and afterwards we could listen to my demo.
This was one of the first times my insecurity did battle with my ego. I wanted him to like me, but I knew as soon as he heard my demo I’d be done. It wasn’t that good. I told Mick that I couldn’t head out to the parking lot but that I would call him. He said that he was right out front, and he could tell within minutes if I had what it took. He pushed harder. “Just come on out, follow me. Let’s go. No big deal.”
“No. I really need more time.” I was nervous. If this was my one shot, I wanted to make it count. I wanted time to work on it. I also knew my buddy had to get the car home in an hour because his dad worked nights.
Mick took a long pause, then said, “Too bad. I bet you’re perfect. Okay, call me tomorrow night at nine. Play it for me over the phone.” In that moment I sort of remember hearing “play with me over the phone,” but I knew what he meant. We shook hands, he handed me his card, and he walked out.
I was so unbelievably pissed off with myself. Why hadn’t I gone to his truck? I’d blown my one chance!
I worked all night on my demo. I woke up the next morning and headed to school armed with the story of a lifetime. At first it started as a whisper, which eventually became a scream. I was the guy who told anyone who’d listen that Sebastian Bach was a perv who cut chunks of guys’ hair off after sex and that he had a guy on the payroll whose job it was to travel the world with him, taking care of his briefcase of gross souvenirs. This never made me think any other way about Sebastian Bach. It was rock ’n’ roll. And in some weird way, it gave me a connection to him. I was in on a secret that maybe only a few dozen other people were in on…Okay, probably hundreds.
At nine that night, I called Mick the manager from the home phone. I had everything set up, the perfect demo, the perfect speaker to play it through at the perfect distance from the receiver. I knew this because earlier that day I called two friends and did a distance test with them over the phone. I’d sat there moving the receiver back and forth, close then farther from the speaker, until they yelled, “Good! Right there!”
I was set.
The phone rang once before a woman picked up and yelled, “Hello? It’s late! Who’s this?” The other end of the line sounded like chaos. There was yelling and a TV was blaring so loudly that I could barely make out what she was saying.
“Hi, my name’s Roz. I was supposed to call Mick at nine.”
“Who?” she yelled back.
“Roz.”
“No, who?” she yelled even louder.
“Mick!” I shouted.
There was a super-long pause, then I heard her mumble, “I don’t know, maybe it’s for you…”
Another voice jumped on the line. “Yeah. Who’s this?”
“Roz,” I said. “We met at Sunrise. You said to call. My demo.”
“Yeah,” he said. “What?”
This was a disaster. He was clearly not at the office, and I could hear ice tapping the side of a glass as he took sips of a drink.
“It’s Roz,” I repeated. “You said you wanted to hear my demo. I’m good to go, man.”
“Yeah, call me right back in five minutes,” he said. Then click. Dial tone.
I waited five and called back. When Mick picked up there was silence. No TV, no yelling, no ice hitting the side of a glass.
“Thanks for this,” I said. “You ready?”
“I’m alone now. But I need to hear you. Press Play on the tape, sure, but I need to hear you live. Sing for me.”
Singing live was something I’d never done. I’d never had an audience of anyone, let alone a big-time manager.
I hit Play, put the phone down, and just went for it. I sang the whole thing—a song I wrote. When I was done, my hands were shaking. I was sweating. I reached down with both hands to pick up the receiver. As I put it back up to my ear, I could tell the line was dead. Mick was gone. No dial tone, no nothing. I called back, and nothing. I called again and nobody picked up.
I was pissed. Fucking livid. Devastated. I had definitely and totally blown my one chance.
Why didn’t I just go out to his fucking truck at the mall?!?
I left my room and went in to talk to my dad. Told him the whole story. Everything. The only question Pops had was, “Did you go out to this guy’s car?”
“No, Pops,” I told him again.
“Okay,” he said. “Gimme his card.” At that time, we didn’t have call logs or redial. So that card was the only place Mick’s number existed.
I never told this story to anyone. I was too embarrassed. I blew my over-the-phone audition with a guy who carries hunks of men’s hair for a living.
But for years I did tell people what I’d heard about Sebastian Bach. I retold that part of the story to anyone who would listen. Given how fast gossip travelled before Google, I’d say there’s probably a few thousand people in this world who still believe that Sebastian Bach cuts his young male lovers’ hair and keeps it in his luggage. Even when I saw a picture of his wife years later, I thought it was all bullshit. Of course he’d have a beautiful wife! She was the perfect cover. I felt bad for the guy that he couldn’t be the freak that he wanted to be.
I felt worse that I blew my audition and would probably never get the chance to tell Sebastian that.
In my head, Mick hung up because I wasn’t good enough. I’m sure my dad felt different. I never really thought about what actually happened in those twenty-four hours. I never tried to analyze it. It was a painful memory of inadequacy that I filed away. Once I realized that I wasn’t good enough, along with my growing stage fright, I abandoned the idea of being a performer altogether. I still loved playing and writing songs, but I was never going to stand on a stage. I think that’s what drew me to TV and radio: you can have a massive audience, but you’ll never have to see a single one of them. For most of my twenties I kept behind the scenes. I was a writer and a producer, far away from the spotlight. I didn’t take my first on-air job until I was thirty.
The cool thing about interviewing celebs for a living is that I’ve talked to most of the people I had posters of up on my wall when I was a kid. A lot of them let you down, but sometimes they surprise you. If you told me at fifteen that when I was thirty-something I’d get to sit in front of Sebastian Bach and ask him anything I wanted, everything I’ve always wanted to, I would have died. But that’s what happened.
Sebastian Bach was in town promoting a new album, tour, or book. I don’t remember. I hadn’t thought about my run-in with his manager in a long time. I hadn’t told the story about the briefcase in even longer.
The interview was wonderful. Sebastian Bach was charming and honest and humble. I brought my high school yearbook to show him how much I looked like him when I was a kid. To show him how much of a fan I’ve always been.
As we were wrapping up and the crew were taking down the lights and unhooking us, I asked if he still worked with Mick Nickle.
“Who?” Sebastian asked.
“Mick Nickle? He was your manager from twenty years ago.”
“No, man. Not me. Not mine. Never heard of him.”
I was sort of pissed because I was really looking forward to telling him the hilarious story of blowing my over-the-phone audition. How could he not remember? Surely he’d remember the guy he paid to be in charge of his…
Fuck. That was one of the most devastating realizations I had ever had.
It wasn’t until that moment that I realized how dangerous the situation had been. I sat there, in front of Sebastian Bach while he flipped his hair around and held my high school yearbook, frantically putting all the pieces together like Chazz Palminteri at the end of The Usual Suspects. Fuck, I thought again. And fuck was right.
I don’t know what my dad did with Mick’s business card, but I never called the guy again and my dad never brought it up again. I regretted for years not going out to that guy’s truck because I thought it would have been my big break. But most likely it would have been something very different. And it definitely almost was.
I’m still not 100 percent sure that my dad didn’t kill that guy. And I’m not even joking.