(Twisted Sister)
This one I feel compelled to include a “trigger warning,” as there is violence against women (not on Dee’s part). The whole story reminds me of something out of the movie A Bronx Tale, except Chazz Palminteri is played by Dee Snider in drag.
In the early days of playing bars, our agent gave us the name “The Destruction Squad” because we would blow any band away that shared a stage with us. My first Twisted Sister outfit was Daisy Dukes, thigh-high stockings and leather boots, arm-length women’s gloves, and a T-shirt that said, “I’m Dee. Blow Me.” All that with very rudimentary, crude makeup, and a brown afro. Our thinking was that we would do, or use, anything to win. We were playing Amsterdam, Holland, with Anvil. The only time we were ever blown off the stage was by Anvil at the Paradiso in 1983. That, to me, was the worst gig ever. Respect to Anvil, but we lost in the ring that night. Holland was into much heavier stuff back then, and it was clear that the audience just wanted metal. They were really into heavy, black metal. We’ve always been a metal band, but with an anthemic, pop undertone. We went on after Anvil and just got shot down. Our opener beat us, and I’ll never forget it.
Most bands are about sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll. Our story is struggle, violence, and rock ’n’ roll. Violence followed us everywhere. People’s reaction to us was very visceral, and my reaction was the same. I was basically doing security while singing lead, because I would not allow any insult or slight at the band’s expense. I was diving off the stage every night to get at someone. Most fights in bars are shoving matches, and most people who yell shit think they’re protected by the fourth wall. Nope. From day one, I was ready to attack and, if necessary, I would physically address the situation. Back in the platform shoe days, I was about seven feet tall. For someone drunk and high in the crowd to suddenly be attacked by this loony in spiked heels and silver lamé was definitely a sobering moment.
The most violent night of my career was a post-show moment. Before we broke, we were a regional phenomenon in the tri-state area, playing for thousands of fans five nights a week. Being in a confrontational band, if you couldn’t beat up the lead singer, or if the band embarrassed you in front of thousands, the response was usually to take revenge on their vehicles. Until we learned better, our cars were usually parked right by the stage door. The assumption was that it must be one of our cars, and they would smash windows, break antennas, windshield wipers, or slash tires. We started sharpening the metal on our windshield wiper blades to a razor’s edge. I’ve seen people slice their fingers open trying to get at our wipers.
On this particular night, we had just finished our set at a club in Long Island. We had security and barricades at that point, and one of our security guys said, “We’ve got some kids here with a dead battery. They’re looking for a jump.” I went out to let them use my car and cables for the jump. I turned on the ignition and quickly realized that my car battery had been stolen. The road crew had the hood up of the kids’ car, trying to get them going. I walked over to them, looked under the hood, and saw my car battery. It was a Delco Energizer with a cracked cap, just like mine. The odds of them having a cracked cap in the exact same spot was ludicrous. I said, “You fucking idiots. You stole my battery.”
I have four brothers who often talk about stealing car batteries and siphoning gas—petty crime stuff, and we’d laugh about it. Now I’m thinking, “Is it still funny now that it’s my car?” These kids didn’t know—they were just looking for a battery. Before I could even come to a reaction on the situation, the crew went into action. They started beating the shit out of these guys. Since everyone, including our crew, had their cars scraped, kicked, robbed, and broken that night, it was them taking out all their frustrations on these people. I called them off, but at that point, their asses were kicked. But, this wasn’t even the violent part.
We go back inside, and our drummer at the time—an asshole who will remain nameless—was beating the shit out of someone. He was kneeling on the ground, smashing the guy’s face in. I had no idea who he was beating or what the situation was all about. The girlfriend of the guy getting pummeled is screaming and pleading for our drummer to leave him alone. Our piece-of-shit former drummer turns, looks at her, and straight-arms her right in the face, laying her out flat on the ground. I remember thinking, “Shit. Now we’ve got problems.” You don’t bad mouth someone’s mother, and you never hit a woman. Ever.
Eventually, the girl started dragging her boyfriend away. I’m still trying to process all this. I go to exit the venue, and there are twenty-five people marching towards us. It’s about 3:00 a.m., and they weren’t there to be nice. They were carrying bats, boards, chains, and hammers, and they were coming for us. It turned out that our asshole drummer had mixed it up with some guys earlier in the pool room. This was a lynch mob out to get him. The girl had also told them that she had gotten punched, so it was gonna be war. These people, who were looking for a fight but not knowing exactly who they were after, now had an additional cause. Twenty-five guys approached us, and there were only about ten of us. An old school, street-fighting rumble was about to ensue. I rushed into the venue, yelling that we needed help. “There’s a shitload of guys outside coming to get us!”
Behind me, I hear the door slam. It was the security guard of the club, which was run by these old mob guys. These crooked-nose, mobster, Guido-guys said, “Nobody’s going outside.” I screamed, “My band members and crew are out there! They’re gonna get killed!” But they wouldn’t let me out. All I could hear were the sounds of screaming, smashing, crashing, and glass breaking. When the dust settled, I was finally allowed outside. My band members and crew were laying on the ground, some badly hurt. The opening band, Zebra, had locked themselves in their car. The mob had broken their windows out with bats and were hitting and stabbing them as they were trapped. Those guys all went to the hospital.
Our asshole drummer—the original target—was so banged up that he went to the hospital. There were broken limbs, blood, and teeth everywhere. It reminded me of the ending of an old movie called The Wanderers, after the Ducky Boys attack and leave behind a sea of bodies. This was not rock ’n’ roll. One of the attackers had left behind their car, and the club was located on a canal. As a final fuck you, a bunch of us pushed this Monte Carlo off the dock and into the canal. It was righteous retribution. I had a straight razor held to my throat one night, but that night was the scariest.