“Holy Rock and Roll Tragedy Steve-O!!”

Yes I know, and I had such high hopes for me and the fellas too, we were already designing our band T-shirts…

You know how Van Halen got back together with Sammy Hagar and went out on tour a while back and nobody really cared and the new material sounded like a great big chore? Well, that’s what befell my band; we morphed into a great big chore. Next to a dang Yoko, that’s the worst thing that can happen to a rock and roll band.

So what happened? Well, for starters we went thru four drummers in four months. I told y’all about a couple of them. That being the case, four drummer’s means four false starts, four wasted blocks of time, four Spinal Tap comparisons (you can’t dust for vomit) and four opportunities to finally ponder…what’s going wrong here, why is this so hard to get started?

Then it hit me.

It’s my shoes. My shoes are killing the band.

Many, many moons ago, when I joined my very first band, I hadn’t a clue what to do or how it worked. But I had some great snakeskin boots. I had found this ad in BAM Magazine (now a defunct publication) for a band heading into the studio to record its debut album, and they were looking for a new voice to take them over the top. It was an impressive ad, at least three inches by three inches with a big bold font, therefore I decided that this must be it (destiny) and declared to myself on the spot that I was indeed a singer, cause I couldn’t play guitar, and I had boots just like Axl Rose, therefore my logic was perfect. In keeping with said perfect logic, I called the number on the ad and scheduled an audition, which took place in my living room impromptu style, when the bands drummer came over to meet me and “check me out” and I decided to just bust out with a song – a capella. Of course I was an idiot, but back then I had no idea how these things worked and since I was a “singer”, well, I sang. In the living room. I thought I was auditioning. I got the gig though.

Two months later I was in a very expensive studio with these guys, recording our debut record. My head was whirling; I hade made it. I was pumped – I was in a band, already recording an album, and ready to kick some major ass. Even our name was heavy: “Testify”. My big brother (fellow musician) wasn’t that impressed though – he opted to instead address us as “Testicle”, and on that note reality was soon to enter the picture.

You see band practice is one thing, and an idiots’ a cappella living room audition is another, but the studio is a completely different animal. All the inconsistencies come to the forefront in the studio, and all the imperfections – and somebody’s always to blame, because somebody has to pay somebody to record the music.

Once the tape was rolling, I quickly discovered (as did my new band) that I didn’t know jack about recording, or writing songs, or performing, or studio work, and I knew even less about singing, and as this newly assessed compound knowledge asserted itself in a fine choke performance in minimal time. This wasn’t like what I saw on MTV! Every time I got started – the engineer would stop the tape;

“Steve – you’re a little flat there, let’s re-cue and take it from the top.”

“Steve – you missed the cue and your coming in late – from the top now.”

“Steve – you sound real nasally, how bout you hit it with a falsetto?”

“Steve – you’re behind the beat man, your making this part really drag down.”

“Steve – a little more energy here Bro – you really have to drive this part home.”

“Steve – your in the wrong key here dude, you had it just a second ago.”

“Steve – do you need a drink of water?“

“Steve- do you know what the hell I’m talking about?“

“Steve –“

I was out of my league man, I was green, and I was a mess. These guys in the band were all pros, they’d all recorded albums, had been out on tour, knew the ropes, and they were all watching me crash and burn right before their eyes.

The more crappy I sounded the harder I sang, and the nervous I became. As I watched them whisper to one another from the other side of the glass it quickly became apparent that the only thing I had actually going for me in the studio were those snakeskin boots, because the rest of me wasn’t going to cut it. Well maybe that’s a little harsh, after all I did possess a big voice that sounded amazing in the living room but my big voice had long since abandoned me as I blew my throat by singing way too hard, too loud, and too high right out of the gate. I knew nothing about pacing myself. When my guitar player suggested to me that I should retry the songs in the key of “C”, to make it easier, I just looked at him. He could have just as easily simply said “Goolie Goo Goo” and I would have understood him more.

Of course it was the longest day of my life. Driving home, I knew what was coming, and sure enough I was shortly contacted over the phone (the Dear John phone call) and sent packing with a hundred dollars (should have framed the check) sent to me for my efforts. I was devastated. I was horribly embarrassed. But I kept the money. A day in hell should cost at least a hundred bucks.

And that was my introduction into Rock and Roll.

When I think about it it’s kind of amazing that I kept after it, but I did. Over time another band led to another band, and I learned my voice, and how to use it, and how to be a front-man, and how to write songs, and how to laugh at myself onstage and my confidence grew and I would even find myself in the studio a few more times over the years – but I never choked again, ever. The studio can be a monster, it can be vicious, and I’ve seen it break people down and break bands apart from the pressure, but I’d already had my time in boot camp. I love working in the studio now, and in fact, I’ve had some amazing times recording, where things just flowed magically and I did my parts in just one pass and the engineer would shake my hand and tell me it’s been years since he heard a singer bang things out so smoothly but with balls. I cherished that after remembering my first time in hell with “Testicle”. But the thing is, I never again wore those snakeskin boots to the studio. I upgraded, to black leather biker boots, Fonzie would have been proud.

So why did my shoes kill my first Detroit Band?

Because man, they were “appropriate” footware.

Good ol’ tan work boots I picked up at Payless Shoes, nothing dangerous about them at all, and a hell of a bargain at a cool nineteen bucks. And my Bass player JR, he was guilty too, wearing them cheap leather but “oh so kind to my bunions” sneakers. And my guitar player? Sneakers. Guilty as charged, all of us, just so damn comfy, trying to sound dangerous with our rock and roll songs. The drummers that quit on us were not fooled, and so one by one, they bailed, because they knew the riddle of the shoes. Almost as important as the Riddle of Steel (Conan knows this), the Riddle of The Shoes proved itself mighty once again…

What’s the riddle you ask?

Only this, that you can kick a song into overdrive, maybe ugly it up a bit, flash a bad ass tattoo, pierce something ridiculous, but you can’t make a man change his shoes unless he wants to, and to write songs that mattered, you need to be wearing your ass kicking shoes, plain and simple. You Barbarians.

This band wasn’t wearing their ass kicking shoes. We left them at home in the closet. And the only one that seemed to realize this was me.

So I quit. Better to leave a band behind then to waste years and then resent them and talk shit about their shoes.

But the dream is still alive Dear Reader, I haven’t given up.

It has always been a dream of mine to one day front a Detroit rock and roll band and therefore one day I shall do exactly that. Perhaps one day soon. I’m looking through the papers, checking out ads at guitar center, asking who’s who around town. It’ll happen, trust me.

But first I have to head over to the Harley Shop to pick up some new boots.

See ya at the rodeo.

Steve-O <.p>If you have a pair of ass kickin boots for Steve-O, email him here for his shoesize, or send his-pay-pal account a donation… The Steve-O shoe Fund. Oh and PS… it’s not just women that look at shoes… it’s rockstars.