Chapter 21
Aweek later at a show in San Francisco, the way Zack was handling the criticism became crystal clear to all of us.
As he’d done many a time, he was turning inward.
On stage, he was as electric and magnetizing as ever, and it was clear to me on my higher-than-ever platform that the audience absolutely loved this album.
Yes, we played old favorites from both our first and second albums, but they were just as enthusiastic about the new songs—and I caught lots of them singing the words to more than one new tune.
But Zack was keeping to himself, sleeping later in the day, not interacting much—including not partying.
And then, at the show in San Francisco, we all saw just how much he was struggling.
Unlike many times past, Zack wasn’t throwing up or coming late to a sound check. He was on time—and subdued.
Until he opened his mouth.
Like we had for every show on this tour so far, we started out with “Where I Belong” off our first album, a tried-and-true fan favorite.
The house lights would fade and we’d take our places, starting to play before the lights slowly came up along with cheers and hoots from the audience.
Then, after the song, Zack would thank the crowd for being there and get them pumped for the show.
Although it became evident when he spoke the first time, there were hints during the song. One wrong chord struck, an almost-sloppy solo, coming in late on the last verse. But when the crowd’s cheers died down, Zack confirmed what I—and likely our bandmates—suspected.
Zack was off the wagon in a major way.
“Holy shit, Sacramento. This is gonna be a great show!”
Fuck. Sacramento? We’d be playing there in two days but not now.
Cy said, trying to cover the gaffe, “Very funny, Zack. Could Sacramento rock out this hard?”
The crowd responded, whistling, cheering, and screaming their agreement.
“Shit—San Fran. Yeah. Just gettin’ that shit mixed up in my head.”
Oh, Jesus. How much had he drunk and how long ago? Mixed up had come out slurred—and I hoped the audience couldn’t tell.
Oh, Zack.
“Anyway, we’ve gotta helluva show for you all tonight and we wanna thank you for coming out tonight.
The critics—well, they trashed us about this album.
They called us hacks and has beens. Can you believe that shit?
” The crowd booed their support—and one person near the front cupped his mouth and yelled, “You guys rock!”
But Zack was in his own little world. He let his guitar hang off his body as he reached in his back pocket and pulled out his phone. “Thanks, guys. But I have some questions for you. Do you guys think our new stuff, uh, belongs in the sewers?”
“No!” came a collective shout from the crowd.
“And do you guys hate ‘Sweet Love,’ a supposedly good tune with ‘insipid lyrics’?”
Again, the crowd told Zack with their reactions that they were not critics.
Cy glanced at Braden and Braden nodded. Then Braden gave me a quick nod, urging me to bang my sticks together to get “Sweet Love” started.
When we’d seen how much air time it was getting and how much it was streaming, we knew that would have to be the second song on our playlist.
Zack didn’t start playing right away—but, over the beginning bars of the music that Braden and Cy played, he said, “Well, since you guys don’t hate it, we’ll play it for you.”
The crowd continued to cheer and clap…but I wondered how many of them had already figured out that Zack was blitzed out of his gourd.
Because Zack rarely played this song and only sang, Cy kept the groove going—and with all of us singing backup, Zack wound up sounding good. Of course, the girls in the audience went crazy.
As I listened to the lyrics for what felt like the hundredth time, I wondered if Zack had written those words for Gabi. The second verse seemed to confirm it.
I’d give it all away for you.
‘Cause nothing matters if you’re not here.
Take an entire mag of ammo to the chest.
Go all the way to hell but never you fear.
But it was the bridge of the song that killed me:
I’m on my hands and knees; do you want me to beg?
I searched the world over looking for you.
I didn’t know you were here all along, babe.
But I don’t know how I can prove my love to you.
To you.
To you.
It was those words that made me ache—because Gabi had been there “all along” and he’d finally found her…but I’d been there longer.
I pounded the shit out of my drums. When the hell would I let all that go?
Cy was finally wowing the audience with his smoking solo and I was relieved no one had caught on to Zack’s drunkenness—but Mick had.
I knew because I spotted him in the wings keeping an eye on Zack.
Would he yank him off the stage if something happened?
And, if he did, would the three of us be able to cover?
Not long after that, he disappeared, but I felt some relief that he knew what was going on.
The song finished and the crowd was loud and rambunctious, and I felt grateful that they were enjoying the show, despite what the rest of us knew.
Zack pulled his guitar from where it was draped on his back so that it was situated at the front, and he gripped the neck as he leaned into the mic. “You guys are awesome, and me an’ my friends up here appreciate your warm reception.”
What? Zack was totally off script.
“Now you all might not know, but there’s this reviewer at Ferocity magazine. His name’s Eugene Young, and—”
All of a sudden, I couldn’t hear Zack’s voice anymore—and I didn’t know it at the time, but neither could the audience or my bandmates.
Mick’s voice boomed in my in-ear monitor: “Start playing ‘The Grind’ now!” It was the next song on our setlist and Cy started playing with Braden and me joining in shortly after.
I had no idea if Mick was speaking to Zack through his monitor, but a few seconds later, Zack stopped talking into his dead mic.
When we got to the part where he was supposed to start singing, he hadn’t caught up yet—so Cy started singing the first line, looking at Zack as if willing him to figure it out.
Zack, despite being blitzed off his ass, found his place in the song and started playing his guitar. Shortly after, he started singing too—and, finally, after experiencing some confusion, the audience joined in as well, glad we were back on track.
I couldn’t speak for Cy and Braden, but I was tense as hell for the remainder of the show, wondering what shit Zack would pull next—but I was glad Mick had our backs.
What the hell had Zack been trying to pull?
Had he been planning to ask the audience to harass the critic at Ferocity?
As much as I’d hated the review, the guy was entitled to his opinion.
And, like we’d tried to tell Zack, the only opinions that really mattered were those of our audience—and they were eating it up, even with Zack fucking songs up.
At the end of our set, we’d barely made it backstage before Cy was in Zack’s face. “What the fuck was that all about?” He grabbed Zack’s collar, pulling his face close.
Braden, of course, was right there, trying to shove them apart with his hands. But Zack wasn’t doing the whole testosterone thing. He was still far too wasted. As if nothing had happened, he simply said, “What?”
“These people pay their hard-earned money expecting us to give them a good show, not an embarrassing display of inebriation. What the hell is wrong with you, man?” Cy backed off a bit, but he was still bristling with fury.
“You were sober for barely a year and now you’re back at it.
I can’t do this shit again.” With that, he stormed off.
Mick joined us and ushered us out of the way so our road crew could get our shit off the stage. “Zack…we’re disappointed in you.”
“Maybe, but at least I feel better.”
“Do you? Do you really?”
Braden whispered in my ear. “I’m gonna talk to Cy.”
Keeping my voice low, I said, “Thanks. Please don’t let him quit.”
“That’s why I’m going.”
I gave Braden a quick kiss and then turned to Zack and Mick.
Although our tour manager’s voice was low, there was no mistaking his frustration.
“What’s it gonna take? You can’t run to the bottle every time something goes wrong.
If you don’t figure out how to deal with it, you’re gonna die before you’re thirty—before you’ve had a chance to prove those fuckers wrong. Don’t you want to do that?”
Zack looked at me when he said, “I don’t know what I want.”
“Well…here’s what I want. We’re going to your dressing room, and if you have any alcohol stashed, you’re gonna give it to me. And then you’re gonna get your ass on the bus and wait till we roll.”
“You can’t tell me what to do. You’re not my dad.”
Mick almost yelled at Zack—but then he stopped and we stood silent for a moment, save for the sound of the crowd in the auditorium bleeding backstage while our crew hauled all our equipment and instruments off stage.
Putting a hand on Zack’s shoulder, Mick said in a tone I could barely hear, “I wish I was. Then maybe you would stop killing yourself like this.”
At that, Zack shook his head—and his eyes filled with tears. But then he blinked, shaking his head again. “Just let me do what I gotta do and stop worrying about it so goddamned much.”
Mick let out a long sigh. “You know…you’re right. I can’t tell you what to do and I can’t make you stop buying alcohol or drinking it. But I don’t have to stand around and watch you kill yourself.”
And he walked away. Oh, Jesus. Did that mean Mick would be leaving?
Would this be the end of our band?
I understood why everyone was at the end of their ropes—but didn’t they realize that Zack was suffering far more than they were? Why would they abandon him in his hour of need?
Drunk or not, Zack felt the same way. “Are you leaving too?”
“No. But Mick’s right. We need to get you on the bus.”
Zack draped an arm around me as we walked to his dressing room. “I love you, Dani.”
If only that were true. “I love you too, Zack.”
“You’re my best friend.”
That was just drunk talk…and I wasn’t about to fall for it.
The next few shows were subdued. It was clear to all of us—and we’d talked about it—that Zack was completely off the wagon, but at least he was being as smart about it as he could. After San Francisco, he at least confined his drinking to after shows.
He didn’t apologize to anyone, but he did say a week later in Kansas City that he had it under control.
Could an alcoholic really be in control, though? I had no way of knowing…because Zack was the only addict I’d ever known. And I wanted to believe in him; I hoped against hope that he’d be okay—but, deep down, I worried.
Mick, for his part, didn’t threaten to quit, but I still had a bad feeling—and not just about him. About Cy too. Braden said the three of them had had a good talk. Instead of having to talk Cy out of bailing, they’d come up with a contingency plan for if Zack ever pulled that shit again.
We were in Minneapolis in mid-June for a show and the house was packed.
But the crowd seemed less enthusiastic than many of the audiences we’d enjoyed so far on this tour.
As soon as we left the stage, Zack said, “Maybe some of our other fans liked the new stuff, but these guys didn’t.
I guess they have more,” he held up his fingers to do air quotes, “discerning tastes.”
Braden said, “We have chill shows sometimes. It’s not a huge deal, dude.”
“It is to me!” Zack said, losing his shit. “Why the fuck would they come if they didn’t like our music?”
Inside, I was thinking maybe they were here for the headliner, but I wasn’t about to voice that little revelation.
Braden, however, wasn’t about to let Zack mope. “Maybe it’s because it’s sticky and too warm. I feel like I need to shower—and maybe the audience does too.”
“Bullshit. They’re used to this shit. They live here.”
Cy was hustling to his dressing room while I said, “We’re gonna have shows like this, Zack—but we can’t let it get to us. We’re making more money than we’ve ever made before, so who cares if one crowd was less enthusiastic?”
“I care. You guys just don’t get it.” He huffed off, slamming the door to his dressing room.
“We tried.”
Braden and I took a few more steps down the hall and Mick appeared just as we reached my dressing room door. “Is he doing okay?”
We knew exactly what he meant. Braden said, “If okay means he’s still breathing, yeah.”
“I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news, but I’ve seen this before.
Sometimes addicts have to quit multiple times before they’re able to get off it for good.
After being sober this long, Zack might have thought he could handle it—and he found out pretty quickly that he can’t.
He’s drinking hard and heavy again, and he’s either going to have to figure out how to quit himself or go back into rehab. ”
I asked the question that had been burning in the pit of my belly for a few days now. “Are you…going to quit?”
Braden’s face was pinched, telling me he’d been fearful of the same thing. We’d both heard Mick mutter that he wanted to retire more times than we could remember.
“I’d like to, kiddo—but who’s gonna take care of the rest of you? Besides, I don’t think anybody else would want to put up with Zack’s shit. You’re stuck with me—for now, at least.”
I hated hearing at least—because it made me wonder if he was just staying because he was under contract and wanted to put a nice spin on it for mine and Braden’s sakes.
Still…I was grateful and I wrapped my arms around him before he registered what I was doing. “Thanks, Mick.”
After a few seconds, he put his arms around me too and patted me on the shoulder. “Yeah. Ol’ Mick’s got your back.”
But who had his? We were all frayed and tired—and we were just in the first leg of what would become our biggest tour thus far. Why the hell was Zack jeopardizing everything he’d ever wanted?
At the time, I didn’t know it was about to get worse.