The Boy Is Gonna Rock

There are many behind-the-scenes details in the Vinnie Vincent Invasion saga that I wouldn’t normally discuss publicly. I am of the mindset that what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas, or, more specifically here, What happens on the road or in the studio, stays on the road or in the studio. I’ve never felt the need to break the seal of confidentiality that every band should hold sacrosanct.

However, in the case of the infamous VVI, most of our broad-scale issues of strife and dysfunction have already been widely discussed through the years by a legion of fans, insiders, outsiders, and, perhaps to a lesser degree, all band members. Many of these accounts are not only factually inaccurate but, in my opinion, unfairly biased toward one side of the fence or the other. Therefore, my justification for going deep with the detail in places that I otherwise wouldn’t is to hopefully bring more clarity and a broader perspective to what was truly a situation of unimaginable complexity.

Obviously, these are my own reflections and observations, and I don’t proclaim any monopoly on the truth here. I do, however, seem to have an unusual ability to recall events from my past, with crisp detail, and link them to times and places with an almost photographic accuracy. And while this might give credence to the just the facts aspect of much of what’s accounted for here, the deeper meaning and motives behind it all remain subjective. This is why I’ve occasionally cited an old parable as a way of describing how each of us in the VVI camp could potentially have such different recollections. It goes like this:

Five blind men are standing around various sides of an elephant. They are each asked to reach out and touch the elephant, then describe what they think the elephant looks like, based on what they feel. The guy near the trunk says, An elephant is long and curvy, like a big snake. The guy near a leg says, No, an elephant is tall and thick like a tree. The guy near the tusk says, No, you’re both wrong: an elephant is smooth and sharp, like a spear, and so forth. Of course, they are all correct to some degree, based on their limited perceptions.

Likewise, I say, each of us involved with the Vinnie Vincent Invasion odyssey probably has a perception of the experience that is equally one-dimensional, based on where we were standing, so to speak. The whole truth of the matter probably lies somewhere in the summation of all our perspectives. Nonetheless, I feel like the VVI story is such a compelling one, that if it is to be told, it should be told in its relative entirety and in as fair-minded a way as possible. And that is my intention here.

Enjoy the ride . . .

—BR

Halloween, 1986. Joe Louis Arena. Detroit.

As we were making that long walk down the chilly concrete corridor from the dressing room to the stage, the vibe in the arena was overwhelmingly electric. You could feel it—something wild, violent, and supernaturally thick in the air. And I remember actually being concerned for how Alice Cooper’s hardcore tribe of 20,000 hellraisers was going to take all of the pretty-boy shit we were about to hit the stage with: our dual pyramid walls of pink amps and cabinets; Vinnie’s pink guitar and girly accessories; and all of our sparkly glam clothing, drag queen makeup, and Aqua-Netted manes of hair. God help us.

But as we arrived at our holding place a few feet from the stage stairs and the house lights went out—boom!—the place erupted, and I could feel my pulse pounding out of my neck. And in the frozen moment or two that we had to take it all in before heading up the stairs to do our set, I distinctly remember a single image flashing through my mind: me, thirteen years prior, studying those rad photos on Alice’s Killer album, knowing on an absolute bone-marrow level that I was somehow destined to be a part of this madness called hard rock. Knowing it. And now, as we followed the glow of the flashlight beam up the stairs toward that massive, steel-framed stage, I would savor the stinging elation of the impossible dream actualized . . . if only for a moment.

Now it was time to deliver.

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We were a privileged generation who grew up in what would become the true golden age of hard rock. By the time I started hitting the drums in ’73, arena rock and all of its larger-than-life attributes had infiltrated the mainstream. This was a primo time to be a music lover and a young musician. Rock music was hitting its creative apex, and real musicianship was not only appreciated but revered. When you listened to a record, you understood you were listening to a group of musicians making music together, and you could hear the skill, the soul, and the seasoning in their playing. This was ground-level inspiration.

Back then, there was a profound simplicity to our process of experiencing music. While it was always great to hear Deep Purple on the radio, or to see Kiss on TV, the real experience was in the wax: driving to the record store; filing through all those albums before finally selecting one or two; heading back home and tearing off the plastic; sliding that shiny black vinyl out of the jacket before placing it on the turntable; easing the stylus onto the record and hearing the crackle of the needle merge into the opening song; listening to the entire record, top to bottom, in one sitting, as one collective musical statement, just as the band intended; then reading every word and devouring every photo on the album cover and inner sleeve. Hell, yes! It was always a full-body, total sensory experience.

All of this soul-stirring stimulation would lead us young musicians on our own path to the waterfall. We wanted to do what our heroes did, and we knew this would take a lot of hard work. Which brings us to another staple part of the culture back then: closing the door to the inner universe of the rehearsal room and practicing all those hours. Headphones nearby, perhaps a drum book or two, the ever-present metronome, a gallon jug of water, a towel to wipe away all of that body rain (as one of my teachers, Lenny Nelson, used to call it), and all of those uninterrupted hours of monotonous woodshedding. No one calling or texting (no cell phones back then!). No two-thousand channels on the TV or World Wide Web beckoning. No mind-rotting social media rabbit holes to fall into. Just endless hours of time to devote to your craft, with little else to distract you. Aah, the good ol’ days, indeed.

And so, ten or fifteen years later, here we all found ourselves . . . just as we had hoped. From the heavy ’70s to the crazy ’80s: there we were, on the back of album covers, on TV and radio, and in the various magazines that we used to buy, trying to represent the legacy as best we could.

Yes, for the second half of the ’80s, things went over-the-top with the visuals in the new video age, and the big hair and gaudy makeup would become signature watermarks for the era. And sure, things would get hopelessly derivative, formulaic, and copycatish . . . just as they do in all forms of media (like TV and film) when something rabidly popular begins to peak. However, great songs, stellar musicianship, and spectacular shows were abundant, and as it would turn out, this would be the last great era of the classic rock star; the last time when every member of a successful band was actually known, by name, to the fans; and the last of a great lineage of rock and rollers that extended from Elvis to the Beatles and the Stones, to Hendrix and the Who, to Zeppelin and Sabbath, to AC/DC, Aerosmith, and Van Halen, right into Def Leppard, Mötley Crüe, Bon Jovi, and Guns N’ Roses . . . and on to its beloved culmination of the late ’80s and early ’90s.

Beyond that, there would be many more greats to emerge in the rock world, and many memorable records and tours for subsequent generations of rock fans. However, most would largely surface in a subtle, inexplicable veil of anonymity, without the signature mystique and celebrity that the ’70s and ’80s rockers always had. (Interestingly, a variation of these classic rock star attributes would be assumed by hip-hop artists.) The rock star, as a cultural archetype, would largely go extinct, as the pendulum swung sharply in the other direction . . . never to return.

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This is a tale from the last great era of hard rock; the story of a boy from Anywheresville, USA, who journeys to the golden land of Hollywood, at a time when arena rock was at its peak. It is an excursion into that now-infamous culture of excess and debauchery that those times represent, through the filter of a moderately successful band of especially colorful characters known as Vinnie Vincent Invasion. Fortunately, the boy is observant, reflective, and perhaps most important, lucid, all along the way.

So kick back, get ready to roll, and take great comfort in the fact that, yes indeed . . .

The Boy Is Gonna Rock!

Early one evening in September of 1983, MTV was debuting a new Kiss video called Lick It Up, and I was getting ready to go to a jazz gig in Houston, Texas. I rolled up the sleeves of my lavender dress shirt, then threw a burgundy tie around my neck as I looked up at the TV screen. Kiss without makeup? What the fuck? When did that happen? I wondered. I had been hopelessly out of touch with the rock world for the last couple years, having taken a deep dive into the more complex drumming universe of the jazz, funk, fusion, and Latin idioms at Berklee College of Music in Boston. And now, I was living back at my parents’ house, with my dream band in tow, attempting to have a go at things in the barren land of muso instrumental music. All roads would lead to a spot on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson, playing an extended drum solo like my hero, Buddy Rich. At least that was the vision.

As I knotted the tie with a final tug, I studied the video for a moment, trying to identify who was who, since I was a huge Kiss fan growing up. I recognized Paul and Gene right away, and remembered that Peter Criss had split, so that new Eric Carr guy was now the drummer . . . but who was that on guitar? No way was that Ace. What happened to Ace? And that was about as much thought as I gave it.

Except for my long hair—which I could never bring myself to cut since I was thirteen—I had little else in common with the rock scene anymore, and my life path was about as removed as it could be from that nameless new guitarist for Kiss. However, something would happen at a small jazz club in Houston later that night that would eventually bring me full circle back to arena rock, and set me on a collision course with one Mr. Vinnie Vincent.

The Evolution of a Drummer in Five Acts

Act I: Initiation

I grew up in Forest West, a middle-class neighborhood in Houston, with extraordinary parents and a loving older sister. My early life was a portrait of American normalcy in virtually every stereotypical way, with baseball, hot dogs, and Chevrolets at the root of daily life. We had it pretty good.

Then at age ten, there was a seismic shift of trajectory: a fork in the yellow brick road. My sister’s boyfriend, Don Templet, came over one day with an album tucked under his arm. I asked who it was.

Alice Cooper, he said.

Who’s she? I asked.

He laughed, then sarcastically replied, "She is this scary guy right here."

And with that, he slung open the album’s gatefold and held it vertically to reveal a grisly image of Alice hanging by a noose, with long, scraggly black hair backlit in a crimson red halo, and a splattering of blood all over his torso. It was shocking.

Dang! Is that how he died? I asked.

No, that’s how he lives! Don replied.

Good answer.

I would go on to study that photo and, in fact, every square inch of the Alice Cooper Killer album, especially the back cover shot of the band. All that long hair and jewelry . . . and the crazy clothes . . . and Alice’s charcoal-black eye makeup. Whoa.

But it was ultimately that hanging shot that captured my imagination the most. The intrigue, mystique, and bigger-than-lifeness of it all was uniquely compelling. And I felt a visceral connection to the strange new world that was clearly beyond the veil of such a spectacle. I felt the calling, but was unclear about how to actually pierce the veil and gain entrance into this world.

That answer would hit me over the head a couple months later.

Act II: The Moment

We lived on Autumn Forest Drive in a four-bedroom, two-bath house, much like all of the other ones around us. But at the end of our street, there was a long row of duplexes. By sheer coincidence—or perhaps fate—one of the duplexes had a young teen drummer in each of the two separate households. Cole Newbury lived on one side, and Kevin Stanley lived on the other. Both had drum kits set up in their respective bedrooms. I suppose the racket from each cancelled out the other, because neither family seemed to mind.

One afternoon, they allowed my punk ass to come inside and watch them play. We went into Kevin’s room, where he had his red onyx Rogers drum kit set up. I can still see the swirly red-and-black finish on those drums, and that silver Rogers badge, prominently displayed on each shell like a Corvette emblem. A full set of shiny Zildjian cymbals, polished up and perfectly horizontal on their stands, hovered around the drums like golden flying saucers. I was awestruck.

Moments later, vinyl was pulled from the jacket of Black Sabbath Volume IV, then placed on the turntable inside one of those massive walnut Magnavox stereo consoles. Cole, shirtless as usual, got situated behind the kit, then Kevin dropped a scratchy needle down on side one, song one: Wheels of Confusion. Once final adjustments were made during the song’s acid-trip opening, Tony Iommi’s arena-crushing guitar intro came blasting out of that Magnavox, and Cole launched into a furious groove, sticks slamming down from way overhead as he pounded those drums and cymbals like they owed him money.

By the time Ozzy lit into the first verse, my life would be changed forever; I was going to be a drummer.

Act III: The Journey Begins

My father always wanted to play the drums. So shortly after he and my mom got married at nineteen, he would make one of the only compulsive financial decisions of his life: he purchased a three-piece Ludwig and Leedy drum kit, in a classic white marble finish, with a twenty-six-inch bass drum and no floor tom. He tinkered around with it for about six months, and then bills, night school, and my sister’s birth would force those drums back into their brown canvas cases. But he could somehow never get rid of them.

Nearly a decade later, these drums, still in their dusty cases, would be loaded onto a Bekins moving truck with the rest of our belongings and transported from Northern California—where I was born about five years prior—to Houston. And there they would remain, untouched in the attic, until my fateful encounter with the mighty Sabbath.

Initially, my folks weren’t exactly enamored with the idea of their son dragging out the Ludwigs and disturbing the peace around the house. But they eventually relented, and my dad directed me to the rear of the garage to set them up. I got Cole involved with this initial setup ritual once I had these now yellow-tinged drums pulled from their cases. They were already about thirty years old at this point.

And so I began. Early on, the drummer’s life included school band and private drum lessons. Fortunately, I got really lucky in the teacher/mentor department. Ms. Mary Thompson was my band director, and man, was she ever a phenomenal teacher. She was a patient, yet unrelenting, perfectionist—a fair-minded fanatic about practice, work ethic, and doing one’s due diligence to become a great musician. She got me into reading music, drum rudiments, and practicing every day. Her bands typically obliterated the field at city-wide competitions, and many of her students (like me!) would go on to win Outstanding Musicianship awards at jazz ensemble competitions. Ms. Thompson was quite a gift to my life.

She also referred me to my first drum instructor, the great Randy May, widely recognized as the best in town. Randy was a monster player and a masterful teacher, largely responsible for exposing me to different styles of playing, as well as sharpening up my reading skills and soloing chops. (Interestingly, he would go on to become an industry legend, known for a variety of patented, drum-related innovations, including the May internal miking system, Pearl Vari-Pitch drums, and much more.) Between Ms. Thompson and Randy, you couldn’t do much better than that in Houston—or probably anywhere else on the planet.

In addition to my formal studies, the drummer’s life also entailed hanging out with Cole and some of the older musicians in the neighborhood, watching what they did and how they did it . . . both musically and recreationally. Of course, an intrinsic part of rock culture was weed and alcohol, particularly back in the ’70s, so I started indulging without restraint, even at a crazy-young age. It seemed that the sheer novelty of this ingratiated me to the older kids, and granted me special access to their world.

I was flying high, you might say.

Act IV: All About the Rock

A highlight of my life on Autumn Forest Drive was cracking open the Houston Chronicle on Sunday morning, grabbing the TV guide, and seeing who was going to be on The Midnight Special, In Concert, and Don Kirshner’s Rock Concert that week. Watching the drummers from the wide variety of bands on these shows was a huge part of my curriculum.

Notable influences early on were mainly in the hard rock realm: Ian Paice from Deep Purple, Tommy Aldridge from Black Oak Arkansas, and Bill Ward and Neal Smith from Sabbath and Alice, respectively. Soon thereafter, it was Mr. Peart and Rush with 2112 and All the World’s a Stage, and from the sheer spectacle perspective, Peter Criss on the first Kiss Alive! record. I would put in some serious hours as a youngster trying to emulate all these guys, and I would also regularly jam with friends—mainly trying not to suck. I was on my way. But first, I would arrive at a common rock-musician crossroads . . . at an uncommonly young age.

My friends and I rehearsed together almost every day after school, smoking weed on the walk home (and at other select times). We also favored Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill wine, Schlitz Tall Boys, and lots of bourbon and gin—the latter of which was covertly taken from our parents’ liquor cabinets—all consumed with an ever-escalating frequency that was alarming, given our young age. It was around this time that I would become aware of something that would either prove to be a lifelong curse or a lifelong blessing: a hopelessly addictive personality.

At that time, it was rapidly becoming a curse. And with only a few weeks into a new school year, things were beginning to unravel. I was already getting into constant trouble at school, and shit was really starting to come off the rails at home. I was also feeling sick to my stomach and depressed all the time and didn’t know why. Fortunately—after a bit of cajoling from a couple friends—I would find my way into the Palmer Drug Abuse Program (PDAP) and become an active member of the group for the next four years. As it would turn out, I would never have another drop of alcohol, or any kind of weed or drugs, from that moment forward. Ever.

Once I got into rehab, and by the time I hit ninth grade, I would have my first intoxicating taste of rock star adulation from an auditorium full of rowdy classmates at a Scarborough High talent show. Prior to that, I had largely been something of a social misfit: I got along well with everyone, but I was still the loner, long-haired drummer kid who was in some kind of rehab program. However, once I engaged that onstage dynamic of being a performer, I found my calling—and my place on the social totem pole—and knew I was home.

By tenth grade, I was a reasonably schooled player. I had been taking lessons and reading music for a while by this point, had a growing collection of drum method books, knew my rudiments, and even ventured into some big-band/jazz stuff as a part of our high school stage band. But I was still all about the rock, on a bullet train to rock stardom . . . if you asked me.

Act V: A Fanatic Is Born Anew

Somewhere around the eleventh grade, another fork in the road would materialize: my musical interests expanded and began to head in more of a drummer’s drummer direction. I started listening to masters like Buddy Rich, Billy Cobham, and a host of others in the jazz and fusion realm, from Tony Williams and Max Roach to Lenny White and Terry Bozzio. It was around this time that I began to fully redirect my addictive personality tendencies toward the pursuit of drumming as an all-consuming art form . . . with around three to four hours of practice on most days.

As a senior, I was studying with legendary Houston drum god Craig LeMay, had my own thriving teaching practice, was playing in a progressive rock band, had woodshed marathons with Mark Hodge (who was fresh out of the Marine Drum and Bugle Corps), and immersed myself in the world of drums and drumming at the exclusion of all else.

Upon graduation—and at the urging of Ms. Thompson—I would move to Boston to study at Berklee College of Music. And with my long hair still intact, I would actually turn my nose up at rock drumming for several years and fully transition into an identity as master drummer in training, working almost exclusively on the most challenging of drumming techniques and philosophies.

While at Berklee, I religiously followed an iron-clad practice schedule of forty hours per week—all meticulously tabulated in a sleep-deprived stupor on my Casio watch—engulfed in crazy four-limb independence stuff, all kinds of soloing and groove concepts, rudimental practice pad marathons, and just chops, chops, and more chops. And this was in addition to the usual ensemble playing, music class curriculum, drumming labs, and private lessons with my brilliant and inspiring teachers Ed Kaspik and Lenny Nelson. It was a period of hyperaccelerated progress, and so much of what I studied and obsessed over would have an indelible effect on my playing style. It would also produce an unlikely, yet highly favorable, influence on one particularly destined audition I would have a few short years down the road.

The Big Shift

In the fall of ’83, I had formed my ultimate band. Through much pleading and persuasion, I had somehow managed to convince three of