DISGRACELAND - Pantera’s Dimebag Darrell: A Murderous Fan, Brotherly Love and Cowboys from Hell

Episode Date: August 3, 2021

Gunned down onstage by a delusional fan who thought his metal heroes had stolen lyrics from him, Dimebag Darrell Abbott blazed a savage new trail in hard rock during his short time on this earth. Weaned on Eddie Van Halen, Dimebag Darrell would wow the guitar gods he bowed down to as a teenager and gave metal a groove that the music had been lacking before Pantera made their first definitive statement, Cowboys from Hell. Though they made mean music, Darrell and his brother Vinnie were always accommodating and accessible to their fans, which may have been their fatal flaw. This episode originally aired on August 3, 2021. To see the full list of contributors, see the show notes at ⁠www.disgracelandpod.com.⁠ To listen to Disgraceland ad free and get access to a monthly exclusive episode, weekly bonus content and more, become a Disgraceland All Access member at ⁠disgracelandpod.com/membership⁠. Sign up for our newsletter and get the inside dirt on events, merch and other awesomeness - ⁠GET THE NEWSLETTER⁠ Follow Jake and DISGRACELAND: ⁠Instagram⁠ ⁠YouTube⁠ ⁠X⁠ (formerly Twitter)  ⁠Facebook Fan Group⁠ ⁠TikTok  See omnystudio.com/listener for privacy information.

This is exactly right. Double Elvis. When a group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist, they take matters into their own hands. I vowed. I will be his last target. He is not going to get away with this. He's going to get what he deserves. We always say that trust your girlfriends. Listen to the girlfriends.

Trust me, babe. On the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. This season on Dear Chelsea with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark. When like young people come up to me and they want to be an actor or whatever. My first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do? Rather be disappointed in. Do that.

David O'Yellowo. I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction or you just go straight for the guts. Dennis Leary, Gaten Matarazzo from Stranger Things, Tana Monsu, Camilla Morone, Carrie Kenny Silver, and more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Sometimes a suspect is found guilty before a verdict is ever read in court. On the Wicked Words podcast, I talk with the writers who dig deep into the cases that changed history,

including Marsha Clark, who went from prosecuting one of the most famous murder cases to writing crime fiction. It doesn't matter that you didn't take part in the murder. If you were at the scene at all, you're guilty of murder. Every week, the real story is revealed. Join us every Monday for new episodes of Wicked Words. Listen to Wicked Words on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Disgrace Land is a production of Double Elvis.

The stories about Pantara's dime bag, Darrell Abbott, are insane. He was a heavy metal wonder kid whose guitar playing was so face-melting that he won teenage competitions. His band, Pantera, is one of the most influential and successful metal bands of all time. He was famous for his friendliness and generosity to fans, beloved by aspiring heavy metal guitarists who worshipped him as the groundbreaking guitar hero he was. And he was lauded by the guitar heroes he worshipped growing up, Eddie Van Halen, Ace Freely, and Carrie King, among them. But most disgracefully, Dimebag Darrell was gunned down by a deranged fan on December 8th, 2004,

24 years to the exact day that John Lennon met the same exact fate. But before that, Dimebag Daryl made great music. Unlike that music I played for you at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my Melotron called Dirt Road Fish Tail, MK1. I played you that loop because I can't afford the rights to My Boo by Usher and Alicia Keys. And why would I play you that specific slice of first-kissed cheese could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on December 8, 2004. And that was the day Nathan Gale entered the Alroza Vista Nightclub with a loaded 9mm Beretta

and ended the life of one of heavy metal's most talented and beloved musicians. On this episode, a deranged heavy metal assassin, a real-life superhero, and Pantera's dime bag, Darrow. I'm Jake Brennan, and this is disgrace land. Roll call was boring. Him and a handful of other cops plopped down in metal chairs. Some hung over, most disinterested, others grab-assing, talking shit. They looked and sounded more like high school kids settling into a classroom before their biology teacher around. than they did authority figures.

That's in part because that's what they were. Kids. Despite their age, fucking juveniles. Despite graduating from the academy. Despite whatever experience they had. When it came to maturity, at least when they weren't on their shifts or in the line of duty,

they were still just kids. Out there, full-grown men. In here, juveniles. Ranking on each other, their digs, cutting, brutal, weight, look, suspected sexuality, intelligence, none of it was off the table. Whatever God blessed you with or denied you of, one of your fellow cops was going to use it against you. Sometimes to knock you down a peg, but mostly to bond with you in that hard-ass blue

collar way. Too fat, too bad. Lose weight, you fucking hump. Too short, too bad too. You're fucked for life. Too good-looking? Yes, there was such a thing, you pretty boy, better watch your ass in the shower. Too stupid? Get in line with your short friend because you too, my friend, are mucho fuck-o-oed. And too smart? What do you think? You're fucking better than everyone else? Asshole. The put-down soon gave way to whatever other bullshit was on their mind, whose little league team was about to be coached by their brilliance into the playoffs, whose mother-in-law was a bigger pain in the ass, which corner had the hottest pros. There were a few female cops, and they were given no quarter. They were just other guys

born with the wrong genitalia as far as their male counterparts were concerned. Unfortunate for them out in the real world, sure, but policing was a numbers game. One sex didn't really matter as long as they were there when the shit got heavy. And of course, they were. So they were welcome additions and ragged on mercilessly alongside the men. The patrol supervisor came in blowing hard, barking out operational formalities, date, time, blah, blah, blah. The din dulled, but didn't totally dismal.

so the patrol supervisor barked louder and began handing out photocopied papers stapled together with whatever relevant information was needed for that night shift. Scant attention was paid to the materials, less to the patrol supervisor, more grab-assing. The patrol supervisor was now behind the podium at the front of the room and visibly pissed. He lifted it with both hands about an inch off the ground and slammed it down hard onto the floor. Attention. The officers clammed up and said, settled into the inevitable, another shift, more shitbirds on the prowl. Like this one here,

item number four on their handouts, a local Tom. Last scene lurking in Mrs. McNally's bushes with his dick in his hand peering into her window at night. Male, white, 30s, balding, known cross-dresser, partial to long skirts and loose-fitting blouses and big round red Sally Jesse Raphael glasses. There were plenty of snickers from the assembled patrolmen, random catcalls. The sound of nightsticks clanging up against metal desk and chairs banged out as the last of the officers, the tardy ones, some smelling of last night's Jameson, some just unable, despite their best efforts to ever be on time, shuffled into roll call. The other cops already in the room quickly made mental notes to dismiss them as the unreliable ones. The patrol supervisor continued his

rap. The captain seated at the table to his left took notes, and the lieutenant stood in the back observing. The room tone did what it always did around this time of the nightly ritual. It shifted to seriousness. Item number six, the patrol supervisor called out. This local loony bird has been more loony than normal. You all know, Mr. Gale. White, male, 25, 6'3, 250 pounds, buzz cut, broad shoulders, ex-marine, likely schizophrenic. To this point, largely nonviolent, nothing major needed here. Just be aware we've received multiple calls of.

about his behavior. He's erratic, seems menacing to those in his circle, vaguely threatening. He was arrested last month for driving with a suspended license, has a prior for trespassing, nothing major, nothing to do. And as putting Mr. Gale on your radar as we've been receiving calls about him. Again, nothing to do. Just be aware. As usual, heroes need not apply. Heroes need not apply. It was a familiar refrain in the precinct. It meant, don't be too aggressive. Don't try to be a hero. Heroism was instinctual. You either had it at the the right time where you didn't. And if you did, and God willing your actions resulted in someone's life being saved, least of all yours in the process, then you never admitted your heroism.

You denied it, because as a cop, that's what you believed. You were no fucking hero. Those men, with their pictures on the wall, they were the heroes. The ones with the flags draped over their coffins, the ones with the fucking bagpipes at their funerals, the ones who got stretched out on the bar at your local while you and your brethren did final shots of Jameson and Cuddy to send them off on a proper drunk. They couldn't feel anymore, so why should you? Fuck it. Those bagpipes still echoed in your ears, fucking haunted you. They were gone, and thus they, not you, were the only ones worthy of that filthy fucking word, hero. Being a hero meant a lot of things. It meant you stood up when it mattered. It meant you were either brave, stupid, or both.

That also meant you were dead. You, no matter what you did, were not a hero. You were just a hump trying to get through a shift and live up to the example set by those who came and went before you, that departed on the wall. Roll continued. You were present, but not really. Presence of mind was reserved for patrol, not roll. You hit the streets and your cruiser alone. No partner. Just you. There, two heads out in front of the speedway passing a joint. You flash your blues and give the siren a quick short blast at the same time. And the heads see you, drop the joint, and sprint off behind the Speedway. You consider giving chase, but for what? They were small time. Kids, aimless, broke, and most definitely not holding more than a dime bag.

Fuck Van Halen. What? You heard me fuck Van Halen. The two heads were now settled into the front seats of the shipbox they had borrowed for the night, safe from the clutches of the local Columbus, Ohio cop, who recently scared them off their nightly post in front of the Speedway gas station, and they were talking about something of great concern. Whether or not Van Halen was as good as their hero, Pantera guitarist Darrell Dimebag Abbott had told him they were. You're wasted, man. You heard Dime. Van Halen is the fucking greatest. He was talking about the man, the guitarist, not the band.

As in fucking Eddie Van Halen, the band isn't that good, dude. You're wasted. A few months back, the two had managed to catch up and hang with Dime, as they called him, in person. A fucking dream come true for the two heads. Outside one of Dime's gigs in the parking lot next to his band's new tour bus. Pantera, his old band, his groundbreaking heavy metal band, a band the two heads both loved, was broken up. It's a fucking shame, man, after 20 years as one of metal's

premier bands emerging from their 80s glam origins to a previously unheard heaviness to sell more than 40 million records, score four Grammy nominations, and more importantly, seamlessly meld the effortless Texas groove of Zizi Top with the skull-crushing intensity of Slayer and Metallica, Pantara had finally run its course. Dimebag's new band was called Damage Plan. As always, his brother and fellow founding member of Pantara, Vinnie was at Dime's side and Damage Plan. And Damage Plan brought it that night on stage.

But for the two heads, Nick, called so because he was obsessed with Dimeback Daryl and played guitar merely half as good as Dime did. Dime, half a dime, nickel, aka Nick, and Nick's friend's speed, called so. Also, because, well, for as long as anyone could remember, he could be found hanging out in front of the Speedway gas station, scamming for a buyer, scamming for buds, chicks, grass, whatever, changed by a gas station hut dog. Speed and Nick were joined at the hip, and they loved damage plan that night. But for them, the real thrill was getting to meet Dime before the gig,

getting to hang with their hero out in front of the tour bus. Seeing Dimebag Daryl in the flesh and hearing him generously imparted his wisdom, Not only on the glory of Van Halen, but a quick tutorial on how to mix his favorite drink, the Blacktooth grin. Two shots of whiskey in a plastic cup, preferably crown royal, rocks, and just a tiny splash of Coca-Cola.

But before that, shots, a tray full of a more crown, and an endless flow of Cold Coors light in cans. Dime was so damn cool and down to earth, he made it seem like they were doing him a favor by hanging out with him pre-show. They literally couldn't believe how fucking lucky they were to be hanging out

with Dime and his brother Vinnie. The two were metal royalty. More important to them than the Van Halen brothers, Eddie and Alex, Dime's chosen pre-show topic of conversation when not imparting metalhead mixology tutorials. Eddie Van Halen was the best, second to none, a class above all other guitar players,

even Ace freely. Take that to the bank, young, and it's advice worth its weight and gold. When your guitar hero gives you the secret, who his guitar hero is, you listen. But Eddie Van Halen was one thing. Van Halen, the band, was another thing entirely. David Lee Roth era?

Okay, Nick got it, but that Sammy Hagar bullshit he could do without. Didn't matter, Speed reminded him. Eddie was the shit no matter who he was playing with. Dime and Vinny pretty much told him so that night with their ritual. Just before showtime, seconds before, and seconds after their last pre-show shot, the Abbot brothers grabbed each other by the shoulders, stared each other in the eyes. If you were lucky enough to witness this ritual, you could practically see the brotherly ties binding the two texts.

boys in real time. Vinnie, the older of the two, asked the question. It was a question that begged one thing. Are you fucking ready or what? And there was, of course, only one answer. Hell fucking yes. But they said it with different words. Vinny looked at his little brother and spoke. He asked, Van Halen. Dime held his brother's stare and with the same intense conviction he'd had since they first started playing gigs together over two decades ago, replied in the affirmative. Van fucking Halen. And with that, the Brothers Abbott headed to the stage. There's two golden rules that any man should live by.

Rule one, never mess with a country girl. You play stupid games, you get stupid prizes. And rule two, never mess with her friends either. We always say that trust your girlfriends. I'm Anna Sinfield. And in this new season of the girlfriends... Oh my God, this is the same man. A group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist.

I felt like I got hit by a truck. I thought, how could this happen to me? The cops didn't seem to care. So they take matters into their own hands. I said, oh, hell no. I vowed. I will be his last target. He's going to get what he deserves.

Listen to the girlfriends. Trust me, babe. On the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcast. Remember when you'd walk into your local video rent- place and there were always those two employees behind the counter arguing about movies? Well, that's us. I'm Millie to Cherico.

And I'm Casey O'Brien. And now we're arguing about movies on our podcast, Dear Movies I Love You, from the Exactly Right Network. Can I say something about the Criterion Clause? Go ahead, dude. They're letting too many people in there. Okay. That's another film, Great By Got Two.

Sadly, that rental place doesn't exist anymore. It's probably a store that sells running shoes. Or an ice cream shop with an extra pee and an E at the end. So consider us your slacker movie clerks in podcast form. I would like to establish a timeline of the moment you figured out who Channing Tatum was. Every Tuesday, we dig into the movies we can't stop obsessing over, from hidden gems to big screen favorites. New episodes drop every week on the exactly right network. Listen to Dear Movies I Love You on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

Your husband is not who you think he is. Your body is not what you thought it was. Your identity is formed by a secret history. I'm Danny Shapiro, and these are just a few of the stunning stories I'll be exploring on the 14th season of family secrets. And just then, we felt the plain turn in the air, so much so that the bags that were under people's seats just kind of flew into the aisle. Each week, we dive head first into the complex power of secrecy, how it shapes our identities and relationships, and how it ultimately can reveal to us our truest selves. My daughter, she's pretending she doesn't know, but is trying to cook and feed me and keep me alive because I wasn't eating anything and me pretending like everything was fine.

He kind of shoved me out of the way and said, move, and he went out the front door and he jumped in a car and drove off and that was the last time I saw him. Listen to season 14 of Family Secrets, starting May 7th on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. The venue is a step down from the arena's Pantera. was filling a few years earlier, before their breakup in 2001. In 2004, Damage Plan, Dimebag Darrell and his brother Vinnie Abbott's new band was starting over. Their debut album, Newfound Power, was selling, but it wasn't selling anywhere near the amount Pantara records had.

Meanwhile, Pantera's former frontman, Phil Anselmo's side project's super joint ritual and Down were garnering attention in the heavy metal press and selling their fair share of albums, but, like damage plan, neither of Phil's projects were succeeding at a Pantera level. Nick and Speed, like most Pantera fans, wanted a reunion. But it wasn't in the carts. The acrimony between Phil and Salmo and the Abbott brothers was too heavy, and for what, Pantera fans didn't really know. For years, the partnership between them had taken dime his brother Vinnie and Phil to New Heights.

The Abbot's had started Pantera with some high school friends in Texas in the early 80s, soon settling into an early lineup that included Rex Brown on bass. At first, they were a regional glam rock band with a Major Van Halen influence, right down to the brothers on drums and lead guitar. Darrell soon emerged as a wonderkind on the axe, and with the help of their father, Jerry, a songwriter producer who'd written country songs for Buck Owens and Emmylou Harris, among others, Pantera had studio access and soon started producing records

on the label that their old man had started just for them. It was a sweet setup for a band just starting out, but the creative and commercial leap wouldn't arrive until Phil and Salmwell joined the band on lead vocals at the end of 1986. Pantera had finally found a true frontman. And the whole band, influenced by the metal breakthroughs of Metallica and Slayer, quickly turned to a heavier sound that would define them and make them famous in the 90s with the release of their major label debut, Cowboys from Hell. Cowboys from Hell is an excellent record, a groundbreaking record. As a heavy metal album, there were few like it at the time. No metal band before Pantera's Cowboys from Hell had truly captured the mainstream potential of metal in a way that was this heavy.

There was a groove that was present on this record that Metallica wouldn't find until a year later with the help of producer Bob Rock and that Slayer would never truly find. Cowboys from Hell rages with anger and pummels, with skull-crushing rifts like the best of Slayer of Metallica. But it also grooves like Zizi Top. And like Van Halen, at least David Lee Roth Van Halen, it never takes itself too seriously.

As forward-looking as the metal arrangements on Cowboys from Hell are and as angsty as Phil Ensemble gets, the album always keeps one shit kicker stuck in the strip club. The record is fun, as the best heavy metal should be. On Cowboys from Hell, Pantara literally found its groove. And later, on their next record, 1992's vulgar display of power, that groove exploded with a heaviness and a ferocity that had yet to be heard in commercial heavy metal.

The record slams with heaviness, and unlike most every other metal album before that reached for a new kind of heaviness, Pantara didn't suffer for it commercially. Quite the opposite. The album went double platinum, and to date is the group's biggest selling record. For what it's worth, the critics loved it as well, with Rolling Stone magazine, naming it the 10th greatest heavy metal album of all time. But later, while recording their album The Great Southern Trendkill and the music, In 1996, Phil and Salmell recorded all his vocals in New Orleans at Trent Reznor's studio,

away from the band where the rest of the band recorded in Dallas. It wasn't all out in the open yet, but the band could barely stand to be around one another anymore. Phil had fallen into booze and heroin, supposedly to help with back problems, but back or no back shortly after the album came out, Phil OD'd on his dope and was without a heartbeat for nearly five minutes. He recovered, but Phil's addiction and devolving personality led to real ten. with his bandmates and with Phil taking on various side projects, communication broke down further until Pantara officially broke up in 2003.

Phil and Salma let the world know in the December 2004 edition of Metal Hammer magazine just how he felt about one former bandmate, saying, quote, Dimebag deserves to be beaten severely. None of that mattered to Nick and speed on April 5th, 2004. Phil's fighting words against Darrell were months in the future. They had driven more than two hours, is up from Columbus to Toledo, Ohio, to the 1,500 Capacity Club Bogarts to see damage plan. And before a note was even struck, they get to hang with Dime and Vinnie.

On that alone, the trip had already been worth it. When the band kicked in on stage, Dimebag was in it, laying into that patented heavy groove, his brother dutifully keeping time like a fucking machine. Dye was in that familiar heavy metal guitar player stage stance, knees slightly bent, back, slightly arched, guitar tight against his lower torso, his head circling round and round and rhythm with his monster

riff, a hurricane of hair swirling around his shoulders. The other two members of the band, bassist Bob Zilla and singer Patrick Lachman were in the groove as well. Eyes closed, feeling it, oblivious to the crowd other than feeling its energy, which was all good. And the crowd was in it too, especially Nick and Speed, who now felt like they had a special secret, their newfound kinship with their hero on stage who was just now, It down. They fucking knew that guy. They knew Dime. They were just doing shots with him, man. Fucking A. But then, out of nowhere, a big man, a bald man, buzz cut, broad shoulders, workers jacket, big black boots, rushed the stage. The band was clueless, still rocking out. And the audience was immediately pissed. Who the hell was this guy? Interrupting what was shaping up to be a glorious set. And the big man stormed forward on stage in the direction of Dime.

Security pounced immediately. Dime had no idea what happened. Neither did the rest of the band. Security struggled to contain the big man, and they stumbled. The big man latched onto a stack of amplifiers, refused to let go. The crowd booed.

The band saw what was happening, and they knew security would straighten it out, so they did the smart thing and kept playing so as to not draw further attention to the problem and giving the over-excited fan what he wanted. Attention. Security clumsily hauled the resisting big man off stage. On the way, he reached out and

grabbed and toppled a small lighting rig. Roeys and stage hands were quickly dispatched to fix the rig, and the band literally didn't misbeam. The big man was gone. Like nothing happened. But Nick saw it. Speed did too. From the crowd they could see, the big man wasn't fucking around.

He wasn't just some ordinary, over-excited fan jumping on stage to mosh around and then dive off after four seconds of glory. It was a look in his eye. It was more than menace. It was something else. It scared the hell out of them. We'll be right back after this word, word, word. There's two golden rules that any man should live by.

Rule one, never mess with a country girl. You play stupid games, you get stupid prizes. And rule two, never mess with her friends either. We always say that trust your girlfriends. I'm Anna Sinfield, and in this new season of the girlfriends, Oh my God, this is the same man. a group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist. I felt like I got hit by a truck.

I thought, how could this happen to me? The cops didn't seem to care. So they take matters into their own hands. I said, oh, hell no. I vowed. I will be his last target. He's going to get what he deserves. Listen to the girlfriends.

Trust me, babe. On the Iheart radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcast. Remember when you'd walk into your life? local video rental place and there were always those two employees behind the counter arguing about movies? Well, that's us. I'm Millie to Cherico. And I'm Casey O'Brien.

And now we're arguing about movies on our podcast, Dear Movies I Love You, from the Exactly Right Network. Can I say something about the Criterion Clause? Go ahead, dude. They're letting too many people in there. Okay. That's another film grape I got two. Sadly, that rental place doesn't exist anymore.

It's probably a store that sells running shoes. Or an ice cream shop with an extra peeve. and an E at the end. So consider us your slacker movie clerks in podcast form. I would like to establish a timeline of the moment you figured out who Channing Tatum was. Every Tuesday, we dig into the movies we can't stop obsessing over it, from hidden gems to big screen favorites. New episodes drop every week on the exactly right network. Listen to Dear Movies I Love You on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

Your husband is not who you think he. is. Your body is not what you thought it was. Your identity is formed by a secret history. I'm Danny Shapiro, and these are just a few of the stunning stories I'll be exploring on the 14th season of family secrets. And just then, we felt the plain turn in the air, so much so that the bags that were under people's seats just kind of flew into the aisle. Each week, we dive head first into the complex power of secrecy, how it shapes our identities and relationships, and how it ultimately can reveal to us our truest selves. My daughter, she's pretending she doesn't know,

but is trying to cook and feed me and keep me alive because I wasn't eating anything, and me pretending like everything was fine. He kind of shoved me out of the way and said, move. And he went out the front door, and he jumped in a car and drove off, and that was the last time I saw him. Listen to season 14 of Family Secrets,

starting May 7th on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you're ever, you get your podcasts. The music in his headphones was at such an extreme volume that it didn't matter where you were situated in the Lima Thunder semi-pro football team's locker room. You could hear it. Pantera.

Fucking hostile. Screaming out of the headphones and into the ears of Crazy Nate, the Thunder's starting offensive linemen. The Marines spit Crazy Nate out damaged. Civilian life wasn't taking. Football was a release. Crazy Nate could find a bit of himself out on the gridiron and pummel all comers with his massive frame.

just like the Thunder's logo indicated, a sledgehammer pounding downward. The same pounding sound as the Pantera music he used to psych him up before games. But football didn't last. And off the field, Crazy Nate was just Nate. Nathan, to his mom, she was proud of him, proud of his service in the Marines, even though he was discharged over two years early, mental health issues. She bought him a gun for Christmas, a Beretta 9 millimeter,

semi-automatic. Nathan loved that gun. It gave him confidence, gave him a sense of self, and he was in need of both. He was going to do it. Finally, he banked enough courage. After the Marines, after football, this was going to be the next move. This move was going to set him up. It was going to be his future. He was going to make like his favorite band, Pantera, and make a career of being in a band and become a rock star. Nick and Speed sat on the bench seat in the back of the Ford Oconnelline. Long since liberated from the working man's van. The bench seat now occupied the corner of their friend Dave's garage. Next to the weightlifting bench, a few feet from the dorm room fridge and positioned perfectly across the wall of martial lamps, drums, and cheap PV vocal

PA system that never seemed loud enough for the vocals to be heard over the crushing metal riffs and rhythms of Dave's new band. The vocals were a fucking problem. Dave's new band had an endless parade of riffs. Nick and Speed were plenty satisfied, but Dave and his band had no singer. No singer, no band, no gags, no gigs, no gigs, no chicks, no chicks, no chicks, no chicks, and you were still just a loser in a garage. Nick and Speed were content to hang in Dave's garage, though. At least there was action between shows from their favorite bands. Nothing could beat that hang with Dime before the damage plan gig up in Toledo a few months earlier, though. And Nick and and Speed were especially stoked about another damage plan gig with their hero Dimeback Daryl in a few

weeks, this time in Columbus, Ohio, and making it even better on Nick's birthday. December 8th, John Lennon's death day, actually. Nick thought that was cool. The rock and roll tie-in, the darkness of Lennon's death, so evil, so metal. Mark David Chapman, John Lennon's murderer, was indeed evil. He didn't know it, though. He was that bad shit crazy. Nick was a bit of an obsessive when he came to serial killers. Chapman wasn't a serial killer, but he was high profile in the for Nick to dive into the Lennon murder wormhole. He even wrote Chapman letters in prison, same as he did with Son of Sam,

David Berkowitz and the Green River Killer, Gary Ridgeway. And none of them ever wrote back. Nick suspected in prison serial killers only wrote back to chicks, typical, except Mark David Chapman was still married, still married to the woman he was married to before he went to prison. Now that chick was committed. Nick and Speed's friend Dave and his bandmates

could use that type of commitment behind the mic, or else they were all going nowhere. Singer after singer paraded through, and they all sucked, all rip-offs, and they could be categorized into three metal hardcore singing styles. Number one, the Prince of Aquanette. The guys who didn't get the memo that the fucking 80s were over, man, that nobody wanted to hear some sunset strip has been

trying to sound like Ozzy Osbourne or worse, Sebastian fucking Bach. It was a reason Ozzy sounded like Ozzy, because he was fucking Ozzy and you weren't. Number two, the cookie monster. This dude grabbed the mic, pulled it off the mic stand, started stomping around with his head down and face buried into the microphone, while straight up barking into it like he was choking on a bone. Or more specifically, like he was choking on a bunch of poorly chewed cookies and sounding like, well, fucking cookie monster instead of some dude from an East Coast hardcore band. And number three, the Phil.

The guy who combined the Aquinette hair metal style with the cookie monster hardcore style, just like Phil Ensemble from Pantera did. And the approach was dead on, but none of the dudes who tried out had pipes like Phil, so inevitably they were drowned out by the crunch and power of Dave and the rest of his band. But today was a new day, and that meant a new audition. Nick and Speed sat on the bench seat sharing a joint and pulling on 40s while Dave and his band tuned up. When Nick saw the big dude who was auditioning walk in, he immediately started to choke on the grass he was trying to inhale. No shit.

Speed saw two was just as a little. freaked. It was him. No shit, that's him. The big dude from Bogart's who rushed the stage on Diamond Vinny, who was tackled and hauled off by security. The dude with all the crazy in his eyes. Neither of him said anything, and their inner monologues quickened the paranoia from the weed, and they watched the big dude make awkward introductions with Dave and the band. He told him his name was Nathan, and told him not to call him Nate. He fucking hated Nate. Okay. They made brief small talk and then the band got down to it, counting in their first song. Nick and Speed loved this riff. One of Dave's best. It was totally original. It was no easy thing to do in the world of

heavy metal. Create an original riff. The rhythm section kicked in big behind Dave's guitar, mid-tempo heavy awesomeness, a massive groove. Nick couldn't help but think the dime would approve. The big dude, Nathan, grabbed the mic and Nick called it immediately. Oh no, no, no, he's going to do it. Don't do it. Don't do it. Here, come. comes, yep. Mike, off the stand, head down, Billy Milano, Big Man Stomp, here comes the fucking Cookie Monster. But wait a minute, what the fuck? This was worse than Nick or anyone could have expected. Dude wasn't only doing the Cookie Monster. Those lyrics, those lyrics weren't his lyrics. Those were fucking Pantera lyrics. Dave and the rest of the band immediately identified

the lyrics for what they were as well, stolen Pantera lyrics and stopped playing. Dave wasn't one to fuck around. The fuck do you think you're doing, Nate? What do you mean? It's Nathan, by the way. Dave explained to him that those weren't his lyrics, that he was no dummy. He knew who fucking Pantara was, man. Those were Phil Anselmo's lyrics. Nathan denied it. There were his lyrics, his lyrics. Those weren't anyone else's. He wrote them. He said it with such conviction that everyone in the garage almost believed him. Almost. Get the fuck out of here. Stop wasting our time. Dave was pissed. But not as pissed as the big man, Nathan. or as confused.

Nathan stormed out of the garage and hit the sidewalk, utterly humiliated by the experience. Hands jammed in his worker's jacket pockets, head down, chin tucked against his chest, eyes peering up, pushing his brow into his clenched forehead, walking fast, but somehow sinking into himself. He heard the voices. They multiplied and came at him fast. Loser, wannabe, lard-ass, fucking schizo-luny, fuck you. You'll never be anything.

shitty marine, shitty football players, shitty singer, no one likes you. No one ever liked you. You'll never get laid, you big fucking load. What did you expect? It wasn't your fault. It was his fault. Their fault. You didn't do anything wrong.

They fucked you, man. They stole your lyrics. Pantara did. Those weren't Phil fucking Ensalmo's lyrics. They were yours. Pantara stole from you. You're not a loser. You're a wrong fucking man, man.

Fuck them. They're stealing pieces of shit. They deserve to be humiliated. Not you. They deserve to fucking pay. 22-year-old Nathan Gale was hurriedly walking down the street in the midst of a manic schizophrenic episode. Inside of his head, swirling voices competing for attention, untethering him from whatever grip on sanity he still had. The locals who spotted him suspected something but had no idea.

Neither did the cop prowling by in his cruiser. He just knew something about the big dude was off. December 8th, 2004, Columbus, Ohio, Alrosa Villa nightclub, Nick's birthday. 20 minutes past roll call at the 18th precinct. The big dude was looking for a place to park his Pontiac Grand Dam. The cop was 18 minutes into his patrol in his cruiser, on his own, rolling through Columbus. Nick and Speed were settled up front near the stage at Alrosa Villa, absolutely hyped on seeing damage. for the second time in an eight-month period.

Their hero, damage-planned guitar player, ex-Pantera guitarist, Dimebag Daryl Abbott, again, up close and personal, on a tiny stage. At the moment, Dime was backstage with his brother Vinnie and the rest of the band, about to embark upon their nightly ritual, shots, and then Van Halen, Van Fucking Halen. The big dude was now outside his car pacing in the Alroce Villa nightclub's parking lot, hands stuffed in his pants pockets in that familiar walking pose of his

head down, chin tucked, eyes up, all menace. He was, of course, drawing attention to himself. Club security had taken notice. It was cold, but what the hell was he doing out here all by himself? Security wanted to know if he had a ticket to the show. The big dude mumbled something and kept walking. The security shrugged, not his problem, and headed back inside where anticipation for damage plan

was building with the crowd. The house lights were killed. A quick roar went up from the audience. Dark figures walked onto the dark stage. It wasn't the band, not yet. Rodees. One of them, a massive man that Nick and Speed remembered from the last damage plan show, a guy who went by the name Mayhem,

who headed up security for the band posted up by the drum riser. Now, more dark figures, long hair, purpose, walking with drinks in their hands. They put them down, picked up their instruments, the band. Another roar, whistles, cat calls, more damage plan chanting. And someone hit the lights. And the flesh, right there, mere feet from the crowd. The feeling never failed to surprise, Nick.

That feeling of, oh my God, these guys are actually real, and I'm actually in their presence, breathing the same fucking air, man. No one is as lucky as I am right now. Dimeback Darrell pulled some feedback out of his guitar. His brother Vinnie laid in a beat behind him. The rest of the band kicked into their sets for a song, breathing life. Outside the club, the sound from the stage bled out into the Columbus night. The big dude, Nathan Gale, ex-Marine, ex-Semi-pro football player,

ex-Pantera fan, he of the begrudged identity believing that his lyrics were stolen by Dimebag Daryl's band. Too manic, too schizophrenic, too insane to realize he'd thieved the lyrics himself, that he committed the act that led to the humiliation back in Dave's garage, that Pantara, that Dimebagdairl had nothing. to do with it. When Nathan Gale heard the first sounds from Damage Plans set, he turned on his heels, and with the most purpose he'd ever felt in his short life, stormed back toward the Alrosavilla nightclub. Inside, as was their vibe, the band was in it, especially Dine. In that stance,

the one that was instantly recognizable to any Dine Bag Darrell fan, the Texas lean, the metalhead swirl, the hurricane of long curly hair, putting on a master's course and how to riff, and Not just for heaviness, for groove. It was all feel. Van Halen, Van Fucking Halen. The crowd rocked inside. Outside, Nathan Gale stormed his way toward the club. His hands still in his pockets.

He removed them to scale the fence surrounding the back of the club's exit. The fence was no match for the big dude. He pounced down on the other side. His sights square on the back exit. Ignoring the random fan smoking cigarettes, giving him shit for his blatant attempt to sneak into the show. show. He jammed his hands back into his pockets and made his way to the door to get in, where Nick, Speed, and 250 other fans were now rocking out in a shared heavy metal trance.

A stone cold Texas groove right there and oh fucking Hayo with their heroes on stage. Nathan Gale bounded into the back door of the club, straight past a member of security. Security asked the big dude, what's up? He got no answer. Nathan Gale was gone, inside, in the dark. Nick and Speed broke their trance by the time Dime Bag Darrell hit the solo. Nick was watching Dime intently, studying the master, intent himself on one day matriculating on guitar from a mere nickel to a dime, maybe even getting up the courage to ask Dave to jam with him in his garage. Dime was shredding, putting on a fucking clinic. And that's when Nick saw him, the big dude from Day's garage, from the last damage plan show in Toledo, too. There, at the side of the stage,

moving. The big dude, Nathan Gale, walking with purpose, unmistakable menace. Even in that oversized Columbus Blue Jackets hockey jersey, what the fuck was he doing? Nick felt it immediately. Fear for himself, for speed, for Dineback on stage, because it was clear to Nick instantly that that was who the big dude was headed for. But now on stage, Nathan Gale's hands were out of his pocket. As he continued to walk, his arms were outstretched. In his right hand, a gun, his left hand, cupping his right, a proper shooter stance in motion, moving, straight toward Dimeback Daryl Abbott, who was oblivious to what was about to happen. As was the rest of his band. It was happening so fast, but Nick saw it in slow motion. He froze, paralyzed in fear, watching the opening moments of

a real-life horror show and unable to do anything, unable to scream, unable to run, unable to look away. He saw it. Nathan Gale fired his 9-millimeter Beretta handgun point-blank into the side of Dimebag Daryl's head. He shot off three more rounds, one in the face, one in the ear, one in the hand. Nick watched his favorite guitarist fall dead on the stage, and then all hell broke loose. Damage plan's security, the mountain of a man they called Mayhem, sprinted at Gail from behind. Gail got off another shot. The bullet hit Damage Plan's tour manager who was also given Gail chase. Then, Gail, struggling in the grip of mayhem, loosened his hand with the gun and pumped a shot into Mayhem's chest.

then another in his leg, and then another in his back. And mayhem died almost instantly. In the opening seconds of the melee, the crowd had no idea what was happening. Once they figured out that there was a crazed gunman in their midst firing off rounds, it was fight or flight. Most understandably ran toward the exit. For others, their instincts compelled them toward the stage,

toward the shooter. One of them was 23-year-old damage plan fan Nathan Bray, who rushed straight at Nathan Gale after seeing him shoot and kill Dimeback Darrow and May. Am. Unarmed himself, Bray tried to disarm Nathan Gale. Gail shot him in the chest. Bray died from his wound later that night at the hospital. Another brave Alrosa Vista attendee on that night was club employee Aaron Hawk, who was also an ex-Marine. He took a different approach toward the gunman. From behind, sneak attack,

over the drum riser, onto the stage. Nathan Gale was not surprised. Aaron Hawk was met with six shots, in the leg, in the hand, and four deadly ones in the chest. Aaron Hawk died on the spot. Nathan Gale was intent upon a full-on public bloodbath. He was rampaging, firing off rounds on stage inside the club. Outside, on the streets, the cop took the call at his cruiser, just 18 minutes after roll call. He was the only black and white nearby El Rosa Vista. Active shooter. Thinking didn't enter into the equation. The cop sped straight toward the scene, By himself, with no partner, with no backup. He didn't hesitate.

Heroes need not apply. It didn't even enter into his mind. The only thing he could think of was the 200-something people trapped inside that club with a madman firing off bullets. He made the scene in what seemed like seconds, popped open the driver's side door, pulled his shotgun off the rack, hustled to the first door he could see. The side door toward the back of the stage.

The Rochelle shocked concert goers stumbling out. In there, in there they yelled. He's shooting every. He's got a hostage. The cop pushed his way through the exit and into the bottleneck of fans attempting to escape on the other side. Nick and Speed saw him. Upon entry, the cop hoisted his shotgun to his shoulder. Nick and Speed were by now bottlenecked with the others trying to escape at the exit behind the stage.

Nick was the first one the cop saw when he entered. The cop looked him in the eye and yelled, you're my witness. I had to do it. And then, an opening at the exit. Speed split. Nick stayed. He now had a job to do, to bear witness. He turned and watched the cop slowly make his way toward the back of the stage.

Below him, on stage, with his back to the cop, the shooter, the big dude, Nathan Gale now had a hostage. He had his burly left arm choke holding the hostage by the neck while he frantically took game with his beretta and his right hand at crowd members who were now bravely threatening to rush the stage while the gunman aimed at them. Move slow, very aware that at any moment the gunman could turn around and spot him. and pump that Beretta straight into the skull of the hostage, or quickly get a shot off at him, taking him out. And the cop creeped. The crowd freaked.

The shooter kept waving his gun frantically at the crowd off stage, and then shooting wildly into the crowd, all the while keeping his chokehold on the hostage. And the cop moved closer to him from behind. The crowd saw the cop approaching with a shotgun aimed, and they started yelling, shoot him, shoot him! The cop inched forward, 20 feet behind the shooter with the hostage in a headlock.

The hostage's head just below the shooters, no room for error. The cop took aid. The shooter sensed the energy in the room shift. He started to turn his head back toward the cop. The cop knew it was right now or never. He didn't hesitate. He pulled the trigger on a shotgun. The shooter, the big dude, Nathan Gale, died instantly.

Shotgun blasted to the back of the head, with a half-full clip still in his Beretta. His business unfinished. Clearly there would have been more carnage had the cop not shown up when he did, and heroically entered into the fray and taken bold action. Heroes need not apply. The cop was no hero, not by his standards anyway. He had just done his job, protected those who needed protecting.

In the end, there were no bagpipes. There was no Irish wake, just another roll call under the harsh glare of the real heroes framed on the walls of the precinct. But Nick knew a hero what he saw one, be it the cop who ended the bloodbath that night. The cop who told him, you're my witness. Or his guitar hero, Dimebag Darrell Abbott, who was senselessly murdered that night, or Dime's hero, Eddie Van Halen, who showed up at Dimebag's memorial service,

and in true rock and roll fashion, drunkenly bumbled his way through a few words in Dimebag's honor at the mic, and then laid his iconic black and yellow tape-striped guitar in Dime's coffin. Not a reproduction, mind you, but the very guitar he held aloft on the back of Van Halen, too. to rest with Dimebag eternally. After all, these were the last words Dime ever spoke. Fucking Hailing.

I'm Jake Brennan, and this is Dyscraseland. Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes page at disgracelandpod.com. If you're listening as a Disgraceland All-Axacist member, thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it.

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at DisgracelandPod. and on YouTube at YouTube.com slash at Disgraceland Pod. Rockerola. When a group of women discover they've all dated the same prolific con artist, they take matters into their own hands. I vowed I will be his last target. He is not going to get away with this. He's going to get what he deserves.

We always say that trust your girlfriends. Listen to the girlfriends. Trust me, babe. On the IHart Radio app, Apple Podcast. or wherever you get your podcast. This season on Dear Chelsea, with me, Chelsea Handler, we have some fantastic guests like Amelia Clark. When like young people come up to me

and they want to be an actor or whatever. My first thing is always, can you think of anything else that you can do? Rather be disappointed in. Do that. David O'Yellowo. I love this podcast, whether it's therapy or relationships or religion or sex or addiction.

you just go straight for the guts. Dennis Leary, Gaten Moderato from Stranger Things, Tana Monsu, Camilla Morone, Carrie Kenny Silver, and more. Listen to these episodes of Dear Chelsea on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts. Just like great shoes, great books take you places. Through unforgettable love stories and into conversations with characters you'll never forget. I think any good romance, it gives me this feeling of like butterflies.

I'm Danielle Robe, and this is Bookmarked by Rees' Book Club from Hello Sunshine and IHeart Podcast, where we dive into the stories that shape us on the page and off. Each week I'm joined by authors, celebs, book talk stars, and more for conversations that will make you laugh, cry, and add way too many books to your TBR pile. Listen to Bookmarked by Reese's Book Club on the IHeart Radio app, Apple Podcasts, or or wherever you get your podcast. Brought to you by Cotton, the Fabric of Our Lives.