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DISGRACELAND
Pantera’s Dimebag Darrell: A Murderous Fan, Brotherly Love and Cowboys from Hell
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Foreign I can only drink so much coffee. I get to the middle of the afternoon and I need to start powering through ad reads like this or responding to emails or jumping on a zoom and not falling asleep. And I don't want coffee. Coffee reminds me of the morning. I want that afternoon energy and I get it from five Hour Energy. They've got a ton of tasty caffeine flavors. Seventeen flavors in fact. Sour Apple five Hour Energy is like a shot of old school New England to wake me up on a sleepy afternoon. It's a little bit sour, just a tad bit sweet and super tasty. And the best part about my 5 hour energy shot is that I'm getting all the caffeine that I'd find in a 12 ounce premium cup of coffee without any sugar and without the sugar. Crash. These two ounce shots are portable and they're ready for me whenever I'm ready. Ready for you as well because I'm not trying to fall asleep on the zooms guys and I don't want you crashing out mid afternoon either. So find your flavor at five Hour Energy. Watermelon, Strawberry Banana, the Sour Apple five Hour Energy. My go to whatever you're looking for. Five Hour Energy. They've got a ton to choose from. Give your caffeine a flavor upgrade with 5 hour energy shots. Get yours in store and online at www.5hourenergy.com or Amazon. Today you guys feel that that's the summer. It's starting to fade away. It's the fall creeping in with those cooler temps. And Quince my go to brand for great fitting, great looking quality clothing. They got me covered with fall staples that are going to freshen up my wardrobe. I'm rocking the European linen chore jacket right now. It's lightweight enough to layer over a flannel, but heavy enough to keep you warm if you're just wearing a T shirt under it. And it looks awesome. The color is cool. It's this martini olive color and you know who doesn't like olives or martinis? Also, I bragged about Quince's Mongolian cashmere crewneck sweater before for a reason because it looks awesome and it's super comfortable. I've already got one in heather gray, but I'm going to nab the black one from Quince very shortly. Perfect for the fall. Quince is my go to guys. I've been talking about them for months now. They're my go to for durable classic clothing without the elevated price tag. What makes quints different? Well, they partner directly with ethical factories and skip the middlemen so you get top tier fabrics and great craftsmanship at half the price of similar brands. So if you want to look like one of those icons we feature here in Disgraceland and not spend a fortune doing so, then keep it classic and cool this fall with long lasting staples from quince. Go to quince.com disgraceland for free shipping on your order and 365 day returns. That's Q U I-N C E.com disgraceland free shipping and 365 day returns. Quince.com disgraceland if you feel like modern music culture doesn't reflect what you care about, then you're not alone. Disgraceland listeners realize that Chasm, a corporate algorithmic studio storytelling machine, keeps trying to sanitize music history, stripping out the true crime. Disgraceland exists to take these stories back. And now you can wear that rebellion by sporting some of our new merch. Long and short sleeved, Just say no to Chasm T shirts, Disgraceland hoodies, and our Zombie Elvis Johnny Paycheck approved black trucker hat. Our merch, like our content, is built for the musically obsessed, the self proclaimed discos who know that real music history is dangerous and far cooler than whatever the hell mainstream music culture is serving us up right now. This merch is way cool. I would wear every item in the shop. It's an exclusive and limited run. It's only available until September 30th, so order yours now at shopdisgraceland.com Disgraceland is a production of Double Elvis. The stories about Pantera's Dimebag, Diamond Barrel 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 worshiped him as the groundbreaking guitar hero he was. And he was lauded by the guitar heroes he worshiped growing up. Eddie Van Halen, Ace Freeley and Carrie King among them. But most disgracefully, Dimebag Daryl was gunned down by a deranged fan on December 8, 2004, 24 years to the exact day that John Lennon met the same exact fate. But before that, Dimebag Darrell 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 fishtail 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 Kiss 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 Alrosa Vista nightclub with a loaded 9 millimeter Beretta and ended the 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 in Pantera's Dimebag Darrell. I'm Jake Brennan and this is Disgrace. Roll Call was boring. Him and a handful of other cops plopped down in metal chairs, some hungover, most disinterested, others grabassing, talking. They looked and sounded more like high school kids settling into a classroom before their biology teacher arrived 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. Looks, 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 gonna 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 fuckin 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 fucko'd and too smart. What do you think? You 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 dissipate, so the patrol supervisor barked louder and began handing out photocopied papers stapled together with whatever relevant information was needed for that night's shift. Scant attention was paid to the materials, less to the patrol supervisor, more grabassing. The patrol supervisor was now behind the podium at the foot front of the room, invisibly pissed. He lifted it with both hands about an inch off the ground and slammed it down hard onto the floor. Attention. Finally the officers clammed up and 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 seen lurking in Mrs. McNally's bushes with his dick in his hand, peering into her window at night. Male, white, 30s, balding, known crossdresser, partial to long skirts and loose fitting blouses and big round red Sally Jesse Raphael glasses. And there were plenty of snickers from the assembled patrolmen. Random catcalls, the sound of nightsticks clanging up against metal desks 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 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. 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 foot 3, 250 pounds, buzz cut, broad shoulders, ex Marine, likely schizophrenic to this point. Largely non violent. Nothing major needed here. Just be aware. We've received multiple calls 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 and has a prior for trespassing. Nothing major. Nothing to do. I'm just 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 right time or 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. It 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, the 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 crews are 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 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 ZZ Top with the skull crushing intensity of Slayer and Metallica, Pantera had finally run its course. Dimebag's new band was called Damage Plan. As always, his brother and fellow founding member of Pantera, Vinnie, was at Dime's side in Damage Plan. Damage Plan brought it that night on stage, but for the two heads, Nick called so because he was obsessed with Dimebag Darrell and played guitar merely half as good as Dime did. Dime, Half a dime Nickel, AKA Nick. And Nick's friend Speed called so 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 butts, chicks, grass, whatever changed by a gas station hot 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 Darrell in the flesh and hearing him generously impart 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 Amor 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 Dimes, the 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 Frehley. Take that to the bank, Youngin. It's advice worth its weight in 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 thing entirely. David Lee Roth era. Okay, Nick, gut 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 Vinnie pretty much told him so. That night, with their ritual, just before showtime, seconds before and seconds after their last pre show shot, the Abbott 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 Texans 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? There was, of course, only one answer. Hell fucking yes. But they said it with different words. Vinnie 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 Halen. And with that, the brothers Abbott headed to the St.
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The venue was a step down from the arenas 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 Pantera records had. Meanwhile, Pantera's former frontman Phil Anselmo's side projects, Super Joint, Ritual and Down, were garnering attention in the heavy metal press and selling their fair share of albums. But like Damage Plant, 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 cards. The acrimony between Phil Anselmo 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 Abbotts 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. Daryl soon emerged as a wunderkind 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 their old man had started just for them. It was a sweet setup for a band just starting out, but they the creative and commercial leap wouldn't arrive until Phil Anselmo 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 riffs like the best of Slayer and Metallica. But it also grooves like ZZ 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 Anselmo 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, Pantera 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. Pantera didn't suffer for it commercially, quite the opposite. The album went double platinum in 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 Trend kill In 1996, Phil and Salmo recorded all his vocals in New Orleans at Trent Reznor's studio, away from the band, with the rest of the band recorded in Dallas. It wasn't all out in the open yet, but the band could be 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 tension with his bandmates. And with Phil taking on various side projects, communication broke down further. Until Pantera officially broke up in 2003, Phil Anselmo 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 5, 2004, Phil's fighting words against Daryl were months in the future. They'd driven more than two hours up from Columbus to Toledo, Ohio, to the 1500 capacity club Bogart's deceit Damage plan. And before a note was even struck, they got 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. Dime was in that familiar heavy metal guitar player stage stance, knees slightly bent back slightly arched, guitar tight against his lower torso, though his head circling round and round in 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 laying 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 overexcited 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. Roadies and stagehands were quickly dispatched to fix the rig, and the band literally didn't miss a beat. 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 overexcited 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.
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This episode is brought to you by 20th Century Studios New Film Springsteen Deliver Me From Nowhere Starring Golden Globe winner Jeremy Allen White and Academy Award nominee Jeremy Strawberry. Scott Cooper, the director of the Academy Award winning movie Crazy Heart, brings you the story of the most pivotal chapter in the life of an icon. Springsteen Deliver Me From Nowhere only in theaters October 24th. 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 profile football team's locker room, you could hear it, Pantera hostile screaming out of the headphones and into the ears of Crazy Nate, the Thunder's starting offensive lineman. 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 Econoline, 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 amps, drums and cheap PV vocal PA system that never seemed loud enough for the 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 band, no gigs. No gigs, no chicks. No chicks. And he was 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 shots. 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 Speed were especially stoked about another Damage Plan gig with their hero dimebag 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 dark 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 batshit crazy. Nick was a bit of an obsessive when it came to serial killers. Chapman wasn't a serial killer, but he was high profile enough for Nick to dive into the Lenin 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's 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 ripoffs. And they could be categorized into three metal hardcore singing styles. Number one, the Prince of Aquanet. The guys who didn't get the memo that the fucking 80s were over, man. That nobody wanted to hear some Sunset Strip hazband trying to sound like Ozzy Osbourne or worse, Sebastian fucking Bach. There was a reason Ozzy sounded like Ozzy, because he was fucking Ozzy and you weren't. Number two, the Cookie Monster. The 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 Aqua Net hair metal style with the Cookie Monster hardcore style just like Phil and some samo 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. Speedsot2 was just as freaked. Was him. No shit. That's him. The big dude from Bogarts who rushed the stage on Diamond Vinnie, who was tackled and hauled off by security. The dude with all the crazy in his eyes. Neither of them 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 the him not to call him Nate. He 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. Middle tempo, heavy awesomeness. A massive groove. Nick couldn't help but think that Dime would approve the big dude. Nathan grabbed the mic and Nick called it immediately. Oh, no. Oh, no. No. He's gonna do it. Don't. Don't do it. Here it comes. Yep. Mike, off the stand, head down. Billy Milano. Big Man Stomp. Here comes the Cookie Monster. But wait a minute. What the. 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 Pantera was, man. Those were Phil Anselmo's lyrics. Nathan denied it. They 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 and 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 walk, utterly humiliated by the experience. Hands jammed in his workers jacket pockets, head down, chin tucked against his chest, eyes peering up, pushing his brow into his clinched forehead, walking fast but somehow sinking into himself. He heard the voices. They multiplied and came at him fast. Loser, wannabe lard ass. Skitso Loony. Fuck you. You'll never be anything. Shitty marine, shitty football player, 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. Pantera did. Those weren't Phil fucking Anselmo's lyrics. They were yours. Pantera 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 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 8, 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 Am. 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 Al Rosa Villa, absolutely hyped on seeing Damage Plan. For the second time in an eight month period, their hero, Damage Plan guitar player, ex Pantera guitarist, Dimebag Darrell 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 Alvro Sevilla nightclub's park, the 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. 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 roadies. 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. Fuck. There they were in 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. Dimebag 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 his song Breathing New Life outside the club. The sound from the stage bled out into the club. 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 Darrell'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 Pantera, that Dimebag Daryl had nothing to do with it. When Nathan Gale heard the first sounds from Damage Plan C set, he turned on his heels and with the most purpose he'd ever felt in his short life, stormed back toward the Al Ro nightclub. Inside, as was their vibe. The band was in it. Especially Dime, in that stance. The one that was instantly recognizable to any Dimebag Daryl fan. The Texas lean, the metal head swirl. The hurricane of long curly hair. Putting on a master's course in how a riff. And not just for heaviness, for groove. It was all feel. Van Halen. Van 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 in down on the other side, his sights square on the back exit. Ignoring the random fan smoking cigarettes, giving him for his blatant attempt to sneak into the 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 in Ohio. 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, Nathan Speed broke their trance. By the time Dimebag Darrell hit the solo, Nick was watching Dime intently studying the master, intent himself on one day matriculating on guitar from a mere Nick 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 the was he doing? Nick felt it immediately. Fear for himself, for Speed, for Dimebag 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 towards Dimebag Darrell. 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 Darrell'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 security. The mountain of a man they called Mayhem sprinted at Gale from behind. Gale got off another shot. The bullet hit Damage Plan's tour manager, who was also giving Gale chase. Then Gale, struggling in the grip of Mayhem. 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. 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 Dimebag Darryl and Mayhem. Unarmed himself, Bray tried to disarm Nathan Gale. Gale shot him in the chest. Bray died from his wound later that night at the hospital. Another brave Al Rosa Vista attendee on that night was club employee Aaron Haught, 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 Hawke 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 in his cruiser just 18 minutes after roll call. He was the only black and white nearby. Alrosa Vista 43 male inside the Alrosa on stage with a 33 shots of being fired. 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. There were shell shocked concertgoers stumbling out. In there, in there. They yelled. He's shooting everyone. He's got a hostage. The 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 cops 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 aim with his Beretta in his right hand at crowd members who were now bravely threatening to rush the stage while the gunman aimed at them. The cop moves 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 offstage and then shooting wildly into the crowd, all the while keeping his chokehold on the hostage hitch and the cop moved closer to him from behind. The crowd saw the cop approaching with the shotgun aimed. And they started yelling, shoot him. Shoot him. The cop inched forward 20ft behind the shooter with the hostage in a headlock. The hostage's head just below the shooter's. No room for error. The cop took aim. 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 of his shotgun. The shooter, the big dude, Nathan Gale, died instantly. Shotgun blast 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 when he saw one. Be it the cobbler who ended the bloodbath that night. The cop who told him, you're my witness. Or his guitar hero, Dimebag Daryl Abbott, who was senselessly murdered that night. Or Dimes 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 dimes coll 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 Van Halen. I'm Jake Brennan and this is Disgrace 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 Disgraceland. If you're listening as a Disgraceland All Access member, thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it. And if not, you can become a member right now by going to Disgracelandpod.com membership members can listen to every episode of Disgraceland Ad Free. Plus you'll get one brand new exclusive episode every month. Weekly unscripted bonus episodes, special audio collections and early access to merchandise and events. Visit disgracelandpod.com membership for details. Rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, TikTok, Twitter and Facebook Disgracelandpod and on YouTube@YouTube.com Disgracelandpod Rocka Rolla He's a Bad, Bad Man ABC Wednesday Shifting Gears is back. He has arisen. Tim Allen and Kat Dennings return in television number one new comedy what what? With a star studded premiere including Jenna Elfman, Nancy Travis and hey buddy. A big home improvement reunion welcome. Oh boy, that guy's a tool. Shifting Gears season premiere Wednesday, 8, 7 Central on ABC and stream on Hulu.
- [50:16]
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When the Moore family dished cable Internet and switched to Zigly fiber, they got so much more. Mr. Moore got more upload speed for next level gaming and live streaming to the masses. With reliable service, Mrs. Moore is no longer her family's IT guru, leaving her more time to stream games into overtime. Let's go. And young Mason Moore got more done quickly uploading HD product demos and video conferencing without freesight.
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A
The numbers look good. Brad, you're on mute.
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Switch from cable Internet to Zibli Fiber and get more of what you love for $65 less per month than cable@ziplyfiber.com.