Living dead boys.

On the road with White Zombie.

Like many of my generation this past holiday weekend, I got willingly sucked into the hype vortex of the long-awaited Oasis reunion that instantly shot me back to 1995 when I first discovered the band. Happy to report that it withstood the wave of heightened expectations, delivered on a pretty grand scale and is currently crushing the city of Manchester under its collective cultural weight.

At least via what I could see from videos posted on YouTube, by friends at the opening Cardiff gig and pretty breathless media coverage. It was that much cooler to see Joey Waronker behind the drum kit. He’s not a household name, but a true journeyman pro who’s played with artists ranging from Beck to Roger Waters and who I helped back in the day via other up and coming bands.

Reunion gigs are particularly curious events, brimming with nostalgia but also newfound relevance for the band in question. By nature, they create a bit of a divide between those who were around for the original incarnation and a younger audience who could now see a band they love for the first time (even if that means a different composition of members).

Not that any of it really matters. With the band as the bond, everyone shares in the joy, whether you’re 30 or 60. And that, in its own way, is truly beautiful. Hell, so many of the bands I worked with in the ‘90s are now finding renewed success and prominence by touring again (to quote Portlandia, “the ‘90s are alive.”). Which is ultimately a good thing. It’s 2025 and Counting Crows have a new song?! Green Day, Pearl Jam and Deftones are still selling out arenas?! Let’s go!

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But back to 1995, which was a meaningful and transitional year in my job development as an artist relations manager. First-year jitters were dispensed with, imposter syndrome extinguished, professional network established, hazing subsided, I had solidified my standing. Let’s see where this can go.

The year before, I had met and befriended an endorser named John Tempesta. He was a Bronx-born powerhouse who’d made his name in the late ‘80s with Bay Area-stalwarts Exodus and transitioned to rapidly ascendant band Testament. They were in LA getting to record an album “Low” at A&M (the recording studios co-founded by Herb Alpert in the original Charlie Chaplin compound) that would become a subtle legend, one that never had a singular “hit” but was often referenced by other musicians as an undeniable legacy piece of work. I think Johnny would still call it one of his finest studio hours.

I shlepped many a cymbal over the hill from the valley to Hollywood to nail down sounds on a drum kit that had 40 mics and was a veritable cruise liner of an instrument. Revered producers and engineers Garth Richardson and Joe Barresi were behind the boards, I had crashed (heh) into a momentary temple of hard rock and was determined to help it make sound monumental. Which it did and forever will.

Not long after its completion, John received a call from White Zombie. By that point, the band had carved out its own niche as an undeniable mashup of hard rock, heavy groove, hot-rod aesthetics and old-school horror films, perfectly suited for MTV. They rocketed seemingly overnight from lower Manhattan to the top of the Billboard charts. And it was understandably difficult for John to resist. Much to Testament’s thorough annoyance, he made the leap and soon began work on their true monster release, “Astro Creep 2000”.

Let’s just say it made an immediate impact. If you were around in the summer of ‘95 and remotely aware of your surroundings, there was no escaping this song:

The band was gearing up for a major global tour, festivals, TV appearances, like get ready, it’s all happening now and quality sleep will be a luxury not often afforded. But then this is what any band hopes for. John was a little troubled about leaving Testament, but excited for the challenge. I remember telling him, “ride it man, these are the opportunities you have to grab.”

What I don’t remember is when and how he invited me to join them on tour, but he did and I did. In the fall of ‘95 they were beginning a nationwide assault and I flew to Seattle to start a week of gigs in the Pacific Northwest. No agenda, no real plan, just come hang out and soak up a bit of life on a tour bus. I think in ways it was just enjoyable for Johnny to have a friend from home on hand beyond band members and crew. For this drummer whose trajectory peaked at a crappy van packed with bandmates and instruments, I can’t deny it was a thrill to know what that level of success felt like.

It would be understandable at this point to make some immediate assumptions. On the road and backstage in the mid-’90s at metal shows! Every night a potential canvas for a Jackson Pollock-esque display of Jack Daniels-fueled hedonism and destruction, rage ‘til dawn, tomorrow be damned! Hate to disappoint, but this band being the pros they already were, no such luck. Besides the odd prank or robust night out on a day off, road life was pretty business first, because so was Rob Zombie.

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I’ve always held a theory, backed up then and now proven by years of rigorous analysis, that the scarier a musician looks is inversely proportional to how nice they actually are. Some of the most insanely tattooed, pierced, black-clad, biker gang-looking badasses I helped I would happily invite to my niece’s tea party. Whereas some of the guys from alterna-bands of the moment were grade-A pricks. White Zombie most definitely fell in the former category.

The band Filter was the opening act on the tour, fronted by Richard Patrick, an ex-member of Nine Inch Nails fresh off their massive hit, “Hey Man, Nice Shot.” (The video for which was filmed at the then-closed and now long-gone historic Hollywood Roosevelt hotel on Wilshire in LA, where my then-assistant and I watched and ran around the joint at 2 am like the set from “The Shining” it felt like.) A solid double bill, the only issue here being that Richie had recently broken his leg and had to endure the indignity of singing from a chair onstage with a side table his tech would keep stocked with drinks and a candle.

Filter drummer Matt Walker at left (now touring with Morrissey), me, Johnny and guitarist J. Yuenger with yet another coffee in Seattle. Starbucks at that point was not yet the global monolith it is today and Seattle was a hub of the budding ‘90s cafe culture scene.

Running with the larger entourage quickly enlightened me to the very particular rhythm and consistency a band like this had to maintain on the road to make a tour successful. In this case, the crew and local support had to work in sync every stop to set up and knock down a massive stage set that also had complicated lighting and pyrotechnics. No small feat. It’s easy to overlook when you’re just a fan in the crowd enjoying the show, but the pressure over everyone is immense when so many unpredictable things can conspire to throw off a show.

As gear-guy friend of the band with an all-access pass, I quickly learned it was my job on gig days to blend into the background, go with the flow and know where you probably shouldn’t be. For me, a combination of unbridled excitement and dutiful self-restraint. Not that the environment was entirely exclusionary. Tour Manager Wookie (endearing nickname I did not bestow) was tough when he had to be, yet always welcoming, often escorting me to off-limits areas and steering me away from situations or people to avoid.

Some roadside stop outside Seattle, Johnny and Wookie on the right.

Goofily gregarious drum tech Andy O (who, I kid you not, had a three-ring binder that was an authoritative reference source for strip bars in every state. No Google, kids.) was just as hospitable, taking me behind the scenes to see all the intracacies of Rob’s wildly over-the-top stage decorations that were a fever dream of demonic day-glo characters, even start a soundcheck from behind Johnny’s kit with guitarist J (I’m still pretty inadequate at double bass).

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Offstage, the bus was truly our mobile home beyond an occasional hotel. For the uninitiated, a tour bus is a sleeker type of RV designed for its specific purpose of moving musicians and gear long distances in relative comfort. Couch banquette, dining table, bathroom and kitchenette up front behind the driver, 6-8 cocoon-like bunk berths on either side of a narrow hallway leading to a small lounge in the back. What it lacks in spaciousness, it made up for in terms of efficient function.

Rob being Rob, he and his girlfriend / stage dancer / muse Sherry had their own bus. At one point, we all had a long drive east for a gig in Spokane. Not exactly what you’d call a scenic route. Entertainment meant a small TV, early-stage video games and music, anything to pass the time as we wound through boring scrub, farmland and early precursors to what would become the generic chain store/restaurant clusters so disturbingly familiar nationwide. Guitarist J and I late-night bonded over early punk rock, craft beer, collecting British 45s and how Soundgarden’s “Superunknown,” released the previous year, was an unquestionably perfect record as we cranked it.

Then before I was ready for it, the week was over, the bus pulled into Portland and I was soon on a plane back to LA. I had a walkman for in-flight entertainment, but couldn’t scroll through pics to relive the trip on a phone because at that point in technological evolution I didn’t even have a pager.

Thankfully I had brought a small film camera along for the trip, but the results included here would have to wait until they could … wait for it … be taken to a drugstore, developed and printed. It all seems so laughably archaic now thirty years later, but the memories made on that tour remain that much more vivid and meaningful because of the lack of distraction and the ability to fully live in those moments. Sometimes old technology remains the best technology.

• Footnote: Johnny went on to record and tour with Rob Zombie and has been of late touring with The Cult for nearly twenty years. We’re still in touch and friends always.

Getting really crazy backstage with bassist Sean Yseult and some Oreos in my Reverend Horton Heat shirt and scary wash jeans.

Josh Sinder, drummer for Seattle grunge legends Tad and another of my favorite drummers and people, Matt Cameron (Soundgarden, Pearl Jam) after hoisting Johnny and his folding chair throne onto a table for no apparent reason.