So Dave Mustaine has an autobiography that just came out, and last week I found out he’d be on Fifth Avenue today. I was under the impression that he’d be doing a reading, and the spectre of Dave channeling the power of his prose was too tempting to resist, what inflections his voice would take on when hitting the inevitable passages about James Hetfield’s various assholisms. Seriously, what an incredible soap opera it’s been, Metallica vs. Megadeth. This is some of the best music that’s ever been made, period, surrounded by gargantuan egos and animosity that’s been simmering for decades. And Dave’s snarling stage persona, honed from years of arena shows, taking the podium at the Midtown B&N? How could I not attend?
Unfortunately, it turned out to be just a signing. Bleah. I went in anyway and was halfway up the escalator when I heard a guy yelling. OH MY GOD! DAVE! DAAAAAAVE! OH MY GOD! DAVE! And what timing – not ten feet away as I hit the top, that mop of strawberry-blonde hair walking over to the signing table. I tried to get a pic of him in these genteel, literary surroundings, but the staff were pretty zealous about no cameras, and no standing around gawking at him, and really not being able to have anything to do with it at all unless you were buying his book and lined up in the cattle chute.
I found out that their zealousness didn’t extend to locking the Rockstar Room’s door. Not that Dave Mustaine’s toasted panini sandwiches are earthshattering news or anything, but I really hate it when people get all velvet rope about photography and whatnot. It immediately puts me in the mood for transgression, however mild and ridiculous.
It was really tempting to dash in and grab one of the half-eaten cookies and go find the OH MY GOD! DAVE! guy and hand it to him and tell him “Dave Mustaine has just eaten half of this cookie!” just to see what he’d do. Also, that 1990 Rust in Peace longsleever was right there for the grabbing by anybody headed for the bathrooms. (No, I didn’t. That’s not cool.) Rather dumb that nobody in the entourage thought to pull the door shut.
Good to know if I ever end up penning a runaway bestseller and my rabid fans storm the local bookstores in demand of my dulcet tones, that this is the kind of lurid backstage debauchery I have to look forward to.