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- Herausgeber: Scout Media
- Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
“Networking is key. Stop worrying about protecting your little circle or clique & start realizing that whatever you put out there comes back to you. Think small, stay small. Expand your circle as much as you can. The more you help & do for others, the more you find success in more ways than one, also from within. It’s a simple concept, but so many people do not see or understand this. The world would be a better place if we did & acted this way all together and every day.” - Opus
Break When I’m Dead chronicles Opus and his trials and tribulations through touring, recording, and writing music, as well as his stint as a reality show star and the journey of being a father through an uncertain era of politics and a pandemic. Journey along with Opus to discover some of his unusual life and personal events, as well as a shocking family tree.
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Brain Fair (Shadow’s Fall): He has that front-man chromosome, but maybe only like half of it. You can tell he is a showman, but he doesn’t suffer from the full-blown lead singer disease. There’s no doubt he has a little of the mutation in his genes. He is a natural drummer. He is a sick drummer. He’s got the rhythm, he’s got the groove, and he’s always in the pocket. He manages to get out in front of the audience, which isn’t easy from behind the kit. He finds a way to make his presence known. He loves playing drums, but he loves the spotlight as well.
Eric AK (Flotsam & Jetsam): He is one of those players who wants to be a better player every time he plays. And so, he gives his all every performance. Because of this, there is a big, noticeable difference in his drumming ability, from the first time I heard him play to the last time I heard him play. The first time I heard him, I remember thinking, It’s too bad he kinda sucks, ’cause he’s a super nice dude. The last time I heard him play, I thought, Holy shit, Opus is dopest.
Brian Fair: Christian is intense. He won’t take no for an answer but not in an obnoxious way. He just lets you know he’s going to work and grind until you give up or give in and say yes. I appreciate that persistence. He has that punk-rock ethos. He has found a way through a million setbacks and a million other challenges to stay in the game and do exactly what he’s wanted to do.
Kai Blackwood (Tokyo Deathsquad): Christian is like the honorary mayor for the night wherever he goes.
Ron ‘Bumblefoot’ Thal (Sons of Apollo, Asia the Band, Ex-Guns N’ Roses): Christian is his own dude, from the hair to the way he talks. I can relate to his strong East Coast accent and vibe. He’s focused and organized. He can beat the shit out of a drumkit with Dead By Wednesday, and then shift into a fucking solo acoustic song, where he’s singing and playing guitar and hitting his cajon box. He’s very versatile. Christian is more of a musician. Some people are just drummers, which is great too. They sit behind the kit, and they play, but Christian can do a lot of other things as well.
Ricky Bonazza (Butcher Babies): After I put all my eggs in one basket and came to America from Italy on a work visa to play music, I got introduced to my now buddy, Opus, and the DBW crew from a friend, Corey Nash, whom I met at NAMM. I filled in for their bassist, Mike, because he was having a baby at the time. We went out for six weeks to support Flotsam & Jetsam. Crazy things was, I never even met these guys before, though me and Opus hit it off immediately over the phone, both being Pasians. It was my first US tour with people I never met or played with before. Big leap of faith This was one of the best tours ever. It was hard because we had no crew, no bus, and barely any money or equipment. We were fucking road dogs, man, and I appreciated the brotherhood. Me and Opus and the guys remained friends ever since. I really love to think back to that tour. I had a blast.
Break When I’m Dead
by Christian Lawrence
with Douglas Esper
Editor: Brian Paone
Cover Cover Photo: Michael Alago
Front Cover Art Design: Melody Myers
Chapter designs: Amy Hunter
Formatter: KH Formatting
Published by Scout Media
Copyright 2022
ISBNS: Paperback: 978-1-7368867-8-6 OR eBook: 978-1-7368867-9-3
www.ScoutMediaBooksMusic.com
*Thanks to everyone who picked up this book and all who contributed their stories, time, and input. Big shout out to my family, friends, and all the people who support my career and have continued doing so throughout the years. Without you, there is no me. I would be nothing.
“Networking is key. Stop worrying about protecting your little circle or click & start realizing that whatever you put out there comes back to you. Think small, stay small. Expand your circle as much as you can. The more you help & do for others, the more you find success in more ways than one, also from within. It’s a simple concept, but so many people do not see or understand this. The world would be a better place if we did & acted this way all together and every day.” - Opus
Break When I’m Dead chronicles Opus and his trials and tribulations through touring, recording, and writing music, as well as his stint as a reality show star and the journey of being a father through an uncertain era of politics and a pandemic. Journey along with Opus to discover some of his unusual life and personal events, as well as a shocking family tree.
I remember hearing Christian play drums in the school band room. He sounded good, even at such an early age. I was a drummer back then as well. I encouraged him and told him to keep at it. Being older, I took him under my wing, and we started to hang out. Not long after, we were in a band together. He was the drummer, and I was the singer. The band had a terrible name, so we were working to change it. One of the names thrown in the pile was Opus. We had gotten it from the penguin character in the Bloom County comic strip. Christian fought for us to change our name to Opus. We knew what it meant, but in 1988, it just wasn’t a great fit for the times or for what our band was about.
It got to the point that every time I talked to him, he would ask, “How about Opus?” The way he said it made the idea even goofier. I didn’t hate it, but eventually, I told him, “Opus is a terrible name.” He kept at it. I said, “It’s a horrible idea.” He was undeterred.
The other guys in the band said, “We’ll call you Opus,” but it wasn’t chummy; it wasn’t kind. They sort of gave him that nickname to make fun of him and his persistence/insistence. He took shit for a while and almost crumbled under that pressure, but he faced it head on and owned it.
He became Opus. The moniker wasn’t supposed to sound cool or be a compliment, but he took it and made it his entire brand and identity. He ran with it. That’s what he does. He’ll take any bulletin board material and instead of letting the negativity get the best of him, he turns it around and makes it a positive.
I think he should stick with signing his name Christian, but then again, I know seven Christians. When someone asks, “Did you see what Christian is doing?” I have to ask, “Which one?” If that same person asks, “Did you see what Opus is doing?” I’ll know exactly who they are talking about—as does everyone else in the industry. There is only one Opus.
We’re all from that East Coast area, where guys are naturally dicks to each other, and this was no exception. They were trying to be shitty toward him, and yet, he turned it into one of his biggest assets. Oh, you want to hurt this kid’s feelings? Your words became his calling card. He has thick skin and determination unlike any other. He has a conviction and a drive and an unwavering will. His belief that he belongs on stage behind that kit can’t be cracked by any of your best attempts. Imagine the balls it takes to stand up to your peers like that. Many have tried to knock him off his feet, but Opus rarely breaks his stride or even loses his balance.
Ask people around the world about a drummer named Opus and they probably have a story to share about something he did or said or a song he recorded. They’ll talk about his outgoing personality; Jesus Christ, sometimes it’s too much. I wish I had a bit of it myself. Some people want him to dial it back a bit, but not me. He is who he is. He is the genuine article. What you see is what you get. Typically, those who don’t like it are jealous of what he has done, is doing, and what he is getting ready to do.
Fuck them, Opus. Keep on going.
School was never really quite my thing, although I did manage to go on and get my college degree, in fine arts of all things. And really just to say I did it! At a young age, I was labeled as a bit of a troublemaker, or more so a class clown. I was kicked out of four schools, two being Catholic schools. In one elementary school, St. Michael’s in New Haven, I thought it would be funny to write “ass” on the chalkboard while our teacher, a nun, stepped out of classroom. When she came back and saw it, everyone immediately ratted me out. She made me get up in front of the whole class to admit my wrong doings, but instead I proceeded to explain to the nun how Jesus rode on a donkey, and another name for donkey was “ass.” She turned red with anger and, well, let’s just say I was on to my next school. But the one thing I knew early on was that I was drawn to music and performance. I can hold my own playing guitar, I’ve been told I have a decent singing voice, and I can play bass if called upon, but I’ve always loved the drums.
My parents didn’t want me to play the drums. That hurt. I could’ve obeyed their wishes and picked something else. I could’ve quit music and tried something else, but I also have a natural talent for following my own lead. I signed up to learn percussion at my junior high.
My junior high didn’t want me to play drums.
You know how school bands are; they handpick who they want for what instruments they want. I was a troublemaker, a metalhead, and I think they passed me over to avoid any possible disruptions to the process of creating a band. There are a lot of pieces that need to work together. No matter what the actual reason was, the fact that they didn’t want me, stung. I felt left out.
My mom suggested I try the cello. I begrudgingly agreed. Every week, I lugged that thing around, and it seemed to break every time I played it. Full disclosure, I didn’t treat the cello all that well. I recall dragging it behind me while walking.
I could’ve picked something else. I could’ve quit music altogether. Life certainly seemed to be telling me drums weren’t for me. With my parents and my school both saying don’t do it, it emboldened me. It made me want to try it all that much more. You think I can’t succeed as a drummer? Watch me.
Then I found a drum kit for sale on the curb of someone’s house down the street. It had a sparkling orange finish on the shells of the three-piece pile of garbage. I’m telling you this was the worst kit money could buy. I spent $35, and I got ripped off. If I recall correctly, drums were by a Japanese company called Max Tone or something equally as generic.
I had a paper route at the time, but I had only saved $25. I had to borrow the last ten bucks from my older brother. I brought the pieces home and set it up. I beat the shit out of that kit every single day for months on end, trying to get the brain-and-hand coordination.
I taught myself “Shout at the Devil” by Mötley Crüe. I got a Buddy Rich beginner’s guide to playing drums to teach me more. I give him a lot of credit; Buddy Rich is a beast on the drums.
But before we get into all the drumming stuff, I think there’s some background needed to set up my story.
Lawrence is my stepdad’s name. Though I’ve carried this name for years, it really doesn’t have any real connection for me. I’m not in the Lawrence family, never was. My birth father’s last name is Tocchi. He was and still is living his own life in Italy.
My grandfather, on my mother’s side, was an Italian American whose parents were from Italy. I was really close with him. He was the closest thing I had to a father figure. He was a better father than anyone else I had. My nonna came from Italy too. Their last name was Tortora, my mother’s maiden name.
So, my son is Orion Lawrence, and he’s carrying the name of, well, who the fuck knows, because not only was it not my real last name, but it wasn’t even my stepfather’s real last name. It’s not attached to anything or anyone except until now.
My stepfather’s family was Jewish. Their real last name was something very Jewish sounding and hard to pronounce, like “Goobawitz,” but I don’t even remember it. They had changed their name to Lawrence during the war. They wanted something neutral to not tip off the Nazis, from what I was told. They were in Poland, right in the thick of things. And so now we’re all carrying this name that has some heavy history but technically no connection to me.
My older brother went back to our birth father’s last name, and speaking of my brother, well, we’ll get to him a little later. I need to clear my mind and prepare to dive into those waters. And speaking of waters, I need to tell you about the time I almost drowned.
Some people have religion, some have science, and others follow nothing and no one. I’ll talk about my beliefs and spirituality in other parts of the book, but one force that always guides me forward is synchronicity—or maybe you know it as synergy. I believe I am where I am supposed to be for various reasons. Something sends me signs. No other story from my past highlights this belief as much as this one.
And the reason I’m bringing this up right here, right now is I ran into my old childhood buddy Johnny the other day, and he is heavily involved in this story without even knowing it. I also think it’ll be a good way to break the ice between us. They say a well-written book is a glimpse into the author’s soul, so maybe this will help you see who I am, where I come from, and what I’m all about.
Johnny lived near me when we moved from New Haven to Guilford, Connecticut after my mother married for the second time. Johnny was friends with a lot of the same people from the neighborhood, like Erick Heller, the bassist from my first-ever cover band, Screaming Fetus. After Erick raised his kids and went through most of his life adventures, he has now come full circle and once again plays in my very active internationally touring, classic Black Sabbath tribute band, Earth. Heller was one of the first people to introduce me to marijuana. Except he got all pissed at me the first time I tried it because instead of inhaling it, being inexperienced, I blew out and we lost it all. Erick also owns a cool pub in Guilford called The Country Tavern. It’s a small, country-type watering hole where a lot of friends from back in the day meet up on a regular basis. I even hosted a trivia event every Tuesday night there before corona happened. That’s where I recently ran into Johnny, and it brought up this memory I hadn’t thought about in ages.
Back in the day, my Guilford friends and I had formed a tight knit group. We palled around, and whatever trouble we caused, we did it together. It was the Sachems Head Crew, which was the name of the area in Guilford we lived in. We would hang out in West Woods, drink beer, and run from the cops. Outside of those guys, my older brother and I had other acquaintances, but they weren’t a part of that neighborhood friends-type of group. We also had plenty of people we flat out didn’t like, who seemed to just pop up everywhere we went. One of those kids was Bob Shuman, who was kind of a bully. My older brother had to put Bob in place once for picking on me, by punching him square in the face, breaking his glasses. After that, we all became buddies.
Guilford is a beach town. One of our favorite places to swim was at the end of Trolley Road, in an area called Sachem’s Head, named after a Native American Chief from that area who was beheaded on that land. The area itself is like a niche or a peninsula.
There was a little pool of water that flows out into the ocean. I guess they call it a sluice. One side of the water was our side, and then at the other side sat vacation houses and rental property. We’d take dinghies over to the other side. Over there, everyone was on vacation. They are there to have a good time. We befriended girls who would go there for the summertime, some who we still know and are friends with today. We’d party with them. It was a cool atmosphere to grow up in. You almost felt like you were on summer break all year. You had a constant supply of new people to meet, and they were always in a good mood, because they were on vacation.
At the end of this sluice, there was a crazy current, like a powerful rapid. I’ve also heard it called a rip torrent. Whatever you want to call it, it was no joke. Throughout the day, the current went into different phases. Sometimes the sluice would be a lot more aggressive, and then at other points, it was more like a lazy river. People would take rafts and inner tubes and just float along to relax. Other people would swim or float down the current. It was a great place to just hang out, swim, and relax.
I wasn’t the best swimmer in the world, and I’m still not. So, I should’ve known going in during a particularly rough time was a stupid idea. The current was aggressive that day, but it hadn’t gotten to its full tilt yet. Steady speed for sure, though. Enough that I should’ve known better being that I don’t float; I sink like a rock. There was a group of us all together, and they were going in, so I said, “Fuck it,” and followed them.
I’d been in the current before, usually in a raft or a dinghy, but this time, I went with nothing. I went through the sluice. As I was coming out the other end, I got sucked down by a whirlpool. Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever had that happen to you before, but you cannot get out of it no matter what you do.
I was freaking out as soon as I felt something pull me down. I started fighting against the current. I struggled to get my bearings. I knew I needed to get up to the top of the water, but I couldn’t get there. Within moments, I got exhausted, confused, disoriented, and I felt the tightness in my chest from panic. I’m not thinking clearly, because everything in my head is screaming at once. You can’t win against a current like that. It will wear you down. I’ve since learned that if you ever get sucked down by a riptide or current, you should always just relax your body, hold your breath, and go with it until it eventually spits you out of its grip on the other side. Struggling and working against it will actually make it worse for you. But I didn’t know any of that back then.
At a certain point, I made up my mind and literally gave up. It was a conscious decision—one that made sense, because I knew I had no way to escape. I was going to lose any fight with the water. I relaxed my body and said, “Okay, this is how I’m going to die.”
I started swallowing water. Drowning is one of the worst experiences you’ll ever have. I don’t wish it on anyone. The helplessness leaves you feeling so small and inconsequential. I was done. There was nothing left to do but accept my fate and die.
When I stopped caring about survival, a moment of peace and clarity took control. Everything slowed down. I glanced up to the surface of the water and noticed a bright white light shining down through the top of the water onto me. The white light brightened everything around me and had a warming feeling. Sure, the obvious answer is that the light was the sun gleaming through the water, but it captivated me in a way no other bit of sunlight ever had before that moment. They say you see a bright light right before you die; well, whether it was the sun or not, I definitely saw a big bright light.
My soul was calm, at peace. I thought, okay, this is it. It’s over. The panic had disappeared. The worry of being too small went away. My focus remained on the light as I welcomed its warmth.
I don’t recall when it happened or if I was even aware, but Johnny and Bob, the reformed bully, jumped in the water. They were both great swimmers. They grabbed me and pulled me out of the sluice. I started coughing up water, spitting it all over, as my lungs begged for oxygen. My head spun, my body ached, and everything became instinct. There was no wiggle room. Either air got in and water got out, or I was a goner.
A few people gathered around, offering encouragement. I could hear their genuine concern and anxiety. They knew how dire things were. When I had time to reflect on how others were reacting, I realized I had somehow survived after all.
That was the closest I ever got to dying, and it shook me to my core. Now I’m very cautious around the water. I respect the water, as well as everything in it. Now I often find myself hesitating to just jump in a pool or lake.
Truth be told, Johnny and Bob saved my life. There’s no other way to describe it. I got a second chance that not everyone gets and at a very young age. That’s a heavy thing to unpack as a kid. Not just the ‘almost dying’ part, not just the realization I had given in to death, but also the pressure of knowing I have a life debt to pay back at some point. There was no getting around it.
I now had a duty to live life a certain way until I could pay karma back. Well, I started the story talking about synergy, so I don’t think it will surprise you to know I unfortunately got the chance.
A month or two later, I went to Johnny’s house. We had talked earlier in the day about getting together to hang. He had told me to come by. Man, remember those days? Summer break meant you adventured with buddies from dawn until after dark, in the woods, playing games outside, jamming, whatever. You went to each other’s houses and rang the doorbell and entertained yourself without constant stimulation. We didn’t have a cellphone or a tablet or the internet. Back then, we didn’t even have twenty-four-hour television, and for some reason, I was never a video-gamer. A couple guys had Ataris, but what held our interest was going outside and exploring. In Sachem’s Head, we had awesome caves and hiking trails in an area called the West Woods, and that’s where we spent most of our days.
One afternoon, shortly after the near-drowning incident, Johnny asked me to come over to his place. I always loved going to Johnny’s, because his sister Jen used to change in the window, and all us boys would always watch her. She was hot. Obviously, her brother didn’t watch her, but the neighborhood kids did. (Sorry, John and Mike, it’s true!) So, that afternoon, I rushed on over, hoping to catch a glimpse, like a scene from the ’80’s movie, Porky’s.
I knocked. No answer. I tried again. No answer.
No big deal. Typically, I would’ve left and continued with my day, but since we had talked earlier, his absence got my attention. I walked into his back yard, (back when you could walk into someone’s back yard without the neighbor calling the cops or someone pulling a gun on you). There was a path in the woods that connected Johnny’s neighborhood and mine. I figured I’d head back that way in case he had gotten bored and had decided to start walking to my house instead.
Guess who I see laying unconscious on a rock, with blood pouring out of his head?
Johnny Iacobellis. Apparently, he was attempting to climb a large tree, which he enjoyed doing and lost his grip, falling out of the tree and banging his head on the large rock below.
I take in the scene. Blood is steadily flowing out of his head wound. The closer I got, the more worried I felt. He wasn’t moving. I couldn’t tell if he was breathing. If he was out there long enough and lost enough blood, it would be fatal.
I ran back to the house and called 9-1-1. Before the ambulance arrived, Johnny’s dad got home. I took him to where his son was. He got Johnny in the car and raced him to the hospital. Thank God, he made a full recovery without any permanent head injuries. So, guess what? He saved me. I saved him!
How did I get to this story, though? We were talking about naming my son, weren’t we?
Now, Orion’s middle name derived from his mother Jessica’s last name, Spinelli, and my grandparents’ last name, Tortora being mushed together. ST-period. We took the first letter of each name. No, it’s not Suicidal Tendencies. It’s Saint. Orion ST. Lawrence.
Now, this gets weird. My grandparents and beautiful niece Francesca are both buried in St. Lawrence Cemetery. I hadn’t realized this when we named Orion. We saw this after the fact, and it blew my mind.
Having a baby changes your life in so many ways. It’s very difficult to comprehend unless you become a parent. Part of the reason I wanted to write this book was to help explain to him his history and write out all the various factions of family he came from. I want to make sure that even if it’s not the most traditional background, he still has a legacy to draw from, to be grounded. That way maybe one day he can also pass this knowledge on to his own too.
Like, I want him to know about my grandfather. Orion met him as a baby, but I’m sure he won’t remember. I’m glad they met. My grandfather was a great man. He was a doctor in the army.
While serving overseas during the war, he met my grandmother. They got married in Italy. He came back to the States, and they had to wait a whole year before she could join him. She came over in a boat, eating nothing but apples. Can you imagine people getting seasick with nothing but apples in their bellies? Throwing up and that smell on board? After that, she hated apples.
My nonna made the best food—meatballs, chicken cutlets, risotto, and lasagna; you name it, she made it the best. I learned my sauce recipe from her. She barely spoke English, but she was the sweetest person.
After serving in the army, my grandfather became a urologist. I called him Dr. Pecker (I loved Dr. Pepper as a kid). He smirked and laughed along with me, good-natured about the nickname. Dr. Frank Tortora was a Yale graduate, and he remained dedicated to his work until very late in his life. He didn’t retire until he was in his late eighties, and even then, he would volunteer at the local clinic. He loved to help. He loved to work. He was a workaholic.
Back in the day, he would do house calls. He helped anyone regardless of race, age, sex and economic situation. So sometimes he’d come home with a bag of tomatoes as payment. He had a bartering system if they couldn’t pay, trading his services for favors or stuff, sometimes even unwanted stuff. He lived to be 102.
They established a tradition to gather the family for huge meals on Sundays, which I’ve carried on until this day, so Orion gets to experience it. We usually have our “Italian-style” Sunday with my auntie and cousins. Orion calls her Auntie Nonnie, which means auntie grandma. You know, she’s my auntie and sort of still acts as his grandma. Sometimes other people join us like my brother and sister come over with her son, brother-in-law, random past girlfriends of whoever at the time, friends on occasion and whoever else is available. We do pasta, using my grandmother’s sauce recipe.
We keep the tradition alive.
So, back to the family names and stuff.
My mom had been single for a while. She was going to school and raising two kids on her own and working. She had a science teacher in college, Mr. Howard Lawrence, who was an alcoholic and much older, but my mom saw something in him. Maybe she needed an A in science? I don’t know.
Okay, he could be cool at times, I’ll admit that, but he was not an ideal partner or husband or father or role model … Hell, he wasn’t really a good person in general. Very smart though and deep down inside, I truly think he had a decent heart.
When my mom remarried, he adopted me and my brother, (or claimed that he did anyway). My mother then converted us to Judaism.
My first name is Christian.
Right?
Yeah, let that sink in for a second.
Got it?
Now picture me in a synagogue, wearing my yalmuka. My brother was there too. Of course, this was before he became an anti-Semite and went off to do his thing. Oh, I didn’t mention that about my brother yet? We’re getting there, just hang on. I need to get in the right frame of mind.
My brother and I were forced to be at this place.
We were spinning the dreidel during the holidays, and I won a contest. The nice lady running this holiday event announces, “Christian Lawrence,” to the crowd, and all these old Jewish women are looking around, confused, wondering what the fuck is going on when a Christian was winning the dreidel-spinning competition.
For a while, we were celebrating Christmas and Hanukkah, so that wasn’t too bad. Early on, I remember him taking us to Irish bars to watch bands play traditional tunes, while he would chug pitchers of beer. Afterward, he’d drive us home, clearly inebriated. We’d all be stuffed in his black Toyota Celica as he’d swerve all over the road. He’d slur every word as he told us, “You guys know I love you, right? I love you just like you were my own.”
We’d all freak out just watching the world fly by as we swerved left, and then right, and then left. My mom was either gullible or chose ignorance. Or maybe she just didn’t care; I don’t know.
Howard ended up going back to school and becoming a lawyer. He started making decent money, and he moved us out to Guilford, CT. which is not far from where I currently live now. That’s really where I grew up. Howard kept his nose clean, and, at that time, he seemed like a pretty decent guy all of a sudden. We were as close to being a “normal” family then than at any other time. We went on family trips and enjoyed each other’s company. It felt good.
I let my guard down for a brief moment and allowed Howard to take on the role of my father. On the other hand, my brother Michael, who is four years older than me, understood what was happening a lot better than I did.
Turns out, Howard was getting into trouble. He was spending money like crazy. He bought a Porsche and a Maserati on fake credit that he couldn’t afford, he was constantly cheating on my mom, and there were usually whores and cocaine involved. This guy thought he was a Jewish Scarface.
My younger sister really got messed up by the whole process. She probably got the worst of it, which is why she turned to drugs. By fifteen, she was shooting up heroin. They had her living in a crappy hotel so she didn’t have to be at home to get mixed up with all the drama, which means no supervision and no rules. That’s a recipe for disaster for a teenager. It was a long, hard road growing up in that house.
I love my mother dearly, but you know, she sort of always went along with whoever she was dating and did what they did. She’s too trusting. My stepfather cheated on her. Then the next guy, her boyfriend after my stepfather, had a whole other family hidden. I had to figure it out for her because she had no idea. My mother didn’t want to believe me until it was right there in front of her face. And even when he did show his true colors to her, it wasn’t enough.
Michael was more resistant to accepting our stepdad than I was. He wasn’t happy my mom had remarried. He wasn’t happy this new guy was different from our birth father. Y’see, I was about two years old when our dad finally split, so I didn’t have any real memories of him. To me, he was an image. He was a photo in an album. He was a guy in a story or memory someone might share with me.
My birth father sent a letter once to check up on us, but my mother tore it up and said we didn’t have to think about him anymore. That’s as close to a relationship to him as I ever had. Mom told us Howard was our new dad. Again, for me, it was what my mother said, so it must be true, right? Michael knew better. Each rip of the letter tore him up inside.
Michael was older, so he remembered my dad. He remembered his time as a young kid living in Italy. He even spoke Italian at a young age. He had memories with my father. They had a relationship and had bonded. All I had now was Howard A. Lawrence, who supposedly adopted us and wanted me to change religions.
Howard was talented at keeping up an appearance to the outside eye. By that, I mean he was well respected at his school by his peers, though he drank heavily and had flings with his students. He was highly regarded by my mother, even if he went behind her back and often treated us like garbage. No matter how good he made himself look though, he never followed through on anything. He would smile and charm and make promises, but they were mostly empty. Which is why I wasn’t surprised to find out recently that he never fully went through with the adoption process for me and Michael. Yes, my last name is Lawrence, and I am not really sure why nor can I explain if I should even carry the name. I don’t know who I am technically at times.
The last thing you should do when trying to come into someone’s life as a father figure is to put your hands on them. At a very crucial time, getting to know him, our stepdad would slap us across the face if we did something he didn’t like. He even felt compelled to do this to other children in our family, like our cousins, who misbehaved.
I didn’t know him yet, you know? This stranger came into our house, and I’m thinking I finally have a father figure who cares for me and wants the best for me. To say his actions and abuse were detrimental to my development is the ultimate in underselling the actual truth.
We were confused. Well, I was confused; my brother was angry. He built up resentment early on that grew and developed in unhealthy ways. It snowballed out of control; we just didn’t know it yet.
We were poor, and my mom was busy, so we ate fast food a lot. I got pretty chubby. If you put two Big Macs, a super-sized fry, an apple pie, and the largest soda on the planet in front of me, it would be gone in a heartbeat. Ten thousand calories for lunch? Sure! I didn’t know any better.
We lived on Ferry St. in New Haven, which is now one of the scariest parts of the city. You don’t want to walk down that street by yourself at night.
Every day, we’d go out to the bus stop for school, and my brother and I would have to fight these Puerto Rican gang kids. They fucked with us endlessly. No joke, we’re trying to go to school, and these kids are throwing rocks, and chasing us with sticks. Eventually, they brought BB guns and would shoot at us. It was silly. Eh, silly isn’t the correct word. It was ludicrous. Then one day, they were threatening me with shards of broken glass, and my brother flipped and beat one of them up bad.
Between the Puerto Ricans picking on us and my Jewish stepfather beating us and treating us like crap, my brother withdrew. He got into hardcore and punk music and dove deep into that world.
He wouldn’t hang out with me or our friends. Basically, by age fifteen, he was out of the house. Aside from coming home once in a blue moon, my brother became a stranger. He started leaving the state for concerts. In NYC, he met a group of skinheads at shows and clung to them.
He got a gig as a roadie for the band Agnostic Front, a legendary hardcore band. During his time touring with them, he befriended a violent group of skinheads. Drugs were prevalent in that social circle. My brother was doing acid almost daily, from what I heard. I am not anti-drugs, but if you’re mixing them with racist, overthrow-the-government, radical ideas, you have a severe environment that can prove dangerous. He was young. He didn’t have a father or a stable home life, so this group became his family. I felt like he was getting brainwashed.
It was hard to add it up in my head, because my brother is smart—maybe too smart for his own good. I didn’t think he would fall in line with the chaotic views and narrowmindedness those skinheads were about.
He started feeling like he needed to fight and save the white race. Michael was the only family I felt I could trust. He was the closest person to me, but I didn’t understand this path he was taking. I mean, we came from a mixed family, and we grew up around many different cultures and races and backgrounds. I mean, I guess we are considered white but very Italian.
It didn’t matter. He was so smart that he was acting dumb. He was blinded to the truth of our situation by a burning desire to be accepted by this group and to be a part of something bigger than our lives. It didn’t matter to him that the things he preached would conflict with reality at times. Now those new friends were his new family.
I dove into music, some that he had introduced me to, and moved on with my life, while my brother became considered one of the most dangerous, notorious, racist skinheads in the country. He was a founding member of the Hammerskins down in Texas. Back then, they were called the Confederate Hammerskins. They used a symbol from Pink Floyd’s The Wall movie as their calling card. Remember when Pink is rallying everyone into hysterics and there are flags flying with two crossed hammers? Yeah, they took that shit literally and made it real.
He was a foot soldier in this group that started to have tentacles all over the world. He would chase Black and Hispanic people out of public places, like Robert E. Lee Park in Dallas. Him and his crew would terrorize synagogues, smashing out windows. They painted graffiti of racist symbols around cities, and I’m sure much worse. I wasn’t in contact with him at this point, so most of what I know was through rumors and stories that had been retold through the grapevine a dozen times before I heard. I didn’t know what to believe, and I still don’t have clear answers.
One specific story about my brother was one time he got into a fight with an Indian gentleman who owned a bar or nightclub, and their argument got so heated the guy shot my brother in the ass with a salt rifle. My brother went back later that night and threw a Molotov cocktail into the establishment after hours and burned it to the ground.
He would resurface, usually when he got into big trouble, and to try to recruit me. He handed me pamphlets about his cause and about the injustices done to White people by other races. I was scared of him. Terrified. I remember one time he came home after I had started to hear some of the stories of what he was up to, and I slept with a knife under my pillow, just in case.
I always thought the whole gang thing was silly, pathetic even. I would think about the group who had beat me and my brother up at the bus stop. These were all kids who were too weak to stand up for themselves. They needed a group of people to feel strong and to handle their business for them. They didn’t want to think for themselves; they wanted to be told what to do. Gangs prey on the weak-minded or the damaged kid and convince them there’s a different, better way.
Look, I get it, some people come together as a family to fight for common beliefs or to make their neighborhood safe. Sometimes, the gangs start out with noble intentions, only wanting positive things, but it goes too far. People get drunk on the power. When a guy realizes he can command a group to do something for his bidding, the whole thing gets corrupted. It’s no longer about the community and the members of the gang; it’s about the ego and power trip of the guy at the top. I strongly believe each individual should have their own identity, even when involved in group activities. I’ve been in many bands and tried to make it a group thing. I want everyone involved and each member to add their quirks and history and vibe to the sound and images we share.
My brother spent ten years in a federal prison for crimes he had committed. I went to visit him once. At the time, he was in a prison in Oklahoma, and my “then” girlfriend’s parents lived nearby.
I hadn’t seen my brother in years, so I thought I should check in and see who he had become as a person, as an adult. I never knew him as one. To me, he was a teenager who had disappeared from me, just like my dad, my stepdad, and a string of my mom’s boyfriends who came in and out of my life. I expected to meet someone like Charlie Manson, but that wasn’t the case.
The prison was out in the middle of nowhere. It looked like a fortress with massive towers and armed guards. I had to go through three levels of security to get in. That whole experience shook me.
Around the time when he got released, one of the people he founded the Hammerskins with was killed. Apparently, when you attack and threaten people and do a bunch of stupid, crazy, mean-spirited shit, there are consequences. People were fighting back. He and his group were being hunted, and I believe he was afraid for his life. There was also a feud between rival skinhead gangs, which played a part in all of this.
Whatever the situation, I think being on the other end of the violence helped my brother realize he isn’t immortal. I don’t want to say it calmed him down, but he certainly had a different perspective on what he had done and where he was at in life.
He left the Hammerskins and defected to a group called the Volksfront—a skinhead group from Portland, Oregon, also prone to violence and hate. I believe my brother was on, or at least mentioned on, the show Gangland years ago as a part of his involvement with the Volksfront crew.
Now, if you met him, you’d never believe the stuff I’m saying. He’s sort of like a grumpy old man, similar to Archie Bunker. He may still hold some of those beliefs, but he has turned to religion. He is a devout Greek Orthodox Church member. Every conversation is about Jesus and God, but I feel like they mask racism through religion. At one point, I think he even became a minister.
The whole thing is crazy. This is my brother. I played in the streets with him, went to the same school, got beaten up by the same people, and yet, we couldn’t be more different.
He isn’t a foot soldier anymore. He’s now looked at and considered to be this legendary figure in the white supremacist movement. He’s regarded as this hero. Part of that was him being on the forefront and starting a big group, but also, in his ten years in prison and through all the times he got caught up in trouble, he never threw other people under the bus to get a lighter sentence. He served the most time from the incident he was arrested for.
He married a woman named Danielle, who was also mixed up with the skinhead shit at the time but isn’t any longer. Danielle met my brother while he was in prison. She actually sought him out. They had a kid together. My niece, who’s nicknamed “Nickelhead” (Nicholyn), is cool as hell, and even though my brother tried and tried to inoculate her with all his beliefs and bullshit, she recognized how foolish he was. She told him to fuck off, and she went her own way. She is a proud lesbian, which probably makes my brother furious, because it goes against his way of life. She’s also an awesome guitarist/musician as well.
My brother and his wife split, and he quickly remarried. I didn’t know any of this part until after it had all gone down, but come to find out, his new wife is the daughter of David Duke. No lie.
So, I am married into the Duke family, which is … uhh … uncomfortable. From what I hear, she is estranged from her father though and doesn’t follow him or his beliefs, which is good.
She and my brother had a kid, so I also have a nephew, Alex.
David Duke is my nephew’s grandfather. That is hard to process. It’s insane. Think about it. Me and my brother are one hundred percent Italian, and I was born in Rome, but, at one point, I was Jewish. My mother also has kids who are half Italian and half Jewish, my other brother and sister. I have first cousins on my mom’s side who are half Italian and half Puerto Rican. My sister’s fiancé is Black, and they just had a baby boy. My own son is 25 percent Jewish and 75 percent Italian.
Imagine that family reunion. My family tree is a beautiful mess, but I’d like to think if we all got together, we’d get along.
It’s hard for me to look at racists and not think they are dumb. We all bleed the same color. We all breathe the same air. We all poop. There’s no golden poop. We all need to eat. We’re all going to die. I don’t know how someone can be blinded to that fact and fall for the obvious bullshit that these hateful people project. You’re simply either an asshole or you’re not.
Anyone who thinks differently is oblivious.
When I was a kid, I didn’t have the best guidance, so I sort of sought out my own truth and blazed my own path. While I’d like to think I generally made the correct choices and steered clear of most trouble, I do look back at my brief attempt to explore black magic as a weird misstep. I still get chills down my back thinking about some of that time.
As a kid, and being in the 80’s, I was neck deep in metal and the lore that came with it. I was fascinated by the backstory and the imagery and the lyrics. I wanted to find out for myself what was real and what wasn’t.
When I was nine or ten and my brother was just becoming a teenager, we found a book. We were at a small mom-and-pop bookstore and saw the book sitting by itself on a shelf. It was a creepy-looking book, so obviously it caught our attention and piqued our curiosity. The binding was pitch black, and it had a skull on the cover. I don’t recall the title, but it said something about black magic.
We got the book, and inside, there were legit spells and shit, like a guidebook to start doing black magic. What to use, what to say, what might happen—this book spelled it out.
Of course, we had to fuck around with it to see what we could make happen. To this day, I don’t know if some of the stuff worked or if it was my imagination or if I’m remembering details incorrectly, because it’s been so long, but it felt legit and scary as we tried to follow the steps in the spells.
The one spell in the book, which seemed easy, was—man, I’m getting creeped out just thinking about all this old shit. I’m all paranoid now, looking out my window and shit, or maybe I’m just stoned. Anyway, the spell, if done correctly, could make it rain. We needed a broom, ocean water, a few other items, and we had to say certain words. We lived right by the ocean on the Long Island Sound, so getting the water was easy. We mixed it up, said the chants, and boom, five minutes later, it’s pouring.
Yes, I know it rains a lot there especially during spring and that it could’ve been a complete coincidence, but it felt like we had a hand in the weather that day.
Another spell we tried was to help us deal with a guy who bullied my brother. Well, we got a strand of the guy’s hair from a brush or something, I think, and we tied it to a piece of grass. Then the book told us to put it under the doormat at the kid’s house and to think about whatever we wanted to have happen to him while chanting the spell.
A day or two later, the kid got into a skiing accident and broke his leg. We were floored. It was the weirdest, creepiest thing ever. I started to feel like we had made a mistake in testing out the book.
Then one day, the book was gone. My mother had overheard us talking about it. She found the book and took it. I don’t know if she burned it or threw it away or hid it, but we no longer had the book. Not having the book and getting to finish what we started made us want to do it that much more. You know that feeling?
My brother and I knew the author and title of the book back then, but we couldn’t find it anywhere. We started to believe it didn’t actually exist.
Another time, my buddy Kai Blackwood and I were messing around with a homemade Ouija board. These stories never end well, so I’m sure it won’t surprise you to know this is a freaky story too.
We asked if there were any spirits around. It answered, yes. We kept going and getting weird responses, and then out of nowhere, the hand control thing flew off the board and across the room. I was already uneasy by that point, so I flipped out.
Kai took me to discuss our thoughts with a priest. I told him about the black magic and the creepy, uneasy feelings it brought up in me as we had tried to conjure magic.
He told us, “If you open yourself to these types of things, you’re giving them permission to seep into your life and your heart.”
He warned us not to open that door or allow that inside of our souls.
Kai was also there when I tried to shoplift a cassette tape from an older chain store called Bradlee’s.
According to Kai, “We were at a department store with a couple buddies. Opus decided to steal Headhunter by Krokus. He slid the thing in his pocket, and we turned to leave. We got to the door, and there were security guards waiting for us. We all got banned from the store for, like, a month or two.”
I’m not sure why I chose that tape, but the song “Eat the Rich” comes back into the story later.
Anyway, we’re not writing a book about me to make me look bad, so let’s get back to the family. We’ve talked about my stepfather and a bunch of random boyfriends for my mother, but to know me and my situation, you need to know about my birth father as well.
When my mother was younger, close to eighteen, she was dating a guy, and it wasn’t going well. I think he was actually married or something. I don’t know the details, but she got suckered into a weird relationship. My mother’s parents decided to send her to Italy to finish school and to get away from all that drama. After all, that’s where they were from, and they thought maybe getting her away from this man and the town would help her get a fresh start. They wanted her to concentrate on school and straighten herself out.
Shortly after getting to Italy, she started working at a casting company. You know, they help find actors and actresses for movie roles.
Here enters my father. His backstory could be a whole chapter. Luigi Tocchi. I want to say he’s, like, ten or twelve or maybe even fifteen years older than my mother.
He had been cast as a background actor in Cleopatra with Elizabeth Taylor. He was a Roman warrior guard.
My mother was working the desk at this casting place—you know, answering phones and whatnot—when he came into the office for something, and they met. They hit it off right away.
My grandparents’ grand plan for my mother getting done with school backfired. She met an older guy. Soon got pregnant. And then she got married young.
She had my brother Michael when she was only nineteen or twenty. They stayed in Italy for a while but eventually relocated back to the US, where she got pregnant again. I’m not sure exactly why, but while pregnant, she moved back to Italy again, and that’s where I was born. They somehow, again, ended up back in Connecticut before I was one. My grandfather paid for him to go to school to become a hairdresser, and he opened a little shop in New Haven down the street from our shitty little apartment on Ferry St.
After that, my parents’ relationship dissolved quickly.
It was the ’70s. A different era. Rumor had it that my father spent a lot of nights out at disco clubs like Studio 54. He experimented with various drugs and more than likely had sexual encounters with both men and women as well. He’d come home to my angry mother.
It ended badly.
After they split, my mother, once again, moved back to New Haven. Now though, she was a single mother going to school, supporting us, and working two part-time jobs.
As a kid, I remember one day when this man came to our place. This was in our old apartment in the ghetto of Fair Haven. My mother was upset. She tried closing the door on him, but he put his foot in the door. It was my father. I looked up at him, and he was holding this giant teddy bear he had bought for us. He was trying to come get one more chance, but my mother wasn’t having it.
She yelled at him to, “Get the fuck out of here!” And eventually, he left. And that was his last grand effort to see us. This was probably my last and earliest memory of my real dad.
She was furious. She was a woman scorned and bitter. So, she told us that our father was literally dead.
Flash forward a few months; my brother and I were at the famous Pepes Apizza in New Haven, CT. My brother points to a man across the dining room and says, “There’s Papa.” (Which, ironically, is what my boy calls me now.) But, yeah, sure enough, there he was. Our father, resurrected from the dead, eating out with another girl at a pizza joint.
I was confused. I asked my brother, “I thought he was dead?”
Apparently, my mom had gone crazy and went a little overboard. She had tried to get him deported. He did eventually move back to Italy.
I didn’t know or understand any of this back then; I was two or three years old, so from that time until I reached my midtwenties, I had no desire to meet or talk or have any type of relationship with my dad.
