I was never supposed to in a rock band, but then I never did what I was supposed to do. I was born in Geneva, Switzerland, and if you’ve ever lived in that moronic place for a while, you’d know that there is no way you can even think about playing in a band there. I mean, its totally wack. A diplomat, sure, a banker, no problemo. But rock ‘n roll is the quickest way to the unemployment line. Rue de Berne ain’t the sunset strip.

My early years were the quiet life in the Geneva suburbs. My father was a gynecologist and my mother was a lawyer shining a chair with her ass in a law firm. At least my dad was stickin’ his fingers up women’s snatch everyday which seemed a whole lot better than the mountain of paper on my mother’s desk. Except, most of the women coming in didn’t look anything like the chics in Hustler which I was creamin’ over. Anyway, I was destined to become some kind of stuffed shirt in an office with a bar stuck up my ass.

Then my father left us for a 20 year old stripper. I guess there was more going on in his office than the basic check up. My mom flipped out and started a steady diet of booze and coke. So my grandmother came over from Columbia to take care of us.

I started playing guitar when I was 10 years after I saw a video of Jimi Hendrix lighting his guitar on fire. You can’t do that with a drum set or a microphone stand. Guitar rules. You can play it all night long and if if goes out of tune, you can smash it on stage and light it on fire.

With my grandmother came a junkie cousin from Colombia, bringing all kinds of substances, a mix tape called “glam slam blam!” with songs from the hottest bands of the moment : Stripper Teeze, Pearl Necklace, Wet Finger and others. Guys with makeup? Fingernail polish? I immediately knew this shit was cool as hell so I started dressing glam. And, oh yeah, my cousin got me hooked on Crystal Meth.

I started a band with the first hot chick I could find but when she asked me to play some Avril Lavigne, I put my axe back in its case and got the hell outta there. That pop punk bullcrap wasn’t for me. I went through a slug of other bands, but most were dorky ska loser bands that sang about legalizing weed? Who gives a shit? What about the chicks?

So I scammed some cash from my grandmother’s purse and put an ad in Hustler magazine. I got a call from a dude saying he was Scotty Rokkett…from Metal Justice. They were planning a reunion, and needed a second guitarist cuz their old one was dead or got killed by a coke machine or sumthing. Maybe I was tripping, but how can a Coke machine kill you. Must of heard him wrong. Anyway, he said they were all living around Geneva. Yeah RIGHT! Metal Justice, my idols from since I was 11?…Geneva, my ass!…I hung up on the asshole, and told him to shove it up his ass, sideways.

That night, I told this stripper at the Bata-Clan the story about this call, because, like I tell everything to my stripper du jour. They’re a lot like this dork therapist my grandmother made me see for a while, but a helluva lot cheaper and a lot better looking. And they provide other services too. And she told me that she knew Scotty Rokkett, that those dudes all ended up falling off the rock wagon in Geneva years ago, and were still hanging around. Shit! Those guys were in Geneva! And I told Rokkett to piss off!

Through this stripper, I went crawling back to Rokkett and pleaded for mercy (after I crawled all over this stripper first). I KNEW I was the dude for the job and I told him so. I knew everything about these guys from reading “rock hard” and Kerrang. I knew all of there songs. These guys were my childhood heroes, the reason I started playing guitar. Rokkett gave me a second chance, introduced me to the band. And after a few auditions, they offered me the gig.

I figured this would be my only chance to play with a real band, so I cleaned up my act. Fortunately, I don’t do drugs anymore… unless you got some (just kidding). It was a match made in heaven. Or a strip club. Or somewhere.

I love playing with Metal Justice. We’ve toured all the way from Meyrin to Vessy and I heard we’re going to go to Chene-Bourg. I’ve never been there before. Wonder how long it takes to get there? And these guys pay me too. Talk about being blessed! I never thought I would be making a hundred francs a month playing rock ‘n roll! What more could you want? Maybe Rokkett’s sloppy seconds?

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