Disturbed helped usher in 21st century metal with their multi-platinum 2000 debut album The Sickness and its equally successful follow-ups Believe (2002) and Ten Thousand Fists (2005). But as Metal Hammer found out when we caught up with the band in the US at the end of 2005, frontman David Draiman still had a chip on his shoulder – specifically about his treatment at the hands of the British press.
“They think I’m self important, ego maniacal, and condescending. I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t bother me. It does… It upsets me horribly.” David Draiman, 32-year-old singer in multimillion selling nu-metal survivors Disturbed, sons of Chicago, and scourge of the UK music press, is midway through answering the question, ‘What misconceptions do you think people have of you?’
For ‘people’, read ‘journalists’, and for ‘misconceptions’, consider the taunts of ‘Mad’ Davey Draiman’ (“Mad Davey? What the fuck am I so mad about?”). We’re sat face to face in a New Jersey hotel room, with Lisa, his pet Akita (a breed of Japanese hunting dog) nuzzled at his feet, and a window to our left that takes in a view of a breathtaking, snow-smeared landscape.
Between thoughtful, composed responses, Draiman alternates between toying with the two chrome horns that protrude from his chin and running his fingers through the fur on Lisa’s back. At one point he will affectionately scold the dog for licking her genitals. “Aw, if I could do that, then I’d never leave the house,” he chirps. We both laugh, and David reaches past us for a slug of bottled water.
Our time with Draiman is one of much furrowed discussion, some tough talking, and an opportunity for the singer to say his piece; an effort to put the record straight on the “veneer of bullshit” he accuses the UK music press of constructing. Lisa’s self gratification will be the solitary moment of amusement in an otherwise intense meeting.
Whatever one might think of Disturbed’s music, David Draiman is captivating company – fevered and fabulously opinionated. “Copy cat, flavour of the moment, trend following crap,” – that’s him talking about bands in “suits and make-up”. Who? Oh take your pick: My Chemical Romance, The Killers, The Bravery, The Hives and The White Stripes – all come in for criticism as “generic”, “horrific”, and “nonsense”. Meanwhile, he insists that their very existence has somehow “weakened rock”, obliterating the “sex and danger” so crucial to its existence. It’s depressing hearing him mourn the passing of his peers (“it feels like they’re falling off the face of the planet,” he says, sighing, “but only the strong survive.”) especially when he describes his peers as including the likes of the lumpen Godsmack. Whatever. This writer asks bands their thoughts on modern day rock’n’roll every single day of the year. Most shrug. David rages. Bravo for that, then.
Likewise, there’s an intelligence weaved within the fabric of his conversation that’s both considered and, on occasion, inspired – testament to his time at Loyola University, and the triple major degree the establishment rewarded him with for his study of political science, philosophy and business administration. Upon discussing the leak of their then unreleased new album onto file sharing and ISP systems: “I feel betrayed,” says Draiman who has been a staunch critic of the Recording Industry Association of America for some time. “The RIAA has no business suing the kids who buy the music in the first place,” even angering the chairman of Warner Bros to the extent Draiman called him personally to ask him to stop speaking out about it.
He shares with us a highly detailed, intriguingly analytical, and seemingly watertight operative for solving the problem: “the record labels do not want to relinquish their power,” he sneers. It’s a theory that buzzes around our mind for much of our time in the US, and the light bulb comes on midway into our eight hour flight home to the UK. It’s clever, intriguing stuff. Likewise his views on America post 9/11, his Israeli heritage, and of the Bush administration and the war in Iraq which provides the subject matter for much of Disturbed’s new work – and second consecutive US Billboard number one debuting album – ‘Ten Thousand Fists’.
It’s nothing you haven’t heard before, yet you’re still left feeling thankful that a clued up motormouth such as David Draiman exists.
It seems that much of Draiman’s dissatisfaction with his profile in the UK press stems from his belief that by attacking the band, the press are thereby attacking their fans: “They end up looking stupid. They end up feeling like justice hasn’t been served. If they come to see us, and you’re insulting us, then they’re insulting [the fans’] taste.” He talks of years of stifling his anger, and turning the other cheek, but this time around, he appears to have decided to come out swinging. Furthermore, he claims that it’s his band’s ‘people’ who’ve advised he might like to try to stand up for himself.
“I’m not a punching bag. I’ve tried to rise above it for three or four years. But my manager and peers were sick and tired of me taking it.” Indeed, at their last London show he unleashed a tirade against his critics from the elevation of the stage (Draiman: “What choice do I have? They’re going to say what they’re going to say anyway!”), and speaks of performance as being his only “outlet”: “You can’t, just throw as many daggers as you want without expecting reprisal. I’m not just going to take it,” he states.
It sounds like you think rock bands are above criticism?
“If it’s warranted, then there’s always a place. I just don’t think that in this case it’s warranted. The fact that we’ve sold seven million records worldwide so far is testament to that. If we were really as shitty as everybody says, would we have that success?”
Reading some of the things you’ve said in the press, can you see why someone might think you were a macho thug?
Draiman attacks this statement like a garden bird flying into a patio window. “There’s nothing wrong with being macho. There’s nothing wrong with being a strong male. It’s who I am. A lot of people are intimidated, or say that I give off some bad vibe. But if you want to get a reaction out of a crowd, you better fucking have an ego. Your staring down a wild animal. You can’t show any fear. You need to be who you are.”
Do you think people might be jealous of you?
“Certainly. Oh yeah.”
In what way?
“Maybe writers wish they could be the guy on stage. Maybe I remind them of someone who kicked their ass in high school. Maybe they don’t like that someone dares to speak about world events, or politics, or the meanings of their songs. And that’s what I do.”
He pauses, and takes another hit of water. “I’m certainly bull-headed. I don’t mince words. I don’t pussyfoot around. I say what I mean, and I speak from my heart. Sometimes that gets me in trouble, but I don’t know any other way.” He fixes a stare that lasers straight in the eye, and with a playful yet intense shrug he says, “I’m not a good bullshitter.”
At the end of 2005, Disturbed were forced to cancel a series of shows midway through European tour. “Basically, I have really bad acid reflux,” he explains. “It’s like having heartburn all the time. It’s horrible.
Draiman talks of developing a “resistance” to the medication he had been taking for his condition, and, in the wake of their last London show, the ensuing nights of “debauchery” that took their toll on his, “unprotected stomach”. “Drinking alcohol,” he says, “was the worst thing you could possibly do for someone with my condition.”
“The next night we had a day off in Dublin,” he continues, “and what else is there to do in Dublin except drink? Then at the Dublin show we had all kinds of monitor problems on stage, and I was pushing the air myself, and so the next day when I woke up in Glasgow, I had literally no voice. They called in a doctor, he took a look at me, and he said, ‘No way. You’re done. You need a minimum of two to four weeks voice silence or you risk doing permanent damage.”
Draiman talks of, “wanting to do this for another 10 to 20 years.” It’s crucial to his quest to be, “the biggest band in the world”. To find their “place”. To “matter”. We ask him if such grand ambition is down to a desire to achieve immortality.
He replies that yes, yes it is.
Disturbed subsequently returned to the US, and Draiman recalls being, “very, very disappointed,” about having to cancel the remaining dates on the tour. “We were really feeling good. All the shows had sold out, and there was such great anticipation. When I got home I saw my doctor out in LA,” he continues. “I had an endescopapy to find out if the synch had ruptured. What would happen before was that when I would lie down to go to sleep, because there was no protective barrier, all the stomach acid would sit and burn my vocal chords overnight. I’d wake up in the morning with no voice. It was frustrating as hell.
“So I switched my medication, changed my diet, and I can’t drink – at all – anymore. I’m not too happy about that. God has a pretty sick sense of humour for us to start the Jägermeister tour and I can’t have a single shot. It’s alright though, I’m just going to smoke a little weed here and there in moderation, but I can’t do too much of that either because I need my lungs doing what they should.”
We ask whether, knowing of his condition and his past and subsequent discomfort, meant he should have known the pitfalls drinking might produce on those nights of “debauchery” earlier in the tour.
“It was only those two nights really,” he says, “and I thought it was okay because I was on medication. Normally when I go out and have drinks, I do the whole pollute / dilute thing – have one alcoholic drink, have some water, have another alcoholic drink, have some water. I used to be okay doing that on the medication, and I hadn’t really drank like that in probably five or six months,” he lets out a sigh. “It just kicked my ass.”
Hours after our meeting, we make our way to Disturbed’s date on the Jägermeister tour at the Starland Theatre in New Jersey. It’s a travelling bill complimented by the inclusion of the fantastically ace Corrosion Of Conformity, a precociously talented fellow playing melodies of Pantera and Damageplan riffs (the night falling on the first anniversary of Dimebag’s death) and a surgically modified misogynist called ‘The Lizard Man’, who entertains the crowd by inserting electric power drills into his nose, and telling the kind of jerkish jokes that’d make Bernard Manning blush a shade of radish red. He also introduces Disturbed’s headlining performance and, from the first note to the last, it’s a set that thrills, delights and unites the 2,000 people packed into the room.
The place is a mass of energy and aggression, Draiman is adored by the crowd, and the fans demonstrate their love by bellowing each and every lyric back toward the stage. And, as they play a set drawing from a back catalogue seven million sales strong, it’s hard to see why Draiman is concerned about the views emanating from the pages of the UK press. He’s a millionaire. He lives in a castle (no, really, he does). He…
Hang on. Why are you so bothered with what the UK music press has to say about you?
“The press and the tastemakers have a lot to do with what becomes successful [in Britain],” he says, laying out his stall. “Thing is, I just wish some could see past the veneer of bullshit that previous people have laid out and to just see us for what we are.”
And what are you?
“We’re just a band who loves to play, who loves their fans, and who likes to interact with them. There’s a big difference between not liking a band, and hating someone you don’t even know. We’re just a hard rock band. And I’m not going anywhere.”
But what do you think their problem with Disturbed actually is?
“It’s with me in particular,” he says, with a shake of the head.
“I just wish I knew why. The irony of it is, it used to be great, but then one guy started on a tirade, and it seems like since that piece, everyone has slammed the band.” He appears to believe “that fucker” in question is responsible for any bad press this side of the pond. Accusing him of a “misuse of power”, and “distorting facts for his own selfish needs.”
“If I ever see him,” he rages, “I swear to God, I’ll bring him within an inch of his life. I’ll serve the jail term, and I’ll deal with the lawsuit, and I don’t give a shit. He’s caused me such misery. I can’t even convey to you.”
To a smattering of UK journalists David Draiman is a cock. To seven million of his followers, he’s the living embodiment of God.
And that’ll do for anyone, surely?
Originally published in Metal Hammer 149, January 2006
