Heavy Metal Heaven

Dimebag Darrell Abbott reached heaven in December of 2004. He did not expect to ascend, but he was glad to be around all the famous people who have ascended also. Darrell lived his life like there was no heaven. He had had several conversations with his brother about it, positive they were both going to hell. So, they partied like there was no afterlife; they were wrong.

But while they were mistaken about the afterlife, the criteria under which he would be judged would not be so harsh. It does not matter what you do, as long as your heart is pure. The famous rock star was awarded ascension. And there were others.

He was immediately seeking out Randy, his idol. Coincidentally, Darrell died on Randy’s birthday. There was a huge birthday party in the Grand Hall (a common area), that turned into a welcome party once Dimebag arrived.

“Dimebag? Is that you? When did you get here?”

“Oh man, Randy Rhoads. I’m so glad to meet you. You’re my fucking idol, man.”

“What?! Fuck you bro, you’re my idol.”

They hugged; it was magical.

“I’ve been listening to you since I got here.” Randy’s body emitted “Cemetery Gates” and all the souls around him slam-danced. Energy sparked as their forms collided. Darrell felt intensely excited.

The two legends talked. It did not stop for years. They talked about arpeggios, their respective disdain for their fathers, their dramatic and tragic deaths. They talked as if no one were around at first, but soon were joined by other legends, coming and going as the conversation progressed. Bonzo made his way in and out of the conversation. They talked about music, and the idea struck them all at the same time, but Darrell said it first. “Let’s start a band.”

The lodge was their best bet for rehearsal space. They did not want to be around the rest of the guys. There is nothing more embarrassing than rehearsing in front of other people. Especially other musicians.

“John, why don’t you use double bass?” Darrell’s brother loved John Bonham, and they often chatted about why he had not thought to use a double bass. It was around in jazz and earlier classic rock, but he never utilized it that much. Vinny thought it was because of pride, but it was an entirely different reason. “Stamina, boy.”

“Stamina?”

“I’d be playin’ ‘round three to four hours o’ drums a night, double bass kills the knees.”

“Interesting.” Darrell was fascinated by everything in his new home. Even after four years, he was still surprised to see and hear the things these legends do and say.

Randy never drank, but Bonzo and Dimebag were never far from a case of beer or a bottle of scotch. Randy was all about the music. He was the thinking man of the group. “Guys, we need a bassist.”

“Hand me another beer.” Bonham had finished a bottle of scotch and needed a beer chaser. “Any suggestions, Dimebag?”

“I don’t know. Who’s around?”

They all thought about it. Darrell felt like he had an idea that was close, but not coming to fruition. Who could match him and Randy? Who could keep up? He felt like the answer was so close, but he could not grasp it.

Randy noticed the wheels turning in Darrell’s head. “What’s up, bro?”

“I feel like I know who could be a perfect addition, but it’s not coming. It’s on the tip of my tongue.”

“You need a beer, mate?”

“Maybe.”

Bonzo pulled a bottle out and handed it to Dimebag. He opened the beer with his teeth. Who was he thinking of? He drank a little beer. He knew who it was.

“Cliff.”

“Burton?” Randy was surprised he had not thought of it first.

“Yeah man. Cliff Fucking Burton. Why hadn’t I thought of him sooner.”

“Good idea, mate. But he doesn’t come ’round much.”

“Yeah, bro. He only comes out sometimes for Christmas. Spends the rest of his time with his brother. I don’t even think he plays anymore.”

“Where do they go?” Darrell had learned that you do not need a home in heaven. You simply go wherever you please. No need to sleep. No need to eat. People do still eat and sleep, but only for pleasure. Randy knew where the Burton brothers would be. “The woods.”

The woods were the nature that surrounded the common areas. The Burtons loved hiking though all the majestic beauty. It was much like their earthly hikes, but the sense of natural euphoria a hiker gets is magnified in heaven. Cliff no longer used drugs or alcohol. He and his brother have spent decades in this forest.

Darrell and Randy had to drag John out of the lodge, eventually coaxing him with a liter of twenty-year-old scotch. They hit the trails, looking for Cliff. They were mainly feeling his energy; once they locked on they could see him from miles away.

“Good thing I brought this flask.” Bonzo had already finished the liter and was sipping vodka. “Where’re these tossers?”

“They’re just around the bend here. Just enjoy the scenery, bro.” Randy seemed to enjoy wandering the woods. Darrell was determined. This band was becoming an obsession. “I hope he agrees.”

They came upon a clearing where the trail disappeared into a field of tall grass. A grove of trees was still about a quarter-mile ahead. The three musicians made their way to the grove where the Burton brothers sat.

“Cliff?”

“Randy. How’s it going?”

“Hey, do you know Dimebag Darrell?”

“Did you open for us?”

“No, man. We met in the eighties. Back in Texas.”

“Yeah, you’re that kid who could shred the fuck out of the guitar.”

“Yeah,” Darrell giggled like he was eighteen again. “You guys came to my mom’s house.”

“Yeah, it’s good to see you again.”

Darrell shook Cliff’s hand; they could feel the positive energy pulsing; the others saw it too. They both let go and had to looked away.

“I thought you went by Diamond Darrell.”

“My name sort of evolved with my look. ‘Diamond’ was from the Glamtera days.”

“Cool, man. I haven’t kept up on things since I found my brother.” Cliff’s brother was a teenager. He was the older of the two, but his earthly days were cut short. Both brothers were doomed to pass early.

“We went through a period of change in the late eighties, after you ascended. We were greatly influenced by your work on the ‘Mater of Puppets’ album.” Darrell felt he was acting too much like a fan. He switched his demeanor and went on to business.

“We’ve been playing, the three of us.” Bonzo hits the flask. “Randy plays a little bass here and there, but we need an awesome bassist. The four of us, up here, could be amazing.”

“No.”

“No?”

“We would not be amazing. We would be entertaining. This….” He held his hand out towards the field and the trees and the mountains and the streams. “This is amazing.”

“Granted, this is amazing out here. But you can’t deny the feeling you get when you perform. I know you know how good that feels.” All four of them did.

Cliff thought about it. He looked at his brother. He shook his head.

“Almost my whole life, my earthly life, I performed because I could not be with him. I became one of the best bassists ever in his memory. Now, I’m with him. Why would I want anything else?”

“Mate, have a nip.” John put the flask in front of Cliff, who pushed it away. “I don’t need any of that.”

Darrell told Cliff that he understood. They made their way back to the lodge. Rehearsal took on a depressed feel after this. Randy played mediocre bass while John was too drunk to go more than a few hours. Darrell felt like the only one taking any of this seriously.

“Guys, let’s take a break.”

“Is something on your mind, bro?”

“We need Cliff. I felt the energy that he can add to the band, and I cannot deny it. I’m going back to the woods, and I’m not leaving until I convince him to join.”

He barely finished the sentence before Bonzo dematerialized and left. Randy looked at Darrell with concern.

“I hope you can do it. I felt the energy too. We can have a kick-ass sound.”

Randy left. Darrell was in the woods for almost a year before he found Cliff (partly because he was searching for himself). Cliff looked annoyed to see him again.

“I told you I don’t want to join.”

“Chill out, man. I’m just doing some soul-searching” Not a complete lie.

“Yeah, right.”

“Ok, so I wanted to try to convince you. Can you blame me?”

“I guess not.” No hint of ego from Cliff; Darrell had a challenge ahead of him.

The conversation went on. They hiked and talked. Another two years passed before Scott Burton said, “Why is this so important to you?”

“Because he is an amazing musician.”

“Not you,” he looked directly at Cliff, “you.”

“What?!”

“Why is all this so important to you? We’re in an amazing place, with endless possibilities. And you won’t leave me alone. You just tag along with me wherever the fuck I go. Go play with these guys. He’s right, you’re a great musician, but you never use that talent. And that’s a damn shame, man.”

Cliff was dumbfounded; Darrell almost laughed. He knows, the older brother hates when the younger brother won’t leave him alone. Cliff may have aged more, but his brother was the older one, so that energy is what ascended. Cliff was the annoying twenty-six-year-old boy following his fifteen-year-old big brother around heaven.

“Ok.” They both dematerialized and left Scott in the woods.

The Model T Ford cut the corner at very high speeds. Bonzo sipped a bottle of Polish vodka. He threw the car into second gear coming around the corner, causing a nice drift. As he looked for a place to stash the bottle he suddenly noticed Cliff was in the road, right in the path of his hot rod.

“BLOODY TOSSER!!!”

The brakes locked, the car fishtailed, it slammed right into Cliff’s form and he flew about a hundred yards. As soon as the car came to a stop, John Bonham got out in a panic. “Cliff, bloody hell, CLIFF!”

Cliff was lying on the asphalt, staring up at the sky. Bonzo knelt next to him. Cliff let out an incredibly high-pitched wail out. “Aaaaaaah!”

Bonzo hesitated; Cliff continued. “You killed me, Bonzo. You fuckin’ killed me. Again.”

Randy, Dimebag, and Scott Burton all materialized and started laughing hysterically at Bonzo, who suffered this only momentarily. “You twats.”

Dimebag always loved a good prank. Now they can rehearse in good spirits.

The sounds that filled the lodge were amazing. Cliff and Bonzo laid a perfect foundation for the guitarists. Randy played rhythm, as he could never keep up with Dimebag. Darrel was playing his best riffs, his best solos, bleeding energy, shooting lightning from his form. It was almost as if the energy manifested into its own sound, turning into a second lead guitarist, dueling with each other. Randy had to momentarily stop in awe of this feat. Darrell was truly the better guitarist; Randy could not keep up.

“Darrell, can we talk for a minute?”

“Sure, what’s up?”

“I can’t keep up with you. You’re too good.”

Darrell had heard this before. Pantera’s original singer was supposed to play rhythm guitar but couldn’t keep up. Darrell has always been phenomenal enough to intimidate all those who attempted to play with him. Now his idol was backing out of his heavenly band.

“Man, don’t do this. We need you.”

“No, you don’t. What I just saw in there has proven what I’ve been feeling since we first started playing: you can play both rhythm and lead guitar. I want to help you harness that energy, channel it into the ability to split your soul, and perform both at the same time. You were coming close in there. We can work on this, it will be magical.”

Darrell knew what he was talking about. He felt his soul wanting to split, but he had no idea how to complete this action. He didn’t even know if this was allowed in heaven (if that were even a concept; to be allowed or not).

They worked on this for years, coming close often, but never quite making it there. Darrell pulled back because it felt like it might kill him. This was a strange concept in his new world, as nothing could kill you once you have ascended. Cliff and Bonzo helped when they could, but this was strictly a project for the guitarists to work on. Randy took on a teacher role, as he felt he could only offer knowledge, as opposed to support on rhythm.

In late 2015, they were looking for a singer. Their style was intense, and they needed someone with a voice that could match that. They considered their options.

“I like Lennon, but he’s too soft for us.” Randy was a huge Beatles fan, often picking the guitarist/singer’s brain at parties in the Grand Hall. Bonham roundly rejected this, as he had much disdain for the British group that came before his. “Lennon’s a wanker. All he sings about is getting pussy.”

“Have any of you talked to Howlin’ Wolf?” Cliff asked. He was one of Cliff’s favorite singers. Randy also liked his voice, but when they asked him to join, the old bluesman refused. The four of them were not going to convince him otherwise. “I ain’t joinin’ yo’ loud ass cracker band, with all due respec’.”

Bonham said he always liked Janis Joplin; not just her music, but he was attracted to her rugged look, and she could party with the best. The four approached her at the Christmas celebration. She was heavily dosed on heroin.

“You guys have a band…? That’s so groovy, man.” She nodded off. Randy nudged her awake. “Oh, sorry. I did a whole gram before I got here.”

“Love, do you want to join us? We need your powerful voice to complete the band.”

“Bonzo, can you do me a favor?” She whispered something in John Bonham’s ear, making him giggle, the others felt a little uncomfortable.

The two dematerialized, and the others were left pondering what the favor might entail. They were still without a singer, and now their drummer was in love. Darrell went looking for beer.

“Hey Jesus.” The birthday boy was drinking some wine and eating some fish. He replied in Aramaic, which Darrell could understand. “Hello Darrell. How are things with the new band?”

“It’s great, but we need a singer now.”

“I have a feeling someone will be joining us soon, and he will be a great addition for you.”

“Really? Who?”

“You know I can’t reveal that to you.” The prophet was only able to reveal general events, without details.

“I guess I’ll just have to wait and see.”

He did not have to wait long. Three days after the party, Lemmy ascended. Randy, Darrell, and Cliff greeted him once he stepped through the gates (Bonzo had more important things to do; Janis).

“Look at this bloody welcoming par’y for me.” The boys laughed. They all had a great admiration for the God of heavy metal. Darrell stepped forward and welcomed him. “Lemmy, this is Heavy Metal Heaven.”

They all laughed and cheered, hugging Lemmy, who was gracious enough to humor their effeminate embraces. They did not have to ask him to join; he immediately told them he wanted to make some music. Energy was beaming off them all. They went seeking Bonham, who was surprised to see his old friend. He was with Janis. Lemmy asked if he could join the two. Bonzo had no problem, and neither did Janis.

Their first concert was set up. Randy was now acting as manager, organizing a show in the Grand Hall. It was quite simple, he just needed to clear it with some of the souls acting as officials for the event space, making sure there were no parties booked. Darrell was so excited; he would not sleep until the big day.

The Hall was packed to the brim. Souls upon souls were waiting to hear the new band. No one even cared that they did not have a name. All of heaven was excited.

“What should we call ourselves?” Randy was all business at this point. Darrell was happy, his heavenly friend taking on the task of manager without regret. Lemmy offered an interesting name. “Tossers, Pissers, and Wankers.”

They all laughed. It described them perfectly. While this was an attempt at humor on Lemmy’s part, Randy liked the name.

“Yeah, TPW, it has a nice ring to it.”

Randy announced the band (with their new title) over the PA. They took the stage to cheers, rising to an amazingly high volume. Darrell was afraid they would not be able to play over the cheers. He strummed a distorted E-chord. Surprisingly, his one note drowned out the initial crowd noise, to which they responded even more loudly. Darrell looked at Randy, who was off stage, and signaled him to come over. He joined Darrell and Lemmy in front of the band at the microphone stand.

“Before we start, I want to thank our manager, our friend, and my idol, Randy Fucking Rhoads.”

More cheers went up. Randy was blushing. He hugged Darrell, who was on the verge of tears.

“All right, you twats. Enough of the love fest, let’s play some fucking music.” Lemmy’s voice was gravelly, perfectly aligned with Darrell’s riff, which started the performance. Cliff and Bonzo joined the whaling guitar sounds. Lemmy’s lyrics were fire that lit this band up like tinder.

“You think that you’re in Heaven, but we’re taking you to hell….” He sang to the fast-paced metal sounds, looking more like a demon than a saint. “Our souls belong to rock n’ roll, there’s nothing left to sell.”

Bonham’s drumming was amazing, Cliff’s bass was mesmerizing. But when it came time for Darrell’s solo, the crowd went absolutely insane. His soul split, he was doing rhythm and lead. He looked out to the crowd. God was there, nodding his head approvingly. Darrell was worried this might offend Him, but the Father was rocking out with the rest of the crowd. They all started a mosh pit, which God immediately dominated.

Lemmy stage-dived, surfing among the souls. He soon returned to the stage to finish off the lyrics.

“Heavy Metal Heaven…Heavy Metal Heaven…Heavy Metal Heaven…Heavy Metal Heaven….”