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Access All Areas
Stories from a Hard Rock Life
By Scott Ian
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- Hardcover $26.00 $34.00 CAD
- ebook $16.99 $21.99 CAD
- Audiobook Download (Unabridged)
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Scott Ian, famous for cofounding legendary thrash metal band Anthrax and only slightly less so for his iconic beard, has done and seen a lot in his decades of touring. Those of you who have read Scott’s memoir I’m the Man may know the history of the band, but Access All Areas divulges all the zany, bizarre, funny, and captivating tales of what went on when the band wasn’t busy crafting chart-topping albums.
In his more than thirty years immersed in the hard rock scene, Scott has witnessed haunting acts of depravity backstage, punched a legendary musician, been a bouncer at an exclusive night club, guest-starred with Anthrax on Married with Children, invaded a fellow rock star’s home, played poker professionally, gone on a non-date with a certain material girl, appeared on The Walking Dead, and much more.
Access All Areas allows its readers to do just that. With humor, candor, hindsight, and writing chops that would make Stephen King jealous (nope, not even on Bizarro world), Scott Ian takes his fans along for the ride at all the parties, hot spots, and behind-the-scenes shenanigans they will never hear about from anyone else. And none of it would have happened without a bit of divine inspiration from KISS. (No, seriously. Read chapter two.) Best of all, Scott seemingly lacks the ability to be embarrassed, making Access All Areas howlingly funny, self-deprecating, and every bit as brash and brazen as one would expect from one of the original architects of speed metal.
BALD OF CONFUSION
Hi, my name is Scott, and I play in a band called Anthrax.
I know you know who I am. You wouldn’t be reading this book right now if you didn’t. I just don’t like to assume that you do because I feel like that would be kind of a dick move and lame to just assume that people know who I am. Like when people come up to me and say, “Hi, my name is _________ and I am a really big fan,” and then when we shake hands I always say my name as well. If I was to just stand there staring back at them with a jerk attitude thinking, Why yes, of course, you are a big fan and know who I am, and I’m not even going to recognize you as a human being by introducing myself, that would be really shitty. Imagine if I were walking down the street and happened to see Angus Young and said, “Oh my God, it’s Angus Young! It’s really nice to meet you. I fucking love you and AC/DC so much! My name is Scott—how are you?” And he just said, “Uh-huh” like I’m supposed to know who he is. I’d be thinking, “I love you, Angus Young, but you’re kind of a dick.”
For the record, I’ve never met Angus. He’s my hero, and he could probably put a cigarette out on my arm and I’d still pee my pants meeting him.
So I don’t assume. I don’t expect that everybody knows who I am, even though I have to say I know I have a recognizable head.
Bald. Heavy browed. Very beardy.
And apparently very confusing.
I get it. I’ve been on TV. You may have been flipping channels late one night and glimpsed my face as you passed VH1 and it made an impression. And then you see me somewhere in public and are thinking, It’s that guy from that thing—I know him from somewhere. I KNOW HIM. I know exactly when these thoughts are running through someone’s brain. I can see it on their faces, the look people get when they are obviously not an Anthrax fan but just know my non-hipster-bearded-head from somewhere and can’t quite put their finger on it and get really excited and come up to me and usually say something like, “Hey, uhh, I know you. You’re famous—where do I know you from?”
My general answer to that is, “I don’t know, sorry” because I really don’t know who they think I am, and it’s really not my responsibility to engage and educate the public at large. If they persist, I’ll tell them I’m in a band called Anthrax. Sometimes that confuses them even more because they only remember seeing me as a talking head on some TV program and have no idea about the band. I’m very polite, mind you. I can only hope someone may be curious about Anthrax and go home and check it out.
Sometimes the recognition is stronger, and the person will know I am in a band (actual conversation):
DUDE IN THE AIRPORT: Hey, hey, HEY! [Actually yelling at me and then grabbing my shoulder to get my attention] You’re that guy in that band! You’re in a band, right?
ME: [A tiny bit annoyed at being grabbed waiting in line for coffee] I am.
DUDE IN THE AIRPORT: Which band?
ME: I’m in Anthrax.
DUDE IN THE AIRPORT: Nope… that’s not it.
I’m not really sure how to answer that so I don’t. It’s not like I have a business card to prove it: Scott Ian—Anthrax. And this never happens in a record store where I could go grab a record out of the racks and show them.
Then there are the people who I think are actually fans, just very confused. I’ve had so many people ask me over the years, “Aren’t you the singer of Anthrax?”
This is so confusing to me. I look nothing like Joey Belladonna.
And, “Aren’t you the bass player of Anthrax?”
I look nothing like Frank Bello. Those guys have flowing locks of luxurious hair, and I have a stubbly egg for a head so, no, I’m neither of those guys, and I don’t take the time to explain all of that and what I actually do in the band. Remember, these conversations are usually happening when I’m catching a flight or eating dinner with my family and it’s neither the time nor the place.
I know a lot of these people who have made those mistakes have probably gone home and grabbed an Anthrax record, looked at the picture on the album, and said, “He couldn’t just tell me he was the rhythm guitar player? What a dick!”
No, I couldn’t tell you. It’s not my responsibility. And maybe don’t interrupt my conversation with my son about who would win in a fight between Batman and Darth Vader. Oh and also, I would never walk up to Steve Harris (if I need to explain who he is, you’d better put this book down right now, back away slowly, go home, and rethink your life choices) and say, “Aren’t you the lead guitar player in Iron Maiden?”
It’s not just that I get mistaken for guys in my own band either.
Back in the early 2000s there was a band from Los Angeles who got really big, and seemingly every time I got in a taxi the driver would look at me in his rearview mirror and do a stunned double take and yell, “System of a Down!” To this I would reply, “Yes! I am them!”
System of a Down are made up of four Armenians, and I guess there were a lot of Armenian taxi drivers in Hollywood in the early 2000s. At least this case of mistaken identity made sense because System’s bass player, Shavo, was bald and also had an abnormal beard, so I understood. I would always go with this one because who am I to bum out the nice taxi driver? Who am I? I’m the prick, remember? I could act like a total jerk, and Shavo would get the blame. And then I see Shavo and he tells me, “You know how many times people come up to me and ask me if I’m Scott Ian?”
“Oh, really?” I mischievously answered. And then Shavo says, “Yeah, and then I act like a dick, and they get pissed at you.”
All of this pales in comparison to a story my father-in-law told me. I also don’t assume everyone knows that my father-in-law is Meat Loaf, so if you didn’t know, now you do. He told me that he was sitting in his seat on a plane, and the woman sitting next to him asked, “Excuse me, sir—are you Jim Morrison?” This didn’t happen in 1968; this was in the 1990s. Meat stared at this lady and finally said to her, “Yes. Yes, I am. I am Jim Morrison.”
That’s why Meat Loaf is my hero.
This whole confusion bit doesn’t bother me all that much. Maybe it seems like I am crabby about it, but really it’s pretty funny. Being someone who people recognize walking down the street because of my band is odd and cool at the same time. And now you, dear reader, know not to call me the hurdy-gurdy player in Arcade Fire.
There is something that I love about being famous, and it only happens exclusively in the worlds of hard rock and heavy metal. When I am walking down the street and a fan will see me and yell my name or the name of my band as loud as they can, usually prefaced with or dissected by the word fucking. Example: “FUCKING ANTHRAX!” and “SCOTT FUCKING IAN!” You know what I’m talking about. Maybe you’ve done it. We’ve all yelled, “SLAYER!” at bloodcurdling volume at some point in our lives. I have and worse.
In 1986 Anthrax got to open for Black Sabbath. Our first-ever big arena shows, and we’re opening for Black fucking Sabbath. It was the second night of the tour, and their tour manager came to our dressing room to tell us that after the show Tony Iommi wanted to say hello and thank us for being on the tour. I was out of my mind thinking, He’s gonna thank us? We should be kissing those magic metal creating hands of his for all eternity. After the show we got escorted down to some meet-and-greet room, we hung out for a couple of minutes, and then in walked Tony Iommi. I can still feel the sense of amazement I had at that moment, that I was standing in the same room as the man, let alone being on tour with him. So he walks in, and the temperature drops about ten degrees because he’s so cool. He looked like a giant to me—I guess gods usually do (and I am a tall Hobbit at best). With his perfect black hair and his evil mustache and beard, and he’s wearing a long leather coat that goes all the way down to the floor—I mean literally, if you told me he was Satan, I would have believed you. He was just so fucking powerful when he walked in that room. Maybe it was just because, gee, he only invented heavy metal, so you know, he is a little bit important to my life. But yeah, Tony Iommi walks in the room and shakes our hands and is thanking us, and in my fucking head I’m going shithouse bonkers and screaming, TONY IOMMI! TOE NEE I OWE MEEEEEE!!! HOLY FUCK! I wanted to grab him by the lapels and shake him and yell, “DO YOU KNOW WHAT YOU MEAN TO ME MOTHERFUCKER?!”
Of course all that hysterical screaming was done with my inside voice. I kept it inside because even the idiot twenty-two-year-old that I was knew it wouldn’t be cool to grab Satan’s lapels. And he had a giant security guard who would have kicked my ass right out of the room as soon as I even raised my voice, and then I never would have had a conversation with this proper English gentleman who invented heavy metal.
If we would’ve been outside on the street and I happened to see Tony walking by, different story altogether. I never would’ve been able to hold it in. I will never lose that feeling. Don’t you ever stop screaming.
You may think I’m being sarcastic, but I’m not. I get it because I’m a fan too. I truly love that visceral can’t-help-yourself reaction of screaming out the name of something you love so much. That feeling you get deep in your gut when you’re at a show of a band you’d kill for and you just can’t help but scream, “IRON MAIDEN!” You just can’t help it; it’s a primal emotion and a truly cathartic experience when you’re surrounded by thousands of like-minded people.
Now imagine what it’s like to be on stage and have thousands of people losing their minds for your band. It’s an energy unlike anything anywhere else on the planet, and I love it. I live for it.
Like I said, this only happens in the world of hard rock and metal. It’s very specific. It’s not the high-pitched siren of pop adoration. It doesn’t work in jazz. Or maybe I am totally wrong and back in the 1950s it’d be totally normal to hear someone gutturally scream, “CHET FUCKING BAKER” as loud as they could when they saw him walking down 52nd Street in New York City.
On the opposite end of the spectrum in the context of all this, the total bummer of being recognized, the most annoying thing, the bane of my pseudo-notoriety is people touching my beard. Men, women—they feel this need to touch it. What the hell is up with that? My beard is not public domain, yet people feel they have the right to just get their hands right in it, without even asking. I don’t do that to people. I’ve never once thought at the sight of a bearded man to walk up and get my fingers entwined in his facial hair. Gross. What if I just walked up to a woman on the street who had beautiful hair and started running my hands through it? I’d get my ass kicked and arrested, yet ladies, you think you get a free pass at my beard because you’re a lady? Fuck off. Your hands are filthy too, and I don’t want them anywhere near my face. The only exceptions to the rule are my wife and son, and even my son, as much as I love him, gets the brush sometimes because he can have some dirty little hands. Call me nutso, but personal space is important to me.
If you are a bearded gentleman reading this, I know you feel my pain.
Now, all of that being said, I know a couple of guys in bands who feel much differently about beard invasions. They actually like it.
Next time Slayer comes to your town maybe they will be doing a record-store signing appearance or some kind of meet-and-greet at their show. Now pay close attention to these instructions—it’s very important you follow these to the letter so you don’t fuck it up. Wait your turn in line, and when you get to the band to get your stuff signed, shake hands, take a picture, etc., etc., and then you make your move. NOT ON TOM. Did I say that loud enough? Do not grab Tom’s beard. He does not like that shit, and he’ll get really pissed off and yell at you. Tom has a really loud and scary voice. Do you want him screaming at you in front of the band and a whole line of people? I don’t think so. It’s Kerry you want to engage. Now I know what you’re thinking: Kerry? Are you crazy? That guy will kill me if I touch his beard. No, he won’t. He has a very tough exterior, but underneath he’s a big ol’ softie, so get your fingers right up in his beard and give Kerry a good chin scratching like you would a cute little kitty cat and watch him purr!*
Zakk Wylde with his All-Father Odin beard wins when it comes to beards. His beard is like a rope that they use to tie cruise ships to the dock. It’s truly the king of beards, and why wouldn’t he want to show it off? So if you ever have the chance to hang with Zakk, grab onto that bridge cable of a beard and yank it hard. He’s a big guy, so you may even want to use two hands to pull on it so he feels it.*
By the way, this is top-secret, behind-the-scenes info that we’ll keep just between us, okay? I wouldn’t want this to get out there publicly and then everyone will be all over those guys even worse than they are now.
* In the history of the written word no one has ever written this sentence. Ever. You know why? Because it’s completely insane and ridiculous. It’s a joke. Don’t touch Kerry’s beard. Don’t even think about touching Kerry’s beard. One more time in case you got distracted: Do not ever touch Kerry’s beard.
* If you touch Zakk’s beard, he will hammer you into the fucking floor like a nail.
MEET ME UNDER ACE FREHLEY
In New York City in the late seventies, if you told someone to meet you under Ace Frehley, they knew exactly what you were talking about. Hold on, let me clarify that: if the person you were giving those particular directions to were somewhere between twelve and sixteen years old, they definitely knew what you were talking about.
To a generation of kids raised on Kiss in the seventies, Ace Frehley became our designated meeting point, our landmark. Except instead of a sign with an–i–on it, we had a giant live picture of Ace in all his smoking-guitar glory on the wall on the side of the entrance to Penn Station in Manhattan. This totemic landmark was a source of pride for all of us Kiss fans. We were an army always on the defensive, constantly ridiculed for liking a “comic book band.” Publicly subjected to the derision and sometimes violent mockery of the older kids who wore their Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd T-shirts aggressively like Gestapo uniforms, with our Kiss T-shirts the yellow stars of the oppressed. Heavy metaphor, I know. But when you’re fourteen and are walking down the hallway in high school wearing the Kiss T-shirt you saved up your allowance for a month to buy and you walk past a crew of seventeen-year-old dudes who would knock your books out from under your arm, grab you by your beloved shirt, spit “KISS SUCKS, FAGGOT!” in your face, and then push you down onto the floor, ripping your shirt as you fell, well, that was certainly a fascist fashion statement. I’d be on the floor gathering my things, doing my best to ignore their taunts and smiling, not letting them have the satisfaction of getting to me, and all the while I am imagining myself grabbing a baseball bat from the equipment locker in the gymnasium and cracking their heads, singing “God of Thunder” as I swung. “What are you smiling at, faggot?” Pink Floyd snarled at me, snapping me out of my violent fantasy. I boldly stared back at him, smiling, the Demon on my shoulder nodding his approval. “Fuck him,” Led Zep said as they turned to walk away. Pink gave one of the books I hadn’t picked up yet a kick down the hall.
I watched them clomp off in their untied work boots, looking for some other unsuspecting member of our troops to torture.
Fucking burnouts, I thought as I headed to my next class, knowing that someday those losers would be fans of the band I was going to start. That’s what I was thinking as I sat down at my desk in history class. I didn’t let the burnouts get to me because at the ripe old age of fourteen I had had an epiphany. I was already on a path from which I would never stray. A path that instilled me with a fearlessness from the certainty of knowing what I was going to do with my life.
I can identify the exact moment, the specific time and place when I had such a powerful life-changing experience that it would shape and focus the rest of my life. Yes, my life has been made up of a multitude of experiences whose cumulative effect make me into the man I am today. But the event that started it all, that put me on the path to begin with, that I could pinpoint was on December 14, 1977, at Madison Square Garden in New York City when I went to see Kiss. Everything crystallized. Like Bruce Banner getting hit with the gamma radiation that turned him into the Hulk, I was irradiated by Kiss on that fateful winter night and walked out of Madison Square Garden with an absolutely clear picture of what I was going to do with my life: I was going to be in a band.
I WAS INDOCTRINATED into Kisstianity two years earlier in late 1975, the first time I heard “Rock and Roll All Nite” on the radio. It hooked me the first time I heard it, not even knowing what band was playing it, because the DJ never said the band’s name. I was constantly singing the song, it was on a loop in my brain, and I was begging my parents to take me to a record store to try to find out who sang that song. I had to have it.
One night, not long after that, my brother and I were watching TV and I was flipping through all seven channels we had back then and saw these four guys in makeup and costumes with instruments. I paused, curious about how this band looked. They were just standing there making faces, and I thought they looked goofy. I was about to change the channel when the host said, “And now to play their hit song ‘Rock and Roll All Nite,’ here’s Kiss!” Holy crap! The song! Peter kicked into the drum intro, and I lost it. My brother and I were jumping around and singing along, not believing what we were seeing. They went from looking goofy to the best thing I had ever seen/heard in my life. I was an eleven-year-old aspiring guitar player and a super-nerd comic book collector, and Kiss embodied my two favorite things in the world together in a band. If the host had come back out after the performance and said they were actually superheroes playing guitars, I would’ve believed it, that’s how blown away I was. I had to have that song. I HAD TO. I was like a junkie looking for a fix. I planned to go straight to the record store after school the next day to find that song.
School was interminable that day. It was an endless drone of incessantly boring information dulling my brain. Kiss was telling me I needed to party every day, and I was stuck in fun jail. The only thing that kept me from running screaming out of that building to the sanctuary of the record store was the constant conversation amongst those who had seen—all of us who had borne witness to the majesty of Kiss. We would not be silenced. No matter how many times a teacher would yell at us to stop our whispered conversations about our new heroes, we kept on, passing notes when we couldn’t speak of the pictures we had drawn from memory of their logo and talisman-like makeup. In the lunchroom, climbing on tables, playing air guitar, and singing the song out loud, lunch ladies screaming at us to get down, dull brown gravy dripping off the serving spoons they were waving at us. I’m sure these scenarios were playing out all across America that day as my generation had found its voice, and it was wearing seven-inch platform boots.
Finally the bell rang to end the day, and bulky school books in hand, I ran out into the cold New York winter air. I ran past the bus stop where a line of people stood waiting for a bus to show up. Normally I would’ve been in that line, the warmth of a bus better than walking the almost mile home in the cold, but I couldn’t stand the thought of standing there waiting for even a minute when I could be moving toward my goal. So I ran. I ran through the cramp that was like a hot poker in my side to the shopping center where the record store was in my sight. I was sweating against the frigid air as I ran down a row of stores, weaving between people and catching annoyed looks from less anxious shoppers. The bells on the door of the record store rang noisily as I slammed through it, wild-eyed and out of breath, my jacket hanging off my shoulders and still clutching my books, stopping dead in my tracks in front of a rack filled with nothing but Kiss Alive! I stood there mesmerized. There it was, right in front of me, waiting for me to come get it, like it had always been there. I gently took one off the rack, caressing the plastic wrap with my fingers as I stared and stared and stared at the cover. The four of them in action, the makeup, the costumes, the lights, the smoke, the Kiss logo, the candelabra!
It was the best album I had ever held in my life, and I hadn’t even heard it yet. I just knew.
From somewhere far, far away I could hear the Bryan Ferry–T-shirt-wearing record-store guy asking me if I needed any help. I didn’t answer—I couldn’t. I just kept staring, turning the record over and looking at the back cover, the two guys holding up the Kiss banner and an arena full of people waiting for the band to appear. I wanted to be those guys. I wanted to be in that arena. I was lost in a Kiss reverie when suddenly the album was being pulled from my hands and I came out of my trance: “Are you going to buy that? Your sweaty hands are going to ruin it.” It was the record-store guy, quite bothered by this nonresponsive, sweating, red-faced kid who had dropped his books all over the floor of the store. “Umm, sorry, yes, I want to buy it. How much is it?” I asked. This irked him even more, as there was a sticker on the plastic that clearly read, “ON SALE ONLY $5.99.” I had ignored the sticker while I was in my Kiss-coma. He wordlessly pointed at the sticker and handed the album back to me. He walked away, and I started staring again, about to fall back into the album cover when I had a terrible realization. $5.99.
I had seven dollars in my pocket, having saved up some allowance money to buy my father a birthday present. How was I going to buy the album if I only had enough money to get my father a birthday present? I had to have the album, and I had to get my father a birthday present. I was agonizing over this decision—what could I do? It was a Sophie’s Choice for an eleven-year-old. The record-store guy cleared his throat loudly, signaling it was time for me to shit or get off the pot. I was gripping the album tightly in my hands, looking for an answer in the grease-painted faces of my idols when a lightbulb turned on and I knew what I was going to do.
I would buy the Kiss album and give it to my father for his birthday. Brilliant! I’d give him Kiss Alive! and he’d give it back to me. Yeah, I know: it was a selfish plan, but I was getting my dad a gift, and it’s the thought that counts, right?
I brought the album up to the register, where record-store guy was sitting and reading Creem magazine (with Kiss on the cover). I paid for it and then annoyed him even more when I asked him to gift wrap it. He looked at me like I had stepped in dog shit and tracked it all over the store, so I pointed at the sign next to the register that read, “Free gift wrap with every purchase!” He hate-wrapped the album and wordlessly shoved it in a bag, his mood in no way affecting mine. I was very happy with myself, smiling like an idiot as I walked out of the store telling the guy to “Have a nice day!”
I got home and put the album in my closet. I had to put it out of my sight, as it was taking every ounce of what little willpower an eleven-year-old possesses to not unwrap the vinyl and crank it. Like a rock-and-roll Tell-Tale Heart, the album called to me; my only reprieve from its kick-drum heartbeat was while I was at school. A few days before his birthday I dared to take the album out of the closet to make sure it was okay. It felt hot in my hands and was practically screaming at me to play it.
My dad’s birthday finally arrived, and I was so excited about the present I had bought for myself—I mean for my dad.
I handed my dad the present. I stood there watching, practically licking my chops as he unwrapped it. He looked at the album, confused for a second, and then he smiled and said, “Hmm, Kiss Alive! How did you know I wanted this?” For a moment I thought he was serious and that he was going to keep the album. That wouldn’t have been a problem except for the fact that my parents were divorced and we didn’t live with my dad. I’d only have visitation rights with the album a few times a month! My dad noticed the look of panic on my face and, smiling at me, said, “Thank you for this. Why don’t you listen to it for a while and tell me how it is?” He handed the album back to me, and I ran to the stereo to put it on. I carefully took the record out of the sleeve, trying not to be distracted by the photo booklet that came with the album. I put the record on the turntable and with surgical precision, lowered the needle onto the record and was greeted by a monstrous voice yelling, “You wanted the best! You got the best! The hottest band in the world… Kiss!!!!!” and then the opening chords to “Deuce” mainlined themselves straight into my cerebral cortex and I was hooked.
I became a Kiss fanatic. They were my religion, and I was a radical extremist. Every conversation I had was about Kiss, either preaching to the choir of my Kiss-minded friends or espousing their greatness to recruit new army members. Every inch of wall space in my room was covered with posters and pictures of Kiss meticulously cut out of rock magazines. I had every album, doubles of the albums that came with extra stuff like the photo booklet in Alive! and the stickers in Rock and Roll Over so I could keep one set in mint condition and put the other set on my walls or school notebook. I got the Kiss action figures (by Mego), and I had the lunchbox and the makeup sets and anything they could stencil their logo on.
- "Off-the-wall stories from the road and beyond...[Ian's] humorous anecdotes capture the esprit de corps of his many touring musician friends...With this outing, Ian has proven his writing chops."—Publishers Weekly
- "Born storyteller Scott Ian recounts his craziest collection of takes of life on the road as a touring musician."—Music Connection
"Full of anecdotes from the man's nearly four decades on the metal frontline...Scott's natural role is as a storyteller...This is a job he does superbly, with warmth and wit, sharp insight and no end of banter."
"A collection of assorted tales from one man's journey in the world of music-the highs and lows of fame, personal brushes with natural events, brief forays into acting and most importantly-musical madness!... Scott's stories have a real gripping feel to them-when you read them, it almost feels like you're sat at a bar with him, nursing a pint and hanging off of his every word!...Highly amusing, a great read."
- "You don't have to be a fan of heavy metal to enjoy this book."—Media Mikes
- "Captivating tales of life on the road...Filled with personal and hilarious stories...[A] fun and enjoyable read. You will feel like you are best friends with him and are just bullshitting at the bar having a nice cold one. He has a great sense of humor whether it is him joking around with a celebrity or poking fun at himself. This is a book for anyone whether you know who Scott is or not."—KNAC.com
- "This book covers a lot of ground from the moment Ian got the bug to be a performer to the many unbelievable stories that have highlighted his more than 34-year career."—Pure Grain Audio
"[Ian] proves to be the ultimate storyteller. His remarkable memory, attention to detail, and ability to make almost everything funny-ranging from mildly amusing to downright hilarious-keeps the reader enthralled and entertained. The tales recounted are so realistic, it almost seems like you were there when the debauchery went down."
- "The instantly recognizable guitarist and cofounder of the pioneering thrash-metal band hasn't forgotten what it's like to be a fan even though he's long been a star. Anything but a career chronicle, Access All Areas is-as its subtitle promises-a collection of stories, many of them memories of bands he loved as a kid (Kiss ranks number one) or of meeting his heroes (Black Sabbath)."—Milwaukee Shepherd Express
- "Very few rock stars are good storytellers, often relying on others to help them build their legends in print media. Scott Ian requires no such help. He's a hilarious, honest, intelligent storyteller, and even adventures that would feel mundane by comparison become compelling when he's behind the wheel...So conversational and accessible that you feel like you're chatting with an old friend who's had some wild experiences, not a music icon with plenty of names to drop. Access All Areas is great fun for fans of Scott Ian, but it's arguably more fun if you don't know much about him because you'll be pleasantly surprised."—Manhattan Book Review
- "There are a lot of hilarious moments in the book; Ian's a very witty story teller...Fans of the band and the genre will enjoy."—Scanner Zine
- On Sale
- Dec 12, 2017
- Page Count
- 256 pages
- Da Capo Press