In January 2000, Megadeth issued a press release announcing that longtime lead guitarist Marty Friedman had left the band, mid-tour, “to pursue other musical interests.” According to MTV, frontman Dave Mustaine praised Friedman as “an incredible player” and a “keystone” in the thrash-metal band.
Behind the scenes, Friedman’s departure was exponentially more fraught, as the guitarist details in his new memoir, Dreaming Japanese, which he cowrote with author Jon Wiederhorn. In an excerpt from the book, out Dec. 3, Friedman describes how mounting anxiety drove him off the road prematurely. He had joined the band in 1989 and contributed swirling, melodic solos to the band’s punishing albums, including 1990’s Rust in Peace and 1992’s Countdown to Extinction. His work on those fan favorites helped propel acrobatic thrash to the upper echelons of the sales charts. But the group hit a nadir with 1999’s Risk, which fans pegged as a bid for hard-rock mainstream copout.
In this excerpt, Friedman describes how Megadeth’s waning success at the time compounded his stress to a breaking point. He later left the United States to become “the Ryan Seacrest of Japan,” as a record label exec described him to Rolling Stone in 2014. Last year, however, Friedman reunited with Megadeth for the first time since his departure for concerts at Tokyo’s Budokan venue and Germany’s Wacken festival. “I just feel immense joy and some serious adrenaline,” Friedman said at the time.
Here’s what he had to say about his final full tour with Megadeth in Dreaming Japanese:
Since I had just quit Megadeth with just a handful of shows before our Christmas break, the mood in the band was as awkward as working with a female coworker you’ve recently dumped. The last show was December 22 in Corpus Christi, Texas, at a fucking sports bar. The marquee read “TONIGHT: MEGADETH and $3.50 Burritos.”
In retrospect, it’s funny, but, at the time, it sucked. I hated to see my bandmates glance up at the sign and feel their legacy fade. We rocked the place like it was an arena, and the small crowd left happy, but I was bummed. For a second, I felt like a rat leaving a sinking ship. Then I thought, Hold on a minute. I’m not a rat, and why should I stay on a sinking ship? It’s not even my ship!
The next morning, we parted ways and headed home for well-deserved breaks with our families. It was always relaxing to reconnect with [my then-wife] Chihiro. When I opened the front door, the road stress melted away like ice in a microwave, and I was immediately in full-on chill mode, with the knowledge that I was about to enter the homestretch with Megadeth. I viewed the upcoming leg as a grand farewell after a decade of great work. I was gonna play the best I possibly could, but for now it was time to not think about Megadeth. I spent Christmas Eve catching up with Chihiro and lounging around unshaven, unkempt, and watching TV. Chihiro prepared my favorite meal for dinner, Japanese eel, and after we ate, I settled into our big comfy couch and clicked the TV back on, full from the delicious food and hazy with contentment.
Then, suddenly, my heart started pounding, and once I focused on the hammering beats, they became faster and heavier. It felt like my heart might explode. I thought I might have food poisoning. Then, I was in too much pain to think. I fell off the couch and couldn’t move. My heart was racing like a coke fiend about to go into cardiac arrest, and the palpitations were so strong they hurt the muscles in my chest. Fucking hell, could this be a heart attack?
My mouth was so dry, I could barely speak, and I was scared. I’m not sure how Chihiro knew I was in trouble. I don’t know if I was able to shout out to her or if she walked in and heard me gasping and gurgling. All I know is she called 911. I must have briefly blacked out despite my heart beating at tempos usually reserved for death metal riffs. Next thing I knew, I was in the back of an ambulance.
The hospital was only a mile away, and as the ambulance accelerated, so did my pounding heart. Now, I was terrified. My head seemed to be getting cold as the blood pumped at a rapid sprint.
“Am I dying?!” I blurted at the paramedic. He didn’t answer. The ambulance doors opened, bright light blinded me, and I wondered for a second if it was the light dying people supposedly enter before seeing their lost loved ones waiting to guide them into the afterlife.
Someone rolled me to the ER. I was so freaked out, I thrashed and shook like I was having a grand mal seizure. A doctor inserted a needle into my arm and attached it to an IV drip that contained some kind of sedative. A nurse drew blood, and someone took it to get tested. It took all night before the IV leveled me out enough so I could think clearly. If I wasn’t dead yet, maybe I’d survive, I reasoned. When I felt strong enough to speak, I asked to talk to one of the doctors.
“What the hell is happening to me?” I asked in a shaky voice.
“You’re fine,” he calmly replied. “You’ve had an unusually strong panic attack.”
I was relieved, but only a little. I wasn’t sure I was “fine.” Waves of dread were still washing over me. It felt like an electric current that caused me to shiver even though the room was warm. I could not stop fucking shaking. No way was I going to be able to sleep. I stayed up all night jittering and constantly changing positions in bed. It was Christmas morning, and I waited up until a reasonable hour to call Steve Wood, our tour manager. I told him I was in the hospital, and there was no way I could rejoin Megadeth in a few days.
“Marty, just calm down. Let’s think this out rationally. You’re not telling me you are going to miss the tour, are you?” he asked.
Maybe I was being paranoid, but I sensed a hint of a threat in his voice. “There’s no fucking way I can go anywhere like this!” I shot back. “You don’t understand. I’ve been in the ER all night, and I’m still shaking like a junkie. I have no idea what is wrong with me, and it sure doesn’t feel like I will be coming down from this anytime soon. Do you get it? It’s serious. I’m gonna fucking die! There’s no way I can even think about playing guitar. Forget about me going to the airport and getting on a plane. I can’t even fucking walk.”
I didn’t want to leave the ER until all my tests were back and I knew for sure it was only a panic attack; I had never had one before so I didn’t know what it was, what caused it, when it would end, and if it would happen again. I was shouting at Steve like a child having a temper tantrum.
“Listen, don’t call anyone else,” Steve said, maintaining his cool. As a seasoned manager, he had skillfully navigated much tougher situations than this. “Just try to pull yourself together. I’ll talk to the band and tell them to prepare for the worst but hope for the best.”
“Dude, I can’t walk!” I reiterated. “I can’t even move. I’m flat on my back in the ER shivering like a moron in the middle of the Arizona desert, and I still don’t have a clue what’s happening. So, fuck them all and fuck the whole fucking tour! It ain’t gonna happen.”
I slammed down the receiver and continued to simmer in fear. Chihiro looked shocked by my outburst. She tried to support me, but there was no way to stop my involuntary shaking. I was miserable. Merry Christmas.
The next date of the tour was December 27 in Denver. Steve called me at home on December 26 and asked how I was feeling. I said I could still barely move. Then, he asked me to reconsider heading back out with the band. Fuck that. As far as I was concerned, I would never tour with Megadeth again.
“I know I promised to stay with the band until March, but that’s just not possible. I’m not trying to get out of anything. I wish I could go, but I don’t even know if I will ever be able to play again. I can’t even walk to the bathroom by myself. There’s no way I can do a show.”
Steve was doing his job and was in a bind. Megadeth was fucked big time if I couldn’t play since they had no one to replace me on such short notice. Steve all but begged me to try to make it to Denver by showtime. Flying on the day of the show is never a good idea since a delayed flight could spell disaster. Even if I could make it to the airport, I would need extra time to try to manage my debilitating symptoms.
It seemed impossible, but when Steve suggested that Chihiro accompany me and guide me every step of the way, I reconsidered.
Steve made sure the flights were booked, the limos were ordered, and all the details were in place before he even called me. I thought I had little chance of making it to the show on time, let alone perform a set, but since Steve had undertaken every measure to make the journey as easy as possible, I agreed to give it a shot – something I don’t think I would have done for anyone else. I was drugged up with all sorts of relaxers that helped keep my heart from bursting through my chest. But I had this gnawing edge that wouldn’t go away.
It felt like my entire body was a seething mess of hate and anger — towards what, I had no idea. The first thing I had to do was to try to walk. The first few times I went to the bathroom, Chihiro and a nurse had to guide me like a toddler. My balance was impaired, and I had no strength in my legs. I couldn’t even stand up straight. How the hell was I gonna play the guitar? I practiced walking with Chihiro, and by the day of the show, I could walk on my own at a turtle’s pace.
Courtesy of Vicious Kid PR
The flight from Phoenix to Denver was only a couple hours, so I made sure we were on the latest possible flight. If all went well, we would arrive at the venue just in time for me to change clothes and go directly on stage. I had agreed to try to go on with the show, but I never promised to pull it off. It must have been quite a spectacle for the travelers at Phoenix Sky Harbor Airport to see a tiny Japanese girl dragging a long-haired rocker through security. And I’m sure the passengers who saw me in Denver figured I was a rock and roll drug casualty in my final hours. I had no appetite, but the doctor said I needed protein to balance all the medication I was on, so I forced myself to scarf down a chicken sandwich. It turned out to be the only thing that would take a little of the edge off.
I couldn’t sit around eating all day, but knowing that something could help me feel a little better was a huge relief. Chihiro steered me to the limo, and we rushed to the venue in time to play the show. Backstage, the tension was palpable, but I was far too concerned with taking my edge off to care what anyone thought. As the lights dimmed, the Denver crowd cheered, unaware of the strain I had caused, and I took the stage. I hadn’t touched a guitar since the last song we played in Corpus Christi, and considering I was currently in the middle of the most traumatic experience of my life, I was expecting my performance to be subpar at best.
As soon as I started playing, however, I was back in full control, like nothing had ever happened. I performed with abundant aggression and pulled off my normal stage moves without pause. When I sidled up to David or Dave to rock out in tandem, they looked at me with complete bewilderment. To them, one minute I was stricken with anxiety and unable to walk, and the next I was tearing up the stage, business as usual. I was surprised at my transformation. So were they, but instead of celebrating my sudden recovery, they eyed me with suspicion — rightfully fucking so — as if my whole panic attack story was a bullshit excuse to stay off tour.
I doubt it was the handfuls of sedatives that alleviated my anxiety enough to let me rip through a set; I don’t think the pills did much at all. My bounce back had far more to do with being in my wheelhouse, playing music with guys I loved like brothers, and watching the crowd lose their minds. That’s what held the edge at bay for 90 minutes. I might have been better off if I had played a bunch of wrong chords, incoherent solos, and fell down onstage.
To the fans, it was just another awesome Megadeth concert. The second we stepped offstage, I was thrown into a limo and whisked away to a different hotel than the one the band was staying in. As much as I didn’t want to add to the bad blood trickling between us, the only way I would make it through the remaining shows was to be on my own schedule — no call times, no confrontations or conversations, no restless nights or rocky bus rides. I needed a peaceful, tension-free environment all day, every day to make it through those 90 minutes on stage.
Copyright 2024, Marty Friedman. Published by Permuted Press.
