The Batmobile: Unedited!

Book Excerpt: The Boy Is Gonna Rock



As discussed in the book, I had just purchased this ’76 Vette and had it custom-painted black with a hot-pink pinstripe (seemed like the thing to do at the time). However, there is a fairly agonizing backstory to all that went down with actually getting the damn thing painted! We ended up editing that part out of the final draft of the book (in the interest of moving the story along). However, it is pretty amusing, so for the first time here is the unedited piece. Enjoy!

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The Batmobile: Unedited!

Back in the 80s, a non-negotiable prerequisite for every rock-and-roller was having a bad-ass car to cruise around in. That’s just the way it was. So even while we were still on tour, I had my sights set on getting a Corvette—my all-time favorite. A new one would’ve been a stretch, dollar-wise, so I figured a 70s-era model would be the move. I could already envision it in my mind’s eye: It was going to be black-on-black, and I would have hot-pink pinstripes custom-painted on it. (Not joking… wish I was.) And about six weeks later, that’s exactly what I wound up with. But not without enduring quite an ordeal in the process.


This is me and my grandfather headed out for a bite to eat in Houston,
while I was on break from VVI after the Iron Maiden tour (circa ’87),
getting ready to start on record #2.

A friend referred me to a colleague who was a custom automotive paint specialist. Let’s call him Ricky. At first, he was cool.  He was going to help me find a used Vette in decent condition, in any color, as he would be customizing it for me. After a couple weeks of searching the Houston listings, we settled on a white '76 Stingray. It was a bit weathered cosmetically, but it had a huge, non-stock 454 big block engine, which appealed to us impressionable youngsters. So I bought the car, then brought it over to Ricky’s garage for him to do his thing. But when I began to explain the idea I had for painting a few subtle pinstripes on it once he made it black, the “artiste” showed up.

“I got this, bro,” he told me. “I know what you want. Let me do my thing, and I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

“Well… okay…” I said, “but really, I was just looking for a few hot-pink pinstripes to sort of flow along the…”

He cut me off with a wave of his hand.  “I got this. I just need to get in my zone.  It’s how I work. But trust me. You’ll love it.”

Reluctantly, I agreed to let him proceed without any supervision, and then I waited in agony for an eternity while Ricky worked around the clock on his “masterpiece.” Finally, several weeks later, he calls me with weary excitement, letting me know that the Vette was complete… and I was going to freak. He was right about that last part.

I showed up for the "unveiling,” and found the car on proud display in front of his garage, gleaming in the sunlight. I could not believe what I saw. First of all, it was actually more of a sparkly dark purple color, because of some red pearl hues he had added over the final coat of black. And then, it wasn’t just about simple pink pinstripes, as I requested. It was this elaborate, cross-fading design of multi-colored pins, which ran the entire length of the body. But the real cherry on top was this: proudly emblazoned on each side of the car near the front wheels, were the words Bad Vette, written in a decorative font and exploding in gradient yellow, orange, and red. Clearly, this was a pimp’s car.  I was speechless.

Technically speaking, his work was stellar.  This was the kind of thing you might find at a car show. However, I knew I wouldn’t be caught dead in this “gangstah-wagon,” and once he figured out that my initial shock was not because of how much I liked it, our working relationship went south in a hurry. 

The next few weeks were hell.  I insisted that he redo it, and even agreed to offset his additional material costs... which was a painful proposition, given how much he half-assed the second go-round. Things were tense throughout the redo and, as it turned out, Ricky and I would never speak again. But in the end, and even with those glowing pink pinstripes, I wound up with something sleek and cool, like the Batmobile, and not the fucking pimp-daddy atrocity that I nearly got stuck with.

Honestly, though, given my age and life experience at that time, that car was mainly an attempt to validate whatever perceptions of success might have been hoisted upon me over the past eighteen months since landing the VVI gig. A car like that was what I figured was expected of me. Appearances aside, however, I absolutely loved that car, even though it was not without its mechanical issues. It had that thundering, low-ended growl working, even when it was idling in park. And man, was this fucker fast: that big ol’ engine powering all of that fiberglass… death wish city, especially given how front-heavy it was with the big block.

I wasn’t much of a motorhead, so I was rather unsavvy when it came to all matters of auto mechanics and basic hot-rodding skills. Nonetheless, I had a blast driving around town in the “Batmobile” and probably got a little too comfortable dropping the hammer on that bitch anytime I saw some open concrete in front of me. But I couldn’t help myself. This was my first sports car, and whenever I would floor it, the damn thing felt like a rocket taking off. Plus, my dumb ass was overly fascinated with the fact that the wheels would actually screech when the car roared from first to second gear. And despite my father’s very clear warning to me about doing this, I still couldn’t help myself.


I had the Batmobile for nearly 20 years. In the early 90s, I wound up repainting it sans
the pink pinstripes. Here it is a bit weathered in ’06, I believe. It was a memorable ride...
Late one night, around 3:00 a.m., I was out in the Vette with a new lady friend. This was our first outing together, so partially to impress her, and partially because I saw a long stretch of open road in front of me in a quiet neighborhood, I couldn’t resist:

“Hey, check this out!” I said. “Watch what happens when I floor this motherfucker.” 

Of course, it didn’t occur to me at the time how ill-advised this demonstration would be, given that the streets were still shiny wet from a rainstorm a few hours prior.

So I jammed my snakeskin boot to the floor and both our heads snapped back against the seats, as the rocket took off and the engine began its ascending howl. Moments later, just prior to it kicking into second gear and doing that tire-screech thing, I yelled out to my now terrified passenger, “Dig this!” 

But the screech never came. Instead, when the engine jerked into second, we started hydroplaning down that two-lane stretch of road with yards and houses to our right and a wide, grassy median to our left. Oh shit, I thought. This isn’t going to end well.

After several heart-stopping swerves and overcorrections, we soon found ourselves fishtailing backward and sideways into the median. We hit the curb with such force that both of the tires on the passenger side were literally torn from the wheels, as the car virtually leapt to a sudden stop. And there the mighty Vette sat, with its pink pinstripes: crooked on two wheels in the middle of the median. We caught our breath as the big block idled defiantly. We were dazed, but unharmed.

What was the big rock star to do now? Go to a pay phone at a 7-11 a block away and wake my dad up, of course!

That’s no bullshit. It was one of the more humiliating moments I would have to endure in quite a while, and one of the more expensive lessons I would have to learn that spring. My dad got out of bed, drove over and picked us both up in his royal-blue Ford Aerostar minivan, and we took my new friend home. I went from being a bad-ass rock star racing this hot girl around in a Corvette, to some high school chump, having to have his dad play chauffeur on a first date. Good God.



Hangin' with the old man on a Christmas break, circa '05

Once we dropped her off and started heading home, I was waiting for the verbal beatdown to commence. I had it coming and I knew it. My dad had warned me specifically about this, and here he was, having to get out of bed and clean up my mess in the middle of the night because I didn’t listen to him. But, as a testament to how cool he was, there was not one word of admonishment spoken. He knew that I knew I fucked up bad—no sense in reiterating the obvious. Instead, about five minutes into the drive back, and still without a single word spoken between us, he simply looked over at me, raised his eyebrows, and slowly shook his head up and down, as if to say, “Yes, indeed… these are the consequences one must pay for making poor decisions that they had been warned about.” That was it. I got the message. No verbiage required. He was the coolest. 

I got off pretty easy, all things considered. And, of course, once I dropped the $2,500 in repairs (bent axle, among other things), I don’t believe I ever attempted that second-gear screech thing again… although I would take the Vette up to 130 miles per hour on a trip back to LA from Vegas some months later. But that’s another story.


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