Vulgar Display of Power: Imagine There's No Dimebag

Dear Gen Xer,

There’s this guy tooling around in a red Grand Am.

First, he tries parking next to the patio. Then he parks under the sign.

Mitch Carpenter waves him away. Carpenter’s working the lot tonight; directing human and vehicular traffic coming to see the show. Finally, the red Grand Am comes to a rest across the street, opposite Alrosa Villa.

The nondescript, stucco-sided building is a landmark in Columbus, Ohio. Alrosa Villa has hosted hard rock and heavy metal acts since it opened in 1974. Thirty years later, in 2004, the club continues to be owned and operated by husband-and-wife team Albert and Rosa Catuela. Hence the name, ‘Alrosa’.

It’s dark out. Forty degrees and falling.

The man in the Grand Am exits the car and crosses the street. He stops when he gets to Alrosa’s rear entrance. He blows into his hands and begins to pace. Looming nearby is the headliner’s tour bus.

Music leaks out of Alrosa Villa.

Four bands are on the bill. Tickets are eight bucks a pop. The members of one of the bands – Volume Dealer – are all dressed up in combat fatigues. Another band calls themselves 12 Gauge.

Smokers and staffers huddled outside notice the man hanging by the lot. He’s six-foot-three and built like a linebacker, dressed in jeans and a hoodie that sports the logo of the Columbus Blue Jackets. His hair is shaved down to the scalp; an echo of his days as a Marine. Completing the ensemble is a thick pair of spectacles. The guys in the Corps called them ‘birth control glasses’.

A couple of smokers tell the man that the show’s already started, that it’s a lot warmer inside than it is out here. He offers them a shrug. “I’m not interested in local bands,” he says.

The man continues pacing, his focus returning again and again to Alrosa’s rear entrance. A few minutes after 10 p.m., he makes a line for the tour bus.

He sees Aaron Barnes – the headlining band’s sound engineer – alighting from the bus. The man asks Barnes if either of the band’s brothers happen to be around. This is not an unusual request. The brothers are always approached by fans looking to party before and after a show. Normally they’re happy to party along with them. But the brothers are already backstage, Barnes says. The show’s about to begin.

The man shrugs. No big whoop. “See you inside,” he says.

Meanwhile, Mitch Carpenter, the parking lot attendant, is standing outside, freezing his nuts off, when something in his periphery makes him turn. He spots a guy climbing the fence that borders Alrosa’s patio.

Holy shit. It’s the guy with the Grand Am.

None of the concert goers stop the man. A few even laugh and help him over. Rock and fucken roll.

A bouncer spots him and starts moving fast, yelling “No way! No way!” like he really means it.

“What’s up?” the man says, then shakes the bouncer off. Darts right by him, into the darkness.

Inside Alrosa Villa, the crowd is energized, yelling and chanting the main act’s name:

Da! Mage! Plan!
Da! Mage! Plan!

Devastation is on the way

Damageplan wasn’t supposed to be there.

They’d just finished their Devastation Across the Nation tour. Not to mention they hadn’t played Alrosa Villa since the days of Cowboys From Hell. That was back in 1990, when brothers Vinnie Paul Abbott and ‘Dimebag’ Darell Abbott were hitting their stride with Pantera. The band gained plenty of success and notoriety before addictions and in-fighting tore them apart in 2003. One year later, the Abbotts were touring with their new band, Damageplan. Trouble was, their first album, New Found Power, had only sold 160,000 copies. That was a lot less than the brothers had expected. Alrosa Villa was on the way home. They could use the cash.

So the band kicks into ‘Breathing New Life’. It’s the second song off New Found Power and their first on that cold December night.

The crowd roars. Fans raise their fists.

The man with the Grand Am, hands stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie, glides past the pool tables and across the floor. He takes the steps, up past the mosh pit, and slips behind the speakers at the foot of the stage.

“My first reaction was. ‘OK, he’s just a kid who’s gonna crowd surf. Then I remember seeing him come right in front of the drum riser.” – Emili Lewis, employee at Alrosa Villa

He moves past the bassist and the singer, both of whom are at the front of the stage and too preoccupied with the show to notice.

The man advances with his right arm extended, left hand cupping his wrist for support. His target is hunched over his guitar, lost in the groove as always.

“Dime was doing his thing. He gets really into it, so he was blindsided.” - Aaron Benner, fan who happened to be standing nearby

The man fires a shot into the back of Dimebag’s head.

Dimebag drops to the floor.

The man shoots Dimebag three more times at point-blank range.

Owner and proprietor Albert Catuela continues pouring drinks. It’s so dark in Alrosa Villa, he thinks the sound is firecrackers. Members of the audience believe it’s a blown speaker. Maybe some yahoo with a cap gun.

“I thought they were playing a big gimmick. People were pumping their fists, thinking it was a hoax.” – Ryan Melchiore, security at Alrosa Villa

Then Vinnie Paul rises from his drums.

Then a shriek of feedback escapes Dime’s guitar.

Then all hell breaks loose.

The man shoots Damageplan’s tour manager Chris Paluska once in the chest. He proceeds to shoot drum tech John “Kat” Brooks twice in the leg before he’s tackled by the band’s Security Chief Jeffery “Mayhem” Thompson.

A struggle for the weapon ensues.

The man slips out of Mayhem’s grasp. He retains his gun and unloads: once in Mayhem’s chest, once in his back, and once in the upper thigh. Mayhem drops to the floor, where he remains.

At this point the audience is fleeing and screaming. Amidst the mindless panic and chaos, 23-year-old Nathan Bray vaults over the security barrier and crosses to where Dimebag and Mayhem have fallen. Bray administers CPR but it’s no use. He raises his arms up to the shooter: “What the fuck, dude?”

The man reloads and answers Bray with a gunshot to the chest. Dead man #3.

While this is happening, 29-year-old Erin Halk, employee at Alrosa Villa, sneaks behind the drum riser in an attempt to ambush the shooter. He’s rewarded with four gunshots to the chest, along with one in his hand and another in his leg. Dead man #4.

Two and a half minutes into the carnage, the police arrive at Alrosa Villa. They’d been alerted by Emili Lewis, the employee who’d seen the man earlier and assumed that he was a stage diver.

The man grabs John “Kat” Brooks: the drum tech he’s already shot twice in the leg. He throws him into a headlock and takes Brooks hostage. The man starts backing away from the stage, waving his Beretta 92FS as the cops close in.

Suddenly, an officer appears from behind the stage.

“There’s no doubt in my mind that he didn’t know I was there. From where I was, I could see he was focused on the other officers coming in the front.” – Officer James Niggemeyer

The officer moves closer, twelve-gauge Remington tight in his grip.

“I was just trying to get as close as I could to assess the situation and hoping he’d [release] the hostage so I wouldn’t have to shoot. But then, while he was waving the gun around, he took it and stuck it to the hostage’s head…which changed the whole situation, if he was going to possibly execute the hostage. They never mentioned a hostage on the radio calls. I knew at that point he wasn’t going to let this guy go, and [might] do something to him.” – Officer James Niggemeyer

People are pointing at the man onstage. Everyone’s shouting: Shoot him! Shoot him!

Officer Niggemeyer fires once.

The shot hits the man square in the face and blows his fucking head off.

Screams of horror and relief escape the terrorized few remaining.

Niggemeyer leaves the stage in a daze. “I had to do it,” he says. “I had to do it.”

Officer James Niggemeyer

Can you feel it slipping?

“You ever read Of Mice and Men? Lenny? That’s what Nate was like. He’d come running up to you and you weren’t sure if he was going to hug you or snap your neck.” – Ryan Hughes, childhood friend of Nathan Gale

Nathan Miles Gale was born in Lansing, Illinois on September 11, 1979. His father left when he was nine, so his mother moved the family east to Ohio. Gale struggled as a student there and spent most of his years in special education. He began to act out at the age of 14: disrupting class, getting into fights, missing up to 33 days of school. A couple of years later, his mother moved the family again, this time to nearby Marysville. Gale switched to a vocational school, where he completed his training as an electrician at the age of 18.

Gale also managed to make a few friends. They partied at a ramshackle house on Delaware Avenue. Some of the guys moved in amps and music equipment, which led to alcohol and drug-fueled jams that would last until the morning hours. One night, Gale told the gang he wanted to try cocaine, and headed off to score some. When he returned, his friends noticed a change.

“He was a hyper dude anyway, but now he was just sitting in the chair and rocking. I mean, for a long, long time—just rocking back and forth, real fast. I realized later, that’s how crazy people rock.” – Ryan Hughes

Shortly after his tryst with cocaine, Gale became infatuated with Vulgar Display of Power - the sixth studio album by metal band Pantera.

“[Gale] listened to that tape for two years, every day, all day long.” – Ryan Hughes

Gale began to keep a journal, filling it with long and rambling tracts. A few of the entries included lyrics that Gale had written at the house on Delaware. Ryan Hughes encouraged him to try and sing a few.

“And we’d be jamming and Nate would be about to scream—red in the face, veins popping, contorted with rage, lyric sheet up in his face. And he’d never say a word. Never, dude. He tried over and over, and he just couldn’t do it.” – Ryan Hughes

In 1998, Hughes and the others noticed that Gale had begun confusing his lyrics with those from Vulgar Display of Power. He’d quote lines from This Love or Fucking Hostile and pass them off as his own.

Later that year, Gale was separated from a group of friends who traveled to Dayton to see Pantera. He returned the next day and bragged to them that he’d partied with the band.

His friends laughed it off. They were used to Gale acting weird. Like petting an imaginary dog now and then. Or saying crazy shit like God told him to kill Marilyn Manson.

“He’d been kind of weird before that, so we thought it was another ‘Crazy Nate’ thing. That was our nickname for him: ‘Crazy Nate.’” - David Johnson, friend of Gale’s

The gang grew up eventually. Some of the guys married. Others moved away. The house on Delaware ceased to exist. Gale lost his social anchor. To make matters worse, his mother got sick of his rebellious behavior and kicked him out of the house.

Gale drifted through the streets of Marysville: shabby and unshowered, listening to his Walkman, detached more than ever from society at large. He slept in the park. Couldn’t hold a job. Had no prospects to speak of.

On February 12, 2002, Gale traveled to Columbus, Ohio and enlisted in the Marines.

“Every time we heard someone getting yelled at, it was ‘Gale, Gale’… If he got yelled at, you’d see him off talking to himself. He talked to himself a lot.” - Lance Cpl. Michael Lemire

Less than two years into a four-year commitment, with the war in Iraq ratcheting up, Gale was released from the Marines with an involuntary “administrative discharge”. He’d been diagnosed with schizophrenia and sent home with a supply of meds.

Gale returned to Marysville. He rented an apartment. Worked odd jobs. Joined a semi-pro football team. Coaches and teammates would later report that Gale would listen to Pantera nonstop to pump himself up for a game.

Opposite Gale’s apartment was the Bear’s Den tattoo parlor. He got a tribal tattoo on his forearm, as well as a piercing in his ear. Gale began to spend time at the parlor whenever he wasn’t working. He’d check out the biker gear and flip through magazines. Groove to the death metal oozing from the speakers. Occasionally, a customer would complain that he was staring at them, creeping them out, and Gale would be asked to leave.

“I think he was trying to find a group he could fit in to. I think that was his problem. I figure he was still trying to fit in.” – Lucas Bender, manager of the Bear’s Den

One day, Gale enquired about purchasing a tattoo gun and setting up a business of his own. The tattoo artist he was speaking with explained to Gale that he’d need to get a license first. All of a sudden, Gale blew up. He accused the artist of being a liar and stormed out of the parlor.

A few hours later, Gale was on the news.

Four dead at Alrosa Villa.

Outside Alrosa Villa

Let me take you down

Dimebag Darrell was murdered on December 8, 2004. Twenty-four years earlier, on December 8, 1980, rock and roll lost another star when John Lennon was shot by Mark David Chapman in front of the Dakota in New York City.

Mark David Chapman thought Lennon was a phony. Nathan Gale thought Dimebag was a thief. He told anyone who’d listen that the lyrics he’d forged in the fire of his notebooks had been stolen by Pantera. He also blamed Dimebag and his brother Vinnie Paul for breaking up the band that had meant so much to him. Who was Gale without his lyrics? Who was he without Pantera?

“I felt like nothing, and I felt if I shot him, I would become something, which is not true at all.” – Mark David Chapman

While the date of Lennon’s death has nothing to do with Gale murdering Dimebag, the coincidence is worth mentioning. Chapman approached Lennon as if they were friends. Gale strode into Alrosa Villa as if he owned the place. Both cowards demonstrated a Vulgar Display of Power.

Artists are vulnerable when they perform. They open their hearts and bare their souls. In return, we honor the confession. We respect the thin electric line between fantasy and fact, between artist and audience, which ends at the edge of the sacred stage. Crossing the line is blasphemy. Killing an artist is a crime against humanity.

"[Your] selfish actions stole the chance for future fans to experience the words of inspiration that this artist provided for millions of people. …Your violent act caused devastation to not only family and former band members, but the world.” - New York State Department of Corrections and Community Supervision Board addressing Mark David Chapman

John Lennon signing an album for Mark David Chapman hours before he’s shot

I earned this with sweat and blood

Dimebag was buried next to his mother at the Moore Memorial Gardens cemetery in Arlington, Texas. His body lies in a Kiss Kasket, courtesy of Gene Simmons. Accompanying Dimebag to the other side is a black and yellow striped guitar, gifted by his hero Eddie Van Halen.

But what about Officer Niggemeyer? Who was 18 minutes into his shift when the shit went down. Who walked into a hostage situation with a shooter who had 35 bullets left. Who the first thing he heard after gunning him down was, “Dude, his head is gone.”

Niggemeyer received a number of awards commending his bravery and exceptional police work. He also received a great deal of therapy, which he continues today.

"I was diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder and severe anxiety disorder."

"It changed my career path — not for the better, certainly. I'm happy to have been able to end the situation with no further tragedies after I arrived, but it certainly hasn't made my life any better."

Niggemeyer was removed from first responder duty on advice of his doctors. He worked in the robbery unit for three more years before leaving the force for good. Today he works in the tranquil bowels of civil service, where the only guns lying around come fully loaded with staples.

His actions on the night of December 8, 2004 will never be forgotten. And while those who know him call him a hero, Niggemeyer passes the praise along to the men and women at Alrosa Villa.

“When tragedies strike there are people who’ll step up – stand up in the face of death and give their life to save others. They did that with no police there, no guns. Those are the real heroes to me.”

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“Dimebag” Darrel Abbott was 38 years old.

Jeffery Allan “Mayhem” Thompson was 40 years old.

Erin Alexander Halk was 29 years old.

Nathan Anthony “Nate” Bray was 23 years old.

R.I.P.

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