Judas Priest's singer spews the lurid details of his life in rock, and we lap them up with glee and gratitude.
Rob Halford and co-author Ian Gittins position the book's point of entry exactly where we want it: How the H could Halford stand being gay within the macho bubble of '70s/'80s metal? In his Midlands industrial England, Halford suggests, most everyone was gay at least part of the time, including his teachers, theater acquaintances and . . . father. According to Rob, his schoolboy mates were constantly jerking one another's puds in loos and libraries, never imagining there was anything queer about it.
Halford portrays his straight fellow Priests as quite aware of his orientation, and unconcerned. Much more concerned was Halford himself, who feared that if he enjoyed the sexual fruits of the band's labor as the others did, he could trash their career. Early on, he may have been right, so his choice to find outlets via public bathrooms and truckstop glory-holes seems understandable if pitiable.
Several matters are not believably confessed, including the circumstance of Halford's 1998 outing. The singer claims that "I'm gay" just slipped out in an MTV interview, and that he doesn't even remember whom he told. (For the record, as the book's editors surely know, the reporter was Paul Gargano.) The fact that the revelation arrived shortly after Priest hired another singer can't have been a coincidence.
Halford raises further dust by attributing the split with Priest to a circa-1992 misunderstanding, where he faxes the band (huh?) about his desire to make a solo album, and they interpret the message as a resignation -- a painful assumption poor ol' Rob is just too non-confrontational to refute after two decades of making millions and smelling one another's farts. Plainly he was tired of being closeted, was artistically conflicted, and wanted to leave. Why not admit it?
Meanwhile, without objection from his band, Halford had managed to make leather-boy bondage a hallmark of metal, and to grace the world with allusive titles such as "Jawbreaker," "You've Got Another Thing Comin'," "Eat Me Alive," "Some Heads Are Gonna Roll," "Ram It Down," and "Grinder" ("looking for meat, wants you to eat"). An ambassador of sorts.
Halford shows his wit throughout "Confess," whether describing an envelope bowel movement in the tour bus, the deadpan way his family dealt with finding porn under his mattress, or the working-class ways of Birmighham locals. His colorful language rocks the pages, peppered with Brummisms such as "off my tits," "blarted like a bab" and "Gerrim, Rob!" This is a damned fun read.
Mainly, we grow to like this unpretentious yet artistic yob, who continues to employ his peerless scream with Judas Priest, his first and last metal love, since rejoining them in 2005. We appreciate Halford's concise descriptions of the powerful music Priest made, while weeping along with his personal foibles. He kept falling, he sighs, for men who weren't what he imagined them to be. Most anyone can relate to that.
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Read my August 2000 L.A. Weekly interview with Rob Halford here.