Save Me from Myself: How I Found God, Kicked Drugs, Quit Korn, and Lived to Tell My Story by Brian Welch

From the Publisher

In February 2005, more than 10,000 people in Bakersfield, California, watched as Brian "Head" Welch–the former lead guitarist of the controversial Nu–metal band Korn–was saved by Jesus Christ. The event set off a media frenzy as observers from around the world sought to understand what led this rock star out of the darkness and into the light.

Now, in this courageous memoir, Head talks for the first time about his shocking embrace of God and the tumultuous decade that led him into the arms of Jesus Christ. Taking the reader backstage with Korn, Head tells the inside story of life in the band and how his rock star lifestyle resulted in an all–consuming addiction to methamphetamines. Head writes openly about the tour bus mayhem of Ozzfest and The Family Values tour, while providing a candid look at how the routine of recording and traveling placed him in a cycle of addiction that he could not break on his own.

Speaking honestly about his addiction, Head details his struggles with the drug that ultimately led him to seek a higher power. Despite his numerous attempts to free himself from his addiction, nothing–not even the birth of his daughter–could spur him to kick meth for good. Here he addresses how, with the help of God, he emerged from his dangerous lifestyle and found a path that was not only right for his daughter, it was right for him. In addition, he discusses the chaotic end to his time in Korn, and how his newfound faith has changed his perspective on his past.

Candid, compelling and inspirational, Save Me from Myself is a rock & roll journey unlike any other.

Kirkus Reviews

Guitarist from platinum-selling metal band gets trashed, has kid, gets born again, writes book. Melding old-school thrash rock with a Red Hot Chili Peppers-ish, hip-hop-ish attitude, California-based quartet Korn was at the forefront of the 1990s nu-metal movement. They were a hard-partying band, and founding guitarist Brian "Head" Welch often indulged in the stereotypical sex-and-drugs lifestyle right alongside his enabling Korn-ers. Eventually he realized it was difficult to simultaneously spearhead group meth sessions and properly raise his daughter Jennea. On one of his rare days off in 2004, Welch heard his five-year-old happily crooning the Korn tune "A.D.I.D.A.S." (an acronym for "all day I dream about sex"), which features such kid-friendly lyrics as, "Screwing may be the only way I can truly be free from my f***ed up reality." It dawned on him that harsh music and harsher substance abuse might not be the best influence on his child. Much to the shock of his bandmates and their fans, he swore off drugs, walked away from Korn and abruptly became a born-again Christian. Welch is a decent, if unexceptional storyteller, and he has good source material to work with: What meathead metal band's history doesn't include multiple moments of debauchery? His proselytizing grows repetitive, however, so some may find his autobiography at once alienating and dull. More to the point, it's schizophrenic-six chapters rock memoir, six chapters religious treatise. Only a small percentage of Korn's fan base is likely be interested in reading about the guitarist's spiritual awakening, and hardcore Christians are even less likely to want to read about a sideman from a band they've probably never heardof. Mildly inspirational, fairly cliched and an extremely tough sell.

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Chapter One

Life Begins in Bako

I grew up in a southern California town called Bakersfield, about an hour and a half from Los Angeles. In the past few years, the place has grown a ton, but when I was younger, it was still pretty small. There are two important things that you should know about Bakersfield when I was younger:

It was hot (we pretty much baked in the heat every summer, so we started calling it "Bako").

There wasn't much to do.

My childhood there was pretty typical. Like a lot of kids in Bako, I grew up in a nice enough house, with nice enough parents. We were pretty much a typical middle-class family of the eighties, living at the end of a cul-de-sac in a ranch-style house with a basement. The basement was everyone's favorite room. We had a home theater system down there (well, as good as home theaters got back then), huge couches, a huge pool table, a big "Asteroids" game (just like they had at the arcade), and some workout equipment. Even my dad liked hanging out down there, since that's where he had his wet bar and a little bathroom that he used every morning to get ready for work.

Because both of my parents worked a lot in order to provide for me and my older brother Geoff, there wasn't a lot of time for hugs in the house. While I knew we all loved each other, it wasn't the kind of place where everyone said it or showed it all the time. For the most part, my dad was a pretty cool guy. He coached my soccer team as well as my brother's, took us motorcycle riding, andwhen he was in a good mood, he made us laugh a lot.

But every now and then, he'd have these Mr. Hyde moments when he'd get kind of crazy. I don't want to sound like I grew up with some abusive father or anything, because he wasn't; when he was nice, he was really nice. But when he got angry, he got scary. Part of it had to do with his drinking; his dad was an alcoholic, and my dad drank a bit too. While my dad usually got happy when he was drunk, he definitely had his moments when his temper would flare up—even over little things. I remember a few times when my brother or I would spill a glass of milk at dinner, and he'd change into a totally different person, yelling at us with a voice full of anger, a voice that made us feel like we were going to get beatings, though he never followed through with those. A few minutes after his anger fits ended, he was usually back to normal. They were scary moments, but then they would pass.

Overall, my mom was pretty cool and laid back—more or less your standard mom. She cooked good dinners every night, helped get us ready for school in the mornings, kept the house really clean, basically your typical mom stuff. It seemed like she had it more together than anyone else in our house, but she had her issues too—just like everyone else in the world. Growing up, I felt the most love from my mom probably because she didn't have the unpredictable emotions that my dad did.

My brother Geoff is two years older than I am, and, like all brothers, he and I fought a lot when we were kids. A couple of times it was brutal, but it wasn't always that way. We also used to play games together for hours and make each other laugh. As we got older and became teenagers, we began pushing each other away in a more serious manner. In general, it wasn't personal; it was mostly that we were just into different stuff. For example, I was into heavy metal, but he was into new wave. Back then the rockers didn't get along with the new wave crowd. Geoff used to pin his jeans real tight at the bottom and his hair was long on one side of his face—down past his eye—while on the other side, it was cut short; it was the classic new wave hairdo. I would constantly make fun of him for it and for being new wave in general. One time we were arguing in our basement about something stupid, and I picked up a pool cue and whacked him with it as hard as I could. Got him good, too. I knew he was going to kill me for that, so I ran to my mom and hid behind her until he calmed down.

Even though he didn't get me that time, he usually got me back. When he was sixteen, he had this yellow Volkswagen bug that was slammed to the ground with matching yellow rims. One day I took the bus a half-hour across town to go hang out at the mall all day with one of my friends, and at the end of the day, I was tired and seriously not looking forward to another half-hour bus ride home. We saw my brother in his bug, and I asked him for a lift.

"No way!" he said. "I ain't giving a ride home to no rocker."

Like I said: different.

Our family moved from Los Angeles to Bako when I was in the fourth grade. My dad decided to go into business with my mom's brother, Tom, and his wife, Becky, and together they ran a Chevron truck stop in East Bakersfield, managing a staff of full-time truck mechanics, gas pumpers, and cashiers. My mom also worked with my dad at the Chevron too. Looking back on it, it was amazing that the two of them got along so well. They worked together all day, five or six days a week, then came home at night and dealt with me and Geoff. They had their problems—and we added to them—but they worked hard to make money and to make us a family.