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"I pretty much have everything I want right now," Margera says. "I can't complain. We went to Brazil earlier this year. Billy Idol sawed a ghetto moon-roof into my Lamborghini. There's a whole lot going on.
"I mean, I'd like the moon-roof on my Lamborghini fixed," he continues, "because it's just gathering dust right now, but being that Billy Idol did it, it's cool. But there's not anything else I really want."
Watching the filming of an episode of "Viva la Bam," it's clear that one thing Margera does want is to work very hard while looking like he's not working at all. When the camera's not rolling, he's whirling around the "set" (really just a field at the farm in Gradyville), setting up shots for the Cradle of Filth performance, viewing an upcoming commercial on a director's laptop computer and fretting about the arrival of a keg of beer. The assembled crew is relatively enormous for a show that feels so spontaneous; it's an army of tattooed guys with video cameras, women in baseball caps with walkie-talkies, and longhaired dudes hanging lights and assembling the stage — all there to make it look like Bam and his pals simply stumbled upon Cradle of Filth tuning their instruments in a field in Pennsylvania.
But when the cameras switch on, Margera is his familiar wild self: eyes wide, voice slurred and raspy (off-camera, he speaks in much deeper tones). His cohorts, Rake Yohn, Brandon DiCamillo and Raab Himself — who have spent most of the day drinking free beer and putting each other in headlocks — join in, laughing at Bam's jokes and making funny faces. Then the cameras shut off again, and Margera begins pacing, waiting for Cradle of Filth to arrive and bitching loudly about his upcoming travel schedule. He bemoans the fact that he's never home, never has time to enjoy his castle in the hills, and — most importantly — is seemingly never alone.
"We film nonstop, so it's like, 'Just roll the camera,' " he sighs. "They've been filming me waking up and going to bed every day. When the season wraps I'm going to do some skateboarding in Greece and Fiji with Tony Hawk. I've been filming so much that all I want to do is skate for a month straight."
But those sentiments are quickly shelved. Because now, the sun has set and the moon is bathing the field in a ghostly white light. And Cradle of Filth are here too, skeletons in makeup and leather capes, clutching plastic cups from the local Holiday Inn and being slobbered on by one of the farmer's massive dogs.
And then a line of headlights appears in the distance, cars packed with Bam's teenage fans, driving onto the farm to catch the performance. They are a bit tipsy (some more than others) and very, very excited to see Bam in action — which is evident right away. Because even though Cradle of Filth aren't actually playing tonight (rather, just lip-synching to a playback), Bam manages to coax an unearthly level of enthusiasm out of the assembled masses. Kids flail and spaz from the minute he walks onto the makeshift stage, and by the time Cradle have finished "performing," there are crushed beer cans, a whole bunch of sweaty kids and one smashed drumkit — and that's just onstage. Margera has invited every kid to come on up, take pictures with him and the band and hang out.
And despite his producer's pleas to wrap things up, Bam seems to revel in the moment. After all, not many celebrities have the opportunity to be swallowed up by their adoring fanbase, and that's what Bam's doing right now. They don't care if he's overexposed or a sell-out, and aren't concerned with the realism (or lack thereof) of his TV show. They're here to get a piece of Bam, to get as close to the man and everything he represents as they possibly can.
Even in a field on a farm in the middle of nowhere, business is booming for Bam, Inc.
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Photo: Jason Campbell
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