I abandoned my perceptions of the rock and roll ethos long ago: mountains of cocaine, star-studded parties, furniture in pools, orgies, creative geniuses who suffer outrageous mood swings. Today’s aspiring rock-legends are more likely to be growing organic vegetables and considering their carbon footprint.

Fronting his own band, Black Label Society, and playing in Ozzy Osborne’s solo band, Zakk Wylde presents well. Honoured on the Hollywood Rock Walk of Fame after an extensive, distinctive and lauded career as a guitarist, he donates masses of time and money to St Judes Children’s Research Hospital, doesn’t have any tattoos, doesn’t smoke cigarettes or weed, has been married for twenty years and has three kids.

I imagine that at forty-something Zakk is in the same basket as Duff McKagan (Guns N Roses/Velvet Revolver), who told me he’s been off the gear for over a decade, preferring a functioning pancreas to the beer and skittles of his heyday. I am waaaay off.

A Park Hyatt concierge introduces me to John Howarth (head of Riot Entertainment, Riot Distribution and Alliance Touring Australia), who greets me warmly, inviting me to sit at the table adjacent to his in the tea lounge. On the table beyond John’s is Zakk, his back to me, long Nordic hair cinched in a ponytail.

Leaping to his feet and waving his hands erratically, Zakk scoops up his guitar, thrusting it at the long-haired, sullen bloke opposite him. I slowly realise the guy with Zakk is “media”. He looks so unimpressed I wonder if he has been in the game so long that he is beyond being struck by stars. John beckons me over.

With a winning smile Zakk winks, points to the photo of himself he’s signing for the now-standing journo and chuckles throatily, “This was taken back when Barbaranne would still have sex with me. Right, John?” Much slighter in real life than I expected, the heat means Zakk has dispensed with leathers, opting for jeans and a singlet. His biceps are testament to the hours wiled away on gym and guitar. His navel-length beard is plaited, his wrists free from their usual leather cuffs. I settle in opposite him at a polished timber desk. We’re sitting about four feet apart.

Oblivious to the fact that the journo has stalked off, illegibly autographed photo in hand, Zakk continues their conversation about film, Animal House.

“You have Delta,” Zakk explains to me, as the tea-lady unloads cold Beck’s and frosted beer glasses from her tray. “That’s all us little fuck ups. Then you have Omega. They’re the real serious guys and all that shit. We’re fuckin’ Animal House you know?” He cracks up laughing, slapping the table as I wave away the tea-lady who is attempting to pour my beer.

Forgetting Animal House, Zakk looks at my dismissive hand with bemused surprise. “Oh, you’re going straight out of the bottle?!” he asks, raising his eyebrows. We stare at each other as I shrug. “Fuck it!”” he enthuses. “Who gives a shit?” He sits back, picks up his beer bottle and says, “That’s marriage material right there…” before leaning in to clink bottle necks with me. I swallow a girly giggle.

Zakk sits erect, focused again: ” Animal House, you’ve got to rent it. Write it down. Then you’ll see what Black Label’s all about. Cos you know what the bottom line is babe?” He leans over and growls, “We don’t give a shit.”

Still leaning over the table, grinning, Zakk inexplicably continues, “You know, you and me are married. And you’re like, – œI could just fuckin slit. His. Throat.’ Cos my [points to himself] job in this life is to drive you [points at me] fucking insane. We love each other but you know…”

I plaster a grin to my face and hope I don’t look too disturbed, as Zakk launches into a particularly explicit phone-sex conversation he has had with his wife. It somehow incorporates a young Zakk clone and the uncomfortable placement of patio furniture. I nod, smile and desperately try to figure out how to get him off the subject, and toward say, being a massive guitar legend. But he is caught well and truly in the moment.

“And I’m just jerking off and I go, – œHow long did it take you to come up with that story?’ And she goes, – œAbout two minutes asshole’, and I go, – œYou’re the fucking greatest!’ He grins at me as if to say, – œand that’s how to be the coolest wife ever.” Note to self, I think, saying out loud, “Well honey, she sure is a fucking diamond.”

A thoughtful look crosses his face, his beard creating a fuller lip, as though he’s thinking even harder. “That’s why you have a cool marriage. My ring never comes off. We love each other. We made a commitment to the good Lord. You know my cock and balls, babe?” he asks, leaning in.

When I don’t respond he raises his eyebrows at me and I nod enthusiastically, as if I am on first name basis with said appendages. Satisfied, he twirls his index finger in the air and declares, “You own – œem.”

Foolishly hoping that I might get some coherent quotes about his career, I decide to angle into a conversation about Black Label Society, for which Barbaranne is working on some new merchandise. It doesn’t work, prompting him to visit some more sexual nostalgia. Out loud. In graphic detail.

“It’s comedy though. You gotta keep it fun,” he laughs, concluding his titillating story. That is the premise for this entire interview I think to myself. I comment that he must be doing something right.

He laughs, saying, “People say – œIt’s commendable that you’re still married, man, that you’re married, have kids and don’t cheat on your wife. ” Zakk lets his face drop into a comedic look of shock, drawing out the pause for added drama and says, “Commendable? Trust me, I’m terrified of you,” he admits with a laugh, pointing over the table at…me.

He then outlines an outrageous sexual scenario that Barbaranne would never tolerate. As juicy as it may be to reproduce here, the confusing habit that Zakk has of referring to himself as “you”, as well as referring to Barbaranne as “you” all the while pointing at me, when he means her… is, well, mind-boggling.

I break in with, “Hey, can I ask you something?” As if remembering I am there, he enquires, “Yeah what’s that?”

“You’re into baseball right?”

“Oh yeah right,” he mutters like a sullen child. I panic and glance at my notebook. Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Joe DiMaggio. Baseball gods, but also names awarded to some of Zakk’s signature edition guitars. I haven’t got this one wrong. Helmet’s Page Hamilton admitted to me he couldn’t allow himself a TV in the house, as the lure of televised baseball proved too distracting when he was trying to work. Zakk laughs, “Oh yeah? He’s awesome.”

“Yeah,” I continue, grasping onto the promise of a decent answer. “Do you lock yourself in a room and say to Barbaranne, “Don’t let me out – œtil I finish this shit?”

Zakk is reluctant. “Well, yeah, I mean we have rehearsals and everything right? But we’ve got the kids, the three bambinos and Rae’s doing all this crazy stuff. She’s, like, fifteen.” I groan in sympathy. For Zakk. For myself. “Oh yeah!” nods Zakk, with the look of an exasperated father. “Boyfriends. A guy comes over and sees that and that and that…” stabbing with his finger the leather jacket-clad mates in a photo on the table in front of him, “Runs a mile. Rae Rae’s like, – œDaaaaad, I really liked him!’.” He laughs, hands up as to say, I didn’t even do anything.

I decide to have another crack at a question: I rattle off the instruments that Zakk plays – besides singing, he plays guitar, piano, harmonica, mandolin and banjo – and ask, “Anything that you wanna learn, but you haven’t had time for?”

“Well, when Barbaranne was with this guy, Brian, back in the day?” chuckles Zakk, boasting, “I can eat pussy like nobody’s business but she said, – œYou know you could take a couple of lessons from him’, so I’m working on that. I’m trying to get that going down.”

I duck my head to hide a smile as I realise that pun wasn’t intended, or even recognised. By now in the swing of humouring him I ask cheekily, “I dunno…can you use that on an album though?”

“I should do that!” he guffaws. “You know, I could just put a microphone right in front of Barbaranne, you know? And all’s you hear is this…”

I interrupt. “Sooooo, the film cameos, music, a new DVD, all the St Judes stuff. You two have got so much stuff going on…” Nodding in tired disbelief, Zakk sighs, “We got tonnes of stuff going on; it’s insane. You gotta keep going till you run out of gas, you know what I mean? It”s like everyone…then you go home and you see God. I’ll deal with the darkness, the pain, the pounding, whatever. You see the storm clouds coming, but God goes, – œYou know what? They can deal with the pain.’ He knows we can handle it.”

I smile, thinking that this is more of the spiritual, workaholic guy I was expecting. Zakk takes the rhetoric, “Do I wanna handle it? Well, I get into this with Barbaranne, – œWhat am I? Fighting or fucking?’” I glaze over a bit at the mention of more fucking, but Zakk babbles on regardless, “I started with Ozzy at nineteen. I give it everything I got man. It’s like fucking with a condom, I wanna feeeeel you.”

I cringe. Not surprisingly, the mention of fucking reminds him of um, fucking. So begins another torrid story. As he gets more involved I cut him off, asking when the Melbourne Ozzy gig actually is. He frowns. “Yeah, we got rehearsals today. I’ll probably write another song when we get down there…with the boys you know? We’ll get a good night’s sleep and go whoop ass tomorrow.”

We might just be veering toward normal rock star interview territory here. I lunge for it, “Is this like a holiday? I read a quote where you said playing with Ozzy was ….” Zakk interrupts: “He’s the Godfather of my son. He’s named Jesse John Michael, – œcause Ozzy’s real name is John Michael. And my real name is…” He pauses to contemplate. It’s been a long time since he became Zakk Wylde.

“Jeffrey Phillip…” I offer. He chuckles, “Unless you’re Barbaranne. Then my real name is – œpiece of shit motherfucker’”, offering his beer for me to clink mine against. “Know what I’m saying?”

This reminds us of the picture that he was going to sign for Barbaranne. He grabs a picture and pen poised says to me in a cheeky voice, “Let me tell you, she’s not gonna be waiting in line for a fucking picture anytime soon.” He writes – œImmortal Beloved’. He looks at me and says quietly, “Cos you’re not even talking to me now. You don’t take no shit. That’s the reason I love you though.”

John stands to do the next media changeover and I notice two young metal heads who are looking at me quizzically, as if they think I should be looking more impressed. I shoot them a look that, I hope, says ‘you’ll find out soon enough’.

“Immortal beloved,” I read. “Immortal beloved,” he repeats softly. “Now you keep this at the house -it’s got the date on it -cause if she tries to kill me when I get home, you can post it…”

I slip both mine and Barbaranne’s signed picture into my bag at Zakk’s bidding, and after posing for a photo (where Zakk insists I pretend to play his guitar while he wears my sunglasses upside-down and worships me “like a Rock Queen”), I get a big hug and kiss from Zakk and a bemused handshake from John.

As the hot blast of Melbourne heat attacks me on the front step of the hotel, I pull out Barbaranne’s photo and read the inscription. It says, “Would you still marry me?” Sex, drugs and rock and roll people. Some dudes are still pulling it off.