I want to apologize for treating rock stars like rock stars. As Ozzy Osbourne keeps postponing tours because of injuries, and Lou Reed is dead, and Motley Crue have just endured the release of a bad biopic, I realize more fully how frail these suckers are, what stressful jobs they have, and how rarely they get treated like human beings. Having talked with and written about those three and others, I recognize that sometimes I could have cut the entertainers' human side a bigger slice. Take Motley Crue.
I interviewed the Crue for L.A. Weekly at a Valley rehearsal space in September 1997. Now, the Weekly had some history with Motley Crue. In response to the paper's habitual dismissal of unhip glam metal, the band, in full regalia, had marched into the paper's office in the early '80s to demand coverage. They got some, grudgingly, only to be ignored (aside from a music award in their category) for another 15 years.
Although Motley Crue had no reason to think I'd treat them nice in '97, they were magnificent. I'd asked to interview only bassist-songwriter Nikki Sixx and guitarist Mick Mars, but was stoked at the appearance of all four members. When the photographer was puzzling about a nonstandard way to shoot the band, they stole some alien dummies from a nearby prop shop and posed with the things. They answered all my dumb questions with imagination and humor.
And this was not an easy moment for them. After their 1994 album with John Corabi as singer stiffed, they had brought back estranged frontman Vince Neil for the new "Generation Swine," and they weren't sure they didn't still hate one another. Neil shrank from the general foolery, maybe due to the awkward reunion and because he was distracted by the burn of a big new back tattoo. Augmenting that pain was the persistent agony of having lost his 4-year-old daughter to cancer only two years previous. I didn't ask him about the tragedy or about how he'd crashed his car in 1984, killing his friend; that stuff didn't seem like fun copy.
Drummer Tommy Lee had recently been forced to deal with the worldwide release of his sex tapes with wife Pamela Anderson. Although he had handled the mess with panache, it must have been a giant bummer. I didn't ask him how he felt about the breach of his intimacy, because the media had overplayed the subject. And hey, it was all part of the show.
"Generation Swine" represented a major change for the Crue -- the record's gloomy sonic swamp bubbled with the emotional sensitivity of adults confronting life without drugs and booze. It was a special release for Sixx, who was finally coming to terms with a traumatic childhood and self-destructive behavior that had led to a number of near deaths by overdose. "Swine" is Crue's most artistic album, and the one I still play most.
Rock playboys or damaged mortals? The contrast makes for tough reporting. Neil Strauss' biography "The Dirt" struck a readable balance of entertainment and grit, largely because the dudes told their own story. Lacking the same immediacy, the new movie of the same name crashes: The fun feels forced, the darkness flat. Even slathering tits & ass all over the place helps little, though they're damn good tits & ass (M as well as F).
My Weekly story wasn't a sparkler. It ended by saying Motley Crue would never grow up, an opinion belied by the demonstrable fact that they had grown up, despite their reputation as spoiled brats -- an image remaining even today, with the new single "The Dirt" dumping out the same antiquated decadunce.
Mainly, however, Motley Crue made it through skill, not image; songs such as "Looks That Kill," "Kickstart My Heart," "Afraid" and many more betrayed writers and performers of the highest echelon. I told Mick Mars I admired the economy, precision and feel of his guitar playing, an essential asset that doesn't get enough attention. A surprisingly quiet Mars noticed that he and I were about the same age (older than the rest of Crue), and said he'd picked up many of his chops by studying classic country music. He then showed me his arm tattoo sourced from Be-Bop Deluxe album art -- a tribute to his '70s idol Bill Nelson, whose Duane Eddy-derived skills exemplified the virtues I'd just praised. I told Mars I'd love to hang with him and spin records sometime. Which was true, but as if.
Months later, I heard a knock on my door. It was 9:30 at night, and I was tired. I opened the little peep port and saw the stubbled chin of a middle-aged man with a soft driver cap over his eyes.
"Fuller brush man," said the visitor. I had not heard that term in a generation, and the guy sure didn't look like a salesman. "We don't want any," I said, and closed the peep port. There was another knock on the door. I didn't answer.
The next morning, I found a big box of heavy-metal LPs on my welcome mat. No note, nothing. I thought of Mars, who has been afflicted all his life by a degenerative form of arthritis that has fused his spine and rendered him nearly immobile. (He still plays wizardly guitar.) I thought of him carrying a big box of records up the 30 steps to my door.
I wonder if the Fuller brush man was Mick Mars. I hope not.
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PHOTO IS OF THE ACTORS PLAYING MOTLEY CRUE IN "THE DIRT."