Runnin' with the Devil

by Noel Monk

  Alex knew this, and I believe he understood and appreciated this more than most people would. Maybe it’s about proximity—maybe if they hadn’t been forged in the same environment, not just as children but also as adults trying to withstand the industry together, spending so much time in the same spaces, eating, drinking, working, and touring (and playing) around the clock—it would have been a different story. Alex was always his brother’s biggest supporter and advocate, but I’d be lying if I said I never saw it get to him.

  I’m not saying he didn’t love Eddie—I’m sure he did. But it was fascinating, and eventually depressing, to watch their relationship change and to see the balance of power shift so completely. And yet, Edward never totally freed himself from Alex’s influence. At his lowest, Alex could be extremely jealous; and, more so than Edward, Alex could be inscrutable if not downright mean, especially in the band’s later years (and by later I mean near the end of my tenure), as he fell completely into the abyss.

  The first time I saw Alex and Edward get into an argument that escalated into much more than an argument, it was somewhat startling. It was during that initial tour and I was leaving their hotel room as it happened. They had been drinking, of course. As a manager, I’d always rather see my band members smoking weed than getting shit-faced on whiskey. While weed might have been illegal, it rarely provoked anything more painful than a boring conversation. But get Alex and Edward drinking, and it was only a matter of time before old wounds born of sibling rivalry began to ooze.

  That first occasion, we had all been sitting in the hotel room, drinking and talking. Suddenly Edward and Alex veered off into their own little discussion, the subject of which was completely foreign to me. And when I say foreign, I mean that I did not understand a word, as they began screaming at each other in what I later learned was Dutch—the tongue of their motherland. It was one of the strangest things I had ever seen—these two ordinarily placid Southern California rockers, who usually spoke in a sort of pothead surf patois, suddenly nose to nose, spitting and snarling, and growling at each other in a foreign language, as if they had become possessed. I started to leave the room as their voices got louder—it was all just a little too crazy and pathetic, even for rock ’n’ roll. But before I could exit, they were on each other, slamming their fists into each other’s faces, grabbing great fistfuls of hair, and rolling around on the floor like drunken idiots.

  As we separated them, all I could think was, Holy shit . . . I’ve got a couple madmen on my hands.

  The truth is actually both less and more complicated than this. If you want to romanticize the Van Halen story, you can point to the brothers’ supposedly cosmopolitan and artful upbringing—ethnically diverse parents with an artistic bent; the boys were born to be musicians. On paper, sure—but the other side of the coin was that they came from a monumentally fucked up family that provided neither emotional nor financial stability.

  In some ways, they grew up quickly; they also behaved like children well into their adult years. This, after all, was the way children settled disputes, with physical aggression. Moreover, despite appearing rather soft and skinny, both Edward and Alex carried themselves with the air of people who had spent time on the streets. I had been around a lot of people like this and had fallen prey to some of this behavior myself at times, but I was surprised to see it in the Van Halens.

  I saw them come to blows only a few times, and invariably it ended with the two brothers hugging it out, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. Maybe it is. Maybe, in some families, you have to exorcise the anger on a semiregular basis, and the only way to do that is by hitting your brother in the face. I suppose, on some level, it’s preferable to suppressing years of emotional buildup with a grab bag of fun narcotics, but what do I know?

  Despite occasional flare-ups, there was, in that first year or two, anyway, a genuine sense of camaraderie among not just the band members but the entire traveling circus. This was another reason why I fell in love with Van Halen: the job was fun. In all the time I spent devoting my life and sanity to this craft, I had never seen a group of guys that had such talent, personality, and unmatched sense of brotherhood between them. Van Halen wasn’t just a band but an honest-to-God team; a band in which all four partners shared equally in the culmination of their hard work and superhuman efforts (although this would change in later years). It didn’t matter who wrote the music or the lyrics—all the revenue was split four ways. This egalitarian approach to the business was designed to keep everyone happy and equally invested; it also served to remind them of their roots. They were friends first, bandmates and business partners second.

  Quaint, isn’t it?

  But they believed in this philosophy, at least for a while, and it helped make the first couple of years an unmitigated blast. Van Halen was a family, and that family included everyone who was on the road with us.

  4

  M&MS AND GUACAMOLE

  A young band has to learn to stand up for itself in any number of ways, pushing back against abusive or bullying tactics from a variety of sources, both expected and unexpected. It is assumed, after all, that a new band will find innumerable hands in its pockets—from crooked promoters and managers to record company executives of questionable moral fiber. But the road is a more savage existence, and the challenges can come from those with whom you are supposed to be building a collegial relationship.

  Like the other bands with whom you share the stage every night.

  Nowhere is it written that a headlining act has to be particularly magnanimous toward the bands on its undercard. In fact, the relationship often plays out in exactly the opposite way. An undercard band can expect to be, at best, tolerated; at worst, disrespected and given short shrift at every opportunity. Like so many other aspects of the music business, it’s a test. Opening night at the Aragon Ballroom, when Van Halen was given so little space to perform, was a perfect example of how we were viewed by Journey and Montrose. We were the new guys on the team and we would have to prove ourselves worthy of better treatment. Sometimes this can be accomplished simply by outperforming the other bands, regardless of the length of the set. But occasionally things must be handled in a more confrontational manner. To put it bluntly, sometimes you have to get your hands dirty.

  For example, getting an appropriate sound check proved to be an ongoing exercise in frustration during the early part of the first tour. A triple bill can be great for fans and promoters, but it can be challenging for the bands themselves, especially for the band on the lowest rung of the ladder. As the headliner, Journey got to set up its equipment first and take the first sound check. Ronnie Montrose, billed second, got the next sound check. After a week of standing around in the wings, waiting and watching while Ronnie did his guitar wizard act (like he had anything on Edward), the frustration began to mount. Ronnie would stand there for an hour or more, painstakingly tuning his guitar long after his bandmates had left the stage. I can appreciate a quest for perfection as much as the next guy, but this was inconsiderate and frankly unprofessional.

  “Are these guys ever going to get off the fucking stage?” David said one day. And I knew then that we had to address the issue head-on.

  “Wait over there,” I told him, pointing to the side of the stage. “Make sure they can see you.”

  “Why?” Edward asked, clearly unsure of where I was going with this.

  “Don’t worry about it, just follow my lead.”

  I had already discussed the possibility of an altercation between Montrose and his guys with our small but dedicated (and feisty) crew, who were more than willing to help out. I had expected they’d be upset by the news, but far from it—they were excited. There was blood in the air and they were ready to help me establish the respect that was deserved and had been sorely lacking up to this point. We were fed up and poised to draw a line in the sand. I had outfitted them with the same type of gear that we’d worn on the Sex Pistols tour: all-black outfits, kick-the-shit-out-
of-you, steel-toed boots, and thick, heavy police belts, with handcuffs and flashlights clanging and dangling ominously from the loops. They had a strong, intimidating effect, and just strapping this stuff on gave the crew a sense of empowerment. The guys in the band were a bit wary of the outfits but went along for the ride. They knew nothing would happen to them.

  “Trust me,” I said. “A show of strength is usually all that’s necessary.”

  “Hope so,” said David, smiling nervously.

  As Ronnie continued with his endless guitar tweaking, I got my guys together and we moved into position. On my cue—a slight, well-timed head nod—my road crew and I began walking toward him. We formed a rough semicircle around him, closing in, until we were almost on top of him, and Ronnie finally looked up.

  “Is there a problem?” he asked nonchalantly, almost like he had no idea why we might be interested in an impromptu summit.

  “Yeah, Ronnie—actually, there is,” I said. “We need to do our sound check. Time is getting tight here.”

  Ronnie barely made eye contact with me or the band, instead looking away and continuing to noodle with chords in the same mind-numbingly irritating fashion. My roadies tightened their little protective circle as he played, and after a few moments of this incessant bullshit, he finally answered us. “Umm—yeah, sure.” He sounded bored, like we were the ones wasting his precious time. “I’ll be done in a little while.”

  “When?” I asked. What I did not say was: If you think you’re gettin’ out of this one, you’ve got another think coming, pal.

  Ronnie looked up at me, then at my guys, and then at his own guys, who were in the wings and in no position to defend him. He shrugged. “It’ll only be a few minutes.”

  It was more than a few minutes . . . but not much more. We did the exact same thing at the next show, and the show after that, and eventually the message was delivered and received. Van Halen began to get a block of time sufficient to adjust its gear and do a proper sound check. The boys obviously were happy about this; they were also fascinated. Although Alex and Edward were not averse to throwing drunken haymakers at one another every so often, the band was not, by nature, composed of “fighters.” They were party boys, and since they were brand-new to the whole concept of touring, they had never seen or even envisioned this type of conflict before. They assumed that bands out on the road together enjoyed a sort of esprit de corps. This was sometimes true; more often they were rivals. The fact that Van Halen was signed as a third act, yet quickly demonstrated an ability to blow the headliners away, probably didn’t help matters any.

  The band quickly embraced the notion that a three-act tour was something of an athletic event—a test of endurance, strength, and balls, as well as of musical ability. We were on the road seven days a week, sometimes playing five or six shows, a brutal schedule for just a single truck and a bunch of young road warriors. There was no consideration given to the possibility of fatigue or boredom; we played and traveled and drank and smoked and screwed. We didn’t worry about the consequences, especially the guys in the band. They were too young and energetic to care.

  The ability to live this life, day after relentless day—to get by on little or no sleep and still put on one hell of a show the next night—was a badge of honor. If you were Van Halen, you wanted to give your fans a thrill every night; you always wanted to blow Montrose and Journey right off the fucking stage. And you didn’t accomplish any of these things by behaving in a quiet or subservient manner. You stood up for yourself before and after the show, and once you were onstage, you kicked ass, with no concern whatsoever about offending the delicate egos of a band whose name stood atop the marquee.

  Fuck Ronnie Montrose.

  Fuck Journey.

  Van Halen was on a mission.

  David was the first to get on board with this attitude (it wasn’t a huge jump from who he was at his core anyway, although I later realized that David was a talker, not a fighter). Around this same time, for example, he initiated a workplace dress code: anyone associated with the band—artists or crew—was required to wear either a shirt emblazoned with some form of the Van Halen logo or a plain black shirt. Under no circumstances was anyone permitted to wear an article of clothing that bore the logo or name of another band. This might sound obvious, but you’d be surprised how often such an edict was ignored. It wasn’t uncommon in those days for roadies—many of whom had worked for multiple bands over the years—to pull an old T-shirt out of a drawer and throw it on, so you might end up with a roadie working a Grateful Dead tour and wearing a Jefferson Airplane tee. Most bands frankly didn’t give a shit, so long as the job was done well.

  David, an “us-versus-them” kind of guy, saw it differently. We were already a close-knit unit, but David believed that there was something to be gained by proclaiming that allegiance to the world—all day, every day. That said, I can’t deny that the wardrobe edict had precisely the desired effect: it galvanized the band and the crew. Only once did I hear anyone complain, and that was when Journey offered shirts to everyone on the Van Halen crew. These were specially designed for us, with Van Halen printed on the front, but they also bore the Journey logo. They were extremely cool shirts and it was a genuinely thoughtful gesture on the part of Journey to do this; nevertheless, they were never worn. Not in public, anyway. Eventually, we had our own special shirts made for the crew, to denote their different but vital role within the organization. That first tour, however, was a nameless, grueling affair. We settled for Van Halen shirts and plain brown leather jackets. Nevertheless, we were building both a name and a brand. Not to mention a reputation.

  Within a month, Van Halen had become a much bigger attraction than Montrose, and by the third or fourth month we were promoting a debut album that had gone gold. Between the albums and the sold-out shows, we had, arguably, become bigger than Journey. We were definitely a hell of a lot more fun. Journey was a slick and polished band riding the luminescent vocals of Steve Perry. They were radio-friendly, candy to the ears. Van Halen, meanwhile, was raw and unpredictable. You never knew from night to night exactly what David was going to say, or which direction Eddie might go with one of his breathtaking solos. No two shows were exactly the same, which, if you’re a fan of true rock ’n’ roll, is a very good thing indeed.

  Everyone associated with the tour benefited from Van Halen’s sudden and soaring popularity. Not just Warner Bros. (which also had Montrose under contract), but Journey’s label, Columbia, as well. We played one sellout after another, in front of raucous, screaming crowds. A few months earlier this was a modest doubleheader featuring one band (Journey) finally achieving success after many years of trying, and another (Ronnie Montrose) on the downslope. Now it was a triple bill that included as its opening act, almost ludicrously, one of the hottest and most entertaining acts in the business. If you were a fan of guitar rock, this was one hell of a bargain, because Van Halen would never again be playing a supporting role in venues this small, at such a low price point.

  You want to know who wasn’t happy? Ronnie Montrose and Journey. Sure, we were helping them fill arenas and make money; we also were setting a nightly standard that they could not match. Typically, a warm-up band merely tries to survive the tour without getting booed off the stage. Disinterest is about the best you can hope for. Not on this tour. After a few months Van Halen was a warm-up act in name only. We were selling as many, if not more, records as Journey, and attracting just as many fans. And we sure as shit put on the better show. Don’t get me wrong; Steve was a fantastic vocalist with an impressive range and style. Technically speaking, he was ten times the singer David Lee Roth would ever be. But he was only half as charismatic as David, whose howling, growling delivery and impromptu monologues, combined with a tendency to prowl the stage like a feral cat, lent every performance an air of mystery and danger. He was an actor playing a part, and he played it perfectly.

  Steve was a nice enough guy, and normally we all got along just fine offstage, but w
ith Van Halen’s sudden surge in popularity, the guys in Journey naturally became defensive and territorial. It didn’t help that by the time Journey was set to hit the stage, the boys from Van Halen were already in full party mode, which sometimes interfered with Steve’s preparation.

  Here’s the way it worked. While Van Halen churned through its thirty-five- to forty-minute set (which was never lengthened, despite the band’s rapid ascent), I’d snag as many promotional people as I could find and escort them to our dressing room. As we were a new band on its first tour, we had a feeble little contract rider at the time. A rider is basically a list of items required by a particular artist at a given venue; riders can be short and sweet, or they can be long and gratuitous, depending on the status and ego of the artist involved. A rider can and often does include food and beverage requirements, backstage access for friends and family, dressing room specifications, and other accoutrements. The degree to which one is considered a diva—i.e., an asshole—can often be measured simply by the number of items in the rider and by their absurdity. Which is not to say that a rider is unimportant. It’s actually very important, which is why Van Halen wound up, a couple years later, with a rider that included, rather famously, a demand that the dressing room be well stocked with M&M candies—but with all of the brown M&M’s removed.

  Yes, it is true, and I was the architect of this little feat of genius, at the band’s urging, but I assure you that there was a method to my madness, so to speak. You see, the intent of this portion of the rider wasn’t to create more silly and degrading work for some poor promoter’s assistant or unpaid intern—although that was an unintended by-product—but instead acted as a sort of insurance clause that proved that the things that really did matter in our contract (safety measures and the like) had been given proper weight and consideration. We figured that if a promoter took the time to remove all the brown M&M’s from the bowl before putting them in our dressing room, it was far less likely he’d screwed up any of the other, really important stuff. It gave the promoters a headache and made us look like a bunch of dickheads, sure, but it saved me time, and it prevented something going wrong for the band.