by Noel Monk
“Don’t get used to this,” I said. “Because you won’t be doing it again until you become superstars.”
Eventually we would travel the country like most platinum-selling bands: on a private bus tricked out to look and feel like a hotel on wheels. For now, though, we settled for cheap air travel: coach seats on shitty little commercial jets. If you travel only once in a while this isn’t such a big deal, but when you’re boarding a plane every other day, it starts to beat you down, both physically and emotionally. The cramped seats, the lousy service, the long waits in line—we were just like all the other human sardines trying to get to the next stop without falling from the sky in a fireball.
Some people find that frequent air travel eases their anxiety about the potential for catastrophe—turbulence is nothing more than a bump in the road; lightning almost never causes an engine to blow out—while for others, each flight renews their sense of impending doom. This response is easy to understand, if not entirely logical: the more you fly, the greater the odds that you’ll eventually crash and burn.
While none of the band or crew particularly cared for commercial air travel, most of them adapted to it just fine. (It was easy for me, as I’d already spent a considerable chunk of my life traveling and living abroad.) The only person in our entourage who truly detested flying was David, a fact that he did his best to conceal, but which eventually became obvious and presented a rather significant challenge.
The first sign was a growing reluctance on David’s part to get his ass out of bed in the morning and pack his bags for a timely departure. As I said, no one was particularly fond of this routine, including yours truly, but it was a fundamental part of the job. Sleep deprivation and hangovers were the rule rather than the exception when we were out on the road, but you learned to fight through it and get to the next city. When you’re young and reasonably healthy, you can get away with almost endless abuse, and God knows Van Halen pushed that theory to its limits—and beyond. Everyone bitched about my morning wake-up call—it didn’t matter if the phone rang at 6:30 or 9:30—the response was always the same: a string of obscenities followed by the sound of the receiver being slammed into its cradle. My ego would be a little worse for wear, sure, but thirty minutes later bags were indeed packed; and inside an hour, everyone would be in the lobby, sipping coffee, wearing shades, and grousing about how tired they were.
Except David.
Almost every day I would have to make a personal visit to David and coax him down to the lobby. I’d walk into his room and his gear would be scattered about the floor. He’d be sitting in a chair, half-dressed, watching TV, pulling on a joint, acting like he was in the middle of a weeklong stay.
“David, what the fuck are you doing?” I’d say. “Let’s move!”
He’d sort of roll his head, stretch a little, let out a groan or two—generally behaving like an arthritic old man. In fact, David was easily the fittest and most athletic member of the band, but on getaway day he always behaved like a boxer who’d gone twelve rounds the night before.
“Man, I don’t feel good,” he’d say.
“What’s the problem, exactly?” I tried to indulge him for a few minutes, but no longer; I figured he was just being lazy.
“Not sure, man. Everything just hurts. Maybe I’m coming down with something.”
“Okay, well, try coming down with your bags. Because we’re out of here in ten minutes, with or without you.”
Oftentimes I’d end up scooping up his clothes and stuffing them into suitcases while David trudged around the hotel room looking for his keys or his wallet or his condoms . . . or whatever. Something was always missing. It was enormously strange and frustrating behavior coming from someone who was generally the most organized and fastidious member of the band. Eventually we’d make our way to the lobby, where Alex, Edward, and Michael would be waiting impatiently. Sometimes they’d yell at David, sometimes they’d take it out on me. It wasn’t a huge deal at this juncture because they all got along so well and were having such a great time, but it was clear that they found David’s act selfish and irresponsible. Hell, we all could have used a few more minutes of sleep, but only David seemed to demand it on a daily basis. They thought it was a power play of some sort—David, after all, was the diva. But it turned out to be symptomatic of something much deeper.
A near-crippling fear of flying.
I’m not sure why it took me as long as it did to put the pieces of the puzzle together. The stomachaches, the refusal to adhere to a schedule (unusual because normally David loved schedules), and, especially, the incessant chatter once we boarded the plane. Some nervous fliers shut down completely once they’re sealed in that metal death trap of a tube; they might practice meditation or listen to music or pop a Valium and hope it takes effect long before the plane is airborne. Others reveal their anxiety through hyperactivity.
Now, David was a talker under the most mundane of circumstances, so even this quirk escaped me at first. David enjoyed sitting next to me on flights so that we could talk about the business of the business, rather than just reliving the sexual and chemical exploits of the previous night. He wanted to know what sort of publicity requirements there would be at our next stop, what the venue would be like, how big a crowd was anticipated. Invariably we’d veer off into more arcane territory—sales figures and promotional strategy, and even what the next album might sound like. Truthfully, much of this was out of my purview, as I was merely the tour manager and not the band’s personal manager, but since Marshall was only occasionally on the road with us—he would jet out for a night and then go right back to LA—the questions came to me.
But there was something else at work: a desperate attempt on David’s part to distract himself from the admittedly terrifying reality of flight. He would usually take the aisle seat to avoid being accidentally confronted with a 30,000-foot view down. Or he’d take the window seat and draw the shade. Any unexpected movement or sound—from the rumble of turbulence to the simple and not unexpected raising and lowering of the wheels—caused David to squirm in his seat and his speech to accelerate like he was on speed. Eventually, after several weeks of this behavior, I noticed him clutching the armrest so hard during takeoff that I thought he might leave his fingernails behind. His eyes were closed, his jaw clenched.
And then it hit me. Holy shit! David is absolutely terrified.
As I got to know David better, it all made sense. David was a total control freak, and flying is all about accepting the fact that there are forces in the universe way beyond your control. Sometimes the flight is smooth and easy and you arrive ahead of schedule. Sometimes there are technological or weather-related issues that make the flight as queasy as a poorly designed amusement park ride. Once in a great while, human error comes into play, and you drop from the sky like a stone, never to be heard from again. And there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.
Sort of like the music business.
5
THERE’S NO PLACE LIKE HOME
Sometimes a picture is worth a thousand words. And sometimes not. A photo might say almost nothing, or convey an image that isn’t quite consistent with what is really happening before and after the shutter clicks.
Consider a photo taken at the base of the Eiffel Tower, shortly after Van Halen had arrived in Paris for the very first time, in May 1978. Two months of touring in the States had been followed by a short break and then a handful of concerts in Germany, Belgium, and the Netherlands. Then it was off to Paris for a one-night stand at Le Théatre Mogador, which would be followed by several days of vacation in the most beautiful city in the world, and then a four-week tour of the UK.
The four young men in the picture appear to be quite happy. They are rock stars who still don’t quite realize they are rock stars, and so there is an innocence about them that is genuinely charming. They’ve never been to Paris, never seen the Eiffel Tower. Life is good, the photo seems to say. Life is exciting and filled with possibility. And i
t’s only going to get better.
The previous week had been a whirlwind of traveling and performing, of behaving like a tourist one moment and a native son returning home in the next. We had played the famous Paradiso in Amsterdam on May 6, a gig that was unique not only because patrons were allowed to purchase weed and hash from a concession stand—like soda or beer in the United States—but because it was the first time that Edward and Alex Van Halen had performed in their native country. Naturally, Van Halen had quickly became enormously popular in the Netherlands, and the brothers were treated like hometown heroes every time we visited; the band’s records reached gold and platinum status in that part of the world faster than almost anywhere else.
In the dressing room after the show, there was quite a large contingent of Van Halen relatives, but I noticed that they weren’t exactly the closest of families. The Dutch relatives of their father, Jan, stayed on one side of the tiny room, while Eugenia’s Indonesian relatives remained on the other. The tension was palpable but did not seem to surprise Edward or Alex, who had long since grown accustomed to such familial strife. In general, they both seemed thrilled to be back in their homeland, and to be experiencing it as adults. I remember walking with the brothers through Amsterdam’s red-light district on our day off, and seeing them marvel at the openness of the Dutch culture. There were coffeehouses in which hash brownies were served alongside espresso, and brothels in which prostitutes, in varying stages of undress, wriggled and writhed in the windows—and it was not only legal, but accepted.
Alex and Edward walked through the neighborhood slack-jawed and bug-eyed, as you would expect of a pair of red-blooded American males who have never been outside the country. You could almost read their minds:
Man . . . why did we ever leave this place?
I got a huge kick out of seeing how the guys responded to international travel. Not just Edward and Alex but the entire band, and even the crew members. When I was twenty-one years old I spent three months hitchhiking alone through Europe. It was, to say the least, an enlightening experience, and one that proved foundational for my entire life. By the time I joined Van Halen, I had lived in Denmark, Paris, and Tangier, among other places. I was an American and always would be, but I understood that the earth was a large and eclectic place, and that not everyone considered Americans God’s gift to the world. It’s good to get out once in a while and realize that a vast portion of the world’s population does not speak English and frankly has no interest in learning it.
In general, the boys of Van Halen embraced being exposed to new experiences and cultures with enthusiasm and a sort of wide-eyed innocence. Certainly Le Théatre Mogador fell into this category. Built during World War I, it is generally considered one of France’s most beautiful venues, elegant and dripping with history inside and out. Mogador is a smallish space, seating roughly sixteen hundred patrons, but every seat has a perfect view and the acoustics are extraordinary. Suffice it to say, Van Halen had not yet performed in a venue that carried the weight and tradition—not to mention the elegance—of Le Théatre Mogador. (The Paradiso in Amsterdam was extraordinary for different reasons.) But these guys were nothing if not audacious. All those years of playing live, practically for free, in front of inebriated, screaming fans, either in backyards or steamy clubs, had made the band not just incredibly tight and efficient but utterly fearless. You could throw Van Halen into almost any venue, in front of any crowd, and they would simply do their thing—and they would do it about as well as any rock band had ever done it. So they weren’t intimidated by Le Théatre Mogador or by the prospect of playing in front of French fans for the very first time. On some level, it was just another night and another gig.
When we first arrived in Paris, I met Jacques, the head of Warner-Elektra-Atlantic’s Paris division. Jacques and his entire staff were true professionals committed to making our trip to Paris a successful and enjoyable one. The same was true of the promoter, the renowned Albert Koski, who was sort of the Bill Graham of Paris. Over breakfast on the morning of the show, Jacques and I swapped stories and gossip about everything that was happening back at Warner corporate headquarters in Burbank, as well as in the music world at large. Jacques was a smart and erudite man and I enjoyed his company. Much as I liked hanging out with my band, it was nice once in a while to experience some adult conversation.
Jacques told me all about the great plans he and his staff had put together for our trip to Paris—the show, as well as the three days afterward, when we would have time to take what amounted to a vacation. Every detail seemed to have been considered: expensive hotel, a pair of limos with drivers at our disposal for the duration, guided tours . . . whatever we wanted or needed. Given our relative youth and inexperience, they were really rolling out the red carpet. Sure, Van Halen had created a fair amount of buzz by this time, but we weren’t exactly the Rolling Stones. Nevertheless, that’s the way we felt.
Back at the hotel, I went over the itinerary with the band. There would be several interviews with various media outlets in the ensuing days, both before and after the show. This, as always, elicited groans of displeasure from the guys. No surprise—it is imprinted in the DNA of virtually every rock star that they have a visceral reaction to the idea of promotion, and especially interacting with the press. David and Alex were the most pliable in this regard. In the beginning, they did probably 90 percent of the interviews. As time went on, David took on an even greater role, which was fine since he had an uncanny ability to turn on the charm for anyone with a camera or microphone, and to turn it off the moment he reengaged with those closest to him.
The show was scheduled to begin at eight o’clock (I had presumed that was for the opening act, and that we would go on around nine or nine thirty). By three o’clock we were at the theater for our sound check. Although tired and hungover, the boys were impressed by the physical beauty of the venue and excited about playing that night. As always, David took charge, barking instructions to the soundman and complaining about almost everything.
“What the fuck, man!? That echo is not coming in on the right beat. Can you fix it, please?”
As smooth and cordial as David could be in guiding the course of an interview, he was often exactly the opposite in dealing with technicians and support staff and even his bandmates. He was fussy and easily annoyed, and had little use for diplomacy. His observations, however, often proved to be right, as in this instance. The soundman had indeed fucked up the echo effect, and it was ruining the song.
While the band continued its sound check, I ran out for a quick bite to eat. When I returned, I was surprised to see that Marshall Berle had arrived. Ordinarily, this would not be a strange occurrence; a band’s personal manager should be a fixture on the road, after all, but because Marshall had been a veritable ghost on the tour, I had no idea that he was planning on joining us in Paris. We shook hands and chatted amiably. By this point, I neither liked nor respected Marshall—his absence on the tour spoke volumes to me about his involvement with the band—but I tried not to wear my contempt on my sleeve. As for how he felt about me? I don’t really know. I presume he was at least savvy enough to know that I had the full support of Carl Scott, and that my time with the Sex Pistols had only enhanced my reputation as a savage road dog.
When Albert Koski walked by, I introduced him to Marshall, and the three of us chatted briefly. During a lull in the conversation I asked Albert about the opening act. A look of confusion came over his face as he turned to one of his assistants; the assistant shrugged.
“Uh, Noel,” Albert said. “I don’t think we have an opening act.”
This didn’t seem possible. Surely they didn’t expect a new band—one that had never been a headliner before—to suddenly show up in Paris and fill the Mogador on its own. Right? I turned to Marshall; as manager, he should have had some idea what was going on. Indeed, he should have been deeply involved in putting together the dates and venues and supporting acts.
“What’s the
story, Marshall?” I asked.
Marshall shook his head coolly. “I have no idea. I just got here.” Typical. Marshall proceeded to deal with the situation the way he did most problems: he told me, curtly, “Do whatever you want, Noel. You’re the road manager,” and proceeded to get the hell out of Dodge.
Now, I had a great deal of fondness and respect for Albert, but I felt that he had put me in a very difficult position. I reminded him that Van Halen only had one album, and that we had been out on the road for two months promoting that album, playing essentially the same buzz saw of a set night after night, roughly forty minutes of balls-to-the-wall rock ’n’ roll. We were good, but we were not yet a headliner, and didn’t have anywhere near enough material to pretend we were. Especially not on such short notice.
“Oh, merde,” Albert exclaimed.
I nodded. “Yeah, I feel the same way.” But it was my problem now. I had nothing to do with setting up this tour or this particular date; nevertheless, as tour manager, it fell on my shoulders to inform the band of this situation, and to assuage whatever concerns they might have. They responded with a mixture of bewilderment and anger. At first, it was pretty obvious they thought I was joking—but when reality set in, they got pissed.
“Fix it,” David said. “I don’t care what you have to do. Just make it right.”
“There is no fixing it,” I said. “You guys are going to play tonight, and you’re going to be the entire show. So let’s figure out how to give these people their money’s worth.”
The answer was simple: we’d play a longer set, utilizing covers that had been part of the band’s repertoire on and off for years, with a sprinkling of rough, unrecorded original material to pad it out. We had already decided that the regular set would end with “You Really Got Me,” since it was a well-known hit by both us and its composers, the Kinks. Even though it wasn’t “ours,” at the time it was our signature and most easily recognized song. They’d play the shit out of it, same as always, and then get off the stage. Easy . . . ish.