Runnin' with the Devil

by Noel Monk

  I had broached this subject with Edward a couple months in advance of the big day. “Are you going to try to stay straight for the wedding, at least?” I asked.

  I was not being facetious. Ed was used to drinking and smoking weed virtually every day, and by now he’d started getting deeper into cocaine. It was one thing to live like that on the road, during a Van Halen tour; it was quite another to get totally fucked up on one of the most important days of your life. It wasn’t hard to imagine a catastrophic outcome if caution was not exercised. Edward promised restraint.

  Sort of.

  “I’ll try to stay as straight as I can,” he said, laughing at the absurdity of the question.

  It shouldn’t have come as a complete surprise, therefore, that before the reception even shifted into high gear, Edward went missing. In fact, so did Valerie. As everyone funneled into the grand ballroom and began drinking cocktails and eating hors d’oeuvres, I began looking for the happy couple. Not that it was my responsibility to prevent Edward from getting lost. The guy was twenty-five years old. He’d been around the world a couple times and could take care of himself. That’s what I told myself (and anyone else who asked). In my heart, I figured something was wrong, but I didn’t want to delve too deeply into the possibilities. I knew he was somewhere in the mansion and that was good enough for me. If I hadn’t lost Edward in Japan, I wasn’t going to lose him in Beverly Hills. How much trouble could he possibly find?

  Bad question . . . bad answer.

  I made my way upstairs—easier said than done, since I was also trying to avoid any spontaneous krell parties. I couldn’t just barge into any room; I had no idea where the couple might be hidden, what they were doing, and frankly I didn’t care. This was supposed to be a celebration, and while it’s true that it was also a workday for me, it wasn’t like being at a concert. I trusted my guys (for the most part) and figured that on this day at least they would know where to draw the line when it came to respectable behavior. More important, I didn’t want to know the details. Plausible deniability and all that.

  Upstairs, I found a member of our security team standing guard outside a bathroom door.

  “Who’s in there?” I asked, although I already knew the answer.

  “Edward and Valerie,” he said.

  I knocked. No answer. I knocked again. Still no answer. I slowly opened the door, just enough to squeeze through, since I was reasonably sure I didn’t want anyone outside to get a view of what might be happening, and went into the bathroom. There I found Valerie in her beautiful white lace wedding gown, looking every inch the angel—except for the tears streaming down her cheeks. On what should have been the happiest day of her life, Valerie was holding her husband’s head over a toilet bowl, pulling his hair back to make sure it didn’t become encrusted with puke.

  “I’m sorry,” Edward said between retches. “I’m so sorry.”

  Valerie gave me the saddest look I had ever seen but said nothing. This was not a scene I had envisioned, not even in my worst nightmare of how this day might unfold. It occurred to me that after the wedding ceremony, they must have come directly from the parking lot to the upstairs bathroom. And now, here they were, immersed in a world of pain and embarrassment—on their wedding day. I tried to imagine what in the hell had happened, how Edward had managed to get so completely fucked up in some small window of opportunity. Of course, it didn’t really matter. When the will is weak, there is always time.

  I stayed for a few minutes to make sure they were okay. I wondered if I was going to have to go downstairs and tell a few hundred guests that the reception had been canceled, and how I would explain it. But Valerie was surprisingly strong. She coaxed Edward to his feet, cleaned him up, straightened his tie, and helped him comb his hair. In her eyes I saw not disappointment but compassion and love. On what should have been such a festive occasion, these two had just gone through a truly horrific experience, and yet they came out looking at each other through adoring eyes.

  Valerie, and to a lesser extent Edward, both probably thought they had left behind the worst of Edward’s drinking and drug abuse—as though a marriage license or even love could cure such a disease. He had promised with all his heart that he would beat back his addictions and demons, because she was worth it to him, and he wanted to be a better man for her. What he couldn’t leave behind were his naïveté and insecurity, and a genetic predisposition to addiction. And he knew it.

  They emerged from the bathroom hand in hand, and made a glorious entrance into the grand ballroom, where a crowd of family and friends and an assortment of Hollywood stars burst into applause. For a guy who had spent the previous half hour heaving his guts into a toilet bowl, Edward looked pretty damn good in his white coat and tails, long hair flowing, eyes beaming with adoration for his lovely bride.

  For a few fleeting moments, everything was right with the world. Or so it seemed. Appearances, after all, can be deceiving. David now stood in the corner, alone, a drink in his hand, smiling tightly at the good fortune of his friend and bandmate. Granted, the grip on his glass seemed rather tight, and it was David’s natural demeanor to be envious and territorial, so I can’t be sure what was going through his head. I do know that he hated sharing the spotlight, but on this day, he ceded it completely. So did Alex, who had already watched his little brother become the more accomplished musician in the family, and now watched with what I assume was envy as he married America’s Sweetheart. And there was Michael, with his beautiful, blond high school girlfriend; the love of his life. As always, he reflected an air of happiness and satisfaction, as if he still couldn’t believe his good fortune at simply being invited to the party.

  At the center of it all were Edward Van Halen and Valerie Bertinelli, circling the room and accepting congratulations and good wishes from both friends and family and the Hollywood elite. It seemed almost too perfect, and I wondered what these people would think if they had seen Edward just a short time ago, praying to the porcelain god on his wedding day. Surely they would not have thought that this was a union destined to last. That it did, for roughly two decades, through an endless series of betrayals and addictions, is an upset I can barely comprehend.

  I suppose that makes it a love story.

  12

  PAYOLA? I HARDLY KNOW HER!

  In May 1981, a month after the wedding, Van Halen went back out on the road for a comparatively modest tour: eighty-one dates as opposed to the hundred-plus we had grown accustomed to playing. Sometimes, though, less is more, as the Fair Warning tour produced sellouts in all but two venues.

  I sat out most of the first week, preferring instead to remain back in Los Angeles to catch up on business, knowing full well that something would happen soon enough and that I would be compelled to join the boys on the road for an extended period of time. When the shit hit the fan on tour, it usually happened in the beginning; it took a few weeks or even months to iron out all the wrinkles and for everyone to readjust to the inherent weirdness and claustrophobia of road life. The transition was rarely smooth. I went to my office each day knowing that a crisis was probably brewing, and that a panic-stricken phone call from the road was imminent.

  And that is precisely what happened.

  The band was in the Northeast, maybe three or four dates into the tour, when I got a call one night from Steve, the road manager. He was agitated, if not downright angry.

  “Noel, we’re having a problem with David.”

  This was not surprising; David was always a problem to some degree. But problem is a wildly vague term.

  “What kind of problem, Steve? I mean, David is a pain in the ass, we all know that.”

  “Well, he kind of went nuts.”

  Again, this was too vague to be of any use, so I pressed Steve for more information, which at first he seemed reluctant to share. Eventually, though, he spilled the entire story.

  David had gotten quite drunk—more so than usual—and had torn up the hotel room in his uniquely aggress
ive fashion. Furniture went out the window, walls and fixtures were damaged or destroyed. And not in a joyful way, as was typically the case in our first couple years.

  “He was out of control,” Steve assured me. “Being a real asshole, too.”

  Steve was not the most laid-back guy in the world; he generally abhorred violence and recklessness, which would normally be a useful character trait in a managerial position; however, when it came to serving as road manager for Van Halen, a certain patience and detachment were required. Sure, you had to be incredibly organized and efficient, but you couldn’t lose your shit over every little bump in the road. This was rock ’n’ roll—things got messy sometimes. You had to deal with it.

  Steve had done exactly that, to the enormous consternation of one David Lee Roth.

  “He wouldn’t settle down,” Steve explained. “So we put him in a straitjacket.”

  Rarely in my life have I been struck speechless by news delivered across a telephone line, but this was one such occasion. I let the word roll around in my head for a moment, to make sure I had heard it correctly.

  Straitjacket . . .

  The first thought that crossed my mind was, Why in the hell do you even have a straitjacket? Talk about planning for a worst-case scenario. I tried to picture David encased in a suit of heavy white cloth, his arms wrapped behind his back, his long hair flowing down over his face. This was not, to me, an amusing image. For one thing, I suffered from claustrophobia myself, so the very thought of being restrained in such a punitive manner caused the anxiety to rise in my throat. David frequently got on my nerves; I had seen him act in a multitude of unappealing ways, but never had I witnessed behavior that justified being placed in a straitjacket.

  “Jesus Christ, Steve. How many people did it take to do this?”

  “I don’t know, three or four.”

  “Well, couldn’t you have just sat on him until he calmed down or passed out?”

  This was a fair and reasonable question. David was not the toughest guy in the world; any one of the legitimately tough guys on our security team could have overpowered him without assistance.

  “I don’t know,” Steve said, annoyance again rising in his voice. “He was just going fucking nuts, and I had this straitjacket, so . . . we put him in it.”

  “Did it work? I mean, where is he now?”

  “In his room, going batshit crazy. Keeps saying he’s gonna rip my head off and shit down my neck. Stuff like that.”

  Again, to me, this did not seem an unreasonable response. I’d have reacted the same way. I tried to imagine if word of this incident got out: the lead singer of one of the biggest bands in the world, confined to a straitjacket by his own security team less than one week into a new tour. This was one story that would test the old axiom that any publicity is good publicity. I figured that as angry as David was at that moment, he’d be even angrier the next day. I envisioned the entire tour blowing up and Van Halen fracturing almost overnight. So I hung up the phone, packed my bags, and drove to the airport. Within a couple hours I was on a red-eye bound for the East Coast.

  The next morning I went to the band’s hotel. I didn’t even bother checking in before going straight to David’s room. I found him sitting on his bed, no longer restrained, but looking very much like a man suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.

  Or maybe he was just severely hungover.

  Aside from the bed, the room was practically devoid of furniture. There were stains on the carpet and holes in the walls. As I entered the room, David was rocking slowly back and forth, holding his arms across his chest. Although no longer confined, he seemed almost unable to move. I’m not sure I ever felt more compassion toward David than I did in that moment. He was a challenging and selfish personality, but it was hard to imagine that he had deserved being so completely dehumanized. And by his own road manager and security team? I almost wanted to give him a hug.

  Almost.

  “David, tell me what happened,” I said.

  His eyes widened as he leaned forward. His lips trembled. I thought he might start crying, but instead he merely unleashed a torrent of anger.

  “Those motherfuckers!” he said. “They put me in a fucking straitjacket. Like I’m crazy or something.” He paused. “I should have killed them. I should have killed every one of them. I could have, you know. They deserved it!”

  What David lacked in vocal finesse he more than made up for in lung power, but I figured he had earned the right to rant hysterically for as long as necessary. An hour passed, maybe two hours, before exhaustion set in and the volume diminished. Most of his anger understandably was directed at the road manager, since, as far as we understood it, he had given the order for David to be treated like a patient in the midst of a psychotic break; the rest of the team had been merely following orders.

  “He’s gotta fucking go,” David said. “I can’t work with him anymore.”

  “Let’s get through the tour,” I said. “Then we can make some decisions.”

  David nodded. He was nothing if not a businessman. At this point in time he was unwilling to do anything that might jeopardize his own career or the continued upward trajectory of Van Halen. If that meant coexisting with a road manager and security team that had placed him in restraints, so be it. David could swallow that particular indignity for the sake of the greater good.

  I STAYED WITH THE BAND for the duration of the tour, which soon took us into Canada. Incidents of true humiliation and degradation—I guess you could call it abuse—such as the straitjacket incident were incredibly rare. But certainly the lifestyle encouraged perpetual adolescence, and not merely in matters of sex and drugs and alcohol. On a night off in Calgary, for example, Alex and I went out to dinner and then took a stroll through a huge indoor market. We lived for these types of places on the road—massive one-stop shopping where you could have dinner, drinks, and then pick up anything you might need. On the road, after all, you didn’t necessarily wash your clothes every three or four days. Sometimes you would just toss out your dirty socks and underwear and buy new ones. It was easier, and money was of no concern. So we looked for places where we could accomplish these mundane tasks while also soaking up the local culture and ambiance.

  This being Canada, we eventually came to a large section of the market devoted to outdoor activities, notably hunting and fishing—row upon row of rifles and fishing rods and other paraphernalia. We came upon a massive commercial chest freezer, open on top and filled with packages of frozen fish: not the kind you take home and eat, but rather the type you hack into pieces and use for bait. I surveyed the contents and then looked at Al. He was already looking at me. Simultaneously, as if stricken with the same wicked idea, we both smiled.

  We picked out a packet containing maybe a half dozen pieces of frozen fish, each roughly six to eight inches in length. After we’d paid for the fish and begun walking back to the hotel, I asked, “So what exactly are we going to do with this?” although I already knew the answer. It was just a matter of who our target was.

  “Pete!” Al shouted. “We’re going to fuck up Pete.”

  Why we chose Peter Angelus to perpetrate our stunt on, I don’t really know. I suppose it was just because he was sure to respond with the appropriate degree of shock and revulsion. Anyway, we went back to the hotel and walked up to the front desk.

  “Hi, my name is Pete Angelus,” I said, rather convincingly. “I need a new room key, if you don’t mind. I seem to have misplaced mine.”

  “No problem, sir. Here you go.”

  We went up to Peter’s room. There were two beds, and since we didn’t know which one was his, we had no choice but to sabotage both. Like mad housekeepers, we stripped the sheets and put a couple of fish in the bottom corner of each bed. Then we remade the beds as neatly as possible and walked out, leaving the faintest odor of thawing smelt in our wake.

  “Good night, Al,” I said, shaking his hand conspiratorially.

  “Sleep tight, Noel
.”

  By the time we left it was probably around eleven o’clock. Pete was still downstairs in the hotel bar, so I went back to my room, just down the hall, and waited for the festivities to begin. A couple hours later I woke to the sound of a bloodcurdling scream, like something out of a slasher movie. And then a second shriek, this one even louder and more shrill. I smiled to myself.

  Poor Pete . . .

  I got out of bed and opened my door just a crack. In the hallway was Pete, wearing only his tighty whities.

  “Pete,” I said. “What the fuck are you doing?”

  “Noel, you’re not going to believe this,” he said.

  “Oh, try me.”

  “Well, I was in bed, reading a book—you know, one of my murder mysteries, and all of a sudden I felt something under the sheets. Something sticky and cold. It was on my foot and started climbing up my leg!” He paused, scrunched up his face in disgust. “Fucking stinks in there, too.”

  “Pete, you’re just bullshitting . . . or dreaming. How much did you have to drink tonight?”

  “What? Not much. And I’m not dreaming. Come in here and look.”

  “I’m tired, Pete, and I want to go to sleep. We’ll deal with this in the morning, okay? I’m sure the slimy bed creatures will be gone by then.”

  I started to walk away, but by now Peter was growing frantic and would not be dissuaded. So I walked to his room, feigning a combination of irritation and disbelief, and tried not to laugh when he threw back the sheets on his bed to reveal a couple of dead fish in his bed.