Runnin' with the Devil

by Noel Monk

  “I just found out I got the clap,” David said.

  This did not surprise me in the least. Getting an STD was practically a rite of passage when traveling with Van Halen; David, like most of the guys, had absorbed a river of penicillin in his butt to stave off the effects of unprotected sex with strangers. I wasn’t sure why he was so freaked about it this time.

  “What’s the big deal?” I asked. “Go see the doctor. You know the drill.”

  David shook his head. “You don’t understand. I really like this girl, and I wanted to keep seeing her. But I’m pretty sure I’ve given her the clap, too.”

  I shrugged. “Yeah, that’s probably true, David. What do you want me to do about it?”

  David leaned in closer, smiled, and put a hand on my shoulder. “Come on, Noel. You’re my manager . . . my friend.”

  Friend? I did not like the direction this was taking.

  “Get to the point, David.”

  “Okay, I want you to make a phone call for me.”

  “To whom?”

  He provided the name of the girl with whom he was now infatuated.

  “And what would you like me to say?” I remained calm in part because I was curious, but also because the entire premise was so ridiculous that I couldn’t resist playing along.

  “You know,” David said with a smile. “Tell her I love her, and that I want to keep seeing her, and that I’m very sorry because I probably gave her the clap.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Easy, right? You can do that for me?”

  I looked David square in the eye. He was not kidding. But I wanted him to know that this was well beyond my pay grade. Or maybe below my pay grade. Regardless, there were limits to the type and amount of shit I would shovel. I loved Van Halen and I loved my job. But this fell under the heading of “unreasonable request.”

  “Sorry, David. I’m not going to do that.”

  His eyes went big and round, like a puppy’s. “Well, then, who’s going to tell her?”

  Even now, five years into our journey together, when they were one of the biggest bands in the world, these guys could still behave like children. As their manager—one who still did not have a long-term contract—I could be asked to do almost anything. And rarely did I decline. So, as much as I wanted to tell David to fuck off and grow up, in no particular order, instead I went into fix-it mode.

  “David, I’ve got a great idea.”

  We were sitting across from each other at the kitchen table. David pulled his chair closer and straightened up. “What? Tell me.”

  “You send her a beautiful handwritten letter, along with a dozen long-stemmed roses.”

  David nodded. “What do I say in the letter?”

  “Tell her how much she means to you. Tell her you were with someone else before you met her—that’s very important—and unfortunately you contracted something. Be polite and discreet and very apologetic. Remember, she likes you. She doesn’t know you’re a whore.”

  David smiled. “You don’t think so?”

  “Well, she probably does, but for now she doesn’t care.”

  “Yeah,” David said. “I’ll get on it. Thanks, Noel. You’re the best.”

  When David left, Jan came into the room. “What did he want?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  BANGING HEADS WITH BOOTLEGGERS was more our speed, and we continued to do that with enthusiasm and vigor. Pat Kelly and I had gotten it down to a science by ’82. Pat was a former Chicago cop who was head of our merchandising operation. We’d walk around the venue well ahead of time, look for rogue vendors, and then swoop down on them. We had the legal system working on our behalf by this point, so most of the confrontations were far less violent than they’d been in the early days. We’d simply hand a court-order notice of confiscation, which gave us the right to take possession of all unlicensed merchandise. We’d take the gear—T-shirts, mostly—then bag ’em, tag ’em, and put them in storage.

  One day we were driving around outside the venue when we spotted a man and a woman selling T-shirts near the side of the road. It was a very small operation, just the two of them getting ready to sell a small amount of stock off a card table. But that’s the way it often worked. Unlicensed vendors would set up shop at concerts, armed with just enough merchandise to move quickly—maybe a few dozen shirts. Then they’d shut down and turn their earnings over to the bootleggers, keeping a cut for themselves. On this particular day, as we passed the man and woman with the card table, Pat did a double take.

  “Hey, I know that guy.”

  So we parked the car a short distance away and walked up to the table. The man turned white as soon as he spotted Pat, because he knew he was about to get busted and lose his income for the day. We moved in on them and gently pulled the man aside, while leaving the young woman to continue with her work. You see, we weren’t really interested in confiscating such a small number of shirts. Instead, it was Pat’s idea to coerce the guy into giving up information about his distributor, in this case an asshole named Johnny, one of the biggest bootleggers around. We knew ahead of time that this was one of his dates, and that he would be selling his shitty merchandise all over the place. Every time Johnny showed up at a Van Halen concert, it was with a couple vans, each filled with at least five hundred T-shirts, which he’d sell for ten bucks apiece. But I’ll give the guy this much: he was good at his business. Not just the selling of bootleg merchandise, but doing it without getting caught. We could never seem to find him, so we always ended up settling for busting a few of his vendors.

  Tonight would be different.

  “Fuck this guy,” Pat said. “Let’s use him to get to his boss.”

  We scared the shit out of the guy, first, took him and his partner to a secluded area in a parking deck a short distance away. We told the young woman to sit tight while we led her partner away. Then we made him think we were not only going to take his merchandise but maybe rough him up a bit, as well. Not that we threatened him: we just looked at him in an unfriendly way, if you get my meaning.

  “Look, you’re going to be okay,” I said to him. “We aren’t even interested in you.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, really. Just tell us where Johnny is keeping his van, and we’ll let you sell your shirts. Shit, if your information is good, we’ll even give you an extra five hundred bucks.”

  The man stopped trembling. He smiled warily.

  “Are you fucking with me?”

  Pat shook his head.

  “Not yet. But we might.”

  “No, no. That’s okay.” And with that he proceeded to tell us exactly where we could find Johnny’s van.

  “Great,” I said. “After the show, and after we do the bust, just come by and we’ll give you your money.”

  “Thanks!” he said, before turning to walk away. Suddenly, he stopped and doubled back.

  “Problem?” Pat asked.

  The man rubbed his chin with a bony hand. He looked around conspiratorially.

  “Yeah, I was just thinking. What do I tell my girl up there? I don’t want her to know I made a deal with you; might get back to Johnny.”

  I looked at Pat. He nodded. The guy had a point.

  “Tell you what,” I said. “We’ll beat you up.”

  The man recoiled in fear. “What?!”

  “Relax,” I said. “I mean we’re going to make it seem like we beat you up; you know, forced you to give us information.”

  The man nodded. “Ahhhhh. . . . Okay. Good thinking.”

  Then Pat and I proceeded to smack our hands together and hit each other on the back while our “victim” cried out in pain, just loudly enough for his partner to hear. After a few minutes, we escorted him out to meet her. He squeezed out a couple perfunctory tears, and off they went. Later that evening, with local police and marshals in tow, we confronted Johnny selling hundreds of bootleg T-shirts out of the back of his van. And, oh, man, w
as he pissed off. It was one of the highlights of my career hunting bootleggers to see that piece of shit being hauled away in handcuffs, screaming at the top of his lungs.

  “Monk, I’m gonna machine-gun you to death, you motherfucker!” he screamed as they dragged him off.

  Later that night, our young informant stopped by to collect his fee. I counted out five hundred dollars and placed it in his palm. The guy smiled. Then I handed him an extra hundred. He had earned it.

  SOMETIMES THE BOYS were their own worst enemies. Even after five years of stardom, they still had moments where they would display business naïveté and overall immaturity.

  Between the tour and merchandise and record sales, we cleared nearly 10 million dollars in 1982. Split that five ways, take out 50 percent for taxes, and you’re still left with almost 1 million dollars per man. And, as good a year as ’82 was, it could have been even better, at least for one member of the band.

  In 1982 Michael Jackson went into the studio to begin recording Thriller. At some point in the process, Quincy Jones, the album’s producer, reached out to Edward and asked if he would be interested in writing and playing a guitar solo for one of the tracks. That song was “Beat It.” Like just about everyone else on the planet, Edward had enormous respect for Michael. And like most musicians, he knew that Quincy was an extraordinarily gifted and influential producer. In short, Edward was flattered that he was asked to contribute something to the record. As a fan, I could appreciate that; as a businessman, I had to advise him to consider the parameters of the arrangement very carefully.

  I do not know whether Edward was offered a royalty for his contribution. I do know that he neither requested nor received a penny. In fact, he insisted on donating his time for free, and was quite proud to have done so.

  Me? I thought he was a fucking idiot. A nice idiot, but an idiot nonetheless.

  Four times Edward was in my office to talk about this project, and each time I told him the same thing: “For God’s sake, Ed, just take a point. Or even half a point.”

  He would smile that stoner’s smile of his and dismiss me with a wave of the hand.

  “Nah, man. Can’t do that. I love Michael.”

  “Yeah, I know. Everybody loves Michael. But trust me—he’s not working for free. And if this album becomes a big hit, you’re going to wish you hadn’t given away your time.”

  My warning fell on deaf ears. Edward donated his time and talent, and his contribution helped make “Beat It” one of the signature songs on one of the decade’s signature albums. By the time “Beat It” was released, in April 1983, Thriller had already spawned two hit singles in “Billie Jean” and “This Girl Is Mine.” “Beat It” became a platinum-selling single, a massively popular video, a Grammy winner for Record of the Year, and helped catapult Thriller to an unprecedented level of artistic and commercial success. It was nothing short of a transformative song. Thriller, meanwhile, went on to become the best-selling album in history, with sales of more than 30 million.

  You don’t have to be a genius to see that even a small royalty rate on the single and album would have netted Edward a very nice payday. But he was happy to do a favor for someone he admired, and he secured his place in history. So I guess that’s something. I just hope it was enough.

  Likewise, success had not put an end to the conflict that Edward and Alex could provoke in each other. One night in October we were staying at the Statler Hilton (also known as Hotel Pennsylvania) in Manhattan. We had just come from a show in Pittsburgh and were getting ready for another show at the Brendan Byrne Arena in New Jersey. At roughly two in the morning my phone rang. To my surprise, it was Edward, sounding strangely quiet. He said that there had been an accident and he was in a lot of pain.

  “Can you come over?” he said. “I’ll explain.”

  Edward’s room was right next door to mine, so within a minute or two I was standing over Edward as he sat on a couch, bent over, clutching his right hand.

  “Fucking Al! Fucking asshole!” he wailed.

  “Calm down, Ed,” I said. “Just tell me what happened.”

  “Al came over with his groupie girlfriend and stepped all over my guitar pieces.”

  I looked down at the floor, which was littered with tiny screws and assorted guitar parts. This was not an unusual sight in Edward’s room—he often would take his guitar apart and then reassemble the pieces. He liked to tinker almost as much as he liked to play.

  “No big deal, Ed. We can pick everything up and get you back to work putting it together again. Come on, I’ll help you.”

  “That’s the problem,” Ed explained. “Al stepped on the rug and scattered some of the pieces where I can’t find them.”

  He paused. I knew the other shoe was about to drop.

  “Then I got so pissed I punched the wall.”

  I watched as Edward cradled one hand inside the other.

  “How bad?” I asked.

  He took a couple of slugs of vodka and said, “Well, that fucking wall is not Sheetrock.”

  It sure wasn’t. It was a good old New York brick wall. Built in 1919, the Statler’s walls were as solid as Edward’s guitar playing. He was obviously in a lot of pain.

  “Can you hold a guitar pick?” I asked.

  Edward shrugged. “I don’t fucking know.”

  There were three or four picks on the floor, which I gave him. To my horror, he couldn’t close two fingers around the pick. And we had a show that night! The more Edward tried to grasp the pick, the more pain he exhibited. Obviously, he wasn’t faking.

  “We’ve got to get you to a hospital,” I said.

  Edward dropped his head. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

  I called Eddie Anderson, head of security, to come down to Edward’s room. About five minutes later he came to the door, looking as though he didn’t have a care in the world.

  “You won’t be smiling when I tell you what’s happened,” I said, closing the door behind us. Then he saw Edward, moaning in pain.

  “Oh my God. What happened?”

  “Ed fought the wall and the wall won.”

  “Fuck you, Noel!” Edward shouted. “It really hurts.”

  By now it had become obvious there was not going to be a Van Halen show that night. And since Ed’s injury had not really stemmed from an “accident,” we would have to pay for all the advertising, promotion, and any other costs involved. Before I faced that nightmare, though, we had to get Edward to a hospital. Fortunately, since it was the middle of the night, the hotel lobby was quiet. As we exited the stairway into the lobby, I got an idea.

  “Okay, right here is where you tripped on the second step of this ratty rug.”

  Edward looked perplexed.

  “Huh?”

  “That’s where you tripped and fell forward . . . breaking your fall with your hand. Got it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Look, Ed. It’s simple. You didn’t fight with the wall. You tripped on the rug.” I looked at Eddie Anderson. “You understand, right?”

  Finally, it began to sink in. I explained that if Edward injured his hand accidentally, by tripping and falling, the band would not be liable for expenses incurred as a result of canceling the show. But punching a wall? That would be a problem.

  I tipped the cabdriver an extra twenty bucks to get us to the emergency room in a hurry. We were lucky. The ER was just about empty except for a couple of drunks and a guy who seemed to have been stabbed. He was holding a wet and stained towel over his side. We waited maybe a half hour before a young doctor examined Ed and ordered some X-rays.

  “Good news,” he said. “Nothing broken. But he does have a badly sprained wrist. Just give it some rest.”

  The doctor recognized Edward, as did the two starstruck nurses who were helping him. If Edward had wanted, he probably could have had both nurses continue their care back at the hotel. On this night, though, he wasn’t interested; he was in too much pain. Downhearted, we headed back to the hotel. The d
octor had prescribed some pain meds for Ed. Between this and the vodka, Ed soon was feeling no pain. As he started to nod off, I told him to call me if he needed anything.

  “Remember, I’m right next door.”

  “Thanks,” Edward said. “I’m fine.”

  I left Ed’s room and went into mine. My phone started ringing almost immediately, despite the fact that it was almost five o’clock in the morning.

  Who the fuck could that be?

  I picked up the phone. A woman’s voice said, “Hi, Noel. What’s going on with Ed?” I recognized the voice but couldn’t put a name to it.

  “Who is this?”

  “It’s Lisa. How are you doing?” Now I remembered. It was Lisa Robinson, a reporter generally regarded as the queen of rock ’n’ roll gossip.

  “I’m fine, Lisa. What can I do for you?”

  “You can tell me how Edward hurt his hand.”

  I wanted to be mad at her, but mainly I just had to admire the fact that she had somehow gotten this information so quickly. She must have had sources everywhere, including at local hospitals.

  “Ed’s fine,” I said.

  “But what about the sprained wrist? We were so looking forward to seeing the band.”

  At that point, I figured Lisa was as good a person as any to help me get my side of the story out. So I told her that Edward had tripped on a rug while walking down the lobby stairs and that he had injured his wrist trying to break his fall.

  “Really?” she said. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it,” I said. “A really unfortunate situation. We might even have to cancel the Meadowlands show.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad.”

  “Yeah, well, when the shit hits the fan, everybody gets splattered. But that’s the whole story, and you got it first.”

  We ended up canceling three shows because of Edward’s injury, and he even wore a brace on his right wrist for a while afterward. And while we later modified the story to suggest that Edward hurt his hand while “horsing around” in his hotel room, no one ever found out the real reason behind the injury.