by Noel Monk
“Seriously,” the guy said to me. “I don’t think he got off the floor all night.”
What could I say? I apologized, wished him luck, and hung up the phone.
Improbably, over the next couple months, the legend of Van Halen, buoyed by a drunken, subpar performance at the US Festival, continued to grow. It was some sort of cosmic joke: we disappeared for three months, played one concert with a shitfaced front man, and then disappeared again. And somehow, this only served to broaden the band’s appeal.
Meanwhile, the boys were in the studio, day after relentless day, fighting and bickering over artistic and personal issues while ingesting a lot of cocaine and alcohol and weed. All of this would result somehow in Van Halen’s most ambitious and successful album: 1984.
They didn’t know it at the time, and neither did I, but this was the beginning of the end.
15
1984
I’ll be honest: by fall of 1983 I had little faith that Van Halen was putting the finishing touches on a masterpiece. I hadn’t heard any tracks off the album that would become 1984. I hadn’t even heard much positive news coming from any of the band members. As usual, I stayed away from the studio, so I wasn’t privy to actual recording sessions, but what little information I did receive was hardly encouraging.
For one thing, I was habitually sleep deprived, thanks to a seemingly endless barrage of phone calls in the middle of the night, a sure sign that the band, along with producer Ted Templeman, had managed to completely fuck up their circadian rhythms. They would work deep into the night or early morning, usually with vast amounts of cocaine and alcohol fueling the sessions, then sleep all day. Then they would repeat the process. I would get phone calls from David or Edward at three in the morning, and rarely did the voice on the other end sound remotely sober. Nor did it sound particularly happy. Anger and frustration were the norm, with the caller complaining about . . . well . . . almost everything, but usually about one of the other band members or the producer. Many times I could hear the sound of equipment being abused or destroyed in the background, as Edward laid waste to his own studio.
The reason for his anger? I can’t say for sure, but certainly the explanation provided over the years is not entirely without merit: artistic differences. Edward had one vision for 1984 (and for the direction Van Halen would take moving forward), while David and Ted Templeman had an entirely different vision. Edward, you see, had fallen in love with technology, primarily synthesizers and keyboards, and was adamant that these elements be heavily incorporated into the new album. David and Ted wanted to stick with a more guitar-heavy album—hewing closer to the sound for which Van Halen was traditionally known, and which, admittedly, had served the band well. You can’t argue with success, right? (This obviously is somewhat counterintuitive, given that Edward was the guitar virtuoso and David was the singer who would soon become obsessed with cheesy remakes.)
Again, though, it should be pointed out that Edward was no ordinary metalhead. He had grown up in a musical family, had learned to play the piano at a very young age, and had always been prone to pushing the envelope when it came to writing and performing music. The fact that Ed was the most innovative and interesting guitarist of his generation might seem on the surface to make him an unlikely candidate to write and record an album filled with soaring keyboards and synthesizer hooks, but that’s true only if you didn’t really know the guy. Edward was thinking way outside the box long before there even was a box.
Doesn’t mean he wasn’t occasionally a gigantic pain in the ass, especially when he’d been drinking or doing lots of coke, but I forgave Edward a lot because he was so obviously the cornerstone of the band. And because, when sober, he was a genuinely sweet and introspective guy.
By the time the band went into the studio to begin recording 1984, however, Edward had grown weary of two things: repeating the same formula, album after album; and putting up with David’s bullying and bullshit. Had this been another balls-to-the-wall project—in and out of the studio in just a few weeks—their differences might not have escalated to the point that they did. But, over the course of many months and many fights, exacerbated by heavy drug use, their relationship unraveled. Never particularly close, Edward and David became that most familiar rock ’n’ roll cliché: a lead singer and guitar player who could barely stand each other.
The irony that all the extra time in the studio had driven a wedge in Van Halen was not lost on me. After those years of trying, in vain, to get them an extended slot of recording time, we’d finally achieved it, but at the expense of perhaps the last few ties holding the band together. We were all so focused on giving them the space they needed to record that it never occurred to me it would be anything but an asset. But sitting in a tight space like a studio, night after night, week after week, can do odd things to people, especially when drugs and alcohol are involved. With some bands these experiences bring them together as they coalesce around a shared vision for the album, the band, and the future; with Van Halen it was the exact opposite, shining light on all the problems lying dormant just below the surface.
All this made my job exceedingly difficult. In addition to taking drunken calls and trying to referee disputes by phone, I would sometimes meet with the guys in my office, discuss plans or other matters for the next tour, and then get a call twelve hours later from David or Edward or Al asking me to cover the same territory all over again. Trust me when I say this: there is almost nothing that provokes more anxiety for a manager than the nagging sense that his band is incapable of paying attention to pressing business matters. And this is particularly true for a manager who does not have a long-term contract.
So it was with some trepidation that I gathered everyone together in the fall of 1983 to discuss plans for the coming year. The album was nearly done, and it was time to start thinking about getting back out on the road. Given the stress of the preceding months, and the sheer volume of strange conversations I had endured, this particular meeting went reasonably well. Among the topics covered: the possibility of Van Halen’s entering into the highly lucrative and low-maintenance world of sponsorship.
“It’s time,” I explained. “Most bands are doing it, and it’s easy money just waiting to be collected.”
All this was true. Product endorsement, once seen as contrary to the very soul of rock ’n’ roll rebellion, by this time had become a significant revenue stream for many bands; as one of the biggest acts in the business, Van Halen had the opportunity to greatly increase its income while hardly lifting a finger.
“What do you say?” I asked. “Would you like me to solicit offers?”
They all nodded in agreement. Done deal, I figured. No-brainer.
A couple weeks later I went off to New York to finalize plans for the tour and to meet with a representative of a large and well-known advertising agency. Together we negotiated a deal with Sparkomatic, a company that specialized in high-end audio products, primarily for the automotive industry. To me it seemed like a logical fit, and the money was borderline crazy. The band would receive $1.2 million up front, in addition to additional revenue for advertising. In return, all we had to do was put the company’s name on some of our licensed merchandise, in very small letters.
That’s it.
We didn’t have to participate in commercials or appear at trade shows or (God help us) perform some silly jingle. Just give Sparkomatic a small piece of real estate on Van Halen merchandise.
In exchange for $1.2 million.
The day we completed this deal, after several weeks of negotiation, I couldn’t wait to call the band and give them the great news. From my vantage point, this was one of the best deals I had ever negotiated on behalf of Van Halen, second only to the band’s recording contract with Warner Bros. Jan was waiting for me at the hotel when I returned from closing the deal.
“How much did you get?” she asked.
When I told her the number, her eyes widened. “You’ve got to be kidding. That�
��s fantastic.”
I thought so, too. So I picked up the phone to deliver the great news to the band. They were all at Edward’s house, awaiting my call. David got on the phone first.
“Hey, Noel . . . what’s up?” He sounded sleepy, a little aggravated, which wasn’t unusual for David in those days. Nor for any of the guys.
“Guess what?” I began. “I caught a deal for a million two hundred thousand dollars. For a sponsorship.”
There was a long pause, as opposed to the celebratory yelp I had anticipated.
“Really? Who’s the sponsor?” David said.
“Sparkomatic.”
Another long pause, followed by a grumble. “Never heard of them.”
I pressed on. “That’s okay. You will hear about them; they’re a big radio company and they have a lot of money to throw around. Trust me, this is good. Better than good; it’s fantastic.”
I could not believe that I had been put in the position of trying to convince David that a $1.2 million endorsement deal was a good thing, but that is what happened.
“Let me go ask the guys,” he said.
Before I had a chance to respond, David dropped the phone. I strained to hear what was happening, but David apparently had left the room. A minute passed, maybe two minutes, before he got back on the line. Either this had been the shortest band summit in the history of Van Halen, or he hadn’t actually talked to anyone. Either way, I had a sinking feeling in my stomach.
“Noel?”
“Yes?”
“Fuck it. We don’t want the deal.”
A wave of nausea swept through my body. I got light-headed.
“David,” I began, trying not to sound like someone who wanted to reach through the phone and strangle him. “Think about this for a moment. This is an incredible offer. We’re talking about a quarter of a million per person. And you don’t have to do anything.”
“Yeah, yeah. I get it. We’re not interested.”
“Well, what exactly are you interested in, David? I mean, we want to make money, right?”
“Not like this,” he said. “You want to get us a sponsorship, fine. Make it Marlboro or Levi’s. Otherwise, it’s fuck you.”
Fuck you? Really?
This was pigheaded even by David’s standards. Suddenly the most cynical member of the band wasn’t interested in making money.
“David, you’ve got to be kidding,” I said. “This is a tremendous opportunity.”
“I’m not kidding,” he said. “Levi’s or Marlboro . . . or fuck your million two.”
With that, he hung up the phone. I sat there for a moment, dumbstruck. Then I did what any smart and somewhat desperate manager would do in that situation: I called him back.
“David, I just want to make sure you aren’t fucking with me right now. You do understand this deal, right?”
“You heard me right. We’re not interested. I don’t want to do it, and the guys don’t want to do it. I’ll speak to you when you get back to LA.”
Again, he hung up. And that was that. I let the phone hang by my side for a moment and looked at Jan, who had witnessed the entire conversation but obviously heard only my side of it.
“What happened?” she asked.
“David turned it down. He says he wants Marlboro or Levi’s—and nothing else.”
With a look of utter disbelief, Jan said, simply, “You’re kidding.”
I shook my head. “Unfortunately, no.”
Jan got up and walked to the minibar, knowing full well that my next words would be, “Please get me a vodka.” That night we went out to dinner, as planned, despite the fact that we no longer had anything to celebrate. The next day I reached out to my friend at the advertising agency and broke the bad news. He was shocked. We had spent a good deal of time putting this sweetheart of a deal together, and I had basically accepted it on behalf of the band. Not in my wildest dreams did I imagine that they would turn the offer down. It made me look bad, and it made my friend look bad.
“Noel, this is really unfortunate,” he said.
“I know,” I said. “We really appreciate all your help. You have been extremely nice and accommodating. All I can say is thank you . . . and I’m sorry.”
“Yeah . . . maybe next time,” he said, which was very gracious considering there wouldn’t be a next time—not for me, anyway.
During the months that they’d been holed up in the studio working on 1984 and calling me at all hours, I came to understand that the band was in a difficult place creatively and personally, but it wasn’t until this deal fell apart that I realized it was much worse than I’d thought. My band was in trouble, which meant I was in trouble. The serious problems with drugs and alcohol that had been present for years were not only causing interpersonal strife but, in my view, anyway, affecting the band’s ability to make clearheaded decisions on important business matters. I will always believe that David turning down Sparkomatic had nothing to do with his taking a moral or creative stand—I smoke Marlboros and wear Levi’s, so fuck everyone else—but rather an arbitrary and self-destructive declaration of power. To this day, I don’t know what David said to the other guys in the band on the day that I called.
One could obviously argue that this is the lot of the manager: to solicit and field offers on behalf of his client, and not to take it personally when his client says no or otherwise disagrees with his point of view. I get that. It’s not like David and I had seen eye to eye on everything over the years. But this was a seismic shift, as it represented, in my opinion, a degree of incompetence, or at least negligence, on the part of the man who carried the most weight when it came to band decisions.
Simply put, I thought David was being stupid.
But what could I do? Sure, we were equal partners in deals such as this, and I was not happy with the idea of losing a quarter of a million dollars out of my own pocket, but when you got right down to it, I worked for the band. David was my boss, and if he didn’t want to endorse Sparkomatic, then it wasn’t my job to force the deal down his throat. Nevertheless, my suspicion about the fractured nature of the band was confirmed a couple weeks later, after I had returned to LA, when I got a call one afternoon from Alex.
“Hey, Noel,” he began, sounding much more charming and agreeable than usual. “Remember that endorsement deal? With . . .”
His voice trailed off. He couldn’t even remember the company’s name.
“Sparkomatic,” I said.
“Yeah, those guys.”
“What about it, Al?”
“You think we could still get that?”
My first thought was . . . Are you fucking kidding me? But I took a deep breath and tried to remain in calm, managerial mode.
“It’s been more than two weeks, Al. I don’t even know if the offer is still on the table.”
“Yeah, I understand,” he said. “Just give it a try, okay?”
Long pause, followed by the kind of compliment Al rarely, if ever delivered. “You’re really good at this stuff, Noel.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
I did not ask Al whether he had spoken to David about any of this. Al didn’t need David’s permission to speak with me about band business, nor to direct me to inquire about opportunities. In theory, Van Halen was a democracy, with all band members holding equal power. In reality, because David flexed his muscle much more aggressively than everyone else, this made him the de facto leader. Which was fine, until they began to disagree about matters large and small, and with increasing frequency. Whether this was one of those times, I can’t say for sure. Maybe David had second thoughts about the Sparkomatic deal but was prevented by his enormous ego from asking me to inquire about its continued availability. So he dispatched Alex to do his dirty work. Or maybe Al spoke with Ed and together they decided to go behind David’s back. (Michael, sadly, would probably have been left out of the discussion in either case.)
So I tucked my tail between my legs and reached out to my advertising frie
nd in New York. It seems the guys have had a change of heart (or perhaps sobered up), I explained. Suddenly $1.2 million sounds pretty good, I explained. Any chance the deal is still on the table?
“Sorry, Noel,” was the predictable response. “Supertramp took it.”
This really hurt.
Whether the offer was equivalent to what Van Halen was offered, I do not know. Regardless, we were out of luck. I called Al back and gave him the bad but predictable news; he seemed genuinely disappointed. And not just disappointed in the loss of a great opportunity, but in the way it had gone down. Unfortunately, I’m not sure he understood what had happened. There was a disturbing undercurrent of judgment in his voice as we spoke, and while he didn’t specifically accuse me of “blowing the deal,” I got the impression he might have felt that way. Again, I had no way of knowing what David had communicated to the other band members about the offer. Communication was beginning to break down along multiple lines, which made my job exceedingly difficult.
Incredibly, rather than getting paid for allowing Sparkomatic to put its logo on some of our merchandise, we ended up negotiating with another company to allow us to use their logo. Well, not the exact logo, but a portion of it. There was a company called Western Exterminator Company, whose logo included a character known as The Little Man, a dapper gent in a black coat and top hat wielding a very large wooden mallet, which presumably was used to obliterate various types of pests in the greater Los Angeles area. David loved this image and wanted to use The Little Man as a mascot for our 1984 tour.
“You think you can get permission for us to use this?” he asked me one day.
“I don’t know, David, but I’ll see what I can do. It’s probably going to cost us some money.”
“That’s fine,” he said. “I want to be able to use it.”