by Noel Monk
So I called the company and I got them to understand that allowing Van Halen to “borrow” their logo—just the image of the little guy with the hammer, without the company’s name attached—would be the best possible free advertising, and they gave us the logo for nothing (aside from some free concert tickets). We used the logo for the whole tour. Each night the backdrop onstage featured multiple images of The Little Man, mallet held high, as if to warn the audience that they were in for one seriously intense show.
It was all kind of clever and cute, and I was happy to have been able to help our lawyer negotiate the deal without writing a check. Still, it didn’t exactly erase the pain of losing $1.2 million from Sparkomatic. At that point, it was pretty clear that not only was I not on the same page as my band but they weren’t on the same page with each other.
THOUGH NONE OF US recognized it at the time, in many ways the band’s only remaining hope was the new album itself—not just its performance or critical reception or the tour or its sales, but whether it could remind the band of why they were together in the first place and what made them the best rock band on the planet. That’s a lot of pressure to put on any album, but if there was an album good enough to pull it off, it was 1984.
By the middle of November, 1984 was essentially in the can. All tracks recorded and mixed, waiting to be applied to vinyl and prepared for release. There was just one little problem. A prominent member of the studio recording team, anxious almost to the point of hysteria, thanks to all the cocaine used during the recording process, had confiscated the master tapes and locked himself in a closet in his home. He refused to give up the tapes until they were, in his opinion, perfect. Whatever that meant. In the interim, he said, he would have to keep the tapes by his side to prevent anyone from stealing them. Was any of this logical? Of course not, but drugs will make people do illogical things, and Van Halen by now was surrounded by heavy drug users, both in and out of the studio.
Rather than engage law enforcement in the dispute—that would only have created tons of bad publicity, and possibly endangered the safety of the master tapes—I reached out to a friend at Warner Bros. who had not only the clout to intervene but also the right temperament for this sort of work, which was akin to hostage negotiation. The master tapes were quietly and safely retrieved, and the album was put into production. No charges were filed, no intervention staged, no employment terminated—as far as I know.
I got my first taste of 1984 in early December, and I was completely blown away. I had been concerned because there had been so much drug use and bickering and other complications during the long months of writing and recording. I wondered what sort of artistic and creative toll all this might have taken on the band. There’s been no shortage of great art arising from stressful and arduous situations; there’s also no shortage of shitty records produced under the same conditions. It can go either way. So, when I first heard the album, I was holding my breath.
But not for long.
From the minute-long instrumental title track that kicks off the album and runs straight into the soaring, infectious keyboard riff that opens “Jump,” I was hooked. Better yet, I knew that millions of Van Halen fans (and millions of soon-to-be Van Halen fans) would also be hooked.
It was fucking brilliant.
It was their album, obviously, and primarily it was Edward’s album. That much was apparent. But I gave myself a little managerial pat on the back, as well.
Hey, my bet paid off. Give these guys some time, pull them off the road and let them put all their effort into making great songs, and this is what you get: a fantastic album.
The downside to all this creative time in close proximity was a band that emerged from the studio fractured and hostile. But, hey, we had a great album! Surely that would be enough to heal all wounds. I tried not to focus on the personality conflicts that had arisen, and instead threw all my effort into working on the upcoming tour and helping to put together a promotional package for the album. It had been two years since Van Halen’s last studio release, and no one had been particularly excited about that one. This time was different. The band knew they had produced a terrific album. I knew it. The label knew it.
As usual, David was more deeply involved in promotion than his bandmates were. Once the album was finished, the other guys would pretty much sit at home and drink and do coke and smoke weed, and wait for word on when the tour would begin. David would drink and do coke and smoke weed, but he would do it in the office, and somehow he would actually manage to get some work done.
As always, David was particularly interested in the album’s cover art; he had a knack for that sort of thing and liked being involved in the process, which in the case of 1984 was not only complicated but, ultimately, controversial. The band commissioned artist Margo Nahas to produce the cover art: original instructions were sparse but indicated a desire to have a quartet of beautiful young women dancing in various stages of undress—in true Van Halen fashion. After a period of what I assume was deep reflection, the artist declined to follow those instructions, which might ultimately have led to her being forced to walk away from the project had it not been for the intervention of her husband, who decided to show the band samples of her portfolio. One painting in particular jumped out at the boys: an image of a cherub leaning against a table, eyes gazing off into the distance, a cigarette perched between the fingers of his right hand, and two packs stacked in front of him.
The painting, Nahas would later explain, was her way of expressing her fascination with both angels and devils, and the balance between good and evil. Well, she hit the mark, that’s for sure. I mean, a cigarette-smoking, blue-eyed, blond-haired cherub? It was perfect for Van Halen. The painting was modified for the album cover, which also bore the Roman numerals MCMLXXXIV (it became known colloquially as 1984 only after its release). Then we all sat back and waited for the predictable (and not unwanted) shit storm of criticism from tight-assed conservatives. There was an uproar in some corners—the cover was temporarily censored and modified in the United Kingdom through the addition of decals that blocked out both the cigarette in the cherub’s hand, and the packs sitting in front of him—but most people seemed to love it. Moreover, history has been kind to the artist, as 1984 is widely acknowledged as among the most iconic album covers of its time.
Obviously it didn’t hurt that the album was every bit as compelling and innovative as the jacket in which it was sold.
While 1984 wasn’t released until January 9, 1984, the band announced its intentions some three weeks earlier, when “Jump” was issued as an advance single. It was the perfect introduction to the album, signaling as it did a shift in direction spearheaded by Edward. The song became the band’s biggest hit (and still holds that distinction all these years later), reaching number 1 on the Billboard singles chart. The song’s trademark is a synthesizer riff that Eddie had written a couple years earlier, when he first began experimenting with keyboard effects. I don’t think David liked it, and neither did Ted Templeman, but with a studio in his home and a growing need to flex his artistic muscle, Edward became less inclined to bend to the will of his more egotistical bandmate. Or to the producer. In the end, David went along, crafted some lyrics that were perfect for the song, and even came up with the melody.
So, in this case anyway, creative tension produced Van Halen’s biggest hit single and established a foundation for 1984 to become the band’s most successful album, both commercially (selling more than 10 million copies) and critically (four stars from Rolling Stone). There would be three more hit singles—“I’ll Wait,” “Panama,” and “Hot for Teacher”—and a seemingly nonstop presence on MTV featuring raucous and bawdy videos. Thanks to 1984, Van Halen owned 1984. From the outside looking in, I’m sure it seemed like we had the world by the balls. In reality, by the time 1984 was released, Van Halen was a band cracking at the edges and on the verge of an epic collapse.
And what do you do under those conditions?
Wh
y, you hit the road, of course.
16
GO ASK ALEX
Laziness was not the problem. I want to make that perfectly clear. Despite vast quantities of drugs and alcohol, and internal strife that led to a caravan of five separate buses when we went out on the road for the 1984 tour, Van Halen always managed to put in the work. Stoned and drunk and fighting like crazy, they recorded the best album of their careers and then went on a tour that filled arenas and left fans breathless. Night after remarkable night. I often watched these shows with a mix of awe and sadness. If not for the drugs, I thought—if not for the personality problems—these guys could run for the next five to ten years. They could sell 50 million records and play football and soccer stadiums all over the world.
They were that good.
But I knew in my heart that it wasn’t meant to last, that what people saw on the stage every night was only a sliver of the Van Halen reality. The real story was being told during the day, on those long and fractured bus rides, and deep into the morning hours, when the drugs and the drinking finally took their toll.
We netted roughly 2 million dollars per person in 1984, thanks in no part to this epic and practically cost-prohibitive tour. The goal was to put on the biggest and most entertaining show possible, which meant a fleet of nearly twenty trucks (in addition to the tricked-out tour buses), carrying hundreds of thousands of pounds (and dollars’ worth) of equipment.
It’s difficult to convey just how massive an enterprise this was, but here’s an example: our stage show featured a lighting rig with more than two thousand lights. Even the biggest and most well-financed bands touring in those days settled for fewer than half that number. If you’d asked us, we’d have said that we were burning money to put on an unforgettable experience for fans; but in hindsight it was almost like we subconsciously knew it would be a farewell tour, and we wanted to go out in a blaze of glory.
A tour that stretched out over nearly nine months began on January 18, in Jacksonville, Florida, before a sold-out crowd of more than eleven thousand at the Jacksonville Coliseum. It was a nearly flawless show that ran almost two hours and betrayed none of the backstage tension that I knew to be a daily part of the Van Halen experience. Nor did it seem to be adversely affected by the lines of cocaine that Edward kept on a nearby amplifier, to be snorted whenever needed; or by the beer and whiskey that Alex would guzzle throughout the evening. As musicians and entertainers, Van Halen appeared to be at the top of their game. What else mattered? There were nights early in the first leg of that tour, when we were rolling through the South, that I allowed myself to believe things would be all right, that my guys were so talented and unique they could withstand pressures and influences that had been ripping apart bands since . . . well, as long as there had been bands.
This was clearly not the case.
Less than a month into the tour I got my first taste of just how deeply Van Halen had fallen into the abyss of drug abuse, when I got word from our bookkeeper that Edward had been quietly advancing himself large amounts of cash. Now, there was nothing illegal or even improper about this practice; we all took cash advances from time to time. But Edward, I was informed, had been withdrawing more than usual, with no explanation (not that one was required). I’d been around the music business long enough to recognize this practice as a very large and vivid red flag. It often meant that the person taking the advance had either serious money problems or a serious drug problem (because obviously drugs are always purchased in cash).
Edward did not have a money problem.
What he did have was a personal drug dealer who would fly all over the world to meet Edward and supply him with his drugs of choice, primarily cocaine. I came to know this guy (not that we had a personal relationship), and I decided early in the tour simply to leave him alone. Crazy as it might sound, I figured that at least Edward had found a dealer he could trust, and who would meet him whenever and wherever he was needed.
This guy’s apparent 24/7 availability meant that Edward would never have to sneak out into the night and prowl the nastier neighborhoods of whatever city we happened to be passing through when his supply ran low. I disliked this guy the first time I met him, and as Edward deteriorated, my feelings intensified. But I did not try to chase him away, although that would have been easy enough to do. Did this make me an enabler? I didn’t look at it that way. I was the manager of one of the biggest rock bands in the world, which meant, in effect, that I was running a large and lucrative business with a bunch of employees and others who depended on that business for their livelihoods. I did what I had to do in order to keep the machinery operating smoothly. Nothing I said or did was going to prevent Edward from abusing cocaine (and vodka); he would have to reach that decision on his own, like any other addict. In the meantime, I was at least relieved that he had found a way to obtain the drug that was unlikely to result in his being either arrested or assaulted.
So I made a decision to ignore his dealer, although there were times the guy really pushed his luck. I would see him outside a venue, for example, working the crowd, strolling casually among the rank and file, stopping occasionally to talk with concertgoers, who would then disappear. Or sometimes I’d see a surreptitious handshake, a little hug, and then they’d go their separate ways.
Any reasonable dealer would’ve realized that he had landed the gig of a lifetime working with Eddie, who, trust me, represented his fair share of business. Taking a chance and dealing in a parking lot—in addition to that business—is what really pissed me off. Especially in completely unknown cities with no real game plan. Somehow, through what I can only assume is dumb luck, the guy never got busted, and he remained Edward’s purveyor of the finest cocaine throughout that year.
We were still on the Southern swing when Edward came into my room one night, a half-empty bottle of vodka in his hand. He was, it seemed, primarily drunk, but the time had come to reverse the alcohol slide with some coke. Edward withdrew from his pocket a small vial containing maybe an ounce of white powder. My wife was on tour with us at the time, and while she knew of Edward’s cocaine use, she did not know the full extent of it. Until this night, neither did I.
“Hey, guys,” he said, slurring his words badly. “Let me show you something.” He held up the vial and smiled. “This is Peruvian flake. Awesome shit.”
I looked at Jan. Then I looked at Edward. I shrugged. Cocaine in those days often had ridiculous nicknames denoting its supposed strength or purity.
The fact that it was late at night didn’t matter. A point of contention on this tour, in fact, was Edward’s penchant for working and writing (and drugging and drinking) well into the morning hours. He and Valerie had separate but adjoining bedrooms for precisely this reason—so that his incessant noodling on the guitar wouldn’t keep her up all night. Edward would just be going to bed when David would knock on the door and try to rouse everyone for a meeting, or for an impromptu session of roller skating or other forms of exercise that interested no one in the band other than David. Not that David was pure of mind or body, but he did work out like a beast—his preconcert stretching routine, always performed in front of the rest of the band and their wives and girlfriends—would sometimes last an hour; it was all part of the Diamond Dave Show. He liked to rise early most days, and his nagging, in combination with his continued role as a media magnet, got on everyone’s nerves, Edward’s most of all. I couldn’t help but wonder how long Edward could continue to burn the candle at both ends before flaming out. That it never fully happened is something of a miracle.
God knows he tried.
“Peruvian flake, huh?” I said. “Gee, that sounds great, Ed.” I wasn’t even trying to feign interest; I was being sarcastic, but Ed was too far gone to note the difference. I was sick of hearing about cocaine, talking about cocaine, and witnessing its withering effect on my band.
Then Ed did something he occasionally did when he was sufficiently fucked up: rather than pulling up a chair next to me, h
e curled up in my lap and put his head on my shoulder. Like a toddler, this full-grown man would lean into me and tell me how much he loved me. And sometimes, as on this night, he would encourage me to join his private party.
Eddie poured out about two grams of coke and then made four lines with his bare hand. Now, normally the portioning of cocaine was done with a razor blade or a credit card—something to keep it precise—but Ed wasn’t worried about wasting any of the product. There’s a certain finesse that goes along with doing drugs—certain rituals that make it more of an experience than an action—for most people, anyway. For Edward, it was done with all of the grace of chugging a beer.
“Do you want me to get a bill?” Jan offered.
“Nah, I don’t need it.”
And then Jan and I watched in amazement as Eddie proceeded to put his head down onto the dresser and snort about half of what he’d just laid out.
“Well, that might work for you,” Jan said, “but I need a bill.”
I handed her a hundred. “Does this work?”
It did indeed. Jan did maybe a fraction of a line, which promptly knocked her on her ass.
“How do you do all that?” she asked. Eddie just laughed.
“It’s no big deal,” he said. “Would you mind if I talked to Noel alone? The girls are playing poker, why don’t you go join them?” Eddie, even coked out of his head and in the middle of climbing back into my lap, was always thoughtful and mild-mannered to Jan. I appreciated it.
It was hard to imagine that Edward was capable of serious business talk at this point, but he had asked nicely, so Jan obliged. As Jan walked out of the room, she looked back at us—Edward rocking on my lap like a baby, suckling vodka instead of milk—and I could see on her face a look of bewilderment. We’d been together for a couple years and she’d seen and heard enough stories to get an idea of what life was like with Van Halen, but some things you just have to witness for yourself.