Runnin' with the Devil

by Noel Monk

  “Fix it, Noel,” David said. “Call the lawyer, have him draw something up, and we’ll get Michael to sign it.”

  “Guys,” I said, “are you sure about this?”

  I couldn’t imagine that Michael would go along with a contract modification that could cost him millions of dollars. Moreover, I couldn’t believe that they really wanted to hurt Michael so deeply and irrevocably. It was an unconscionable thing to do to another human being, especially one with whom you had worked and lived and strived with for the better part of a decade.

  But they all nodded in agreement.

  “Just do it,” David said.

  You might reasonably wonder why I didn’t protest louder, or why I didn’t counsel Michael about how he could have protected himself. But remember—I was in a unique and highly challenging position. I was the manager of Van Halen; I worked for the band, and three members of that band were now unified in their desire to push the fourth member to the very fringes of the organization. Moreover, while I liked Michael, the truth is, he was the one member of the organization who rarely came to me with any of his problems. Granted, that might have been because he was more emotionally mature and generally happier in his personal and professional life than the other guys. Michael had a degree of contentment that the others simply did not enjoy. So, while our relationship was cordial and professional, it would be inaccurate to say that we were close. My wife did not go shopping with Michael, the way she did with Al. Michael did not come into my room late at night and curl up on my lap, the way Edward did. And I did not spend endless hours discussing promotion and marketing with Michael, the way I did with David.

  Michael was just . . . there. Quiet, dependable, unassuming.

  In the end this proved to be his undoing.

  Within another week or so, a letter had been drafted by the band’s attorney. As with most legal documents, it was cold and clinical, devoid of the feeling that such a grievous emotional betrayal signifies. It read as follows:

  Dear Michael Anthony:

  You and the members of Van Halen have reevaluated the writing and composing services in contributions of each member of the Van Halen group on behalf of Van Halen as a company—a corporation. As a result of such reevaluation, you and the undersigned have agreed that, in respect to musical compositions embodied in the record album entitled “MCMLXXXIV (1984),” and with respect to musical compositions embodied in any subsequent recordings performed by Van Halen thereafter, you shall not be entitled to share in the publisher’s share of revenues derived from the 1984 compositions or subsequent compositions; nor will you be able to participate or share as a writer in any of the revenues derived from the writer’s share of revenues from the 1984 compositions. Accordingly, for good and invaluable considerations, receipt of which is hereby acknowledged, the parties agree . . .

  If Michael had come to me with that piece of paper, which was basically a contract addendum that would completely change the course of his life, and asked me my opinion, I would have told him, in no uncertain terms, “Tear it up. Tell them to go fuck themselves. You don’t deserve to be treated like this.” But Michael did not come to me. He did not share with me his opinion on any of this. He simply did what he was told by the other guys in the band.

  He signed the paper. As did David, Alex, and Edward.

  From that moment on, Michael was basically a wage earner, as opposed to a partner in the corporation. The largest part of his income was now derived from merchandising, and while that was not an insignificant amount, it paled in comparison to what the others were making. Think about it: Michael went onstage every night and played to the best of his ability. He was a founding member of Van Halen, currently one of the biggest bands in the world, and yet he was treated like a disposable piece of the machinery. It was bad enough that they were cutting him out of future revenue, but to rewrite the contract in such a way that he would not even share in royalties from the biggest album the band would ever produce, when that album was already out in the marketplace?

  Utterly cruel.

  I can’t imagine how Michael was able to stand up there onstage every night, smiling and playing bass in his customary carefree manner . . . as if everything was right with the world, when in fact he had been stabbed in the back by the very people to whom he was closest; the people he should have been able to trust with his life and his livelihood. They had turned on him, and in so doing, it seemed, they had broken not just his spirit but the spirit of Van Halen, as well.

  17

  THE LONG GOODBYE

  I’ve always been a show-off, but I’ve also always had something to say. I will express myself through other avenues. Just so long as I’m famous. So long as the spotlight’s on Dave.

  —DAVID LEE ROTH (1984 INTERVIEW WITH THE SUNDAY TIMES [LONDON])

  Funny thing. Just about every time Van Halen walked off the stage during the 1984 tour, David would lean into the microphone and bid the band’s adoring fans farewell with the following message:

  “Thank-you, (insert city name)! See you in 1985!”

  This was a false promise. There would be no 1985. Not for David Lee Roth. Not for me. And not for Van Halen as we knew it.

  The North American tour ended in mid-July with three consecutive shows at Reunion Arena in Dallas. On the last night, David insisted that the show close with a massive number of balloons falling from the rafters. The rest of the guys in the band thought this was stupid (and I agreed with them)—it felt like something you’d see at a sporting event or a pop concert, not a Van Halen show. But it was so exhausting to fight with David that the rest of the band simply let him have his way. I mean, really—if David wanted to turn the concert into something resembling a giant children’s birthday party, then let him. Unfortunately, a technical glitch temporarily obstructed the balloons’ release; by the time they fluttered to the arena floor, most of the crowd had exited the building.

  In retrospect, this was a fitting coda for Van Halen: despite the millions of records sold, and the still-brilliant stage show, there were massive problems behind the scenes. And no amount of superficial gimmickry (whether it be a few thousand balloons or an MTV Lost Weekend with Van Halen contest that drew more than a million entries) could make things right.

  We took a month off after Dallas before embarking on the final, brief leg of the 1984 tour: five dates on the Monsters of Rock tour in Great Britain, Sweden, Switzerland, and Germany, playing alongside heavy metal and hard rock icons such as AC/DC and Ozzy Osbourne and a hot newcomer, Mötley Crüe. In theory, this should have been a great way to finish up the biggest tour in Van Halen history, celebrating the band’s most successful album. In reality, it was something else entirely: a bitter and sad slog to the finish line by a band that was breaking apart.

  The trouble began before we even got on the plane. And by plane, I mean the Concorde. We all were excited about taking the supersonic jet to London—it was a nice perk for the final portion of the tour and felt well earned. My hope was that it would put everyone in a better frame of mind. Just a handful of shows, a nice European trip spread out over a couple weeks. It should have been easy. As I climbed into a limo with Jan and David, bound for the airport, I was even somewhat optimistic. But it took only a few minutes for David to spoil the mood.

  “Hey, Noel,” he said, pulling a small cassette recorder out of his carry-on bag. “I want you to hear something.”

  David was a fan of all kinds of music, and was fond of putting together mix tapes, so I figured he just wanted me to hear an artist he liked. But no. That wasn’t it all. As he hit the play button, I looked at Jan. What I heard sounded vaguely familiar, a cover version of a song I recognized but couldn’t quite place. And then it hit me: “California Girls.”

  The intro sounded like a virtual mimic of the Beach Boys’ standard, but when the vocal track kicked in, there was no mistaking the singer. Diamond Dave. I say that not as a compliment, but as an acknowledgment that this version of the song—plodding, treacly cra
p—perfectly fit the nickname. It was not the David Lee Roth who howled “I live my life like there’s . . . no tomorrow!” Or even the Dave who could infuse covers of “You Really Got Me” and “Pretty Woman” with enough muscle and energy and sex appeal to make them sound like Van Halen songs. Those were covers that simultaneously paid tribute to and in some ways improved upon the originals.

  But this?

  This was an abomination.

  I looked at Dave. He smiled and bobbed his head in time with the music. He mouthed the words along with his own vocals.

  What in the name of Christ . . . ?

  My assumption, at first, was that David had decided to record a cover of “California Girls” and then present it to the band as an option for the next album. But he had to have known that the song was an unlikely choice for a Van Halen cover, and that this interpretation—cheeky, kitschy, almost over the top in its silliness—was completely inappropriate for Van Halen. Shit, Edward and Alex would laugh him out of the room for even suggesting such a thing.

  And David knew it. Which is why he had no intention of offering it to the band. Oh, no, David had other plans for “California Girls,” and for his own career.

  “What do you think? Pretty great, huh?”

  “Well, David,” I began. “It’s . . . interesting. I’m just not exactly sure what to make of it. You really think the other guys will go for this?”

  “No, I do not,” he said with a laugh. “That’s why I’m going to put it out myself.”

  There was a long pause as we both let this hang in the air. I finally asked David what he meant, and he went on to explain that he had already recorded demos of a few covers, and as soon as the tour ended he would be going into the studio with Ted Templeman to put together an EP. He had it all mapped out, and he expected me to be happy for him. I was his manager, after all, just as I was the manager of each member of Van Halen. If David had aspirations for a solo career, then I was supposed to help him achieve those goals. Or so he thought, anyway. But I did not shake his hand or pat him on the back, because I did not view this as a smart or considerate career move. I viewed it as a selfish and short-sighted self-indulgence, one that would not only set David on the path to becoming a Vegas lounge singer but would inevitably crush the soul of Van Halen.

  If David put out an album, or even just an EP, in early 1985, as he planned, then what would become of Van Halen? There would be no new album. There would be no tour. David would be in one place, focusing on his solo endeavors, and the Van Halen brothers would be in another, doing whatever the fuck they were doing—plotting Dave’s expulsion, in all likelihood.

  But here was David, sitting next to me in a limo, preparing for the final leg of Van Halen’s biggest tour, and he seemed utterly clueless as to the devastation he was about to wreak on the band and everyone involved.

  “We’re hoping to get it out in January,” he said with a big smile. “What do you say?”

  What do I say? I say you’re a fucking idiot.

  What came out of my mouth, however, was a much more benign and measured response: “Really? January?”

  David nodded proudly.

  “And when are you going to tell the other guys about this?” I asked.

  “Soon as we get on the plane,” he said. “I think they’ll be excited.”

  “Oh, I’m sure they will be.”

  They were not excited. I watched from my seat in the Concorde lounge as David pulled out his cassette recorder and cued up “California Girls” for Edward. I could not hear their conversation, as they were a few seats away, but I could hear the music and read the body language: David smiling and bobbing his head rhythmically, clearly proud to share the news of this next phase of his professional life with his bandmates. And Edward slouched in his seat, staring straight ahead, his face devoid of emotion.

  Now, this is precisely what I would have expected, and I have no idea why David would have anticipated a more gracious or enthusiastic response. Had this been a suggestion for a Van Halen song, I’m sure Edward would have shot it down, but this was not a collegial overture; whether he realized it or not, this was David telling his partner, in essence, I’m going off in a different direction; and if you don’t like it, well, fuck you.

  And Edward clearly didn’t like it. There had been little communication between them in recent months, their interaction limited, for the most part, to their time onstage, when they could feign a sort of brotherhood for two hours in order to put on a great show and give the fans their money’s worth. I never stopped admiring that aspect of Van Halen: no matter how uncomfortable the interpersonal dynamics became; no matter how much they abused alcohol and drugs before, during, and after the show, these guys somehow held it together when they went onstage. With only a few minor exceptions, almost all of which would have gone unnoticed by the casual observer, their concerts were nearly flawless. At the very least, they always provided the nonstop energy and party for which they had become famous. Honestly, given that they were riddled by substance abuse, had recently exiled their bass player, and their lead guitarist and lead vocalist could barely stand to be in the same room together, I don’t know how they survived for the duration of the tour.

  But the truly curious thing was the way David presented his new venture. It was almost as if he didn’t comprehend the weight of what he was doing. When you are the front man for a band as big as Van Halen, and you suddenly decide to put out a solo EP (which would be followed naturally by a full album), without consulting your bandmates ahead of time, the news is likely to be met with something less than wholehearted approval. And yet David didn’t seem to understand this. Or maybe he just didn’t care. Maybe this was his way of driving a nail into the Van Halen coffin. Rather than quit, he would release a solo album of aggressively mediocre material, bask in the spotlight on his own, and wait for his bandmates’ response. I honestly have no idea what he was thinking, or whether he had any sort of strategy in mind.

  Regardless, we embarked on the Monsters of Rock tour with this bizarre and distressing bit of news hanging over our heads. But if you saw Van Halen play at Donington Park in Leicestershire on August 18, you never would have known there was anything wrong. This was Van Halen’s first UK performance since 1980, and they made the most of the opportunity, upstaging headliners and Australian heavy metal stalwarts AC/DC (in my opinion, anyway, and I wasn’t alone). The band took the stage at sunset and proceeded to blow away a raucous and deeply inebriated crowd of some 65,000 spectators, many of whom had been camped out for days. Multiact festivals are challenging under the best of circumstances—by definition, they cater to a broad audience with divided loyalties—and Monsters of Rock was about as hard-core as any festival we played. When you share a bill with AC/DC, Mötley Crüe, and Ozzy Osbourne, you’d better bring your A game—and Van Halen surely did, ripping through sixteen songs in a little more than an hour, simultaneously playing to their fans and deftly rebuffing the (not unexpected) hostility exhibited from some corners of the crowd. Some AC/DC fans, after all, were sure to view Van Halen as posers—prissy California pop/rock lightweights when compared to the heavier sound of the Aussies.

  This, of course, would have been inaccurate, and Van Halen was more than up to the challenge. Not just from a musical standpoint but from an attitude standpoint. When a young lady near the stage flicked her tongue out at David, he replied sassily, “Don’t stick your tongue out at me, honey—unless you intend to use it!”

  Or, when an empty bottle of . . . something . . . was hurled toward the stage: “Throw another bottle up here and I’ll come down there and fuck your girlfriend!”

  This was David at his best: a wise-assed, hyperactive vocalist who atoned for limited range with spectacular stage presence and energy. And even now, in what would prove to be his final lap with the first iteration of Van Halen, he still had the swagger and showmanship of a rock ’n’ roll superstar. He knew how to tuck away the anger and resentment for a couple of hours each night and gi
ve the people what they wanted. I was hugely disappointed and frustrated by David in that last month, but I remained impressed by his ability to keep one important thing in mind: The play’s the thing.

  Not that David would have recognized that line or could distinguish Hamlet from a ham sandwich, but he understood it intrinsically, and that was something. It just wasn’t enough. Fans saw only the show, and they thought Van Halen was the tightest band in the world, on and off the stage. They weren’t there when Edward was hanging out backstage with Neal Schon of Journey, ungraciously noting that Michael Anthony’s solo, which the crowd loved (despite the fact that he ripped his pants in the middle of it), had been composed and spoon-fed to the bassist by Edward.

  “I had to teach him that,” Edward said. “Every note.”

  Nor were they around to see Edward’s meltdown in the dressing room after their set, provoked by a guitar glitch during the show. Valerie Bertinelli had been so frightened by the outburst—and I mean legitimately concerned for her own safety—that she sought out Jan for comfort and advice. Jan found me, and I went to the dressing room to calm Edward down—no easy task given that he was coked up and drunk off his ass. Unbeknownst to fans, this sort of damage control had become not just part of the job with Van Halen but, in fact, most of the job.

  WE HAD A COUPLE DAYS OFF after the Donington Park show. Again, for the most part, we were a family divided. Although we all stayed in the same hotel, we didn’t socialize much together—unless we had to. Valerie was with Edward; also there was Alex’s new wife, Kelly, whose sister was married to a guy in the music management business (this was a problem for me, as I would later discover). And I was with Jan. That left David, as always, on his own. Which was a problem. As an example, one night there was a knock on our door. Jan answered to find David standing in the hallway, looking lonely and bored.