VJ: The Unplugged Adventures of MTV's First Wave

by Nina Blackwood

  I’d call from a pay phone on the side of Route 66, and I’d hear Dylan crying. “How’s the baby?”

  “He’s fine. How are you?”

  “Oh, I’m fine. It’s hard out here, and I’m tired.”

  “Hold on, one of your segments is coming on. Oh, great. You’re in a hot tub with Miss New Mexico. I’ll talk to you later.”

  “No, baby, it’s just TV!”

  Amuck in America deteriorated pretty quickly—or maybe got better, depending on what side of the camera you were on. Somewhere in Texas, we pulled up to a diner and jumped out with our fake Uzi machine guns. We ran into the diner—no advance work, no warning, nothing. I jumped up on the countertop and said, “Everybody down!” People weren’t quite so fearful about terrorists back then, but I was lucky not to have an off-duty cop put a cap in my ass.

  Everyone in the crew ended up being on camera, so after a week or so, we had a production meeting where we tried to figure out how the logistics would work—someone had to remember to turn the camera on, even if he was filming himself. We’d roll all this footage and send it back to New York and hope they’d edit it in the right way. We started hearing that they were running large blocks of unedited video, not just the bits we intended for segments. We had to do what we called “black to black”—camera on, make a golden one-minute segment, camera off. That put more pressure on me to have my act together, or sometimes not have it together at all and just go for the gusto.

  We had a day off in Birmingham, Alabama, my hometown, and we stayed at my parents’ house—my mom and stepdad were out of town. The local newspaper reporter interviewed me as we were hanging out by the pool. She made it sound really glamorous, like I was hanging out with all my Hollywood pals, which was funny, because we were traveling from hotel to hotel, each of us schlepping two large orange-and-blue duffel bags: MTV had issued them to us at the beginning of the trip, with our names written on the side with Magic Marker, like we were going to camp. I still have those bags today.

  With twelve segments a day, we had to be more efficient, even as we were unraveling. After a while, we decided we would start every day with a talk-show segment we called “Good Morning Amuck,” complete with a theme song. We’d be sitting poolside at our hotel, semi-blitzed from the previous night. We’d recap what happened the day before, and sometimes introduce a special guest, like the janitor or a hotel security guard. Our crew would be sitting around, drinking coffee and eating doughnuts on camera. We could usually get two segments out of that—three if a Barney Fife security guard showed me his gun.

  In Detroit, we visited Aretha Franklin’s house. We didn’t mess with her—we were reverent to the point of being meek. We looked pretty grungy, with shorts, tennies, and backward hats; I had even grown a road beard. We turned on our little handheld camera, rang the doorbell, and Aretha opened the door: “Oh, hi, I’m expecting you.” MTV had played a lot of “Freeway of Love” and her cover of “Jumpin’ Jack Flash,” so she had every reason to be polite, but we stayed at her house for three or four hours, and she never seemed to get tired of us. Aretha serenaded us at her piano—and cooked us a big pot of chili!

  After a while, Jan came out to visit, and it was a tough scene. She wanted to hand Dylan off to me and take a break, but I was going nonstop, sometimes twenty hours a day. Jan and Dylan weren’t even allowed to ride in the RV with me, partially because she wasn’t covered by the insurance, and partially because we were always taping, and a wife and baby weren’t part of the shenanigans. So she stayed in the equipment van that followed the RV, and we’d talk by walkie-talkie, and she’d be trying to breast-feed while we screamed down the highway at ninety miles an hour. Not a good situation, but the alternative was being down in Mississippi with her family for thirty days. That would have been easier for all of us, but she wanted to come out. I didn’t want to be apart from her either, but I needed her to suck it up.

  Halfway through the trip, we arrived in Houston, where the higher-ups had flown out to keep us on track and pat us on the back. In return, we bit the hands that fed us, putting them on camera slamming back shots at a bar, and throwing pies in their faces. We must not have bit too hard, because Bob Pittman oversaw the renewal of my contract, almost doubling my salary. After five years, my role at MTV had finally come into focus. I was the guy who went on the road to do crazy stuff, and I loved it.

  By the end of Amuck, I was burnt. We ended up in Los Angeles—the idea was that Josie, the crew, and I would kick off that year’s Video Music Awards by driving the Amuck car onstage. The day before, we filmed some promos for the awards show down by the Santa Monica Pier; I was goofing around on a playground. The director, Ken Ceizler, was in the truck, and I could hear him through the producer’s earpiece: “Tell him to just goddamn get on with the segment.”

  I flexed my ego a little bit. “I’m not fucking ready yet. Tell him I want to do it swinging from the monkey bars.”

  Ken said, “Tell him that I don’t like that—it looks dumb.”

  I said, “Fuck that. This is what I want.” The crew was looking at me, stunned. There were about twenty-five people—a big number for an MTV shoot—but the ones who knew me had never seen me be a diva like that. Ken came storming out onto the set and got in my face. I had a big row with him, and I couldn’t believe I was doing that. I wasn’t really in control of it, but I also felt righteous about what I was saying. In retrospect, I have no idea which one of us was right, but it felt good to let loose with twenty-five people watching. I could see the allure of being a movie star: You can make millions of dollars, flip out, and tell everybody to fuck off for the rest of the day. I totally understood how stardom makes people lose their minds. I was Alan Hunter, dammit!

  I won the argument, not that I was especially proud of it. Later on, I didn’t want anyone to rub my shoulders or try to make me feel better. Don’t reward me for acting like that.

  Mark:

  Downtown Julie Brown settled in as the new VJ. I liked her right away—she was cheeky in a British way. She hadn’t turned into the “wubba wubba wubba” cartoon character yet—she was saucy and slightly suggestive on the air, but off camera, she was much more conservative. Carol and I had a few dinners with Julie and her hunky boyfriend Chris Breed, who managed a club.

  Alan:

  Julie had more diva attitude than the rest of us: We had gotten used to the lack of star treatment.

  Martha:

  I was friendly with Julie. We did a bunch of remotes together, including a spring break and a festival at Knebworth where it was pouring rain. They stuck me out in the audience, with everybody screaming and yelling behind me—I had a yellow slicker on, with my hood up in the downpour. I looked up into the stands, and I could see Julie under a canopy, with lights and makeup people and champagne. I had to laugh. That’s always been my gig: I’m not just talking to the fans, I’m one of them.

  Alan:

  Julie and I cohosted a Mardi Gras together, and I was getting most of the air time—basically because I had been there longer. I overheard her yapping to one of the producers, saying, “Why does he get all the segments? What is he, King Alan?” I was a little offended, but she and I got along fine after that. Hell yeah, I’m King Alan.

  Martha:

  Not many people have ever had the job title of VJ, and I don’t think the job really exists anymore. For me, the only real VJs were the five of us, plus Downtown Julie Brown, Carolyne Heldman, Kevin Seal, and Adam Curry. China Kantner and Dweezil Zappa were there for a little bit, but for me, they were the beginning of the celebrity presence instead of the music-expert presence. It’s a small club.

  Alan:

  Carolyne Heldman lasted only six months.

  Mark:

  MTV chewed Carolyne up and spit her out. She wasn’t super-polished, but she was good; I liked what she did. She was really natural, without any music-business bullshit. Almost childlike, in that way, but a great person. They fired her for wearing shorts, because she didn’t shave
her legs. Whatever. Or her armpits, either—actually, that I had a problem with.

  Alan:

  Carolyne and I did a spring break together in Fort Lauderdale. Some guy made death threats, so MTV paid for us to have bodyguards. The network was hush-hush about the situation, but I think Carolyne may have been the focus of the threats; they put us both under protection so she wouldn’t get spooked.

  I took Jan and Dylan down to Florida, and the whole time we had two bodyguards following us around, which was cool but weird. We were sitting at some party for the affiliates, and this poor sap from the local radio station walked up to me, looking to shake my hand. “Hey, Al, how you doin’?” These two guys jumped in and pinned him against a wall. I told them to back off, but he was pissed. I wondered what it would be like to live like that all the time—after a while, you wouldn’t be embarrassed by it. You’d take it for granted.

  I did one segment with Hawaiian Tropic girls, ten of them all lined up onstage in their bikinis. A contingent of frat guys was chanting something, but I couldn’t understand them. So on the air, I asked one of them, “What are y’all saying?”

  He said, “Hunter’s got a woody!”

  He was correct, but it didn’t register at first what he meant—I was on autopilot. “Woody? That’s not my name. Oh, crap.”

  In another segment, I was literally interviewing some girl’s boobs, or maybe her butt. Jan was in the VIP area, and I could see her holding Dylan up in the air, making sure I remembered I had a family.

  Martha:

  In Jan’s shoes, I would have been swinging an infant around too. A situation like that is enough to bring out the Glenn Close in anyone.

  Alan:

  MTV sent me to L.A. for a Rod Stewart video shoot, and while I was there, I went to the Playboy Mansion to interview Hugh Hefner. When I was sixteen years old, the Mansion was probably the most iconic place on the planet to me, so my brain was overloaded—“Oh my God, there’s the Grotto!”—even without all the Bunnies walking around. I was thinking, Wow, this place exists. It’s real.

  I interviewed Hugh Hefner, who was wearing his jammies and slippers. We talked about rock ’n’ roll, and who his favorite bands were. He said the Stones. Then I could see his brain whirring, trying to think of something hip. He came up with, “And I like that U2.”

  There was a zoo on the grounds of the Mansion. That was where I interviewed one of the Playmates, who was in her bikini, of course. During a tape change, I made chitchat with her: “So you’re a Bunny—does that mean you’re in the magazine?”

  “I was in just this past November! Would you like to see it?”

  “Why, of course. That would be great.”

  She ran up to the Mansion, about a hundred yards away, while I guffawed with the camera guys, who were freaking out about how hot she was. I told them, “Y’all cool it now. I got to get through this interview.”

  She came back with the magazine, and opened it up on-camera, just delighted to show me her work. There were five or six very revealing pictures of her, and the only thing I could croak out was, “I see you’re a real brunette.”

  It was a weird day. I interviewed Gene Simmons by the edge of the pool, and then we hung out in the Grotto for a little while, no cameras. Gene was a solid, normal guy. I was telling him about Jan and Dylan, and that even though the Mansion was blowing my mind, I was so happy with my family life. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Yeah, man, you just got to work at it. Marriage is a good thing.” I loved that he was giving me fatherly advice. Then I asked him to show me his tongue. He stuck it out for me—and it was really long.

  From the MTV promo for “Hedonism Weekend”:

  JAMAICAN VOICE-OVER GUY: “Jamaica! Jewel of the Caribbean! Home of reggae, the limbo, cooked food, and peaceful tropical nights. That’s before MTV turned it into—”

  ALL FIVE MEMBERS OF BON JOVI, WITH SCARVES, SUNGLASSES, AND UMBRELLA DRINKS: “Pleasure Island!”

  JON BON JOVI, POINTING INTO CAMERA: “Hi, I’m Jon Bon Jovi and I want you to spend a weekend of unbridled hedonism with me and these guys!”

  BAND: “Yeah!”

  JON BON JOVI, CATCHING COCONUT IN LEFT HAND: “And by hedonism, do we mean you can do anything you please, no matter how wild, strange, or excessive?”

  BAND: “Hell yes!”

  JAMAICAN VOICE-OVER GUY: “And it’ll all be exposed on national television. Win MTV’s Hedonism Weekend with Bon Jovi and join the biggest brain-frying blowout in the Caribbean since the invasion of Grenada!”

  JON BON JOVI: “And this one has women!”

  JAMAICAN VOICE-OVER GUY: “Two guys and two girls who have never met before will fly to Club Hedonism in Jamaica to party with Bon Jovi!”

  DRUMMER TICO TORRES, BEHIND A RECLINING WOMAN IN A BIKINI: “We gonna play some music?”

  GUITARIST RICHIE SAMBORA, PULLING OUT A STETHOSCOPE: “No, we’re going to play doctor! Oooh, doc.”

  JAMAICAN VOICE-OVER GUY: “And you’ll be part of MTV’s Hedonism Weekend broadcast, direct from Pleasure Island. Send a postcard with your name, age, address, and phone number on it, to MTV’s Hedonism, P.O. Box 899, Radio City Station, New York, New York, 10101.”

  JON BON JOVI: “You’ll give hedonism a bad name!”

  Alan:

  After Amuck, they wanted me to go down to Jamaica for a week with Bon Jovi. When I told Jan about it, she assumed that she’d be coming along. I asked, but they wouldn’t do it. I don’t know if they were being cheap, or if they were just tired me of me dragging the wife and kid along all the time. So I had to go back to Jan and say, “Sorry, honey, it would be awful for you and Dylan. It’s hedonistic, just a big bacchanal.” Every reason for her not to come was a reason for her to be nervous I was going. As it turned out, I hated the resort, Hedonism II—the neighborhood around it in Negril, Jamaica, was unbelievably poor. It’s no fun to be surrounded by people in such despair.

  The label was hawking Slippery When Wet, and it was a big cross-promotion for the band and MTV. Bon Jovi got constant promos—the ads for the contest were in heavy rotation—and we got easy access to the guys who had our number-one video. Once we got down there, the band had a lot of work to do—when MTV said jump, they jumped. They’re kazillionaires now, but back then, they were just a bunch of mooks from New Jersey. They hammed it up but managed to keep it casual. One segment, we sat around drinking Red Stripes and singing “Kumbaya.”

  We staged activities at the resort, like a game where everybody had to crawl under each other’s legs and then drink a Red Stripe. I kept cheating: cutting the line and pretending to drink the Red Stripe but actually pouring it onto the sand. Jon—shirtless, and wearing short denim cutoffs—was the referee. He kept yelling at me to get back in line: “Hunter! You’re outta here!”

  At the end of each day, Bon Jovi went into their own world—they had a house off-campus. One night, drinking my Red Stripe in the bar, surrounded by single people having fun, I thought about hunting down some of the cute girls we used in our TV bits earlier in the day—being on the receiving end of some fan flirtation seemed harmless enough. Instead, telling myself I was tired, I bah-humbugged back to my room. Was I being a good husband, or copping out? Viewers may have thought I was living large, but that week didn’t feel glamorous, or even much fun: It was a job for the band and it was a job for me.

  42

  I Don’t Wanna Lose Your Love Tonight

  Martha Finds True Love

  Mark:

  When I came to New York, I smoked cigarettes. Carol hated it, so I stopped.

  As time went on, things between us kept getting worse. I started to miss cigarettes: I never had before, but the stress in my life was mounting. Carol didn’t know everything I was doing, but it was clear the marriage wasn’t working. We saw a therapist for a while and had a difficult series of sessions. At one point, Carol did something very sweet—even if the American Cancer Society wouldn’t approve. She gave me a pack of cigarettes and a really cool light
er. “I want to give you what I took away from you,” she said. “I didn’t want to take things away from you.” She knew I had changed a lot of things in my life for her. It broke my heart.

  Martha:

  When I was still going out with Stiv, he went out to L.A. for a while to record with Brett Gurewitz, who was in Bad Religion and went on to found Epitaph Records. He had a little studio called Westbeach Recorders. Just for the fun of it, Stiv and I recorded a song together, called “Yesterdays Will Find You.” Brett called up a guitarist he knew named Jordan Tarlow, and said, “You’ve got to come down to the studio—I’m recording Martha Quinn and Stiv Bator.”

  Jordan came down, and I remember the exact moment he walked into the studio. I thought, “That is the cutest guy I have ever seen in my life.” Later on, Stiv said to me, “You have a crush on Jordan, don’t you?”

  I was like, “Noooo!” But of course, the answer was yes. While Stiv was busy in the studio, I asked Jordan if he wanted to go to the movies with me and Nina—she had moved out west by that point. This was the ’80s—what guy wouldn’t want to go to the movies with Martha Quinn and Nina Blackwood? But he responded, “What are you gonna see?” Whatever it was, he decided it was a chick flick, and said, “No, thanks.” No, thanks?! Right then, I put him in my sights. Like Pat Benatar sang, “I’m gonna follow you ’til I wear you down.”

  I went back to New York, and not long after that, Stiv and I broke up. Then in September 1986, MTV came out to L.A. for the Video Music Awards. We had never done a big production in L.A. before, and we were like country bumpkins. We didn’t know who to call to get anything done. We were scrambling for production assistants—or PAs, as they’re called—to help out during the broadcast.