Dancing With Myself

by Billy Idol

  Now I revel in the delight I get from both my children. It was having them that enabled me to finally rehabilitate myself and stop being quite so cavalier with my life. My fear of leaving Willem and Bonnie without a father as a result of my drug addictions has been the positive force of change in my being. As they grew older, I knew the last thing they truly wanted was a drugged/alcoholic/sex-addict father. I have done my best to be there for them. I haven’t always succeeded, I’m afraid, but that is the lot of a parent: you find yourself constantly second-guessing, so you must rely on your best intentions and instincts and hope it all comes out to the good.

  But during the recording of Charmed Life, while they were infants being looked after by their mothers, I wasn’t there for my son and daughter. I was a slave to my addictions and lifestyle. The wagon was rolling, the wheels were turning, and I was caught underneath. And I was about to record one of my biggest chart hits.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  TROUBLE WITH THE SWEET STUFF

  Sunset Strip, Los Angeles

  CAROLE CHILDS WORKED AT GEFFEN Records and was Tony Dimitriades’s friend. She had a song she wanted me to record for the Andrew Dice Clay movie The Adventures of Ford Fairlane. The song was called “Cradle of Love,” and she was anxious to get our take on it. I messed with the lyrics a bit, but David Werner had written most of them already. The song just needed a little finesse and interpretive work on my part. We wanted to inject some character into the music. The song was about some of the great cradle robbers in rock ’n’ roll, and included a shout-out to Jerry Lee Lewis—“It burned like a ball of fire / When the rebel took a little child bride.” The plan was for the song to appear on both the movie sound track and on Charmed Life. “Cradle of Love” turned out to be the album’s lead single and a huge success.

  Another tune on the album, “Trouble with the Sweet Stuff,” started out as a medium-paced Idol rocker—much like “White Wedding”—but turned into an epic, six-minute torch song. “Pumping on Steel” came out more true to my initial intention, which was to write a fuck song about screwing on my motorcycle. “Prodigal Blues” has a beautiful elegiac quality. Maybe I knew I was saying goodbye for a bit, because it’s an encapsulation of my story, my journey up until then.

  During this time, producer/director/writer Michael Mann asked me to record a version of the Doors song “L.A. Woman” for his TV movie L.A. Takedown. I admired Michael’s work, and readily agreed to record the song that would be featured on the film sound track and would also be the second single on Charmed Life. When Steve Stevens and I first started jamming together in ’80 we sometimes jammed on “L.A. Woman,” as it was a song that interspersed vocals and lead guitar lines, and we had no others like that at the time. In those early days, when we got near the end of an Idol set, we sometimes threw it in for fun, and to blow off some steam. Since I was working on the Doors film at the same time as recording Charmed Life, including our version of “L.A. Woman” on the album seemed very appropriate. We did a very up-tempo, cocaine-driven version that sped along a little differently than the original Doors version, which was a slightly slower barroom honky-tonk piano boogie. Our version remains a staple of Idol set lists to this day and is always a blast to perform.

  The making of Charmed Life continued through a variety of recording studios, including Conway, deep in Hollywood, where we recorded a ’50s “death” song, “Endless Sleep,” also suggested by Carole and Tony D. I liked the idea of trying to sing one of those death-wish songs that poured its Cadillac blues all over the studio speakers. The song was originally recorded by 1950s rockabilly singer and songwriter Jody Reynolds, who had a Top Five hit with it in 1958, and was later covered by Hank Williams Jr. Those speakers vibrated and whirred as the recording and mixing inexorably ground their way to the conclusion.

  Mark Younger-Smith made some excellent contributions to the album. It was Keith Forsey who introduced me to Mark, a six-foot- tall, Harley-riding Texan. He plays a mean Texas-blues-rock-style guitar, which was interestingly different from Steve Stevens’s “shock and awe” electronics. But at the same time, Mark could execute the Stevens-era guitar sounds in his own way when he had to, while bringing a slightly different blues vibe to our entire sound. He is a great guy who was all about enjoying life to the fullest. When it came time to do press for the album, I asked him how he would answer the inevitable question, How on earth are you going to fit into Steve Stevens’s shoes? His inimitable reply was, in a laconic Texan drawl, “I don’t wear them-there high heels.” Which I thought was fucking perfect, a great way to diffuse the questions.

  During the recording sessions I watched The Loveless, a 1982 film. Codirected and cowritten by Zero Dark Thirty’s Kathryn Bigelow, it was her feature film debut. The film also introduced Willem Dafoe, starring in his first credited screen role as a member of an American biker gang who finds trouble in a small southern town during a cross-country escapade. The title, The Loveless, seemed especially fitting to me in describing my own increasing feeling of disconnectedness.

  I KNOW SHE’S WAITING FOR ME / OUTSIDE OF SOCIETY.

  —“THE LOVELESS”

  When you’re making an album, the pressure to come up with ideas is huge; it’s the new ideas and the associated pressure that ultimately push the record forward. Sometimes, Keith Forsey would be there all night into the next day. When we arrived, the music on the playback would be so loud and distorted, it was hard to discern what song it was. Keith could hear through it all, fine-tuning with that sorcerer’s magic of his, squeezing the beat into that special place dubbed the “Forsey World.” Keith worked hard to put the drums into a certain groove that, musically speaking, if you were a woman, would tickle your musical G-spot. For a dancer, that means the beat is nonstop, working its way to your insides, creating a flow of endorphins that spur greater intensity. In that way, they accompany the rhythm, so instead of a drumbeat going “boop bat,” it seems to say “oooh” and “ahhh,” as you surrender to a quality that is more than just “in time.” It’s masturbating with the tempo, working in and out of it, making a simple drumbeat say more by filling out the meaning to the words, driving them home in a way that is instinctual. Keith always said there should be an animatronic “pussy” between the studio speakers that would react to the beat we were creating. As it became more intense, the pussy would cream its juices and tell us we were getting it right.

  We worked together to get the vocals to a point we were all proud of. Keith would often look at me as I strode to the vocal booth, intent on delivering my main vocal track. “Bill, when you’re in there, don’t forget to have a good time,” he would say, and it broke whatever tension I had, so I could approach the vocal with a joie de vivre. As the track started to take shape, after some careful consideration, he would jump up, spin around in a crouch, and clap his hands when he thought we were getting somewhere. He would then position himself in between the smaller speakers in the studio and put his head between them, listening intently, eyes closed, to figure out what needed to be fine-tuned. He would examine the blur and roar of disparate guitars and drums and spot an instrumental color that would help bring the mélange of noise together, solidifying it and claiming the space it occupied, so that it became virtually undeniable. Sometimes, he would do this with a faux Italian cry of “I must produce!” as if he was a grandstanding, big-name foreign producer. Keith always came ready to work. He is a true professional with a heart big enough to always see the potential, however minuscule, in me.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  DRUNKEN, STUPID, & NAKED

  Three weeks in Bangkok, Thailand

  I REGRET VERY MUCH HOW things ended with Perri. She deserved better from me, especially at such an important time. With Perri gone, I was left completely to my own deviant devices, and felt guilty that I had fucked up in such a massive way—making a mess of my relationship with the mother of my child. Once again, I was very depressed, and though I tried to carry on regardless, my condition did not go unnoti
ced by those around me. Rude Dude leader Harry Johnson urged me to take a break from recording, so, at his suggestion, I chose this moment to fulfill a wild fantasy. We struck out via jetliner for Bangkok, throwing caution to the wind, along with any fear of the Golden Triangle. What made us decide that this was the time and place to seek out our destiny? Was it the stories of young damsels to be found there? Or the overabundance of crazy things one could get up to? Whatever the reasons, it was with no trepidation whatsoever that we braved the high humidity, which I personally dislike, and danced into the mystical realm of long-lost tales.

  Harry is a small chap of stocky build, a little older than me, who was even then losing his hair at the front slightly. He had once been a hairdresser, although his reason for being one was not completely mercenary. It was purely his love of the fairer sex that led him, scissors in hand, to beauty school. He knew most of the other men in that line of work would be gay and that he would have a clear field among the women who were also learning the art of hair cutting, coloring, and styling. He had, Warren-Beatty-in-Shampoo style, once owned his own salon, where he regularly had sex with his clientele while hearing all their personal stories and gaining an insight into the workings of the female brain unlike anyone else I have ever known.

  We flew out of LAX, telling each other we were only going to drink and not do any drugs while we were there. The plan was to just spend as much time in the brothels as possible, with as many girls as possible, and that is exactly how it was for the first few days. We settled in at the Oriental Hotel, in the presidential suite on the top floor, with a panoramic view of the city. We were perched high above the dirty Chao Phraya River that lazily wound its way past the hotel and through the busy, overcrowded capital, disappearing into the distance. The brothels around town were many, and typically each had about fifty girls behind a huge glass window, all scantily clad in blue see-through sarongs, wearing numbers to allow you to easily identify which girl (or girls) you wanted. After a while, all the women started blurring together, and so I would say to Harry, “Just pick me a few you’d think I’d like, mate,” and we’d go back to the hotel.

  Harry took Polaroid photos of our female companions and had over a thousand shots by the time our trip was over. Things were in full swing after a week, when we both decided drinking and jet lag were taking their toll. So we thought, quite innocently, What if we scored a little blow just to even out the booze? We asked a taxi driver if he could get some and a twinkle appeared in his eye as he exclaimed, “yes!” in Thai, and drove off to get it for us.

  After about an hour he returned. We climbed in the back of his tiny cab, where he slipped us a long, thin vial, about eight inches in length, filled with white powder. The size of the vial looked suspicious, so Harry took the vial and, with his little finger, tasted the powder. I could see by the look on his face that something wasn’t exactly right. This isn’t blow, he mouthed to me. My eyebrows raised and my eyes widened as I incredulously asked him—without actually saying a word—What could it be, then?? Though I had a fucking pretty good idea. . . .

  On getting up to the hotel room we examined the powder and yes, sure enough, it was the strongest China White heroin I’d ever touched. You only needed to smoke a pinprick of it to get high. And when I say high, I mean zombie high.

  Shit, my best dream was coming true—or more likely, my worst nightmare. I hadn’t had any smack since halfway through Whiplash Smile in ’86, and here was the best stuff in the world. A junkie just can’t say no to that! I definitely couldn’t.

  One big problem was that we didn’t have any tinfoil. After a few hours spent searching through Bangkok markets, we eventually realized they didn’t seem to use tinfoil at all in Thailand, so we headed back to the hotel and used the chocolate-bar wrappers from the minibar. Junkies are nothing if not resourceful!

  The hotel staff were embarrassed by the seemingly continuous parade of hookers through the lobby and corridors at all times of the day and night, but we didn’t care. It was an over-the-top kind of fun. I still have a little bit of video we took: there we are, pale ghosts flitting through the suite, zombielike and somnambulistic. We had slack facial expressions, our muscles sliding beneath our skin, hollow and nightmarish, avoiding the light and unwelcome scrutiny, dressed in sheets, shunning the ordinary.

  The hotel asked us to move so that the president of Cambodia might have the entire top floor. We refused, thus continuing to wear out our welcome at the Oriental. The king’s bodyguards stood glaring at the other end of the hallway night and day, but we were so high we didn’t give a shit about that, or anything, really.

  Eventually, about two weeks into the trip, the dope started to run out and we started to think about our next moves. We decided once the vial ran out, that had to be it, or we would just keep going. But we were so hooked at this point, we knew the heebie-jeebies would be hell if we stopped cold. We went to a pharmacy and bought every knockout pill they stocked. You can get everything over the counter there, so I’m sure we got some codeine and the like, but nothing made much of a dent in the descending agony of coming off that stuff.

  We decided to get out of Bangkok. Our time was up in the hotel anyway, but not before Mel Gibson and family, horrified, saw me passed out in the elevator with the door opening and closing on me. Harry, who was trying to help me to my feet at the time, later told me that Mel offered a polite, “Excuse me,” and led his family to the next elevator.

  Next we moved to the Royal Cliff Hotel in Pattaya, a seaside resort to the south. Harry had met a Vietnamese bird and she came with us, too. The only English she knew was “boom boom,” and “out go the light.” I suspect Harry had taught her. With the heroin gone, we used the pills. So now, instead of lying low and staying quiet, we were loudly roaming around, getting drunk and tranquilized at the same time. We hired Jet Skis, and while playing chicken with Harry, I didn’t steer out of his way in time and my Jet Ski got dinged and started to sink. For good measure I took off my swimsuit and was nude as it sank. I gave the family $25,000, which hopefully set them right. The Jet Ski was their livelihood. Looking back, I feel just awful about it, but I was really too sick and stoned to fully appreciate the situation at the time.

  We repaired to our hotel and downed more pills. Before long, I passed out in my bed. When I came to, it was nighttime and Harry had gone out, leaving me with two hookers. I became enraged, and with all the power I could muster through the workouts I’d been doing for a year and a half, I picked up the five-foot log that was serving as a table and threw it through the glass sliding doors that filled an entire wall of the room. When the hotel owner saw it in the morning, it took $20,000 to calm him down and stop him from calling the police. We decided it was best to get out of Dodge, or in this case, Pattaya, and head back north to Bangkok.

  This is where things get hazy. I have only flashes of the rest of the visit in my memory. Phone calls were coming in for me thick and fast, insisting I return home, but I knew I had to get through a week or more of coming off smack before even thinking about the fourteen-hour plane ride back. In ’86, I had smoked crack to avoid the hell I was now facing, and coming off heroin is increasingly worse each time. All I remember now is people pleading with me to take my friend and leave. I’m sure my mate was dead worried. I was such a loose cannon smashing things up in a tranquilized hell that I’m sure Harry thought we would be arrested at any moment. I was crazy, then sane, and then crazy again. One minute you could reason with me and then I would be gone again—the Billy Idol version of “acting out,” I suppose. All told, I smashed up three hotels and dished out many thousands of dollars to placate hotel management.

  In the end, the Thai military were called to help escort us to the plane. I think they got a nurse to come and give me a shot, and they strapped me to a hospital gurney and wheeled me away out of the hotel to the airport with four soldiers armed with rifles marching beside me. I remember seeing them in one blurry moment of consciousness before I blacked out again to wake u
p puking at the airport. Wonderful!

  It was during this mad vacation that Harry coined my crazy side’s identity by calling me Bilvis. Zool had been usurped by Bilvis. We returned to Los Angeles to finish making my fourth solo album.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  I BEAR A CHARMED LIFE, WHICH MUST NOT YIELD

  San Fernando Valley, Southern California

  THE TITLE CHARMED LIFE TOOK on ironic significance in the light of future events, but the making of the album was a never-ending party. Every few days, it seemed like I was recovering from yet another sex, booze, and drug binge where it took seventy-two hours just to feel normal again. I realized that in many ways I had reverted to the behavior and feelings that permeated my life during the recording of Whiplash Smile, but I simply could not, or would not, stop myself.

  Whatever studio we were in became our lair. Twenty-plus years on and I hear they still talk about our exploits at the Record Plant—we orgied like Roman times. Of course, the ecstasy played a big part. The control room in the studio took on the look of a spacecraft with its panels of LEDs as we literally took off into the stratosphere. I remember standing naked in the studio, looking at the blinking lights of the control room and thinking our spaceship was about to blast off. Sometimes, when we were out of our minds, Hollywood’s lights became an extension of the studio as we proceeded to explore the sexual boundaries of this strange galaxy accompanied by the roar of motorcycles that we rode night and day, sober or fucked up, as we delved into the seedy side of Tinseltown. We entered the black hole ahead willingly, skated near death, and reveled in the experience.