by Tommy Lee
I wasn’t done—at some point I realized I’d feel better about the situation if I finished what I had started. I thought about the fans who had bought tickets to see Mötley play their greatest hits and I wasn’t going to let one asshole ruin it for all those people. So I decided I’d do it—with a fucking laundry list of conditions. I demanded my own bus, my own dressing room, and that management and security made sure that Vince and I did not come in contact at any time before or after the show. Still, it sucked being onstage with him. I was doing everything that I said I would never do: I was faking it because even though I didn’t want to be there, the show must go on. The fans had no clue, but I felt like a fucking whore up there every night and I counted down the shows until it was over.
I don’t know why I was surprised. There had been beef between Vince and me for years. We recorded Dr. Feelgood, our most successful album and tour, completely sober—and it wasn’t easy to be straight for that year. At every hotel we checked into, our travel agents and tour managers made sure that all the liquor was removed from the minibars, and in our dressing rooms, where Nikki and I used to have a bottle of Jack Daniel’s each, there was no booze to be found. Hell, Nikki and I would chug an entire bottle of Jack onstage just a few years ago. Mötley world had become a ghost town with no liquor stores. In Hawaii, we scheduled a few days off before the final two nights of the tour and we did it right: We rented Ferraris, hot rods, and Harleys, cruised around, and hung out on the beach. That night Vince and I went in search of tits and ended up at a strip club, which is probably the hardest place to be sober. There we are with all these fine-ass girls parading around us like stallions to every strip club’s theme song, “Girls, Girls, Girls.”
GO T-BONE. TELL THEM YOU WROTE THAT ONE, DUDE!
FINE, I WILL!
HE WROTE THAT FUCKING SONG.
IT RULES! HE WROTE IT FOR ME!
When the waitress came around with a rack of irresistible test-tube shots, Vince and I looked at each other and said, “Fuck it.” Between the chicks and our dicks, there was no way we weren’t drinking. It was on.
THANK GOD! IT WAS A LONG YEAR, PEOPLE.
It was fucking awesome, but the whole time while we were whooping it up, I kept thinking about the other guys in the band who were back at the hotel, sober. What was I going to tell them?
The next day, me, Mr. Honest Guy had to confess.
DUMB-ASS!
The whole band is in the dressing room and I’m sitting there hung the fuck over. I say, “I’ve got something to tell you guys. I’m sorry I let you guys down, but last night I got fucked up at a titty bar.” Vince is standing right there and he says along with the other guys, “That’s okay, dude. You fucked up, but that’s cool.” I’m waiting there, ashamed, bumming, looking at Vince. That’s tight. I look right at him and say, “Thanks, bro, right on.” Dick. He never said a word about it, that fucker. I put myself out there to be straight with the brotherhood and he sat there and watched me do it. I’m convinced that he was drinking here and there behind closed doors throughout the tour. The craziest thing was when I looked at him at that moment he looked at me like I was on crack. He looked violated, like, “Why are you looking at me? I didn’t do shit last night.” Yeah, you did, dude. But whatever.
After that I was officially out of Mötley Crüe and since then people have not stopped asking me to sum up what it was like. I always tell them this: I have been everywhere and I’ve seen nothing. I’ve seen so many hotels and arenas that they’re all just one big room to me now. I saw a few road signs too, and a couple of menus. There wasn’t much time for sightseeing. I’ve made up for it since, but it’s crazy to think about how many times I went around the world with Mötley and how little I saw of it. Most of the landscapes I remember are framed by a van, limo, or plane window. And no matter where I was, the exact same deli tray was waiting backstage. Yuck.
One thing I don’t miss about being in Mötley Crüe is seeing Vince’s bloated, disrespectful, fucking ass every day, and it’s too bad that after knowing each other for so long, we haven’t found a way to get along. Who knows? Maybe someday we will—and I hope we do. I am happy that since the old days ended, I lose less clothes than I used to. From the beginning to the very end of my touring days with the band, I can’t tell you how many times I woke up to find that the chick I had brought back to my room and the clothes I was wearing the night before were gone. Usually I didn’t have a lot of clothes on to begin with, so losing even one item sometimes meant full nudity. It became a little strategy game: trying to get laid without losing my pants. Those girls would take anything—my shirt, my pants, my shoes, my underwear if I was wearing any. I tried to stay aware enough to hear them when they left my room or I’d try to remember to leave my clothes where I’d be able to find them when I made my escape. But it was always a losing battle. Let me tell you, it’s pretty fucked to wake up naked with no pants in sight. It’s much better to wake up in the morning to find that the Japanese fan you brought home has folded all your clothes, cleaned your room, didn’t take anything, and is completely gone. They’re so respectful! Arigato!
What I did see every night and that always blew me away was Mick Mars’s playing. He is one of the most underrated guitar players of the era. His riffs on the Mötley records are amazing. His tone sounds like two or three guys playing at the same time. He took blues guitar and gave it a facelift and plugged it through more Marshall stacks than God on distortion. And nobody gave him props. Maybe it was because he was the quiet guy. Maybe it was because he refused to do interviews, stayed as far in the background as he could and loved the dark. He wasn’t the most popular Mötley member, but he didn’t give a fuck because he doesn’t like people—and I think they could tell. He is the fucking loner vampire of all time, the recluse of all reclusives—that cat does not like people at all, any people, anywhere, any time, any of them, ever. I can relate to that and generally I think people suck. But if you take that feeling too far, you’ll end up at home, alone, every day, never seeing anyone. In my mind, whenever I hear myself saying that people suck, I always add that most people suck—but not everyone.
I’m a lot like Mick in one way: I’m definitely an agoraphobic.* If you rolled with me for a day to the mall, the supermarket, or a rock show, you’d see why I like meeting people, but it tends to get weird real quick.
Funny thing about my agoraphobia is that I live in the town of Agoura. How fucked up is that?
But Mick’s agoraphobia is different: He’s got hate mixed in there, a kind of redneckish, unfriendly, pick-up-truck-with-a-gun-rack vibe. He grew up in Indiana so I guess it’s in the blood. He would never in his life walk up to someone and say, “Hey, dude, what’s happening?” He was cool with those of us in the band and our inner circle, but whenever anyone outside our little army spoke to him his reaction was, “What the fuck do you want?” I fucking love that about him. That is what makes Mick one of the most unique, amazing people I know. I wouldn’t change a thing about him.
As much as there are times when I wish I could get Mick to be a little less Mick and come out and participate in the world, I will never be mad at him for being the way he is. He just wants to be home and if he’s not home, he just wants to be inside playing video games or his guitar until it’s dark. I used to stop by his room when we were touring and invite him out to the pool, trying to lure him out there by telling him about all the girls lying around with us, and he’d look at me like I was crazy and say, “What? Dude, I don’t go out unless it’s fucking dark.” He’d lie around in a white robe, with black socks and black sunglasses on, with all the shades drawn, watching Three Stooges reruns over and over and over. He hated it when I would open the curtains and let some light in. “What are you doing? I hate light. I hate everybody. I hate everything.” It was gnarly. I’d say, “All righty then! See you, bro!” When Mick did have to go out in daylight, he always wore a black hat pulled way down and the biggest, darkest pair of sunglasses he could find. He’d keep those glasses on all nigh
t sometimes.
Everyone always asks about it and once it almost happened. For my forty-first birthday I jammed with Sammy Hagar, Jerry Cantrell, and Chad Smith from the Chili Peppers down in Cabo San Lucas, Mexico, where Sammy has his club, Cabo Wabo. Sammy called me to come down and celebrate my birthday with him. We’re both Libras, we get along, and we’ve always wanted to jam together and never had the chance. It coincided with the end of writing this book, so I was like, “Fuck yeah!” I grabbed Anthony and we bailed to Cabo the day we handed this book in.* We were ready for a long-awaited celebration after working for four months.
Sammy does this birthday bash for himself every year. It’s two weeks long, he gives away all the tickets for free, first come, first serve. It’s crazy—people fly in from all over the place. He’s got so many friends who come down to celebrate and play with his band that Sammy’s party turns into a freestyle jam, and if you’re not there for the music, you’ve got no business being there. There’s no money to make, no interviews to do, we just rock shit, party, drink tequila, soak up the sun, and dread the day that we have to go home.
When we got there, Sammy informed me that he had intended a whole other kind of birthday present. He had talked to the other guys in the Crüe because his plan was to surprise me with a cake and a reunion. I just looked at him and tripped. I couldn’t believe he would go that far to freak me out. I just sat there going, “Woah.” Then I thought, “Woah, hey, that would be kinda cool.” Well, it didn’t happen. Let’s just say that ninety-five percent of the Crüe was down, the other five percent wanted a contract and payment up front.
This story doesn’t fit too well.
This is the chapter about Mötley, right? This story is about a Mötley reunion that almost happened. Where should we put it? It stays. It definitely stays, Limey.
From 1980 to 1999 Mötley Crüe was epic. It was half my life. We’ve already published the autobiography of the band and it’s still not summed up. How can I condense that much time into words or anything that will make sense to anyone else? Well... I’m going to try. Thank you, Nikki, Mick, and yes, even you, Vince, for all of it—it being everything you could ever possibly imagine: all your dreams and goals achieved with three other guys who came, saw, and kicked the world’s ass. Thank you for something that every guy wants: a brotherhood, a gang, a home away from home, the biggest block party ever, and all the rad shit that comes with being a rock star! It was us against the world, we made the rules, we broke the rules, and loved every fucking minute of it. Thanks for the music, the money, MTV, the cars, the mansions, the fame, the fortune, the tits, the ass, the drugs, the drama, the crabs, the roaches, the poverty, the pillage, the hairspray, the drum kits from hell, the parties from heaven, the stack of multiplatinum albums, the fans, the road crew who did the impossible, the history, the pyro, the porno, the private jets, the fights, the love, the blood, and if I went on, the scroll would hit the floor and the credits would roll forever. All I can say is what we said every December: Have a Mötley Christmas and a Happy Crüe year.
9 STATE OF LAWLESSNESS
a.k.a.
THE CODE OF THE ROAD
I could never fucking relate to the dudes who were married and doing all kinds of fucked up shit on the road. They didn’t seem to think so, but it fucks with your mind, and it sure as hell fucks with your relationship. What the fuck is the point of getting married if you plan on fucking around? I’m not naming names, but I’ve seen guys do crazy shit I really couldn’t believe. Their wives would be coming up the elevator while band security took hookers out of their rooms and tossed them down the stairwell. That’s not just wrong, it’s fucking insane.
Worst of all, I always got stuck talking to my bandmates’ wives while their husbands were off fucking groupies, or “girlfriends,” who lived in whatever city we were in. Now that shit sucks. When you’re in a band, you’re in a family, so my friends’ wives were my friends and they’d always feel comfortable asking me what their man was up to on the road. What the hell was I supposed to say? I’d hear myself mumbling some transparent lie like, “Um, hey, sweetie, you should probably talk to him about that because I don’t really know what the fuck he does.” I just couldn’t understand how a guy could have his wife join him on tour while he fucked everything with a pulse backstage, even while she was around. Those situations are such a mindfuck because your morals are at stake on the one hand and your professional relationships are at stake on the other. Aside from the music, a successful band is a fucking business that keeps its members paid and no one wants to fuck up their livelihood. But it is a tall order to tell a woman who deserves respect and who is either completely in the dark or holding on to some vision of reality that is so not what is really going on. These women would always be so psyched to be on the road for a few days watching their husbands rock shit. They’re at the side of the stage, all happy, never knowing that band security strategically parked them there early so their husbands can get in a quickie in the dressing room before the show. I’d watch it all go down but I’d never say shit.
Sometimes I didn’t have to say shit. Some guys’ wives had a fire burning in their eyes that said, “I know that motherfucker. I know he’s lying, and I know you’re lying.” Girls have radar, they know. I’m a shitty liar, I didn’t stand a chance.
Touring is fucking lawless, so you’ve got to show up with your own set of rules. When I first started touring, I was seventeen, so I learned as I went, and it wasn’t always easy. When your life is lived out of a suitcase, and some days you’re too wasted to even open it before you’re off again, shit gets weird. Every night after our show, we’d party all night in whatever town we were in—and when we were really in tour mode I didn’t even know what town it was—then show up in a new town the next morning, rock the fuck out of it, fuck the fuck out of it, and move on again. The only constants are a tour bus, a private plane, the show, and the after-party, as well as the after-the-after-party party, the before-traveling-again party, the pre-preshow-party party, and, of course, the preshow party. It’s like traveling in a human aquarium where you can see out but no one can get in and touch you unless you want them to. It’s a circus with every vice on tap, and you’re the ringleader. Believe me, you get worshiped in all kinds of weird ways that change you, no matter who you are.
I’m not big on rules and regulations, but the one rule I have for myself is that I am monogamous when I am in a relationship. That’s it—everything else is up for grabs. I’m one of the horniest, most sexually interested people I know. But if you’re really in love, it isn’t hard to be monogamous. My rule has its downside: It fucking sucks on the road when all I’ve got is long-distance love because the phone is wack. I don’t like talking on it ever, and trying to maintain an intimate relationship for weeks or months at a time using a telephone, when the only body I want to be next to is so far away, is fucking torture. Plus there are so many beautiful women who want to play that temptation is everywhere. It’s a test of character and of a relationship every single night. All I can say is, watching is good. Watching doesn’t count... does it? I used to believe that head didn’t count. Then I thought about turning the tables, and when I pictured someone else eating my girl’s pussy, I changed my mind. Yes, head counts. Head really counts.
There’s an old saying that’s been said in many ways: What happens on the road stays on the road. Las Vegas stole that shit from us, please believe. But I guess Mötley owed the city—well, at least the Aladdin Hotel. We pushed that rule to the limit too. One of my bandmates took the pursuit of pussy to a whole new level. I am going to omit the names here to protect the innocent. Fuck the innocent, I’m just protecting myself, because this next story has lawsuit stamped all over it—and I sure as fuck don’t need another one of those. There was one guy in the band who was married but couldn’t seem to get enough of matrimony. This guy had more than what I’d call a mistress—in fact, he had more than one of them. He’d set these girls up with apartments, jewelry, clothes—a
ll of it. And then, he’d drop the Big Lie?. A girl would come rushing into our dressing room backstage and show off her new engagement ring to the rest of the band. We’d be totally silent, like, “Oh... right on.” It always ended up bad, of course, because he was already married! Duh! It was just a matter of time before the girls would rush into our dressing room again, asking us all what happened and wondering why he broke it off. Well, let me see, hmm, I don’t know... uh, maybe... let me see... maybe because...he’s married? How could she not know that? It wasn’t hard to find out. And what the hell was that guy thinking anyway? What can I say, we were young and it’s only human to make mistakes. You never know, maybe he was thinking of moving to Utah and converting to Mormonism.*
10 STATE OF MATRIMONY: THE SEQUEL
a.k.a.
PAMELA
It’s time for me to admit something: I have a terrible memory. I’m not sure if I’ve always had a terrible memory—because I just can’t remember—but I do know that I have a bad one now. Whether it is just my nature or my lifestyle—or both—here I am, and a lot of days I don’t recall the fine print. So I’m dialing in Pamela for some assistance in this chapter. Do you guys know Pamela? My ex-wife Pamela Anderson? You’ve definitely seen her—she was on Baywatch and V.I.P., and she’s been on the cover of Playboy quite a few times. She’s hot, dude, and she’s going to interrupt me when things get blurry.
Pamela and I met on New Year’s Eve, 1994. I was chilling, just having a good time with my friends at this club called Sanctuary that she partly owned. I was not at all in meeting-you mode. I was single and recently divorced from Heather Locklear, so I wanted nothing to do with getting involved with a new girl at all. Then here comes a shot of Goldschläger, that crazy cinnamon schnapps with the gold flakes in it. The people who make that shit should sponsor both of us and keep our freezers packed for life. The shot was from Pamela. I was like, “Whoa, right on!” I asked the waitress if Pamela was at the club and she pointed out where she was sitting across the room, drinking it up with a bunch of her girlfriends—and no dudes at the table. I grab my bottle of Cristal, slam the shot, and go over and sit right next to her. I don’t say hello. I don’t say a word. I just lick the side of her face like a fucking big dog. She’s like, “Oh my God! ” and her friends start freaking out, just shaking their heads and saying to her, “No, no, no, no, NO!” They are not happy at all when I bite an E in two and put half in her mouth.