Tommyland

by Tommy Lee

  I’m cool hanging with fans as long as no one gets too crazy. I go to local bars to play foosball and video games, and just have a few rounds with the regulars. I’m definitely not on some ego trip and I’m not at all trying to be trendy and cool—you should see where I hang out. Considering some of the situations I’ve ended up in, I should probably roll with security, but I usually don’t.

  I’m not tripping, y’all, really—I’ve got the mad fan love, but there are some fans I just don’t understand. I was in Bora Bora on vacation not too long ago. It is by far the most romantic place in the world. It’s not the kind of place where anyone cares who you are: It’s so free that no one bothers anyone because the place inspires this natural high that I’ve never experienced anywhere else. The ocean, the trees, the sand, the raw beauty, is all so insane that the people there are completely in heaven, feeling lovely and forgetting about the rest of the world for a while.

  That last time I was there though, I’m on the beach, just chilling, and out of the corner of my eye I see a guy coming my way. I think “Uh-oh... oh, no... Oh, damn... okay, here we go.” He’s carrying a book and I know what book it is when he’s still fifty yards off. It’s The Dirt —of course it is. Here he comes. Okay, fine. I’m ready.

  “Hey Tom! Hey man! Hey, what’s goin’ on?”

  “Nothin’ dude. Just chillin’.”

  I’m thinking, “Oh, shit. Of all places for this to happen. Great.” He starts talking to me, telling me he’s on his honeymoon and when he comes up for air, I congratulate him. Then he starts telling me about his wedding. After that he drops the fanatic bomb: He says, “Hey man, I don’t mean to bother you, but, could you sign this?” No problem, dude.

  Okay. I’ve gotta say this because it’s been chappin’ my ass for years. Whenever people anywhere say they don’t mean to bother you, they are fucking lying. They’re lying like a rug in a flophouse. They’re lying like politicians on the campaign trail. They’re lying like a married man on a business trip. They’re lying like a computer nerd in a singles ad. They’re lying like that girl who says she never does this on the first date. They’re just fucking lying. All of ’em—always.

  And they ask you to believe their lie anyway. If they really listened to themselves, they would realize that they just said, “I really don’t want to bother you.” And if they heard that, maybe they’d already know what I’m thinking: “Well...if you don’t want to bother me, then don’t.” But they do want to bother me, and hey, man, that’s cool. It could be worse. No one could be asking me for my autograph.

  Anyway, so I’m on the beach and this dude asks me to sign his book, which, as I predicted, is The Dirt, the autobiography of Mötley Crüe. I’m thinking to myself, “You’re on your honeymoon, and right now you are standing in the most beautiful place on earth and you’re reading about Mötley Crüe? Woah.” That’s crazy. This guy is just married and he’s more interested in learning about some of the gnarliest rock-and-roll debauchery that’s ever been. I sign it and say, “You brought this on your honeymoon? Are you out of your mind? Where is your girl?” He told me that his girl was back at the hotel doing her own thing. Woah. Hey. Dude, that’s not good. While he kept going on about how amazing the book was, I kept thinking about how his poor newly wed wife must be wondering why he was reading that book on their honeymoon. Then again, maybe she bought it for him to inspire him to new heights of nastiness. You never know these days; people are weird and love comes in all kinds of craise. Even I’m confused.

  So I signed it, on one condition: that he find something else to read while he’s in Bora Bora. I said, “That’s not really a beach kind of book to read, my man. But I’m really glad you like it.” He wasn’t having that at all. He said something like, “It’s perfect for right now. Everything I need to know is in here, bro.” I found that totally fucking scary. I guess to some people a lot of drugs and retarded excess is postnuptial bliss. Whatever. God bless the freaks. I wish those two and all the rest of you well, wherever you are.

  23 STATE OF MEDICATION

  a.k.a.

  IT’S NOT YOUR MOTHER’S ROBITUSSIN

  I have a Jägermeister* machine in my house. That’s a good thing most days, but sometimes it’s a problem. For example, when my girl is upstairs waiting for me in the bedroom and the loud bzzzzp sound of the dispenser sells me out. It’s not something I like to share, but on the night of my fortieth birthday, after every guest had left and the house was finally quiet again, I thought, “Fffhuck it, one more shhot befhore I go tuh bhed.” There I am, on my knees, head tilted back, sucking the nozzle, holding the dispense button in, gulping a river of Jäger. In my peripheral vision I see Mayte, just standing there, shaking her head, with her arms crossed, watching me. Busted. I say, “Hiii bahby.” She says, “What are you doing?” I say, “I thinhk I drhopped mhy kehys over hheare... sohmewhere. I’m just down hhere on the flhoor luhhking for them.” She looked at me and said, “Happy Birthday, baby. I’m going to bed.”

  Never mind that story, the point is that I know what to do with Jäger-meister. What I don’t know is why my better ideas haven’t been put into action yet. Jäger goes with everything, please believe. Jägermeister coffee is a personal favorite. Just whip up your usual coffee and hit it with a shot of Jäger. You won’t regret it. And there’s more: You can make Jäger desserts: Jäger root beer floats, Jäger chocolate sauce, Jäger ice cream sundaes. And I’ve got plans for the hot dog stands. Dodger Stadium needs to know that every dude in that whole place would kill to buy a Jäger Dog. They could make the Jäger into some funky jelly paste and shoot it into the middle of the dog back in the factory. When it gets stuck on one of those hot dog merry-go-rounds, it’s on. It won’t be as cold as I like it, but it won’t matter because when dudes bite into one of those doggies and snap the weenie skin, BOOM! There’s three shots of Jäger right down your throat. It’s self-contained—there’s no mess because there are no shot glasses to clean.

  With the state of the world as it is, it wouldn’t surprise me if I found Jäger fruit punch in little juice boxes at the store. The label would probably suggest serving it at those times when your kids have had too much sugar to turn the volume down on the little guys. They’ve got all kinds of mood-altering drugs for kids already. I’m sure we’re not far away from Flintstones chewable Prozac. Jäger is made from poppies, right? That shit’s natural.*

  I mean, fuck Jell-O shots—have you ever had frozen Jäger? The colder the better, trust me. Why are there no Jäger pops in my freezer right now? That’s a Jäger to go. It’s the Jäger you can take anywhere. And your girl can suck on it, all the way down to the stick. And on those nights when you’ve had too much Jäger, that pop will have your back. You and your girl have dessert and a dildo... all in one frozen treat!

  I want to take it further. Jäger potpies, that’s what I’m talking about this winter. A Jäger broth, carrots, peas, potatoes, and meat marinated for days in Jäger. Forget the after-dinner drinks. Why wait when you can have them now? Jäger tastes like cough medicine, so it’s got to be good for you. Listen, Meister Jägermeister, we should collaborate on some of this shit. You got my number? You can find it in your frequent-flier program files—I’m enrolled. Whew, damn, all this writing has made me tired. Actually I feel kinda sick. I feel like I’ve got a cough. I’ll be right back. Time for my medicine. Bvvvvvvvvvvvvvzzzzup.

  24 STATE OF MELODIC MEMORY

  a.k.a.

  FILL YOUR HEAD WITH MUSIC

  I was fourteen or something close to that when I really got hooked. It happened right down the street, at my friend’s house. His older brother was the one on the block with the records, and I remember sitting there in his room with my friend when that guy dropped the needle. That was it —I was done. That guy had a fuckin’ kickin’ JBL/Pioneer system and he was blasting Zeppelin, and the only way I could make sense of everything I was feeling was to say to my friend, “Dude, your brother rules!” I was still a little kid then and that guy turned his
bro and me on to Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, Van Halen, Cheap Trick, Ted Nugent, and Deep Purple. What a fucking gift. I was like, “Oh my God, this is fucking insane!” He’d play a song for us and I’d start jumping up and down, yelling, “Play it again! Play it again!” I’m still like that. When I think about how much time has gone by since then and how much music I’ve heard and how much music I’ve made, I’m so happy to say that the way I experience powerful music has not changed a bit. When I hear a song that gives me goose bumps, I play it over and over again until I’ve absorbed every bit of what’s going on. I play it until I burn it out. It’s a good thing technology has moved beyond records because I’d have a graveyard of worn-down, baldass vinyl behind my house by now. A great song hits me on so many levels. I hear it as a musician first, dissecting the chords and parts, analyzing the production, the effects, and how the final product was crafted. It’s like a puzzle that I love working on and that I have to understand. After I’ve put all the pieces together—which might take several weeks—I hear it as a fan. And as a fan, I take in the song or album’s full impact: the message the artist is trying to get across and the emotion involved. Music at its most basic and its most complicated is simply just communication. It is communication on many levels, from the heart to the mind to the soul. I hear rhythm first—of course I do, I’m a drummer. The rhythm locks me in first most of the time, then the bits of the song that reflect my life in some way. If a song is truly amazing though, it doesn’t have to have a message, feel, or vibe that has anything to do with my experience of this world. If the singer, the guitarist, or the band as a whole bare their soul well enough in those three, four, five, or six fucking minutes, they will reach me. If the lyricist and the musicians are really, honestly, laying it down, I can feel it. And that is what music is all about: telling stories, no matter what they are, that hit the listener in 3-D: mind, body, and soul.

  If a song is real—whether it’s pop, rock, rap, r&b, reggae—any style can touch the entire world if it’s real. It hurts me that the state of music right now is so fucked up. Music has become an industry of copycats put out by the labels for profit. Everyone sounds the same, and everyone looks the same. I don’t know if it’s the powers that be or the artists themselves, but when I look around, it seems to me that all the hip-hop dudes are wearing basketball jerseys from their favorite teams and that’s it. That looks cool and all, but damn—this is entertainment. Change it up, dudes! The rock dudes are the same, and so are the pop stars. Music is such a versatile art form that everyone can be different, sound different, look different, and tell very different stories—so why aren’t they? And hey, what happened to the rock star? There doesn’t seem to be any new rock stars out there, no one captivating and strange and alien like there used to be, like Led Zeppelin and David Bowie. Whatever.

  It’s hard for me to talk about music, because when something is so much a part of me and so important to me, it’s hard to capture the feelings in words. I’m just going to list a few of so many bands and albums that have moved me then, now, and still will tomorrow.

  SIGUR ROS

  That band sends me back to the womb, and it’s scary. I had Christmas dinner at my house this one time with my ex-fiancée Mayte and some friends. I was cooking and hosting, and after we’d all eaten and were just chilling out, I put that album on and I can’t even describe what happened next. All of a sudden I’m walking around my house in a trance. I laid down on the floor and curled up like I was an infant. I couldn’t talk and I couldn’t move—all I could do was listen and be still. There’s some kind of amazing subliminal science going on in their music and I don’t know what the hell it is. They are from Iceland and they don’t sing in English, but there’s a message there, if you want to hear it, that sounds like a complex and weird mix of angels and noise. If you tap into the vibe they create, you will go on a journey, wherever your mind will take you. That Christmas, it really hit me and I had no idea where I was anymore. I left my body—I mean fully left—and I was right at home, the place I know best. For a band to take me, or anyone, that far away from what they know the best is an incredible achievement. That night, when the music hit me, all I could do was lie down and feel the floor and listen. I wasn’t sleeping, I wasn’t sad—I still don’t know what I was: I was simply in the space they created. One of the greatest things about their music is that they called the album Untitled. It leaves everything open, letting the listener paint the sound canvas however they want to. The songs don’t have titles and the album art work doesn’t have clear pictures or anything else to root the music to an image or an idea. It is up to the listener to decide what the music is all about. That is what froze me up and stopped me in my tracks. It sent me into myself, very powerfully and immediately. It’s an incredible thing to accomplish, because their art isn’t a performance, it’s an invitation to be a part of what they’ve made. I was happy to be invited and I got way too into it. Mayte shut it off because she thought I was heading somewhere far too weird, and she was worried that I’d never come back.

  LED ZEPPELIN

  My only regret in this life is that I never got to meet or see my hero John Bonham beat the shit out of a drum kit live. By the time I would’ve been able to see Zeppelin in California, Mötley was just getting off the ground. And after that I was on tour full-time and never had the chance to see him before he passed away. He was the greatest fucking drummer I’ve ever heard. If only I could have seen him, if only there had been some way while he was alive for me to tell him or, in any other way, pay my respects to the effect he’s had on my life—I don’t know what I’d give to be able to do that. Probably far too much. I don’t even know what to say. How can I tell anyone what his drumming did to my life? He fucking rocked me and he defined how I think about rhythm. Bonham made me realize exactly what drums had the power to do.

  Rock-and-roll when it’s great is a complex monster. It’s dynamic, a unit full of parts, like all amazing music: There’s the singer, there’s the guitar player, and a lot of people only pay attention to them. But you know what? I don’t care what anyone says—those guys aren’t the ones moving the house. The drums and beats do that, people. And that goes for whatever music you listen to. Drums are the base: They’re tribal, they’re primal, and they are the earliest form of music we know. Drum beats come from the rhythm that starts us off in this world, the first music we hear—our mothers’ heartbeat in the womb. Drums and rhythm are as simple and as complex as that. When you see 60,000 people going off, whether it’s at a rave, a rock show, a rap show, or a freakin’ parade or ceremony of whatever kind, I guarantee you the proceedings begin and end with the beat of a drum. That is the source. When I heard how Bonham did it, I freaked the fuck out. I can’t even begin to fully capture how I felt when I first rocked the house, or what it is like, sitting on my drum throne in a stadium, arena, or even a little club, with a kick-ass bunch of players waiting for me to start the fucking fire. That’s what a drummer does, and it’s a powerful position. Once you know you’re good enough and once you really know what you can do back there, and once when you’ve got an arsenal of songs to tear it up, it’s incredible. You look out into the crowd and you just think, “I’ve got all you motherfuckers right now. Let’s rip!” There’s been moments when I can’t believe it. I’ve watched entire arenas bouncing in time. And you know, my bandmates might do their thing, but it’s something fucking else to look out there and watch the people moving their bodies to what I’m doing. They’re not bouncing to the lyrics, they’re not bouncing to the guitar, they’re bouncing to the drums. I guess I got off the subject. Hey! Guys! Mr. Page and Mr. Plant, and Mr. John Paul Jones! If you do another Zep tour anytime soon, please call my ass—you won’t be disappointed!!!!

  VAN HALEN

  I’ll never forget hearing their cover of the Kinks’s “You Really Got Me” on the radio and thinking, “Daaaaaaamn! No fuckin’ way!” I really couldn’t believe it when I heard “Eruption.” Eddie’s guitar solo and tone was so
fresh to my ears—it was nothing I’d ever heard before. I lost it just like every guitar player and rock fan on the planet did. Their first record changed my life. Then I saw them live at Long Beach Arena, and there I was standing on my chair the whole fuckin’ time trippin’ out on how this unreal band served everyone the heaviest shit around at the time. Thanks dudes! That was a great night for me: I snuck out of my window, jumped off the roof into the tree next to it, climbed down, and hopped in my friend’s car. And I stood on my seat in the arena rocking the fuck out all night.

  CHEAP TRICK

  Cheap Trick opened up for Mötley in 1986 for nine of our U.K. shows. We were really hitting our stride, and I couldn’t believe it—to me, it was insane that we weren’t opening up for them. They were my heroes. Dude, I sat out on the side of the stage every night watching Cheap Trick, my favorite band of all time, play—and every night I was amazed, speechless, and just like, “Woah.” It wasn’t even their heaviest period—back then a lot of my heroes were doing pop. Trick had just released “The Flame,” Robert Plant was doing the Honeydrippers, and Bowie was doing his pop thing. Mötley was in the middle of our craziest shit, but even then I could understand how those guys, who’d all been through a bunch of shit, wanted to do something new, more mellow, and mature. It was so cool to see Cheap Trick in that phase of their career, totally able to shift gears into their old stuff too, and hold it all together because they’re such amazing bad-ass players. And they were on that tour as they always are, every single night. Guys...if you only knew how much you’ve inspired me with your melodies and songs. Words escape me. Again... thank you. All I can say is go see them—they’re still touring and as bad-ass as ever.