Walking home in the rain, nose starting to bleed once again, I wondered if my management skills would be better served with a cash poor Steeler, RATT, or W.A.S.P. than an allegedly cash rich Mötley Crüe.
‘No, I've made a commitment to Alan and the guys and I'm going to ride the storm out,’ I said to myself.
Unlocking the door to my apartment, I laughed out loud when I realized how much hair I had seen go up in flames at the Troubadour in the last few months; The 'flash pot' evil ex-girlfriend and now Jan. Who's next?
Little did I know I would find out the following Saturday.
Al called early the next day from Grass Valley with a rather angry tone in his voice. “Mike! I need to say something to you and I don't know how to say it except to just say it.”
“Say it, what?” I was puzzled.
He raved on... “I heard that you were at the Troubadour last night wearing a leather jacket. When representing Mötley Crüe you must never wear a leather jacket! In fact I want you to start wearing a suit and tie. And shave that stupid beard!” He slammed down the phone and all I heard was a dial tone.
‘What kind of trivial bullshit is this?’ I thought, still amazed at the call. Although I was beginning to have doubts about Alan what with the bounced checks, Michelle and everything in between, I still liked the guy and I hoped he would somehow come back to the real world and get down to the crucial business that was at hand.
I analyzed the conversation point by point....
‘Leather jacket?’ A classic ‘30s bomber jacket, hardly a ‘metal’ look.
‘Suit & tie?’ He's out of his mind. I didn't wear that shit when I was selling multi-million dollar Beverly Hills and Bel Air mansions to wealthy business, sports and entertainment executives.
‘The beard?’ Looking back it may seem a bit dated and out of style but this was the early ‘80s and every music company representative that I had dealt with looked just like me. Nicely groomed, well trimmed.
Something's going on here and it didn't take long to figure it out.....
It had to be Michelle.
Mick would never have registered a complaint about me. Although we weren’t best friends, we got along just fine. Besides, he was far too mellow and couldn’t give a shit less about who was wearing what.
It had to be Michelle. Did she want my job and my percentage of Leäthür Records? Did she see me as a threat to her and Alan somehow on a personal basis? Or perhaps the most obvious, Al was inventing excuses to avoid paying me the money he owed. Money, I was to find out later he did not have.
As I didn't have time to fiddle-fuck around and worry about it all I simply shaved the beard to make peace.
A day or so later over breakfast at Denny's on Sunset Nikki asked me why I'd shaved.
“Alan was bitching about it and I just wimped out, Nik.”
“Fuck him. He's just jealous that he can't grow one like yours.”
We laughed over our eggs and toast. Nikki was probably right. At that moment I remembered the question that Coffman had asked me in the parking lot after our meeting at the Beverly Hilton.
“Nikki, Al asked me a strange question some months ago. He wanted to know if I was a Jew. What's your take on that, man?”
“He doesn't like to deal with Jews.” was Sixx's reply. “He asked us the same question… any of you guys Jews?"
Mumbling something to the effect that in that case he should go back to building barns and stay out of the Hollywood music business, I picked up the tab and we left the restaurant.
Driving home it occurred to me. That's why he didn't like Jeff Stiller, the young agent and son of a Rabbi that he mentioned on our first encounter at the studio. It was all becoming clear now.
One of the first things that I had learned about the music business and being involved with band members was that it saves a lot of time when the phone rings at two o’clock in the morning not to even bother to say hello, just answer with ‘Which jail and what are the charges?’ or ‘Anybody dead?’ This wake up call later that night was very different.
“Mike, it’s Nikki, you remember those three girls that were at the house a couple of nights ago, the really hot ones?
I was awake now. “They’re all hot Nikki, which ones, why?”
“Never mind, you’ll recognize them when you see them, trust me, just get up here quick.”
Naturally I thought the worst. Maybe it was another unannounced visit by the Sheriff’s to the apartment looking for under-age girls (in fairness, they never found any to my knowledge) or some chick had overdosed there and Sixx was afraid to take her to the hospital or God only knows what.
Before I could ask again, Nikki excitedly gave me the details.
“They’re here now and have some really good acid. They asked me to call you, they thought you’re cute and want you and me to orgy with‘em tonight on the steps of Houdini’s house in Laurel Canyon. Pick us up, we’ll meet you outside. And oh yeah, bring a camera Mike”
Over the years I had heard a lot of strange stories about those stairs which was all that remained of the Houdini estate after a mysterious fire destroyed the main house. Satanic rituals, ghosts, séances, animal sacrifices and all sorts of weird shit that I wasn’t into. An offer of an orgy with three hot chicks or not, I had no desire to go there in the middle of the night, especially considering the LSD factor. Plus, I still had my ‘don’t party with the band’ policy intact. A few lines of coke were one thing but an outdoor sex party in a vacant, overgrown lot in the Hollywood Hills was over the top.
“Thanks but no thanks, Nik. Have fun but it’s too cold outside for an orgy and I’m going back to sleep, goodnight.”
2398 Laurel Canyon Boulevard – Hollywood Hills
The site of many dark legends.
Sixx replied “Your loss man, they’re really hot” and hung up.
I never asked about him the details of that evening’s social adventure. I wish I had.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
‘Too Fast for Love’ was pressed and there were cases of them sitting in my apartment. Just simply sitting. Although copies were being sent to every club in the country, lots of FM rock radio stations and being sold at the shows, we still needed major distribution.
One afternoon, I dropped by the guys house to attend to some minor business and Nikki was obviously excited about something. It seemed that he had befriended a sales clerk by the name of Vicki Hamilton at the tiny independent record store down the street, ‘Licorice Pizza.’ (Now ‘Hash’) Vicki had agreed to put the album on the shelves for us. We walked down, stacks of freshly pressed records under our arms. After Vicki placed them in a prominent rack, I stood back and looked at the display.
“Six, all we need now is five-hundred more stores like this one.”
We were to find them within the next few days. I received a call from one of the two partners in Green world Records, an Orange County record distribution company, the largest independent in Southern California at the time.
They had somehow received a copy of ‘Too Fast for Love’ and were interested in the exclusive American distribution rights. Apparently they were riding on the success of the independently produced Missing Persons LP and were anxious for more products. Putting aside my ‘leather jacket/beard/suit and tie’ animosity against Alan, we met with them for several hours at their warehouse and the deal we reached would indeed give us National record store distribution. Certainly, this was not a ‘record deal’ with major label support and there was no promise of radio airplay, but at least our album would get exposure in the record store chains throughout America as Green world actually had that much clout at the time. I was confident that we had made the right choice in choosing an independent distributor.
Naturally Alan and I were delighted, laughing and giving each high-five like school kids on the long drive back to Hollywood. It was nice as Alan and I were once again friends, abet temporarily.
After we stopped into the Rainbow for a celebratory drink, I c
ame up with a plan to announce our new distribution deal. I knew I could hype the hell out of it and perhaps make the major labels realize what they were missing out on.
“Alan” I said, “Don't you feel we owe a debt of gratitude to the Troubadour? I mean even just here in L.A. we've already moved up to bigger, more upscale venues like The Country Club, The Roxy and Perkins Palace but the ‘Troub was really supportive to us in the beginning and we haven't played there in months,” adding “Bobby Dean and Doug Weston took a chance on the band by giving us prime nights early on, which they've never done with any rock band before the Crüe. Let's go back and do our release show/announcement there.”
I went on.... “Here's my thinking Al. Maybe have a one dollar admission charge as the club will make their money off the bar anyway and we'll have probably two or three thousand people on the sidewalk that can't get in the showroom. Shit, it’ll be so packed that the Sheriffs will probably have to shut down Santa Monica Boulevard for the night. Highway flares closing off Doheny Drive! Think of the press! Think of the major label executives who will hear about it!”
Bobby Dean at his usual command post. The Troubadour booking desk.
I was pleased with myself for this one.
Alan thought for a minute and replied with one word.... “Brilliant!”
We didn't even finish our drinks which was unusual for us but drove straight to the Troubadour, where we happened to find Bobby working late. We presented him with the idea and needless to say he loved it.
“I wondered if you guys would ever come back home.” A date was booked. New Years Eve.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Despite the excitement of the distribution deal and the upcoming Troubadour event, I still
needed the money for Oxnard as they were now calling daily and threatening legal action if that check was not made good.
“Alan, we need money for Oxnard, today!”
“Just teller to run the check though again, Mike. The bank made a mistake.”
If I had five dollars for every time I had heard
that one throughout my business career I could have paid off the mortgage on the Benedict Canyon house.
Back home there were several phone messages waiting.
Blackie had called to invite me to the following Saturday's W.A.S.P. show, once again to be held at the Troubadour.
Vince Gilbert called and wanted to know what I was doing Saturday, and we agreed to meet at W.A.S.P.
There was a message from my buddy Al-Saba, who was a member of the Royal Family of Kuwait. Tonight was his birthday and he invited me to a party at the Beverly Hills nightclub, ‘Viola.’
And....A call from a girl named Dana, who said she was referred to me by Ann Bohlen’s former bass player, Brian Marr.
A call I regretted for many years later having returned.
Although Hollywood and Beverly Hills are geographically adjacent they are worlds apart in terms of lifestyle and attitude. Just drive West down Sunset past Doyen drive and you'll see the difference immediately. Within a few blocks you go from the neon lights and the dirty sidewalks to the stately multi-million dollar perfectly manicured mansions, some of the most expensive real estate in America.
I was always torn between the two and in a way lucky that I could enjoy both. It was a nice balance.
I was looking forward to Al-Saba’s birthday party. When he threw a party the drink always flowed and there was plenty of excellent cocaine, all on Al-Saba, of course. Besides, it would be nice to forget the music business for a night and just relax with some old friends.
The phone rang as I was walking out the door. It was Dana returning the message I had left returning her call. She told me that she was a singer, looking for a position with a heavy metal band, “Do you know of any bands looking for a singer? I want to give you my demo tape.”
I'm thinking to myself, silently of course ‘Well, the Crüe is kind’s looking but I don't think you'll fit in as you have a vagina.’
None the less something about her speaking voice struck a nerve. As if on ‘auto-pilot,’ I asked her what she was doing that night.
“Nothing,” she cooed.
“Dana, meet me at Viola on La Conga in an hour. I'll wait at the front door for you.” I didn't even ask her to describe herself so I would recognize her. I somehow knew I'd know her instantly.
And I was right. As she strolled across the parking lot I immediately knew who she was, as she did me. We just stared at each other for a brief moment before we even said hello. She was beautiful, more in a ‘cute’ way rather than classically pretty. Long dark-red hair, great little body shown off by her black spandex and six-inch heels. It was love at first sight.
We held hands as we walked into the club and joined Al and his party at a table. As expected, there were seemingly unlimited bottles of Dom Paragon and lot’s of little vials discreetly passed around for use in the privacy of the restroom stalls.
Time flew by. I walked Dana to her car, this time arm in arm. We kissed passionately for awhile by her car and she said “Look, I know this is going to sound like bullshit and I really want to come home with you tonight but I can't... I promised my roommate Dorian that I would drive her to work tomorrow morning because her boyfriend Vince is tied up in the studio and he can't take her.”
“I understand. Who's Vince?” I asked.
“He’s a Hammond keyboardist with a band called S.I.N.”
It was a small world.
“Vince is a buddy of mine, Dana. Matter of fact we just made plans to see W.A.S.P. Saturday night, why don't you and your roommate join us?”
Her reply was exactly what I was hoping for. “Fine, but I don't want to wait until Saturday to see you again, how about tomorrow night we get together someplace quiet and romantic?”
“Tomorrow night it is. Drive safe.” As she pulled out of the lot, I stood there staring for what seemed like hours. I was in love, and life had just been turned up to eleven.
‘Tomorrow night’ finally arrived and it was everything I had been dreaming of all day. We had a quiet dinner at GAO’s, a Hollywood restaurant owned by Frank Stallone, Sky’s brother. Before we left to go back to my place and consummate our newfound romance, the subject of moving in together came up. We both agreed without much discussion. We had only known each other twenty-four hours.
“I'll borrow a truck from one of my contractors Sunday, Dana. You can get your stuff then.”
Dropping by the Mötley apartment the next day still euphoric from the previous two night’s personal events there was even more good news.
Nikki met me at what remained of the front door, which for some reason had been kicked to splinters (I didn't ask), beaming.
“David Lee Roth will introduce the band and maybe even do an encore with Vince at the New Years Eve show man!”
“Nick that’s great but how did you pull that off? Have you told Al?”
“No, I haven't talked to Al just yet. And I guess Roth just feels sorry for us, he must remember how it was for him in the early days…”
Saturday was a real nice change of lifestyle. Instead of just being a single guy hustling music deals (as well as girls) in Hollywood, I'm now sharing a great dinner at a fine restaurant with my newfound love Dana along with my new friend Vince and his lady. I suddenly found myself at peace and very happy with life.
I had called Bobby at the Troubadour earlier and asked him to hold the VIP booth in the showroom for us.
While we missed the opening act, the four of us took our seats and ordered drinks while the W.A.S.P. roadies were preparing the stage for Blackie and Company’s sonic and visual assault.
House lights dimming, the familiar Doors anthem ‘The End’ once again starts in as the intro. Blackie runs down the stage stairs flaming torch in hand and lights the metal gas-fueled logo framework above the drum-riser.
Chris, Randy and Tony have begun the opening riff to ‘On Your Knees’ when I realize something has gone terribly wrong. Blackie’s near
waist-length hair is aflame. Maybe it's part of the show.
No, on second thought the guys on fire.
Music stops as club security sprays him down with fire extinguishers. Meanwhile, thinking this is part of the show the sold-out audience is chanting “Burn Blackie Burn! Burn Blackie Burn! Burn Blackie Burn!”
‘Burn Blackie Burn’ my ass, ‘he didn't mean to do that, this could be very painful.’
I really gave him a lot of credit. After the incident was safely over and the smoke had dissipated, he went on to perform an incredibly powerful set, this time with a decent sound mix. Indeed, they had good songs, now that I could hear them. I was impressed.
Later after the show I went up to the dressing room to make sure he was O.K. He explained that the logo framework was always set two feet above the highest cymbal stand. Their drummer at the time, Tony Richards had neglected to tell the roadies however that this particular night he was using lower cymbals as an experiment with his drum kit.
Blackie had walked straight into the fire. Lot's of burned hair at the Troubadour in the last few months.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Alan called from Northern California the next morning to ask me if I'd been at the apartment within the last week or so. “I said sure, almost every day, why?”
He wanted to know if I'd seen the ‘kitchen table guy’ around. I told him “Now that you mention it, no I haven't. Wonder what happened to him Al?”
I heard an evil chuckle on the other end of the phone. “We have some very good roadies, Mike, they know all the most secluded places in Griffith Park.”
Metal, Madness & Mayhem - An Insiders Journey Through The Hollywood 80s Page 10