Metal, Madness & Mayhem - An Insiders Journey Through The Hollywood 80s

by Michael J. Flaherty

  “I wish I were. I want you to know that this was all his idea.”

  Nikki’s “fuck him!” was probably heard in the next zip code. “Does he even know who David Lee Roth is? And his fat pig? No way! Where the fuck is he?” Six angrily stormed off in search of his manager.

  I quickly found Mark, the private guard Coffman had hired (which was our custom) for the band’s personal security needs on show nights as well as to act as ‘doorman’ to the dressing room.

  “Mark, go find Nikki and keep and eye on him. Don’t let him do something stupid, you know Six’s temper.”

  “Why what’s going’ on?’

  “Never mind Mark, just go find him. And quick.”

  Apparently Mark was successful as it was only a few minutes later that Alan returned. “Nikki’s not happy, Mike. We need to have a quick band meeting.”

  I started politely asking everyone to leave the room until it was only Alan, Mick, Tommy, and Vince, Roth as well as I there.

  Alan calmly explained to everyone that we owed Michelle a favor as she indeed was the first DJ to give Mötley Crüe radio airplay. “She has ambitions of a singing career and this would give her some needed exposure,” he said.

  My guess was that she had talked Coffman into managing her career and perhaps even signing her to Leather Records.

  Personally I still thought that RATT would have been a much better bet for a second act were we to sign one to Leather, but obviously they didn’t have the ‘influence’ over Al that Michelle did.

  Surprisingly, the two-thirds of Mötley Crüe that were in attendance, as well as Dave showed no real emotion about it one way or the other. Nikki’s exact location in the club was still unknown.

  I had a sudden idea that might mitigate the impact of a fat nobody on stage with the famous Roth to the audience as well as to show some respect to him. I grabbed a pen and paper out of my briefcase and quickly scribbled a pre-intro announcement to give to the sound man.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, please give a big Troubadour welcome to KROQ disk jockey Michelle Novel and…from Van Helen!… Mr. David Lee Roth!”

  That, as well as my instructions to the lighting guy to keep the follow spot only on Dave might smooth over the intro, but we still had Alan’s insistence that she share the singing duties of the encore to deal with. Somehow I had to come up with a plan to make that part look like a rock show and not a fucking comedy act. I didn’t know it at that exact moment, but Roth was to come to my rescue at the last minute with a very simple solution.

  The show plan was discussed, finalized and agreed upon by all present (Sans Nikki). The sound man would read the pre-intro over the PA, Dave and Michelle would take the darkened stage illuminated only by the spotlight, do a brief band intro while the guys took their places.

  Roth told me that he wanted to watch the show from the balcony after his intro and since he wasn’t familiar with the set list he didn’t know when he should come downstairs and prepare to jump on stage for the encore. “Come upstairs and get me a few minutes before I’m to go on, OK Mike?”

  That sounded a little strange but I agreed. It occurred to me that Dave was perhaps having second thoughts about what was in reality his public endorsement of Mötley Crüe.

  The minute the Stormier set concluded our roadies quickly went to work preparing the stage for Mötley. After all the shows they had the set changes down to a near science. While we allowed the opening acts to use our risers and ramps due to the time it took to set them up, we always insisted they be draped in black scrims during their sets so those props, lighted and exposed would have maximum impact with the Cure’s show only. Mick’s Marshall stacks as well as Nikki’s SVT cabinets were pre-staged, levels adjusted and kept on standby mode. The major time factor was Tommy’s large drum kit, which was partially put together in sections and kept to the side of the stage to speed assembly during the change over. It was a strict rule that the showroom be kept dark as the crew took care of the final stage touches by flashlight. It seemed to add to the audience’s anticipation, of which Nikki had planned each step.… Blasting just a bit of fog on the stage to test the machine would draw cheers from the crowd. A test one-two-three on each microphone, unfurling the large black and white Mötley Crüe backdrop and a test-flash of the follow-spot would elicit more excitement. The final pre-show routine was to have Tommy, in the dark, take his place briefly behind the drums for final adjustments.

  “I hate this part, man,” he complained to me that night as he did at nearly every show. “Can’t we just find a drum tech that’s exactly my size and do this shit for me?”

  I thought it was a decent idea but we were never able to find anyone who was both Lee’s size and had enough knowledge of drums to do the job properly.

  Showtime. The guys

  Fill in

  On the way back to the apartment braving what had by then become a monsoon with Roth in the front seat and a couple of roadies in the back, my car shook violently as we turned left on Clark Street.

  “Earthquake?” Roth asked. Then we heard a loud crash.

  “No Dave, look behind us.” I could see a gapping sinkhole in the street in my rear view mirror. We had missed being swallowed up by only a minute.

  “The Gods must like us man, otherwise we’d be having egg rolls for breakfast in China in a few hours” Dave said.

  No shit.

  We were to be stuck there in the Motley house up the hill on what was now New Years early morning, at least until the road repair crews could arrive and build a bridge or something. Not the worst thing in the World, especially as the after-show scene was surprising mellow. We had plenty of Jacks, coke and snacks. A handful of hanger-ones assembled in the living room while Roth, Vince, Nikki, a few girls and myself made ourselves comfortable in one of the bedrooms. As sinister as that may sound, it turned out to be more of a high-school slumber party than a drunken rock orgy, especially given the fact that all electricity had been knocked out in Hollywood due to the storm and we were all sharing tales by candlelight.

  Dave took the lead, almost in ‘camp counselor’ style relating his recent adventures on an African safari, not failing to mention how the natives who had never seen a blonde man before thought he was God. I remember thinking that he sure must have enjoyed that.

  Later, I asked him to step outside where we could talk privately. Taking shelter from the storm under the rear patio awning, I began my pitch.

  “Dave, I’m sorry about what happened tonight. I want you to know that I had nothing to do with it.”

  “I know that Mike, but it was fucked.”

  “Yeah, I agree. You came down to help the guys and it became a farce. But I’m going to ask you a favor now, and I want you to seriously consider it, please.” I was almost begging. “Take the Cure out as opening act on your up-coming tour. They’ve somehow got to get exposure out of this town and it’s a perfect match. Van Helen and a little unknown band called Motley Cure.”

  His response was instant. “No can do, man. We always hire ‘alligator bands.’

  “Alligator bands?”

  “Yeah that’s what we called. Bands that are so bad, mostly New Wave, our audience hates them. Makes us look better when we hit the stage. The Cure? Well, I’d like to help but it just won’t work. I will do you another favor though. I see some bad shit going down in your camp and if you don’t mind, I’d like to have a chat with Vince. Get him out here.” I knew what he meant and summoned Vince to join us on the patio.

  “Vince dude, you isn’t a rock star yet and probably won’t ever be if you don’t get your shit together right now! Selling out the Troubadour won’t make you a living. Selling out sports arenas will make you rich but the way you’re going, you’ll be in no shape to get there.” Roth was stern. “Yeah I’m partying tonight but I’m not on tour. That bottle of Jack Daniels I drink on stage? It’s fucking tea and lemon man. When I’m on tour, I’m out running six miles at the crack of dawn every day. Try it sometime, lighten up on
all this lifestyle crap, get your shit together or get a day job. Just advice from someone who knows.” Vince did listen to Dave, but in retrospect, I don’t think he heard.

  The rain had stopped and the sun was coming up through the clouds. This long Hollywood night was now finally over, it was a New Year and hopefully the street repair team had arrived. They had.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I could tell by the tone of his voice that Alan was either angry or upset about something.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, just who the fuck was that record guy you were hanging out with the other night? Why didn’t you introduce me to him? Are you trying to pull some shit behind my back Mike?”

  “What record guy?” I truly didn’t have a clue as to what the hell he was talking about. I hadn’t talked to any record executives that night and if I had I sure as hell wouldn’t have introduced them to Coffman as he would have been too hard to find either at the bar or in the restroom with Michelle.

  “The guy in the suit you kept talking to. You two seemed pretty chummy. Tell me straight up, are you trying to fuck me over or what?”

  “Al, that guy was Donald Sterling, my former boss. I had invited him down to the show out of courtesy and I appreciated the fact that he showed up. He’s not a record executive at all. He’s a lawyer that owns a lot of properties and a professional sports team. He’s just a friend.”

  “Well, he sure looked like a record guy! Coffman paused for a moment. “So, he’s rich?”

  As I didn’t think the financial status of anyone I happened to know was any of his business I simply answered “He’s successful.”

  “Then maybe you can talk to him about investing in the band, what do you think?”

  What I thought was ‘Coffman you’re fucking broke and desperate for money’ but of course didn’t say it.

  “I’ll run it by him, Alan” I didn’t mention the fact that Rod Stewart was one of his law clients and that in fact Donald and I along with some former co-workers had recently spent a very casual day barbequing burgers and playing Frisbee on the sand with Stewart at his Malibu beach house as I was sure he would have asked me to hustle him for an opening slot on his next tour.

  “Please, see what you can do, Mike.” The ‘please’ had that familiar tone of panic to it.

  Alan inadvertently through his paranoia had given me an idea. Although I was loyal to him and had never thought about pulling any skullduggery, this operation was going downhill so fast that I was far more concerned about the band and where they were headed than any business ethics. I had a rather sinister thought… Perhaps I could in fact get Sterling to put up some money to keep Mötley Crüe going. I could

  Another fun day in the Malibu sun. Donald (top center) Rod (lower center) assorted law office associates in bikini’s and me on far right.

  take the band and run with it, backed up with real money and a partner who was not only a powerful attorney but who happened to know just about every mover and shaker in Los Angeles. It would be fairly easy to break Coffman’s management contract if the boys would go along with it. I didn’t think an ‘agreement’ among the band would be a problem and was indeed proven right some months later after the Electra signing.

  It was only to be a few days before the subject of money, or the lack thereof reared its ugly head once again. Alan had picked me up early for a meeting at Green world in a shiny new Rolls Royce he had rented for the week. It was clear that he was trying to maintain his image as a wealthy tycoon to the guys, to me, as well as the music industry in general. I didn’t buy it, especially when, during our long drive to the Orange County offices of our distributor he asked “Mike do you still own that house in the hills?”

  “Yeah. Me and the bank. Why do you ask?”

  “I’d like to offer you a bigger percentage of the Crüe if you’re interested, maybe we could even sign RATT.”

  I knew where this was heading.

  “Would you be able to get a second mortgage on it? If you could, I’ll sell you another twenty-percent for ten thousand.”

  I didn’t have to think about it. I had enough money invested through out-of-pocket expenses that I had not been reimbursed for as promised, not to mention the time and energy that I had spent on Mötley Crüe.

  “Alan, It already has a second on it, and it’s for sale at the moment. I’m not going to encumber it any more than it already is. And, besides, I have two partners that I have to answer to and they have no interest in the music business. In fact, they think I’m wasting my time fucking around with this whole thing.”

  “Well, I have a fourth mortgage on my house.” was his reply.

  It was time to set a few things straight, regardless of the outcome. I suggested we pull off the freeway and stop at a coffee shop somewhere, especially as the more he spoke about money the faster and more reckless he was driving while sweating despite the ice-cold Rolls air conditioning.

  McDonald’s was fine. Relieved to be out of the car with my life intact, I looked him in the eye across the table.

  “Alan, I think I know what’s going on and just ask one thing of you, to be honest with me. If you’re out of money, there’s no shame in that, we can work around it somehow. Other bands are making headway on shoestring budgets and we’ve got a head start, we’ve already got momentum.”

  Defensively, he said “I’m not out of money at all, it’s just that an opportunity has come up for the band to get an opening slot on a European tour, but the guy that’s setting it up needs a ten-thousand dollar referral fee by tomorrow or the deals dead. I just need a quick loan.”

  If we had to pay off some agent and essentially buy our way onto a major tour, I had no problem with that as it was just business and would probably be worth the price of that exposure if the deal was right.

  “Who’s the band?” I asked hopefully thinking that perhaps either Roth had reconsidered my pleading back at the apartment that night for an opening slot with Van Helen or it was even Oozy’s ‘Blizzard of Oz’ tour that I had heard was in the planning stages.

  “It’s Wishbone Ash,” Coffman replied, smiling for the first time that morning.

  “Wishbone Ash? They were a little before my time Alan, but aren’t they a hippie band from the sixties?” I asked, thinking sarcastically to ask my older Brother about them. “I didn’t even know that they were still around, what is it, a small club tour?”

  “It’s a European tour, frankly more than you’ve been able to get the band, Mike”

  I kept my mouth shut. There was no need to go over the facts of life once again with him which was simply nobody outside of Southern California knew who the hell Mötley Crüe was and at the time couldn’t have cared less.

  “Do what you have to do, but I can’t contribute to the fund. By the way, is there any chance this person you’re giving the money to is that ‘Strawberry’ European movie deal lady that we met at the Troubadour? And what does Nikki think about this?

  It didn’t surprise me that question number one went unanswered but instead he went straight to question number two.

  “I haven’t told him yet, Mike. I’m treating everybody to dinner tonight at Leoma. We can all talk about it then.”

  “Leoma on Sunset?” I asked. It was a fine restaurant but one of the most expensive in town and with their eight-dollar draft beers this evening’s dinner bill could easily go a long way towards paying the tour bribe fee.

  “Of course that Leoma. The guys deserve it and we’ll picket up in the Rolls. They’ve never ridden in one before.”

  And maybe never will again if their manager keeps pissing away money he doesn’t have like this.

  Later at the office, the Green world staff was excited over the re-orders that were coming in for Too Fast for Love. For an independent release and a virtually unknown band with almost no radio airplay the sales figures were impressive. They asked that we press and deliver them an additional five-thousand copies immediately. I promised that I would arrange that with the pre
ssing plant that afternoon.

  At last something was going well… the LPs were actually selling in record stores, at least in California.

  “Sorry Michael, we can’t do it right now,” was the curt response from Kelly, the plant’s manager when I phoned to place the order for additional units.

  “Why not, man? Do you have equipment problems in the factory or something? We need five thousand more right away.”

  “Well, there is a problem… the last two checks we received from you guys were returned non-sufficient funds. We have to bring this account current before we can produce any more products for you. Please understand that we have to cover our expenses too and…”

  I cut him short. “Kelly, there must be some mistake, I’ll check into it immediately and get back to you.”

  He had confirmed what I already knew. The current state of Mötley Crüe was sliding into one big financial shit storm.

  “I’ve got to change banks, they’re making too many mistakes and it’s not acceptable.” was Alan’s only response to the problem as we drove North on Doyen to pick the guys up for dinner.

  “Well, something’s fucked up for sure. The Oxnard auditorium is calling every other day and they’ve threatened to go to the cops and claim fraud if we don’t make that check good Al.”

  “Well, let me worry about that. We didn’t use the place anyway, what the fuck is their problem?”

  Although I remained silent on that point knowing that ‘we didn’t use the place’ was simply do to the fact that we couldn’t because the damn check had bounced for the rental, I made a last-ditch salvage effort.

  “Why don’t we do this… arrange to have Green world pay the record factory directly for the manufacturing costs and deduct it from our share of the sales revenue. That way Green world will know they’re getting the product on time and the factory will be assured they’ll be paid for the production. It’ll simplify everything.”