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

by Michael J. Flaherty

  Before there was an answer, we were pulling up in front of Mötley house with the guys waiting outside, looking anxious and hungry for dinner.

  “Cool car, man.” Vince commented as he slid into the fine leather seat. “Yeah, no shit, Mick added. “I’ve always wanted one of these.”

  Two months prior I would have felt like he could have had ‘one of these’ very shortly. Now, I was having doubts that through no fault of his, he possibly never would.

  Over dinner the announcement of a possible opening slot with Wishbone Ash in Europe didn’t seem to excite Nikki, Tommy, Vince or Mick. They were much more interested in the fine food and drink that was being served. I wondered if they even knew who the hell Wishbone Ash was.

  “So, when do we leave?” Nikki asked nonchalantly.

  “The dates will be firmed up within the next week,” Alan proclaimed. “We’ll need to get our passports tomorrow.” Nikki shot me that now familiar look of skepticism.

  Maybe it was my conservative manner of thinking but I was, at least that moment more concerned about getting out of the restaurant having paid the bill in full than going to Europe. I had already spent a night in jail in the time I’d been in the music business and I was not about to end up washing dishes in Leoma’s kitchen with the guys if Coffman’s credit card didn’t fly.

  Miraculously, it somehow did.

  “Alan, if indeed this tour comes off, have you thought about how we’re going to get the stage props and gear over to Europe? It doesn’t sound like there’s going to be a lot of money flowing from this if it happens and shipping everything will be very expensive,” I asked as he was dropping me off at in front of my apartment.

  “I’ve already thought about that and it’s the easy part. We’ll air-cargo the amps, guitars and drums over. We’ll build the risers and staging there.”

  Maybe I was too practical but I had to ask “Where exactly are we going to do that? Buy lumber and build them in the hotel garage? Rent a wood shop?

  My partner’s alcohol consumption of the evening was rapidly creating a very defensive mood.

  “Goddamn it Michael you’re always looking on the fucking negative side! We’ll just fucking do it.”

  “OK fine, we’ll construct everything stage-wise there, I’ll be sure to pack my hammer but what about the sound gear?”

  There was potentially a band’s first real tour at stake here and I didn’t want any amateur fuck-ups.

  “You do know that the U.K. has different voltage from the States and although there are adapters they’re really not all that dependable so therefore I don’t want to rely on the equipment we use here and…”

  “Oh shut the fuck up Michael! Quit your Goddamn whining.”

  I had always admired the way in which the solidly engineered Rolls-Royce doors ‘thumped’ when violently slammed shut. This was no exception.

  “Drive safe, try not to kill anybody.”

  I knew he would probably sleep it off and not remember a thing the next day and I was right. Late in the afternoon I received a call from Al who was with the guys at the Federal Building in Westwood asking me to ‘call my lawyer friend.’

  “Why, what’s up?”

  “It’s Nikki, Mike. He refuses to put his real name on the passport and they won’t accept ‘Nikki Six’ without some court documentation that proves that he legally changed it.”

  “Everybody else get theirs O K?” I asked.

  “No problems there, but I’d like the name Nikki instead of Frank Serrano on the passport as well. Can you ask and see what we can do legally?”

  Bull shit. This was not a major problem that required the services of a lawyer and Coffman was well aware of that fact. I knew he used that as an excuse to ‘make peace’ after the previous nights events.

  “Well, I’ll check into it, I’m sure there’s a simple solution. Besides, we’ve got plenty of time to resolve it before the tour begins” I said, harboring serious doubts that the Wishbone Ash tour would ever begin.

  In fact, doubts about my entire involvement with Coffman & Coffman Productions, Leather Records as well as Mötley Crüe itself had reached critical mass. I was owed a sizable amount of money. The time, energy and emotion that I had invested were not showing any sort of positive return. The fact that we were now unable to pay our record supplier was a major factor in the decision that after much thought and soul searching, I had reached.

  I was quitting.

  It had been a fun ride and although I truly wished that Nikki, Tommy, Vince and Mick would somehow achieve the heights of success that they not only dreamed about, but in my opinion deserved, I couldn’t see it happening with the present management organization as well as the current state of the music industry. It seemed prophetic that Nikki and Alan’s worst nightmare that we had discussed during our first meeting at the Hit City West studios had come to pass. Despite the money, promotion and hype that we had created the band was indeed ‘dieing on the vine’ as so many others had within the last few years. There was no major label interest anywhere and no touring offers had surfaced. (Wishbone Ash aside) it was the same Monthly routine of playing the Troubadour, the Roy, the Whiskey and an occasional Country Club gig. Sold out shows with great local reviews or not, without a real record deal and the resources of a major label, it was becoming stale.

  I did in fact reconsider talking to Sterling about coming in as a partner but decided against it. Even with a potential influx of his capital, there was not much more that could have been done to break the band nationally and eventually world-wide that we hadn’t already thought of and tried. The band needed some much overdue luck, timing and that all important, elusive record deal.

  My mind was made up.

  “Alan, we need to have a talk. Let’s meet tonight back at Casa Coot on Lacing, just the two of us. It’s important.”

  It was probably not the greatest idea on my part to meet in that particular place as the memories of the optimism and excitement that we shared at the restaurant when we first got together seemed to echo from the walls. It was sad.

  “Alan, there’s nothing more I can do for you or the band. I’m committed to my own personal projects that I’ve been neglecting that require my attention immediately. I’ll sign back my twenty percent of Leather records to you and the guys right away. Pay me what you owe me in expenses and let’s shake hands. I wish you and the band the best of luck and all the success in the world, but it’s just not working for me anymore.”

  Silence, then a sigh… “I’m sorry, Mike, I really am, but I do understand. Can you recommend someone to take your place?”

  “No, not off hand but I’m sure Hollywood’s full of people that would jump at the opportunity. Just ask around and I’ll keep my ears open for you as well.”

  He then asked “What am I going to tell the guys? They’re insecure enough at the moment and when they find out that you quit, it’s going to look like you didn’t have faith in them.”

  “That’s something I wanted to talk to you about. Either I can speak to them or you can, but since we’ve all become pretty close I think it’s best for me to do it in person. I’ll just tell them the truth, which is that I don’t have the time to continue devoting to the project. I’m sure they’ll understand, Alan.”

  His reply was defensive. “No, it’s better if I do it. I’ll talk to them right away.” I was sure that he wanted to put his own advantageous spin on the situation.

  I suggested that he drop by my place the nest day and we could wrap up the final details there, which he agreed to.

  Leaving Mötley and Coffman was not unlike going through a painful divorce. Aside from the emotions and concerns that I was doing the right thing, I had resigned myself to the fact that they may and probably would eventually become successful and I would no longer be on the train. I accepted the fact that would just have to be the way it was.

  Additionally, there were the practical matters. I wanted to transfer the phone lines over to Alan and turn over wh
at few cases of Too Fast for Love we had remaining as well as the tee-shirts, buttons and other promotion materials that I had in my possession to him as soon as possible. Then there was the matter of the reconvenment letter and the reimbursement for expenses.

  “Here’s the letter Al. Read it and see if it’s in order.”

  “It looks fine, thanks.”

  As I handed him the signed document, I realized that I was making the grave mistake of conducting this final meeting out of sequence. I had signed the letter before I received my money which at this point amounted to over $24,000.

  “Well, that’s everything except the expense check, Alan,” handing him a file folder with copies of the receipts and the carefully listed items.

  “I want to make it a certified check so you can cash it immediately. I’ll have that dropped off this afternoon to you.”

  “I’ll be here all day.” Although I knew for a fact that I would never see or hear from him again and would have to eventually fight for the money in court, I restated the fact that I was sorry that things hadn’t worked out and again wished him the very best of luck with the band adding “If I can help in any way or there are any loose ends, just call me.” We shook hands and said goodbye.

  It would be only a short time before the Crüe itself would be saying goodbye to him as well, this time with Attorneys letters and Court issued Cease and Desist orders, not handshakes and smiles.

  Back in the real world of real estate for a few months, I tried not to think of the recent past as a waste of time, but yet as an educational experience. Regardless, perhaps out of simple curiosity I kept in touch with many of the friends I’d made in the business who kept me up to date on what was happening around town. W.A.S.P. had been chosen to tour as an opening act for KISS. Quiet Riot’s ‘Metal Health’ had become the fastest selling metal LP of all time. RATT’s ‘Round and Round’ was in full rotation on MTV. Def Leppard’s first album had been certified platinum. It was apparent that metal was gaining massive momentum, but still there was no Mötley Crüe radio play or real public presence, save for a small OÜI magazine pictorial, to speak of. I learned that the Wishbone Ash tour had never taken place and in fact it was a simply a scam by some hustler (not associated with Wishbone Ash whatsoever) that took Alan’s money and ran. Despite rumors of some sort of a Canadian tour, I worried that Mötley Crüe, the band that had virtually spear-headed what was becoming the early ‘80s metal Hollywood resurgence was somehow being left behind.

  Then I heard the news of the Electra signing. At long last, Mötley finally had a record deal, and although I had hoped that this would be the break that we had all longed for, I was somewhat surprised that a label such as Electra, which was known primarily for their softer-rock acts like the Eagles and Linda Ronstant would be the one to finally realize the Crüe’s potential.

  I wasn’t shocked but still somewhat taken aback when I heard that Coffman had been fired, apparently at the urging of the label and with no argument from the band.

  Now was the time to collect my money. Although my management contract was with Alan Coffman and not the guys, I had hesitated filing a lawsuit as long as he was still their manager as I’d been advised that I would have to name Nikki, Tommy, Vince and Mick in a court action because they were legal partners in Leäthür Records as stated in our partnership agreement. I simply did not want to do that. I’d had a good relationship with them and they were in no way responsible for the problems that led up to the end. In fact, they were victims of poor management and bad business decisions as much, if not more than I was.

  Representing myself I filed the lawsuit against Coffman as a sole defendant, prepared the case and arranged to have the Los Angeles Sheriffs Department contact the Grass Valley Sheriff in order to properly serve the summons upon him up North, which I was soon notified that they had successfully accomplished.

  It was interesting that I didn’t receive some sort of settlement offer from him prior to the trial. ‘Was he planning to show up in court himself and defend it, or would he simply have a local attorney argue the case on his behalf?’ The answer turned out to be neither.

  Taking a seat in the back of the courtroom waiting for the case to be called before the Judge, I nervously expected him or his representative to walk in at any minute. No one showed.

  Called before the bench, the Judge was obviously bothered that the defendant was not present. “If he doesn’t care enough about this matter to at least answer the summons, I have no choice but to award damages in full to the plaintiff, and I’m adding a twenty-percent penalty for not responding to said summons. Judgment entered.”

  I was pleased. “Thank you, your Honor.”

  The next challenge was to collect the money awarded which would require yet another trip to the now very familiar West Hollywood Sheriffs station. From my first time when I was an inmate with Bob, to bailing out Nikki as well as the many other more minor music-related visits, I had been there so often I actually knew where the private coffee machine and restrooms were. I was tempted to ask them for a permanent parking space in the lot with my name on it.

  After reviewing the court papers, the Desk Sergeant said that everything looked in order and added ‘we’ll send this up North and see what assets we can find and attach them for you.”

  The entire matter was now in the hands of the system and although it was a slam-dunk victory at least at this point, it was bittersweet. I truly felt that despite the incompetence and his bad decisions, both in handling Mötley Crüe as well as his personal matters, Alan was basically a good guy that started out with nothing but the best intentions for the band as well those around him. Somewhere along the way, he simply became caught up with his ego, the overall music scene’s temptations and certainly the frustration of not being able to move the band along as quickly as hoped. Not to mention the fact that he running out of money and his ‘balls were to the wall’ financially. Basically, he just fucked up.

  After leaving the Sheriff’s Station it seemed that it would be ironically appropriate to drop into the Troubadour a few blocks down the street for a drink, just for old time’s sake. I had no idea that the visit would turn into a screaming match and a near fist-fight.

  Enjoying a beer at the front bar where it had all began, the quiet of the near-empty room was shattered by an obnoxious outburst “You’re an asshole!” Turning around and seeing a familiar face, it didn’t occur that the comment was directed at me.

  It was Vince Neil.

  “What’s up man?” I said as I stuck out my hand to shake. He pushed it away with an aggressive shove and started shouting “You have no faith in us! You quit us man, we’ve got people all over town and heard what you’ve said.”

  ‘What I’d said?’ There was no sense in trying to reason with someone who was as obviously fucked up as he was and I didn’t even attempt to, except to calmly as possible state the facts as I had laid them out to Alan.

  He wouldn’t listen, and as his drunken rage intensified, it was apparent that Coffman had never passed along my best parting wishes to the guys to say the least. No one will ever know how he explained my sudden absence in the team to the band but it was safe to assume that he had put his own personal self-serving spin on it. I knew at that moment I had been correct in wanting to talk to the four of them myself. Not wanting to engage in a bar brawl with someone who I truly liked, I tried to defuse the situation which was now drawing the attention of the Troubadour bouncers, as much as possible.

  “Vince, just relax, man. You’re signed to Electra now, Coffman’s history. You’ve got a fresh start and the reasons I dropped out had nothing what-so-ever to do with faith in the band or anything like that. It was for my own personal reasons, period.

  “Well, we were hurt…” Neil was starting to calm down and I got the feeling that he indeed truly felt betrayed. “Nobody believes in us, man, nobody anymore.”

  I said “That’s bullshit Vince, the record company sure as hell does and you’re better off now th
an you were a couple of months ago. You’re signed.”

  I then asked what they were doing as far as current management and he explained that a Southern California drag racing promoter who wanted to get into the concert business had agreed to produce a show at the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium. “We’ve got a mailing list of every agent and manager in town, we’re inviting them all down.”

  “Sounds like a good idea Vince but try and find someone with a proven track record this time.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. Oh, and sorry about what I said, I thought you’d just blown us off.”

  “Forget it. Gotta run, good luck and keep in touch.”

  It would be a few months later that I was to receive a document from a Northern California court. Coffman had successfully filed a ‘no asset’ bankruptcy action naming myself and the guys as well as companies including Greenworld and Studio Instrument Rentals as other creditors.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  It started innocently enough with of all things, a burned out power saw. My contractor, a fellow named Tibor who was supervising the final remodeling of the Benedict Canyon property called to tell me in his unique Hungarian accent that he had to leave the job site to buy a new circular saw. “De old vone is fucketed,”

  “No Tibor, fucketed or not, you stay there and keep the crew working, we have to finish this thing up right away. I’ll go to Sears, buy a new one and bring it up to the house.

  Pulling into the store parking lot on Santa Monica Boulevard, a large sign that reflected in the rear-view mirror caught my eye.

  ‘Property for Lease.’

  ‘Holy shit, the old Falcon studios is boarded up and was for rent…’ Curious, I walked across the street and made a note of the realtor’s phone number. I could not understand why such a successful rehearsal/sound stage facility would simply go out of business overnight, especially when in the Images days it had been booked constantly, virtually around the clock.