A few nights later when she and I arrived at Mars studio off of Melrose for the audition, after C.C. introduced himself his first words were “Where’s your singer?”
“Right here man, she’s ready to go.” I knew at that moment it was a lost cause but out of politeness C.C. and the other guys ran through the songs with her. She did a half-way decent job and I was actually impressed with the band itself, basic straight-ahead rock with a Brian Setzer influenced groove. It might fill a niche somewhere and the songs were full of hooks, which as I’ve mentioned, I was very big on.
A brief ‘we’ll let you know’ from C.C. and handshakes ended the try-out. It was obvious they didn’t want a singer with tits.
None the less, this C.C. guy wrote some clever songs and on the way home I began thinking about the long conversation that I had some months earlier with regarding songwriting where he explained his philosophy to me in detail.
“A song must have the hooks to create an orgasm in the listener within ten seconds.” “That’s about all the time you have to grab’em when they’re turning the dial on their car radio.
Mike, the best rock songs were never written with a Les Paul and three Marshall stacks. A great metal song, hell, any song for that matter, should be written on a piano or an acoustic guitar. If the guts of the tune are there, it’s a winner. Everything else, drums, amps and bass are just layers that build on that foundation.”
It made a lot of sense to me and time certainly has proven Sixx right, yet once again.
A courtesy follow-up phone call to C.C. a few days later confirmed what I already knew. No room in that band for a female. “If you run across an outstanding male singer, let me know” C.C. said. “And keep in touch man.”
It was only a couple of weeks after that I walked into to the studio to find a very excited Billy who handed me some cash.
“We’ve got a regular booking for studio C Mike. These guys want three nights a week, four hours a night and here’s the deposit they left.” This was very welcome news as we still needed the business badly.
“Great, who’s the band?” I asked.
“They call themselves Poison.
‘Poison?’ I joked that we could use a band with a name like that around the place with all the rats and mice and then told Billy that I had heard of them.
“Haven’t seen them but I know they play the Troubadour a lot. Anyway, good job Billy, thanks, let’s make them feel at home.”
Later in the week I met our new regulars and was surprised to see the very distinctive looking DeVille there at their first rehearsal.
“I joined Poison, man, got tired of looking for a lead singer for the Screaming Mimi’s. This singer kicks ass and he’s good writer, too.”
I told him that I was happy that he was happy but asked “Isn’t Poison more of a metal act than rockabilly like the ‘Mimi’s? At least that’s what I’ve heard.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t matter, its happening for us dude. I’ll stick around with them for awhile and see where this leads. By the way, drop in and check out our rehearsal sometime Mike.”
I did attend a few nights later and left fairly impressed with I seen and heard from them. Nice guys and although they were still starving musicians and probably not all that far away from poverty like their studio-next-door neighbors Hollywood Rose, they did exhibit a certain amount of polish in both their performance and music. Dana’s audition song, ‘Talk Dirty to Me’ had been adopted by DeVille’s new band and flavored with a pop-metal edge. And he was right. The singer, Bret Michaels had the potential to become a top-notch front man. Despite what I perceived as only an adequate voice, there was no doubt that his looks and stage moves alone would attract a large female following.
However, it did occurred to me that many of these younger bands around town were all starting to look like clones of each other and that the market, when and if it eventually exploded could quickly become top-heavy with pretty-boy blonde singers in spandex.
I had always felt the ‘family tree’ linage of lead rock singers wasn’t too hard to figure out. In the seventies the original blonde lion’s-main master was of course Robert Plant. Somewhere along the way Jim Dandy from Black Oak Arkansas put a rural twist on that image which obviously had a major influence on Roth, consciously or not. Then there was Vince Neil who was becoming increasingly likened to a younger version of Roth in the local music press as were many other assorted Hollywood front men.
For whatever reason and time was later to prove me correct, I didn’t lump Axl into the same boat. Not only was he different but as a practical matter, his entire band was different.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
There was no ‘hello.’ There was no usual ‘Hi Honey.’ Just a cold stare and an ‘it’s over!’ as she got into the car as I picked her up from the Hustler offices in Century City.
“What’s over, Dana? Something happen with your job today?”
“Us. You and me. We’re finished.” For a moment I thought she was joking, but then as she started in with her list of complaints, the major one of which was that I had been unable to get her into a band, reality struck.
Through the rush hour traffic, her rant intensified. “You promised to find me a band. You couldn’t even talk that C.C. guy into hiring me. No wonder you’re not with Mötley anymore, you’re an asshole, all you fucking care about is that Goddamn studio and your parties.” It went on and on for what seemed like hours and there was no reasoning with her. Our relationship was based upon her getting a fucking band? All the facts, such as ‘that C.C. guy’ didn’t even still have his original band but had joined Poison or that the ‘Goddamn studio and parties’ had provided us with a fairly nice lifestyle was meaningless, as was the word ‘love.’
She asked “What’s love got to do with it?” It didn’t help the situation when I remarked that she would never be a Tina Turner, who at the time had the hit song with the same name as the question.
The moment we got home she started packing. This was deadly serious. My guts were in my throat and my heart and soul were in a meat grinder. I needed my friends, and needed them quick.
While driving on auto-pilot to the studio I stopped into a liquor store to pick up a gallon of Jack Daniels where the clerk asked me if I was alright. “Why do you ask me that?”
“You’re white as a sheet” he replied.
“You’re white as a sheet, man, what’s wrong?” Steven, who had been sweeping the studio driveway asked a few minutes as I pulled in.
“It’s Dana. It’s over, she’s leaving. Where’s Vince?”
“He’s here. I’ll go inside and get him.”
Apparently Adler had quickly told him what had happened as my partners only comment as he came outside was “It’s the best thing that ever happened to you.”
“The best thing that could happen to me right now is to find me some fucking blow! Please, Vince” I shot back. “I’ll be in the office and don’t let anybody in.”
My private phone line was ringing constantly as I cracked open the bottle. I knew that it had to be her. Had she reconsidered or simply just wanted to tell me where she would leave the keys? I couldn’t bring myself to answer it and find out. My head was spinning as Vince tapped on the door and came in, a small vial in his hand. “Here, this will help Mike. I knew this shit was going to happen, it was inevitable, man. All she cares about is being a fucking rock star and I knew all along that she was just using you. Doria knew it too. We didn’t want to say anything to you about it and….”
“Shut the fuck up, I don’t want to hear it man!” I had no right to lash out at someone who was only trying to comfort his friend in crisis, but the Jack Daniels was kicking in and the textbook broken-hearted lover’s drunken dialogue was beginning. “She’s all I want. How could she do this? Why would she do this? Doesn’t she know much I love her? I can’t live without her.””
“Have a line and another shot Mike, it’ll help you.”
I was getting sickening
ly sappy. “The first morning I woke up with her and turned on the radio, you know what song was playing Vince?”
“No, but I can’t wait…”
“It was Lionel Ritchie’s ‘Hello.”
In retrospect I’m amazed that he didn’t puke on that one, yet just said “That’s the difference between you and me, Mike. I wake up with a new broad, turn on the radio and hear Ozzy Osborne. You should try that.”
At that moment there was knock on the office door and I prayed that it would be her on the other side, apologetic and begging me to come back to our home. I sprang to my feet and my heart sank to the floor when I saw it wasn’t her. It was Steven and Slash who had heard the violent sobbing and the moans from outside and wanted to know what was happening. After taking one look at me they asked Vince to step into the hallway.
I was to later learn the details of that conversation. It wasn’t a secret around the studio that I was rarely without the Beretta, and the guys were concerned that given my mental state, I would do something really stupid and asked Vince if I had it with me. When he answered “I really don’t know, but he probably does,” they suggested getting in touch with Lyle immediately and have him somehow discretely remove it from my presence. As Lyle was back at the naval base, it was up to Vince to perform the task.
Vince, Steven and Slash returned to the office, accompanied by Axl and Joey. The effects of the whiskey and cocaine had by now numbed me to point where the company and support was appreciated. It became a male ‘bitch fest’ where, for several hours as each of us enjoyed the substances we related our individual past romantic ‘war stories,’ of which there were many.
Sometime during the commiserating session there was yet another knock on the door and my heart started pounding once again hoping it was Dana on the other side.
Sadly, it wasn’t her but a middle aged Vietnamese lady with only a few teeth standing there topless wearing nothing but a tiny thong who said “Hi handsome, you must be Mike. I’m soooo lonely tonight. Can I come in?”
Despite my altered state of consciousness it wasn’t hard to see what was going on and I smiled for the first time in many hours.
“You bastards, you didn’t.” The guys sat silent looking like innocent choirboys.
“Look lady, this is not going to work. I appreciate it and everything but I’ve had a rough night.”
She started rubbing against me and purring like a cat in heat. “Lady really, I’m not interested right now, maybe some other time. Please wait outside.”
I closed the door. “You son’s of bitches, you hired me a hooker?”
“Well…” Rose said, “We sort of took up a collection.”
“Yeah we thought it would cheer you up” Joey added.
Indeed, the guys had pooled together some money and engaged the services of one of the whores from the club next door on my behalf.
“Thanks, but no thanks, fellows… I appreciate it. I really appreciate it but I’m not interested. I’ve got to work out this Dana thing, get her back somehow.
“But Mike, she’s all paid for, she’s yours for the night.”
“Thanks Vince, then somebody take my credit and go have some fun on me. Take her upstairs or someplace.” The last thing I remember before passing out that night were the unmistakable sounds of passion pounding through the office ceiling from the second floor.
Finding myself somewhat still alive the next morning, Joey and Steven volunteered to accompany me back to the apartment. As I put the key in the door, I felt the cold energy and the absence. The place was empty except for a note that read “I’ve left you some food in the ‘fridge.’ My rock Goddess had indeed packed up and left.
It was over.
Looking back, the pain of course eventually eased and life continued as it always does, but I’ll never be able to thank Slash, Axl and the others for helping me get through one of the worst nights of my life. Bad taste in hookers or not.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“Vince, I really need to talk with you.” It was a Monday morning and I had made up my mind over the weekend.
“Yeah, I need to talk with you too Mike, right away. We’ve got a problem.”
I asked him to go first. “What’s up?”
He looked worried. “While you were gone the last couple of days, Jani and his band of assholes claimed a Marshall head was stolen. They want us to pay for it.”
“Fuck them! They’re always whimpering about something being stolen and it turns out to be a practical joke. Why should we pay for it, even if it was stolen? I was doing them a favor by letting them keep their crap here in the first place.”
“They’re threatening all kinds of shit if we don’t give’em the money, Mike. Chainsaws and machetes.”
I was surprised at Vince’s paranoia and replied “They’ve seen Scarface one too many times. Who the fuck do they think they are? A band or a street gang? Let’em sue me.”
Vince didn’t like the answer. “You’re the boss, but I think there’s gonna be trouble, man.”
“Forget about it. And yes there is going to be trouble, but not from those bastards, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
I went on to explain that I had decided that the underground club had simply become too big for its own good and was about to collapse under its own weight. It was only a matter of time before we were busted on a number of charges, ranging from serving alcohol without a permit to allowing minors into a den of heavy metal debauchery. “All it will take is one pissed off parent who’s seventeen year old stays out all night to call the cops and we’re dead in the water. We’ve made our money, let’s quit while we’re ahead Vince.”
He saw my point and reluctantly agreed.
“I’m getting too old for this shit Vince. Shamrock, the studio and nightclub is now officially closed, let’s pack up and get the fuck outta here”
“Mike, you know the landlord will sue if we break the lease.”
“Tell him to take a number and stand in line.”
That was my last day at ‘Metal Babylon.’
It felt good to walk out and not look back.
BITS, PIECES & FOLLOW-UPS---
The Electric Gypsy (Almost) Adventure
“Michael where are you? I’ve got a quick deal for you, call me ASAP man!”
The voice on the message machine was obviously my buddy Paul who had recently developed a fairly lucrative small business that provided personal security for a number of successful L.A. hair bands as well as Mickey Rourke and John Stamos. His message must had been left the previous morning not long after I had departed on an overnight beach campout just North of Ventura with some biker friends.
I called him back immediately. “What’s up Paul, what’s the deal?” adding “ by the way, you missed a great fucking run, it was just a bonfire by the ocean, some beer and burgers, very mellow but it was a blast.” I reminded him that he had been invited and had declined. Paul was always fun to hang out with and I had been disappointed that he hadn’t chosen to join us.
“Next time for sure.” He quickly brushed off my little guilt trip. “Want to make a quick $500? It’ll be fun, we need you.”
Kidding, I asked him who we had to kill.
“Nothing like that, dude, I’m been hired to
work on a one-day music video shoot sometime next week in the desert up by Lancaster. They’re using my Harley and we need one more bike, are you interested?”
“Wait a minute…so we’re to be in the video? We ride our own bikes or what?” I had zero interest in appearing in a rock video and even less interest in allowing someone else to ride my FXSTC, especially as it had recently returned from the paint shop with a fresh (as well as expensive) new black and red flamed lacquer job. A few scratches would cost me more than the $500.
“No Mike, we won’t be in the video, they just want to use our bikes, but we’re hired to supervise the motorcycle scenes, show the guys how to ride, that kind’a shit, its easy money.”
I didn’t have to think long for an answer. “I’ve gotta pass, Paul. It all sounds good but I have set plans for next weekend and besides I don’t want any stranger riding my bike, you understand…”
“Yeah, I figured you’d say that I but wanted to offer it to you anyway. I’ll let you know how it goes.”
“Thanks man, by the way, who’s the band, anybody I know?” I asked.
“L.A. Guns, part of the crew from your old Shamrock place I think.”
“Sort of Paul. In any event have a great time, a safe ride up there and give me a full report when you get back, it should be interesting.
It was.
Monday Paul phoned me within minutes of his return from the desert set.
As I answered the phone there was not the usual ‘Hey Mike,’ or ‘Hi buddy, what’s up?’ just a screech…. “Those fucking Brit’s! We saved their limey asses in World War Two and now they do this to us?”
‘This?’ I wondered briefly what World history had to do with an L.A. Guns video shoot in the Southern California high desert but before I could ask Paul, in his obviously inebriated state proceeded to enlighten me.
It seems that when he arrived on the set and checked in the director introduced him to L.A. Guns singer Phil Lewis who would be riding Paul’s bike in the video. Paul rather sternly told Phil that his Harley was his ‘his only child’ and to be careful with it. Phil assured him that he was very familiar with large motorcycles and indeed had both a Norton and a BSA back home in London. What either Phil had forgotten or Paul neglected to mention to him was a simple yet confusing fact. Brake and shift foot pedals on American bikes are reversed on British machines. During the first take, camera truck in front of the bikes on the highway, apparently Phil went to stop at a rather high speed with his left foot, thinking it was the brake instead hit the transmission shift lever, throwing the big H-D Shovelhead chopper into high gear.
Metal, Madness & Mayhem - An Insiders Journey Through The Hollywood 80s Page 20