Keeping with the hair metal theme this month, I just finished Motley Crue’s warts-and-all history, as told by the band members. If the 1980s was the decade of decadence, Motley Crue was in its hair metal vanguard. The book follows Nikki Sixx, Tommy Lee, Vince Neil, and Mick Mars from their childhoods through the band’s formation in the late 70s, their conquering of the Sunset Strip, climbing to the height of area rock, and the long descent into drugs, alcoholism, fights with their record label, ex-wives, and 90s grunge. It’s not a new story, in fact it’s nearly a cliche that any band of the time could tell (and often has). The interesting parts are in the details, and the happenstances that brought the band together and the forces that pushed them apart.
What struck me about this book was how fucked up everyone in the band was, their childhood, their relationships, and their inevitable implosion. The book presents Nikki Sixx as the bad boy junkie more interested in drugs than groupies, Tommy Lee as puppy who just wants to be loved and fit in, Vince Neil as the peacock who’s always looking the next girl, and Mick Mars as the constant victim that thinks he’s a wise survivor.
The irony is that they were most successful when they weren’t trying to make the best music possible; they were too caught up in the rock n’ roll lifestyle to worry about songwriting. Then, when they got sober and refocused on the music, the scene had largely passed them by and they were caught in debt with a bad contract and dwindling ticket sales. It’s worth noting the book was published in 2014 and the band has since been working the nostalgia circuit and found their lost fans
Their story is fascinating but I wouldn’t want their lives. These guys didn’t have great childhoods and if it wasn’t for music and a little luck, they’d probably be in jail or dead. Heck, it’s still amazing they’re all still alive and have served as little time in prison as they have. Reading the book is a trip through depravity with moments of ego stroking that almost balances the scales but not quite. I remember the glamorous images and heroin chic which my 17-year-old self secretly thought was bad-ass but I now find sad and empty. The laid-bare confessional style made me appreciate boring things I take for granted: my little suburban vanilla life, my health, and my well-adjusted kids. Still, there are some marvellous stories in here if you can stomach the sordid perversion.
All grist for the Badlands Born mill.
