Everybody Wants Some (27 page)

Then on April 7, 1995, the Oakland show was canceled after Eddie was arrested at Burbank Airport for boarding a plane with a loaded .25 caliber pistol. “First commercial flight after an eternity of charters,” he said with a shrug, explaining that the gun had become a constant companion after years of stalkers and psychodrama. Eddie went to court, paid a $1,000 fine and was handed a year’s probation. They also destroyed his gun. He had been detained about ninety minutes while the cops deliberated over whether the guitarist was a terrorist. “One of the cops was like Barney Fife,” he said, “a real young guy with one bullet in his gun. Thank God Andy Griffith showed up later on. The Barney Fife was telling me to come clean before he did a check on me. Glad Andy Griffith showed up.”

As the tour continued, Valerie remained a supportive presence, popping in with four-year-old Wolfgang in tow to announce the latest findings she’d dug up as a mole digging through Van Halen’s various AOL chat rooms. One day, while the family was driving together, Van Halen’s “Hot for Teacher” came on the radio. “I said ‘Wolfie, that’s Daddy,’ ” Eddie laughingly told the 
Albany Times-Union
. “He said, ‘It sounds like Daddy playing guitar, but who’s that singing? That doesn’t sound like Sammy.’ ”

Alex shaved his impressive facial hair, but his drum solo still included a routine of him playing alongside a prerecorded video of himself on the giant screens—still wearing what looked like a paste-on Groucho moustache. That quirk in the otherwise seamless shows gave a glimpse into the perverse humor of Alex’s world. He displayed his superiority wordlessly, banging out hailstorms of Latin-style percussion on the world’s loudest drums.

A $10,000 big-screen nature video for “Eagles Fly”—a ballad from Hagar’s 1987 
I Never Said Goodbye
 album—became a nightly set piece. Sammy started slowly playing guitar by himself, and then the band joined him to create the big finish. “You throw another guitar player out there and Eddie’s not used to that,” Sammy told 
Guitar
. “When I start playing I mean it, and he feels that. I say, ‘Come on, motherfucker, you can kick my ass but you’re going to have to kick it good.’ It makes him play, and I like that aspect.”

Cutting back on his ritual pre-show bourbon, Michael Anthony began incorporating Bach finger-stepping phrases into his lengthy bass solo. He now had a Tabasco bass in his arsenal, but like the Jack Daniel’s instrument, the copyright holders got wind and ruined the innocent spirit of the tribute. Tabasco asked him for the bass to hang near their headquarters at the Hard Rock Café in New Orleans. They paid for Mike to build a new one, but to his chagrin the graphics weren’t as inspired the second time around. He remained the most easygoing member of the band, always flashing his 1977 smile. “I calm down once I’m onstage,” Mike told 
Guitar
. “Audiences are different. It’s almost like meeting somebody famous for the first time—you start out nervous and then calm down.”

A new addition, former Night Ranger, Montrose, and Sammy Hagar band keyboardist Alan Fitzgerald, lurked in a dark tent off to the side of the stage, triggering prerecorded samples of special effects like strings, gongs, and bells. He also cued the keyboard lines for “Jump” and “Right Now” so Edward would be free to play guitar.

Though still a formidable live act, the band seemed listless. Sammy’s vocals often floated to the background rather than penetrating—although the loyal crowds sang along most of the words anyway. Introducing “Not Enough” in Toronto, he stood on a soapbox. “This song deals with a relationship situation. It’s about true unconditional love, which is the only time you ever feel love. Us guys are kinda dumb sometimes, we always want our women to prove to us how much they love us so we can open up and show our love to them. You can only feel love when you give it, you can’t feel love when you take it.”

Sammy couldn’t be faulted for sharing some personal insight, but Van Halen’s audience hardly expected the world’s foremost sires of hard cock arena rock to lecture them about sensitivity. It was a little too late for Van Halen—especially after the 
F.U.C.K
. album had strapped its male sexuality to the front of a locomotive and rammed it home. No longer right here, right now, Sammy seemed wrong place, wrong time.

The band continued collecting food for USA Harvest, asking for fans to bring canned food to concerts. Donations far surpassed the contributions from 1993, totaling over 360,000 cans. The Presidential Points of Light Foundation had celebrated the charity in 1994. Now for their ongoing efforts Van Halen were invited to the White House by President Clinton. Against all advice, they declined. “I don’t dig the guy,” Hagar told 
The Inside
. “I didn’t vote for the guy and I certainly wouldn’t vote for him again. The only thing I’ll say good about Clinton is that I like what he’s doing to the cigarette companies. No one’s ever fought those people before. “

Showing the politics of a hardscrabble self-made millionaire—not shared by many musicians besides Sammy’s pal Ted Nugent—the Red Rocker spurned Clinton while donating thousands over the years to archconservative ex-surfer California congressman Dana Rohrabacher. Sammy had always admired Ronald Reagan, a rarity among California celebrities, and wore his patriotism on his album sleeves. “We actually gave them an option,” Hagar said about the Clinton White House. “We told them that if they donated one million pounds of food to USA Harvest, we’d go. If Van Halen fans can donate damn near one million pounds, then White House can, as well. So I’m glad we didn’t go. I don’t like to back somebody I don’t like.”

A contentious string of summer dates opening for Bon Jovi in Europe did little to lighten the mood. As opposed to the years of untouchable success they’d experienced in the United States, Van Halen were becoming a nonentity across the Atlantic, performing fewer than twenty dates in the past ten years. When they appeared with Roth on German and Italian television during their early years, the gaudy high kicks and smiling faces had impressed the dour Continental rock audiences, but in recent years Van Halen suffered for its lack of loyalty to the European rock community.

During the European trek with Bon Jovi, Alex was shocked when a fan asked after a concert if they had any other records besides 
Balance
. “The tour is a rock and roll band and a bunch of posers together,” he told a German paper. “We indeed play the same venues Bon Jovi plays, but we simply wanted to play in front of as many people as possible. The sad thing about it is that he, Bon Jovi, tries to get some credibility out of it.”

Hoping to make their return to Europe a low-stress adventure, Van Halen only made problems for themselves. “That was pretty much a mess,” Mike later agreed. “We came away with a big following, but trying to handle Mr. Bon Jovi became a bit stressful after a while. He even complained to our manager that we wouldn’t come out after our set and watch his band play.”

Dutch audiences especially wondered why Van Halen were opening for Bon Jovi. During a promotional tour in January, the band arranged to borrow instruments to play a supposedly secret club show for the Dutch 5150 fan club. Word leaked, and three thousand fans waited in the cold and snow for hours hoping to catch a glimpse of Holland’s greatest rock export since Golden Earring, sympathetically singing “Happy Birthday” to Eddie on his fortieth birthday. The gig was broadcast live over national radio, renewing interest in the band due to the warm intensity of the performance. Yet the May 1995 open-air appearance with Bon Jovi in Eddie’s birthplace of Nijmegen was plagued by problems, not of the least of which was Sammy’s numbskull wardrobe choice of an Ajax soccer jersey. Representing the effete rival team from Amsterdam, Sammy’s gesture was about as welcome as a Chicago Bears jersey would be in Green Bay, Wisconsin.

Back in the States, the remaining dates had their share of highlights. In Minneapolis, a coterie of bald, chanting monks wearing red gowns, hailing from Gyuto Tantric University, opened the show with the hypnotic drones leading to “The Seventh Seal.” The Toronto show was recorded for a pay-per-view performance. To reward their crew for putting up with movie cameras, lights, and the extra labor, the band rented a boat and took their hardworking road dogs for a cruise around Lake Ontario.

In Denver, the crew began setting up as usual for an outdoor show. The forecast called for snow, in September—and for once, the weatherman was correct. The band performed through a pounding snowstorm, trading snowballs with the audience. Hagar slipped and fell on his ass. By the time they were done, nine inches of white stuff covered the city. Then on October 6, Van Halen were inducted into Hollywood’s Rock Walk, for their “significant contribution to the evolution of Rock and Roll as a universal art form.”

Yet in the view of many observers, management was milking Van Halen, forcing them to continue to work when they needed time apart and rest—especially Alex who was injured and wearing a neckbrace. At a New York show, hard blues guitarist Leslie West came onstage for an encore performance of his band Mountain’s “Mississippi Queen.” Afterward, he commented on the strange atmosphere backstage, with the band obviously separated into two camps: Van Halens and non–Van Halens. With the tension in the band, Hagar indeed favored the company of Michael Anthony, still the least burdened band member. Sammy blamed some of his throat problems on Edward’s persistent cigarettes, so he and Michael were now sharing nonsmoking dressing rooms and limousines.

Sammy knew how to relax. For his birthday the weekend of October 9, he and Mike, with old bandmate David Lauser, headed eight hundred miles south of San Diego to Cabo San Lucas. As Los Tres Gusanos (the Three Worms), the trio traditionally performed at the Cabo Wabo Cantina every year during events like Sammy’s birthday, New Year’s Eve, and the club’s anniversary in May. Van Halen had only performed at the club’s opening and second anniversary party, a ninety-minute club set that included ZZ Top and Led Zeppelin covers.

The Cabo Wabo nightclub was actually keeping Sammy busy. Manager David Haliburton had quit at the beginning of 1995, and the new partner renovated and brought in more money. As business improved, Sammy’s brother, Bob, moved south to develop the menu and keep an eye on the place. The Van Halen brothers had sold their interest in the club, and they resented this distraction as much as they did Sammy’s solo career.

Even as the brothers lost interest in the nightspot, Sammy was growing more dedicated. In October 1994, he had invited a coterie of rockers including Stephen Stills, Lars Ulrich of Metallica, Matt Sorum of Guns N’ Roses, and Jerry Cantrell of Alice in Chains to pump up the reputation of Cabo San Lucas. Still splitting his time between Malibu and Maui during the long periods between Van Halen tours, Sammy was increasingly drawn to his fledgling empire in Mexico. “Even Americans turn into good people when they’re down there,” he said with a laugh.

The band finished its tour with two dates in Hawaii in early November 1995. Hagar married his girlfriend, model Kari Karte, on November 29. The pair had met while Van Halen were on tour. He invited her along with him and Eddie to judge a bikini contest in a bar, and then flew her to the band’s next show. Their ceremony was on Mount Tamalpais in Marin County, California, above Hagar’s home in Mill Valley north of the Golden Gate Bridge. His friend Whoopi Goldberg was present, along with Eddie, Alex, Mike, and all of their wives.

Hagar admitted he didn’t listen to rock music anymore: “Around our house, we listen to a label called Windham Hill, out of Mill Valley, California. They have a 
Winter Solstice
 and a 
Summer Solstice
—the greatest records you’ve ever heard. You put those fuckers on and it’s like being stoned off your ass without smoking anything!”

David Lee Roth recorded voice-overs for a disembodied brain in a Nintendo Game Boy ad campaign, then capped off the year with an enterprise designed to put him out to pasture like a true show man. He launched a casino revue at Caesars Palace Tahoe, which led to a showroom gig at Bally’s in October, and finally arrived at the MGM Grand casino in Las Vegas the final week of December. Since he was a campy connoisseur of dancers with feather boas, and a lifelong admirer of Frank Sinatra, the move made perfect sense.

Backed by a hot-tempered fourteen-piece orchestra from Miami called the Blues Bustin’ Mambo Slammers, Roth appeared in short hair and a white suit holding court over a stage filled with colorful dancers. Recalling the where-are-they-now segment in Van Halen’s 1984 “Hot for Teacher” video—presenting Alex as an ob-gyn, Edward a ward of a mental asylum, and Mike a sumo wrestler—Dave seemed closest on mark to the prediction he would become a flashy TV game show host.

Dave’s Vegas act opened with James Brown’s “Living in America” and tore into Boz Scagg’s “Lido Shuffle.” When fans roared for Van Halen songs, Roth trod the line between showing them love and calling them out as hecklers. He was no Tony Bennett, but lack of a great voice was never a liability on the Strip. He had chutzpah and pizzazz—and most importantly seminude showgirls—plus melanin-challenged old-school Texas blues keyboard wizard Edgar Winter on his side.

Dave reprised his most suave moments, like “Just a Gigolo,” “California Girls,” and Sinatra’s “That’s Life,” and he rearranged “Jump” for big band. He reportedly spent $100,000 producing a video for “Ice Cream Man” to promote the show. Between songs, he updated the Rat Pack’s Sin City swagger for the 1990s, injecting plenty of marijuana references and O. J. Simpson trial gags and dangling his mic from groin level over the girls in the front row. “Careful ladies,” he purred, “he spits when he’s miffed.”

“That is the greatest thing I’ve ever seen in show business,” Jay Leno gushed sincerely after Roth performed his act on 
The Tonight
 
Show
. Seated beside fellow seventies motormouth Robin Williams for a Leno interview filled with jabs at Van Halen and Michael Jackson, Roth laced the conversation with pot references, hyping his new Vegas act by joking, “The waitress refreshed my bongwater.”

Frustratingly, Roth was again a square peg in a round hole. After all, “Living in America” wasn’t a song of triumph—it was the theme song of the pampered champ Apollo Creed in 
Rocky IV
, performed moments before he was pummeled to a pulp. Roth had misjudged the willingness of his audience to jump with him into the unknown. The fans wanted his catlike reflexes and primal roar, not decrepit borscht belt jokes like, “As my old grandpa Joe, a Russian immigrant who died at the age of a hundred and two would say, ‘May you die in bed at the age of a hundred and twenty-eight, stabbed to death at the hands of a jealous lover.’ ”