The Dirt (12 page)

“Okay,” Vince said. “My band fucked me over the other night, and I’m on the verge of quitting. I’ll tell you what: I’ll come by on Saturday. Where are you going to be?”

Saturday was a nice day: The sun was out and a cool breeze was blowing. I was drinking schnapps, Nikki was chugging Jack Daniel’s, and Mick was sipping his Kahlúa outside IRS rehearsal studios in Burbank when Vince pulled up in a 280Z with this girl who we nicknamed Lovey on the spot, because she was blond, rich, and stuck-up like Lovey Howell from
Gilligan’s Island
.

She got out of the car and looked us over like she was his manager. “Well, I have to check out the guitar player because he’s got to be really good if he’s going to play with you, baby,” she cooed, getting on all our nerves instantly. Vince stood there like a little kid, half cocky and half embarrassed, with platinum blond hair exploding out of his head like fireworks. Nikki gave him some lyrics, and he started singing. He wasn’t right on top of the song, but he hit all the right notes and stayed in key. And something else started happening: His squeaky high-pitched voice combined with Nikki’s ratty out-of-time bass playing, Mick’s overamped guitar, and my way-too-busy-and-excited drumming. And it sounded right, despite all the background vocals from Lovey, who kept complaining that the songs weren’t right for Vince.

On the spot, Nikki started rewriting his songs for Vince’s voice, and the first result was “Live Wire.” We were Mötley Crüe right then. At that fucking moment. We created one of our classic songs five minutes into our first jam with Vince. I couldn’t believe it. Missing Persons were rehearsing next door, and we got so excited that, just to be assholes, we grabbed the padlock hanging on the outside of their door and locked them in their studio. I don’t know how they got out—or if they ever did.

fig. 5

fig. 6

Rock Candy: James Alverson (left) and Vince Neil

I
was really into white. I’d wear white satin pants with white leg warmers, Capezio shoes, chains around my waist, and a white T-shirt that I had ripped up the sides and sewn together with lace. I dyed my hair as white as I could get it, and fluffed it until it added half a foot to my height. I was singing with Rock Candy at the Starwood, and life didn’t get any better than that.

Then Tommy showed up at one of our shows and tried to fuck everything up. I hadn’t seen him in a year, since I’d left continuation school, and he was sporting bright leather pants, stiletto heels, dyed black hair, and a ribbon around his neck. He was actually starting to look cool.

“Holy shit!” I blurted. “What did you do to yourself?”

“I’m in a band now, dude,” he said, “with those guys over there.” He gestured to two other black-haired rockers in the corner. I recognized one of them as the crazy, drug-addled loser bassist in London; the other was older and very serious-looking. Not the type of person who comes to the Starwood to get laid. From the corner, the older guy was looking me up and down like I was prize beef.

“I told them about you, bro,” Tommy said. “They saw you tonight, and they’re stoked. I know you’re in a band, dude, but come down and jam with us. We’ve got some cool motherfucking shit going on.”

Tommy asked me to audition with his band the next weekend. I was happy in Rock Candy, but I agreed anyway so that I wouldn’t hurt his feelings. He had really helped me out when I left home in high school. He let me sleep in his van. And after his parents found out there was some homeless kid living in their driveway with all his clothes packed into a Henry Weinhard case, they let me sleep on Tommy’s bedroom floor until I found a new place to live.

I was working at the time as an electrician, building a McDonald’s in Baldwin Park. For job security, I started dating the boss’s daughter, Leah, a tall, vaguely attractive bisexual blond who, through some sort of elaborate mental airbrushing, believed that she looked like Rene Russo. She would show people modeling photos of Rene Russo and say they were pictures of her, which I actually believed. Leah (whom the band would later rename Lovey) was a filthy-rich drug addict, and bought me my first leather pants for five hundred dollars to wear onstage. I started living with her and driving her 280Z. But she drove me crazy. And I was stuck with her—not just because of the money, the car, the house, and the job, but because she had taught me how to inject cocaine and I was hooked. We would sit on the floor in her bathroom and shoot each other up while her parents ate or slept down the hall.

One morning, after a four-day binge without sleep, my body began shutting down on me. It was 7
A.M.
and I had to go to work. I vomited all over the car on the ride down the hill—I couldn’t keep anything down. On the McDonald’s job, I started hearing voices, seeing people who weren’t there, and actually having conversations with them. Every few minutes or so, an imaginary dog would run by, and I’d look off into the distance, trying to figure out where it had gone.

I came home from work that night and slept for almost twenty hours. I woke up, shot up, and was just beginning to see straight when Tommy dropped by. He had a tape of songs for me to learn to sing. I listened to them, and tried to keep from vomiting or laughing. There was no way I was going to play with this lame band, if you could call them a band. They didn’t even have a name.

So I blew off rehearsal and, when Tommy called to see what had happened, explained I’d accidentally washed the pair of jeans that had his number in them. And he believed me. I never even washed my clothes, I never wore jeans, and, besides, I knew exactly where Tommy lived. I could have stopped by if I’d wanted to talk to him. A few days later, I heard that they’d found a singer, and I was happy for them. It meant I wouldn’t have to hide from Tommy anymore when I saw him around the neighborhood.

The next week, Rock Candy was supposed to play a house party in Hollywood. I showed up in a full white satin uniform, but our guitarist and bass player never arrived. I stood there like a fucking overdressed idiot, along with our drummer, while a house full of people shouted for music for two hours straight. I was fucking pissed. When I called the guitarist that night, he said he didn’t want to play rock and roll anymore: He had cut off his long blond hair, bought a closetful of skinny ties, and decided that Rock Candy was going to be a new wave band.

The next day, Tommy happened to call, and he said that their new singer wasn’t working out. He was lucky. He got me when I was weak.

WHEN MÖTLEY CRÜE CAME ON THE SCENE, it was less as a band than as a gang. We’d get drunk, do crazy amounts of cocaine, and walk the circuit in stiletto heels, stumbling all over the place. The Sunset Strip was a cesspool of depravity. Prostitutes in spandex and needle-thin heels walked up and down the streets, punks sat in clusters all over the sidewalk, and huge lines of new-wavers wearing black, red, and white stood in block-long lines outside each club. Kim Fowley walked up and down Sunset, grabbing girls and throwing them in bands while Rodney Bingenheimer strutted into clubs like the squat, beige mayor of L.A., able to make or break bands with a single spin on his radio show. Every weekend, huge gangs of kids from North Hollywood, Sherman Oaks, and Sun Valley flooded onto the scene, leaving a thick cloud of Aqua Net hair spray hanging over the Strip.