Reviews in Bad Taste: Motley Crue in Nine Albums

Bram Teitelman at MetalInsider.net was kind enough to remember that yesterday was Vince Neil's birthday.  

Personally, I forgot.

He was also kind enough to use this occasion to provide an insightful, funny and thoroughly researched ranking of Motley Crue's best albums. You should read it, because its awesome.

But, personally, I disagree with Bram.  And I felt strongly enough about it to take on the job myself.  

Behold.  

(And since I know most of you won't stick around to read this crap. I did it in descending order.  You're welcome).

# 1. Too Fast for Love

Ooh you're gotta get a big looooove touch!

This record reminds me more than anything else, of Rod Stewart's "Every Picture Tells a Story."

Why?  

Because, just like "Every Picture," it is fucking killer.  

And, also like "Every Picture," it represents an honest, sometimes rough-around-the-edges account of an artist's best work.  Not the most refined, but the best.

And, finally, just like "Every Picture," the artist(s) who created it were about to cultivate such an outrageously buffonish image that it would soon become nearly impossible to ever ensure the reord would get its due respect.

# 2. Shout at the Devil

We are evil. Your parents will hate us.

Better studio, better gear, better drugs.  (Mostly) better songs.  

All in all, a very solid output, laying a foundation for a fantastic career, enhanced all the more by hiring a crack commando unit to raid John Carpenter and George Miller's wardrobe departments.


# 3. Dr. Feelgood

Remember me how I was, not how I am.

This record has a very large handful of great singles.

You probably remember that the rest is also awesome.  

It isn't.

Sorry.

# 4. Girls Girls Girls

Elektra bought a bike for every good song on the record

On the bright side, the record opens with two of the best songs in the entire Motley Crue catalog.

Move along.  Nothing else to see here.




# 5. Motley Crue

John Corabi: Don't go away mad, just go away

Surprise, Nikki! 

That record you keep trying to forget is better than most of the ones you keep forcing us to remember!







# 6. Generation Swine

Feelin' all alone without a friend, you know you feel like dyin'.

Ladies and gentlemen, the worst record Cheap Trick never recorded.










# 7 Saints of Los Angeles

We are, we are, we are hoping you'll buy this!

I've been told this album is not all that bad.

I do not believe.









 # 8 Theatre of Pain

Home Sweet Holy Crap This is Awful

If you don't care, why should I?














# 9 New Tattoo

This review is only two words.

 Shit sandwich.

Where Are We Now?

As you may or may not have heard, this morning David Bowie released his first single in ten years.  And before we get into the song itself, I think I speak for an awful lot of music fans when I say that it sure is good to hear from Bowie again.  His near absence from public life has been somewhat troubling, particularly following a health scare a few years ago.

I've gone on (and on) before about how much I love Bowie and how much he meant to me as a teen - and to this day, I suppose. And, so, I'll try to be brief this time.

For me, Bowie's true appeal lies in his mastery not only of image, but of imagery.....not just in the creation of mysterious personas with great personal style, but overlaying his albums with richly textured music and phenomenally nuanced lyrics.  

In fact, while it may have been his image that piqued my intererest in Bowie back in 1990 (or whenever it was), it really was the lyrical content that had me hooked.  Specifically, I remember hearing the song "Five Years" for the first time, and being knocked out by the lyric:

I think I saw you in an ice cream parlor
Drinking milkshakes, cold and long
Smiling and waving and looking so fine
Don't think you knew you were in this song

The image in my mind is as fresh today as it was on the afternoon that I first heard the song, and I still feel a sense of melancholy upon hearing it; not only does Bowie nail the sense of lost infatuation between one character the other, but the juxtaposition of it against an impending apocalypse is the type of tragically grotesque and romantic contradiction that makes Bowie so appealing.  (See also: "Aladdin Sane",  "Lady Grinning Soul", "China Girl", "Station to Station", "The Voyeur of Utter Destruction", et al).

Which brings us to today's single.  

"Where Are We Now" is more or less on par with much of his more recent output.  Soft, mid-tempo, and absolutely made for crooning, it might be mistaken for an outtake from Hours... which could come across as a backhanded compliment.   

But the fact is that this sort of fare has been what's worked best for Bowie of late.  In fact, after the Earthling album, most of Bowie's forays into guitar-based rock came off forced and unconvincing.  Conversely, "Where Are We Now" seems deeply introspective and authentic, building to a subtle but very satisfying crescendo.  

Plenty has already been written about the lyrical content and its presumed connection to Bowie's time spent in Berlin in the late 70's.  And regardless as to whether this is accurate, the fact is that once again it is the imagery of a man surveying his past, seemingly alone in a crowded urban space, that creates a relatable emotional touch point for almost anyone old enough to have a past to survey.

No, it isn't the gender-bending glam, or the coke-fueled blue eyed soul, or the radio-ready pop that made (and kept) Bowie famous throughout his career.  

But at his age, does anyone really need that?  We already have Pete Townsend doing windmills over his sizable paunch and Mick Jagger shaking his skinny senior citizen butt all over the place.  And they're both great. But they also remind us that not only are our idols no longer 27, but neither are we. And we never will be again.

To that end, there's something remarkable about an aging rock star singing about....well, aging.  And doing so in a manner that allows a similarly aging listener to relate and identify, rather than be filled with the all-too-familiar feelings of latent dread, disappointment and denial about the reality of thier aging years.

Or perhaps that's just me. Judge for yourself. 
  

2012: The Year in Shows

No matter how much any of us gripe about year end lists, I suppose that there's no use in having a blog if you don't indulge the tradition. 

And, so, here we go again:

Highlights:

EMA at the U Street Music Hall:

Probably a fair show at best, made into a highlight simply because she played a Danzig song as her encore.  And I kinda felt like I might have been the only person in the crowd who recognized it.  

(And, no, she did not respond to my request for "Twist of Cain").

Lamb of God at the 930 Club:

I would have appreciated this show more if I'd known what Randy Blythe's future held.  

I mostly wonder, however,  how many people in the crowd remember Blythe's promise at the end of the show, that the "Motherfucking Washington Redskins WILL be in the motherfucking Superbowl next year!"

Doesn't seem so silly now, does it?

#RGIII


The Cult at the Fillmore Silver Spring:

The Cult have played much better shows. Several, in fact.  But I sure did have a good time getting drunk with my buddy Brian that night...right up until the time we got kicked out of the VIP reception.  

By the way, Against Me! might be a novelty act, but they were a quite formidable opening band. Kudos.

Washerwomen at the Black Cat:

There's nothing quite like seeing a very good, very young band play to a small crowd in a small room.  One on hand, your heart breaks for them.  On the other, you feel pretty privileged just to be there witnessing it. 

I wish I could find out if these two are still together....if you're out there, can you let me know??

Strikeouts:

The Drop Electric at the 930 Club:

Oh, the Drop Electric were great.  In fact, at points they gave me chills (by the way, that link will take you to my song of the year). 

But the 930 Club screwed this night up to an extent that I have never before experienced from their otherwise impeccable staff.  

First off, I'm unsure who paired them with patchouli-stank jam band, Papadosio, but that terrible decision was only worsened by shoehorning the concert in after an early show from Ed Sheeran. As a result, the scene in front of the club was pure chaos: teenybopper kids in one line to meet Ed Sheeran, potheads bumbling around in another line to get into the club, and me, feeling square, sober and stupid for not knowing which line I was supposed to be in, or that the damned show had already started.

Bob Mould at the 930 Club:

Home emergency. Missed the show. 

Heard it was great.  Of course.

Japandroids at the Rock and Roll Hotel:
 
Decided to go to Bethany Beach instead. Sorry to miss the show, but I don't regret the decision.

Show of the Year: Rodrigo y Gabriela at Radio City Music Hall

I've admired this duo for years. In fact, after tripping over their excellent interpretations of various classic metal songs on YouTube, it had long became a goal of mine to see them live.

(Ed: I started linking these videos 45 minutes ago and totally lost myself in the process.  My God, I love these two).

This was supposed to be a fun evening. Nothing more, nothing less. Yet, by the end of the night, I knew my life was about to change. And for real, this time.

As always, there's a long version of the story and the short version.  This is not the latter.

++++++++++

Called up to NYC for the umpteenth time in 2012 for client meetings, I made the decision to book a hotel room and have my wife join me for a Friday night in Manhattan.  Rather than repeating what seemed like an endless cycle of solo pre-dawn Amtrak departures and late night returns home, we'd spend some time together having fun the way we used to -- before I'd begun to associate the Meatpacking District not with overpriced restaurants and boutiques, but with meetings, insane deadlines and enormous amounts of pressure.

We had no real agenda.  It was simply to be a night out together in one of the world's very finest cities.

And things were falling nicely into place.  I got a discounted price for a room at the Standard Hotel.  I wrangled two tickets to a sold-out performance by Rodrigo y Gabriela at Radio City Music Hall.  I even got out of the office before 6:30.  I might have been completely exhausted and well past burnt out at work, but this evening was shaping up to be a very pleasant reprieve. 

We ducked into a diner for a quick meal before the show, which shouldn't have been noteworthy in any way at all.  Yet, no sooner than we had sat down than I'd received a phone call from my manager, demanding my presence in New York first thing Monday morning.  There was a crisis -- a crisis not of my making, nor of my team's -- and it was decided that I would be part of the clean-up crew.

No, there was no budget for a hotel.  No, I could not stay the extra night to save time and money on airfare.  And, no, this was not the first time such a demand had been made of me.  Nor the second, nor the third time.  This was an ongoing sort of situation - years in the making - that clearly was never going to stop repeating itself.

It was the final straw.  As I sat in front of a meal that had instantly become repulsive as my appetite drained from me, it was obvious: I had to leave this career.

Listen, I know that there are many, many people out there with worse jobs, higher stress and greater demands than I faced.  But I was done, and this was not an impulse.  This was a revelation. 

Needless to say, the experience threw a wet blanket on the show that evening.  I probably spent the first 30 minutes of the show on the verge of tears and nausea, knowing that I was ruining the evening for both myself and my wife, but really unable to focus on almost anything other than just how much I'd grown to hate my job.

And, yet, Rodrigo y Gabriela won me over.  Because in the face of my career implosion, there was absolutely nothing more painfully beautiful to witness than two people who are (1) doing what they love, and (2) great at what they do.   

I was inspired by their complete exuberance, but also left in a place of total self-pity, questioning why on Earth I'd devoted my time and energy these past several years to something I didn't love as completely as these two beautiful musicians loved their craft.

And it wasn't long after that point that I began to appreciate what I was witnessing.  Because, let's face it, Rodrigo y Gabriela are unique talents, and Radio City Music Hall is a phenomenal venue, and I was lucky to be there.

Moreover, I challange anyone not to fall in love with Gabriela just a little bit after seeing her perform live.  Whether she's clumsily bouncing around the stage in her half-jump, half-running-in-place dance; throwing the goat; or professing her love for thrash to the crowd in her adorable broken English, the woman expresses a total lack of self consciousness on stage, which becomes particularly sexy when you realize just how uncommon this is among performers (male and female alike).

Speaking of thrash, while the duo didn't perform any of their famed metal covers, Gabriela did take the mic to introduce two guest stars for the evening: drummer John Tempesta, of White Zombie and Testament fame (double bonus: he also played with the Cult when i saw them this year); and Testament guitar hero, Alex Skolnik, the latter of whom joined in what appeared to be a totally unrehearsed free form jam. It was one of those moments that you read about on blogs far more often than you get to witness in person, and it was pretty awesome.

++++++++++

I walked into that show utterly distraught.  But I can't say that I wasn't inspired by the time I walked out.  In fact, I knew exactly what I was going to do, and I felt willful for the first time in years.

Two months later, I walked out the door of my office for the very last time.  Six months later, I was back in a band.

It was a very good year.

The 2012 Halloween Playlist

We don't get a whole lot of Web hits around here, but for some reason, Halloween always sends me a few strays.  So, in continuation of this tradition (as well as the more recent tradition of link-dumping to YouTube), here's this year's playlist of songs that make me scared enough to poop my pants.

Led Zeppelin - No Quarter


What is this song about?  Hobbits or some shit, I guess.


Why is it scary?  Because of the coke-fueled vignette from The Song Remains the Same.  And because of everything else about it.

Summer Breeze - Type O Negative

 
What is this song about? A hippie coming home to the wife after a long day at work, or a psychopath stalking your house?  Fine line, really.... 

Why is it scary?  Because covering hippies is justice: beneath the facade of free love, an awful lot of hippies were evil, misogynistic sociopaths.  Plus: you know, the tritone.

 Billion Dollar Babies -- Alice Cooper

   

What is this song about? Awesome drums, playing with dolls, and....killing children?  

Why is it scary?  Because someone let this guy on the Muppet Show, whereupon he made a joke about being in the service of Satan.

Hamburger Lady - Throbbing Grizzle



What is this song about? I'll put it to you this way: I wish I'd never looked up the lyrics.

Why is is scary? It's a fucking nightmare. Plus, that's a dude singing.

God of Emptiness - Morbid Angel



What is this song about? Satan, Christianity, etc.

Why is is scary? It is still the single most frightening music video I have ever seen.

To Fight the Horde, Singing and Crying

Ok, since I totally bummed myself out yesterday with that footage of Axl Rose having an ischemic stroke/choking on an jalapeno popper during the Bridge School Benefit Concert, here's something a little more inspiring. 

This is Enslaved beating the hell out of "Immigrant Song." To take nothing away from Page, Plant, Jones and Bonham, I suspect that this might hit a little closer to what it actually sounds like when a bunch of 6'6" Vikings show up on your shores for your land and your women. 

(If it doesn't do anything for you, jump to the 2:00 mark, where things get a little ROCK).

And, yes, I nabbed this off of Metal Sucks, just like I did yesterday. And, no, I'm not trying very hard these days. 

Watch it Bring You to Your ShanananananaKnees (...knees)

Ok, kids: thanks to the tip from Metal Sucks, I want to make sure that everyone gets a good look at the clip below (and don't fuck this up; I have a feeling it won't be around much longer).

Warning: this is really hard to watch:

Oh, oh, oh, Eddie's Crying: The Folly of Eddie Trunk's Crusade

This year's nominations for the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame were announced this past week, and that means one thing:

Eddie Trunk is whining about heavy metal being disrespected again.

Upfront, let's be clear about something:

Eddie Trunk is probably a good guy.  There's no reason to think he's a bad husband or father.  Lots of musicians seem to like him, and his allegiance to a generally unfashionable era of music says that he is - if nothing else - a guy who values loyalty.  That tends to be a fairly good indication of a person's character.

But that doesn't mean he isn't an insecure fool.

For years now, Trunk has been using his pulpit on VH1, XM Satellite radio, his Website and on Twitter to demand that the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame pay greater respect to heavy metal music. One might be forgiven for assuming that this is some sort of ratings schtick by Trunk to attempt to elevate his own name into these annual mainstream music media discussions. (In fact, given the guy's penchant for egomania, it would seem to be entirely fitting).

But any witness to his annual barrage of tweets following the Hall of Fame inductions provides a frightening glimpse as to just how personally Trunk takes this crusade, and the extent to which it bothers him.

Why is this foolish? 

Because the argument is not only futile, but irrelevant.  And more to the point, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is irrelevant.

Make no mistake: the museum is a top-notch tourist attraction.  Top. Notch.  

(Fact: ten years ago or more while on a road trip out to Ohio to attend my older brother's wedding, my younger brother and I literally got in a fight in the middle of the museum because I wanted to stay another half hour and check some more exhibits, despite the fact that it would undoubtedly make us late for the rehearsal that evening. 

I lost the fight and we made it on time).

But the institution?  It means absolutely nothing.  PARTICULARLY to those of us who identify ourselves as lovers of metal.

Metal has always been outsider art.  No kid ever really got into heavy metal because he wanted to fit in... not for long, at least.  Because no matter how beautiful, powerful or technically advanced the genre is, it has also typically been uglier than pop, angrier than rock and less articulate than punk. For so many of the fans, this serves as a metaphor -- both painful and comforting -- about who they are and who they will probably never be.

In short, metal has never fit in.  

And that's fine.  Because outsider status has forced the metal community to find its validation from within, and not from corporate institutions. By this point, everyone should know that mainstream popularity was very bad for hard rock and heavy metal.  It created extreme motivations for nominal artists to make terrible art, and - worse - it advanced an overall aesthetic sensibility that discredited even the best of the genre's output in the late 80's and early 90's.

(For God's sake, no wonder Metallica and Slayer refused to make videos for so long).

As a result, in the years following grunge -- when big label hard rock became less popular and more popularly maligned -- the metal community arguably became stronger and more self-assured. Independent labels flourished and a plethora of extreme metal niches matured.

Eddie Trunk wouldn't know anything about this, however, because he's still mad at Nirvana.  And Geffen.  And MTV.  And Steve Jobs, for dying before he could invent an iTime machine to take him back to 1991.

But most of all, he's mad at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame for shunning his buddies.  Which seems akin to a high school misfit sitting at home seething at not being invited to some huge party held by the exact same jocks and rich kids who pick on him each day. 

It is a completely foolish use of his efforts, particularly at a time when there are entire generations of actual metal bands (as opposed to semi-retired classic rock acts) that would benefit from just a little bit of love from Trunk.

And that's the real shame of Eddie Trunk's mission: while the guy channels his efforts into bellyaching about disrespect towards KISS, Deep Purple and Rush, and about how this feeds into some kind of worldwide conspiracy to discredit his favorite type of music, the genre of metal has actually flourished all around him.

Think about this for a moment: twenty-five years ago, metal was nearly foreign outside of its own community.  Today, it is pervasive.

In 1988, the Monsters of Rock tour failed to sell out RFK Stadium.  In 2010, the Big Four tour was an international juggernaut.

In 1988, I had never once heard Metallica on the radio.  This weekend, I simultaneously heard them as I flipped between two different mainstream rock stations.

In 1988, most metal programming on MTV was confined to "The Headbangers Ball" and the "Hard 30."  Today, Eddie Trunk and his two slob buddies have their own talk show on VH1.

In 1988, punk rock kids and New Romantics generally mocked heavy metal.  Today, these same aging hipsters love nothing more than to be seen in their retro Slayer tee shirts.  (In fact, for a few years now there has been a downright troubling hipster fascination with black metal, perhaps best exemplified by NPR Music's highly improbable decision to hire a metal correspondent).

The sad - and obvious - irony is that Eddie Trunk's dream of a day of respect for metal has come true.  

Unfortunately, it happened while he was raging against the machine on behalf of people who made their best music 20 or more years ago.....people who had several days in the sun, and undoubtedly sucked every ounce of marrow from that bone in the forms of fame, money, gear, cocaine, groupies and sales.

Meanwhile, the metal community went ahead and did their thing without him.  The spoils of fame may be thinner today, but the artistic integrity for bands like Katatonia, Pig Destroyer, At the Gates, Cathedral or Morbid Angel* speaks for itself.  

* Morbid Angel may be up for debate these days.

In the process, the metal community got their respect on their terms, while Eddie continues to demand his respect on someone else's.

That's the problem with living in the past: you miss everything great about the present.

It is a true shame.  Trunk has built a pretty decent brand for himself.  Even people who can't stand him still watch his VH1 show regularly (I admit that I'm one of them).  But he is either horribly out of touch, ignorant or disinterested in what is happening in metal today.  And as long as he continues to call his time-warp TV show "the one stop shop for all things hard rock and heavy metal," he'll always be unwittingly pushing the genre into relic status.

But if you want to take on the man, go for it, Eddie. See how it works out for you, and while you're at it, let me know exactly what changes for struggling young metal bands once you get fucking KISS inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. 

Just remember, that one band that you incessantly push on the rest of us had a pretty good lyric that you may remember:

Under your feet grass is growin'
Time we said goodbye

"Lights out," indeed..