METAL. MADNESS & MAYHEM
An Insiders Journey through the Hollywood 90s
By
Michael J. Flaherty
Smashwords Edition Copyright 2010 Michael J. Flaherty
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CHAPTER ONE
I was reminded by a co-worker. “Don’t forget Ron’s birthday party tonight Mike. 8 o’clock at Dan Tana’s.”
“I’ll be there, see you then. By the way, where exactly is Dan Tana’s?”
“It’s just East of Doheny on Santa Monica, next door to that Troubadour place. Careful walking past there, it’s a dump. Weird people, it’s kinda dangerous.”
“I’m not worried, but thanks.”
I wasn’t surprised at his words of caution. It was a very conservative office with even more conservative people, basically a law firm which had invested heavily in apartment and office buildings. Working in the management division my forte was frequently representing the
Company in court when there was a legal dispute with a tenant.
I had been acquiring a few small investment properties myself within the last few years and really didn’t need to keep the job, but it was an on-going learning opportunity, as well as being advantageous to have the resources of experienced attorneys when problems came up with my own properties at virtually no cost.
None-the-less I had planned to quit soon. My entrepreneurial sprit was far too strong for a corporate environment and I couldn’t imagine spending the rest of my business career in what was essentially a mundane daily grind, great money or not.
I knew there was something else out there more exciting but I sure didn’t know that I would
discover it that very night by accident.
‘Christ, don’t these people ever talk about anything but their fucking money, ski trips, stocks and cars?’ I thought silently as I was listening to my colleague’s conversations over the dinner. It occurred to me that even though this was to have been a joyous birthday party celebration, I had yet to see one of them smile or laugh all evening.
Between glancing at my watch every few minutes out of boredom, the activity next door on the sidewalk through the restaurant window kept catching my eye.
It was the ‘weird people’ outside of the Troubadour that I had earlier been warned to avoid. They looked like they were having fun. My curiosity was peaked.
The dinner party was at long last concluded and my associate Ron proffered an invitation. “Mike, we’re all going to Yamashiro’s in the Hollywood Hills for a night cap, meet us there.”
“Not tonight Ron, I’ve got an early morning.”
I made a polite yet fast exit and walked unseen to my car where I proceeded to toss my tie and jacket. Strolling back down Doheny Drive, I was anxious to find out what this Troubadour club was all about. Assorted bits and pieces of drum kits, guitar cases and speaker cabinets littered the sidewalk waiting to be loaded into the Ryder rental trucks parked in the front. A group of bikers were hanging out and admiring each others custom Harley-Davidson’s. Beautiful girls were swarming everywhere I looked, laughing and talking. Almost everyone had a drink in their hand.
Now this was my kind of place.
Buying a ticket and taking a seat in the showroom it occurred to me how long it had been since I had seen a decent live rock show in an intimate club setting. Far too long. The Kenny G. and Billy and the Beaters shows at the Roxy that I had been dragged to kicking and screaming by assorted yuppie girlfriends within the past few months certainly didn’t count.
Whatever name-less rock bands performing there that particular night didn’t matter either. It was a decent line-up of acts and I was impressed that this place was packed to the rafters with this many excited bodies on a Tuesday evening. Bodies that were spending money on admission and booze but most of all, just having a blast. I had entered a different universe and I didn’t find it hard to stay there until the last band’s encore, after which I hit the front bar.
The bartender, a tall blonde who had introduced herself to me as Tina was extremely cute and friendly. Being accustomed to Beverly Hills hustlers, as we chatted I was surprised she didn’t ask me what I did for a living or even the old L.A. cliché, ‘what do you drive Hon?’ It was refreshing.
During our conversation I happened to notice a rather large hand-written sign on the back bar wall…
Mötley Crüe and Stormer appearing next Saturday, 8pm.Tickets on sale now.
“What’s that all about, some kind of special show Saturday?” I asked her, pointing to the sign.
She wasn’t exactly sure but said that the office was really excited about the booking, “They’ve already sold a lot of tickets.”
When told her I’d probably be down to check it out she scribbled down her phone home number and handed it to me saying with a smile “I’m off that night, but I’d like to join you.”
This was too easy.
I didn’t go into the office the next day as I wanted to spend some time pondering and planning my next step. Desperately wanting a much needed challenge, the music business suddenly seemed like the logical choice especially after the previous night’s experience.
I had always felt that people only succeed at what they truly enjoy doing and I certainly enjoyed music. I envisioned finding a raw, fresh band or bands with some basic talent, desire and commitment. Groom them into a professional, marketable commodity and by using my business skills and resources create something profitable for everyone involved.
The actual business model I had in mind was not altogether different from what I had successfully done in the past with real estate which was to find a ‘diamond in the rough,’ a run-down property with good ‘bones’ in a great location and fix it up. Fine tune it and market it to the ultimate buyer. Best of all, acquisition of a percentage of a band would be an investment that, unlike real estate wouldn’t require the services of a mortgage banker, realtor or other assorted pains in the ass. It should be a relatively easy asset to acquire and develop, and if the act indeed happened to become successful, the financial rewards could become unlimited.
Research into my newly envisioned venture proved to be an education in and of itself. Making a list of all the rock clubs in Hollywood I began investigating each one almost every night, wanting to see who and what was drawing crowds at the Whiskey, the Starwood, Gazzari’s and of course, the Troubadour.
My first revelation was that unlike any other type of nightclub I had ever been familiar with, these rock venues had virtually no ‘in house’ crowd. The bands were required to promote their own shows to their fans and basically bring their own audience. The Starwood’s diversity of acts was perhaps the best example of this. On any given weekend there would be a Black Flag or an X performing Friday night with a hardcore punk attendance and yet the next night there would be a long-haired crowd turning out to see the more mainstream rock acts such as Quiet Riot, Smile, Snow or Al La Carte. Then there were the new wave bands that would draw from their own pool of fans on other nights as well.
Naturally, the acts of whatever genre with the largest followings were given the best dates and time slots by the club bookers. This became a Catch-22 type concern of mine as I wondered ‘how can a new band actually develop a following without live exposure and they can’t get that live exposure unless they already have a following?’ I was to come up with a creative solution to that question real soon.
Overall, it was obvious upon the journey into the jungle was that there seemed to be no consistency within the rock community as it was extremely fragmented
The local Hollywood rock scene was a blend of old style metal and glam bands that frankly looked rather tired as well as the angry Mohawk and shaved-head punk dudes, skinny-tied new wavers and a bit of rockabilly thrown in for good measure. There was a state of flux happening and everyone seemed to wear their own badge of preference as dictated by dress, hairstyles, attitude and behavior.
I usually ended most of my nightly excursions into this new world of music and clubs at the Rainbow Bar & Grill on Sunset for a nightcap or a late dinner. There was little if any diversity of musical styles here as it was strictly a hard rock hang out.
One particular night I happened to start talking with a fellow who was sitting next to me at the back bar. During the course of our conversation I mentioned that I was looking around for a band to develop, manage and promote. Introducing himself as Bob, I wasn’t too surprised when he told me that he had a band that was he felt was ready to hit the club circuit but needed some business direction. I asked him to tell me more.
“It’s a power trio, all originals, similar to the band Triumph, the Canadian band. I’m the lead guitarist and vocalist. It’s a complete package. Man, we have great equipment, even a team of roadies and trucks, all we need are bookings and management.”
I told him that I might be interested in checking it out and we exchanged cards. He invited me to their next rehearsal which was scheduled for the following Sunday afternoon. Giving me the address of the sound studio, we shook hands and I promised to be there.
As it was obvious to me that this guy was a professional and up on what was happening around Hollywood, I had one last question for him. “By the way Bob, everywhere I go I hear about this band Mötley Crüe, what do you know about them?”
“I haven’t seen them yet, but their bass player Nikki invited me to play lead in the band a few Months ago.”
I was curious and asked why he didn’t.
“I’m sold on my own project, you’ll see why Sunday. And besides, Nikki said I’d have to dye my hair blue black. I’m a surfer, and man I can’t do that.”
I laughed. “See you Sunday.”
It made sense to me that if he was telling the truth and had indeed been asked to join this Mötley Crüe band, he must have something going for himself. It was certainly worth a couple of hours of my time to give his band a listen.
‘What a fucking dump this place is’ was my first impression as I walked into the Falcon Rehearsal Studios on Santa Monica and Western Avenue in the worst part of East Hollywood. Little did I know at the time that within a couple of years I would end up the owner of ‘this fucking dump.’
Bob was happy to see me there, having told the other band members whom he proceeded to introduce about the ‘music biz dude’ he had met at the Rainbow a few nights prior. Nice enough guys, but I had to wonder if they always rehearsed in full stage clothes and makeup. It then occurred to me that this was not intended to be a rehearsal at all, but a private showcase for my benefit. I must have made an impression on Bob that night at the bar, or perhaps they were just desperate for acceptance from anyone who would listen to their music.
Despite the overall slum-like environment of the facility I had to admit that the sound stages themselves were not all that bad. The room was very large with a decent stage and a high ceiling with a small lighting truss. The outboard sound system looked as impressive as it later proved to be, too.
As the set began I immediately realized Bob had not lied or exaggerated that night at the Rainbow. He was an incredible guitarist and the band itself was extremely tight and professional. Their sound was powerful and their original songs had, at the very least some potential. I was intrigued, thinking maybe this could be the band that I had been looking for.
After the set concluded, I told them that I was interested, but I would want a twenty-five percent share in whatever profits would be forthcoming, adding that I would, for the time being, re-invest my share back into the band. They readily agreed. Although that percentage may have seemed a bit high, it wasn’t unheard of as other managers such as Bill Acoin (Kiss) and Peter Grant (Led Zeppelin) had become equal partners with their respective bands and if it was good enough for them, it sure as hell was good enough for me. In exchange, we agreed that I would provide full management, promotional and booking services.
“Great, let’s write it up now,” Bob said enthusiastically.
“No, there’s need to sign any contracts right away, let’s get some activity going first and we can worry about that later, guys.” That may have seemed to be a very reckless omission on my part to those that truly believe that every agreement must be in writing, but from my legal background I knew that a personal service contract, at least under California law, was not worth the paper that it was written on and could be easily overturned in Court. The paperwork could wait, I was anxious to get started.
We all shook hands.
“What’s our first step Boss?’ Gene asked.
“We’ll need a demo tape for starters, maybe we can bring in a portable system and record it right here at Falcon. And we’ll need publicity photos that we can probably shoot here too.” I promised that I would make the necessary arrangements to get everything done immediately and then we could get started planning our overall strategy.
Although I didn’t let it show, I was concerned as to how the band was going to develop that all important following in order to get the best dates. An opening act slot with a more established band was a possibility, as was the proven yet tired method of passing out tons of flyers on the Strip and slapping posters on every other telephone pole. I wasn’t too thrilled with that method, feeling it was ‘drawing from the same well’ as every other band. No, we needed to bring in new faces from somewhere fresh, build an audience from a source that would normally not attend a Hollywood rock show.
I had a brainstorm one night while at rehearsal. Images roadies were young guys just out of high school. They seemed very much into the band’s music and took their duties seriously. They were also Hispanic. I asked the crew leader, ‘Junior’ to step out into the hall.
“Junior, you’re really into metal, huh?”
“Love it man, it’s my life.” He answered.
We talked for awhile and after learning that he lived in East Los Angeles, I asked about his friends taste in music.
“Metal, man, nothing else, it rules!”
“OK Junior, if that’s true how come I don’t see more Hispanics at the local shows?
Sighing, he said “no promotion, the bands don’t seem to care about us, man, I guess they just don’t want us there for some reason.”
“Well, we’re going to change that right away. Do you speak Spanish?”
There was no hesitation. “Oh sure, Mike, fluently.”
“So, if I were to bring you a promotional flyer you could translate the text into Spanish?”
“No problem.”
“Great, and one more thing Junior, would you and the rest of your crew be willing to donate some of your time flyering the parking lots of High Schools around East L.A.? Video arcades too and maybe spend a few hours at the local malls passing them out?”
“No problem, anything for the band, it’ll be a cool way to meet chicks too.”
Perfect. I had just discovered Images new core audience; now all we needed were a couple of dates, which didn’t prove to be as easy as it first sounded. Shopping the newly recorded demo tape to bookers at the local clubs, the response was almost unanimous. “Well, how can you bring us a crowd if you haven’t played anywhere?” The Catch-22 factor that I had been concerned about earlier.
Despite my best sales pitch the most I could do was secure a Sunday night 10pm slot at Gazzari’s on a Sunset closing for another then unknown band called Mickey Ratt. Although the notoriety of the club and the legend that has developed around it over the years is now famous, Gazzari’s was actually the least desirable club on the Strip for a band to play at the time. There was a pitiful little sound system, poor lighting and tiny stages. Van Halen and the Doors may have performed there in their early days, but they sure as hell didn’t stay very long before moving up to the better clubs.
But at least it was a booking. None of the guys were thrilled to hear that it was the best I could come up with, but I stressed that we would promote the hell out of it, put on a professional show and ‘Guys, try and look at it if nothing else as a paid rehearsal.”
Everyone agreed.
As planned, I designed a flyer for the show which Junior translated into a Spanish version before delivery to the printer. I also had several hundred large full-color cardboard posters printed to be tacked on every available vertical surface in Hollywood. I didn’t know it at the time, but those posters would soon lead to my very first adventure behind bars.
Attending a band rehearsal a couple of weeks before the date, I asked Bob to give me a ride home as my car happened to be in the shop. Deciding to stop by the Rainbow for a quick drink, in route Bob abruptly pulled his truck into a parking lot at the busy Sunset/LaCienega intersection.
“There’s a good one!”
“A good what?”
“A telephone pole, look at it!”
After stopping the truck directly next to the pole, Bob hopped out and proceeded to remove a sixteen foot ladder from the bed as well as several posters and a shiny chrome staple gun.
“Hold the ladder for me Mike, I’m gonna put this fucker up so high nobody can tear it down.”
As Bob was in mid-staple, I heard a commanding voice directly behind me shouting “Get down off the ladder and keep your hands where we can see them.” Turning, I see two Sheriff’s deputies with hands on their pistols. This looked serious to me but that impression must have been much different from Bob’s, who yelled down “In a minute, I’ve just got to staple one more poster up here.”
“I mean now asshole!” The guns were suddenly drawn.
Reluctantly, Bob descended the ladder, his staple gun still in hand.
“Drop your weapon!” I though to myself ‘shit, we’re gonna get shot dead by the cops over a damn stapler in the middle of the Strip.’
“Any knives or weapons I should know about? Any drugs or needles?” we were asked as they searched through our pockets before we felt the cold steel of handcuffs around our wrists.
We were placed in the back of the patrol car and while in route to jail received a long and detailed lecture about how telephone pole posters harm and degrade the community not unlike graffiti. Wanting to ask the clichéd ‘Don’t you assholes have any better fucking thing to do?’ I resisted as it didn’t seem like a very good idea at the time.
Fingerprinted and booked we were led to a rather smelly cell that was already occupied by several large and sinister looking inmates that appeared to be in various stages of mental illness. I held my breath hoping none would ask us what we were in for as ‘tacking a concert poster on a telephone pole’ somehow didn’t seem like the prison-style macho answer that would prevent us from becoming their ‘bitches’ at any minute had they chose to take a liking to one of us.
“This is great Bob, I’ve been in the music business for less than a Month and here I am sitting in a Goddamn jail cell already, this must be a new record.”
“Don’t sweat it, man, I’ve been in this one lot’s of times before; it’s really not all that bad.”
“Thanks, that makes me feel a whole lot better,” I said sarcastically. “I guess room service is out of the question, huh? I sure as hell could use a drink.”
Apparently I had said that too loud, as one of our new room-mates, a huge muscular tattooed fellow with no teeth and a lot of facial scars approached me.
“Need a little something to take the edge off Honey? I got lots of good stuff in here” he said as he reached into his filthy sock and produced a joint.
“Oh thanks, but no thanks, I’m fine, really.”
Jesus Christ…
Although we were only in there for a couple of hours, it of course seemed like days before we were instructed by the guards to step out into the lobby and informed that no formal charges would be placed if we agreed to spend the following Saturday cleaning off all the various rock posters on the poles of West Hollywood. It was my understanding that slave labor had long since been outlawed, but I was in no position to argue and readily agreed to their terms. I was a free man at last.
“Well, that sure was fun Bob,” I said as we began the long hike in the fresh air back to the truck.
“Just laugh it off, man,” Bob replied. “It’ll give you something to tell your Grand children about.”
“Bob, I don’t think I would be able to have any Grand children if that fucking beast in there with the drugs in his dirty socks had had his way with me.”
The next morning, looking back at the previous evening’s experience as just a ‘bump in the road,’ I cancelled whatever plans were in place for the following Saturday. That day would have to be spent climbing telephone poles. Although I wasn’t to know it at the time, learning the exact location of the West Hollywood Sheriff’s jailhouse would come in real handy on repeated occasions within a very few months.
Things began to actually start looking promising for the show. The band was fine-tuning their set in the studio almost every night and our ‘street-team’ of Junior and his crew were doing a great job of getting the word out via the flyers. Everyone was excited.
The Friday morning prior to Sunday night’s date I received an urgent phone call from Bobby Dean, the head booker at the Troubadour, whom I had initially approached trying to book the band into his club.
He was desperate. A band that had been scheduled for the following Sunday night had cancelled at the last minute and he offered Images that slot.
“I don’t expect you to bring a crowd at this late hour, just come in and play. If you can do me this favor, I’ll get you a better night in the near future, I promise.”
I thought ‘shit, this is great. I’ve been begging for bookings for a month now with virtually no success and all of a sudden we get two of them on one night.
“What time would you need us to go on, Bobby?”
“Midnight and I know that sucks but you can get some free exposure for your band as the two other acts have been drawing fairly well lately, it should be a decent crowd.”
“Are they metal? Who are they?” I asked.
“They are metal and from what I heard on your demo tape Images will fit right in with them. One’s called Bitch and the other’s Dante Fox.”
Knowing that Bobby’s club was only about a ten minute drive down the hill from Gazzari’s and we could probably break down and re-stage the equipment in time, I was ready to accept his offer, but thought quickly.
At the time the Troubadour had a tiered ticketing system wherein there was a full price admission, meaning someone simply walks up to the box office and buys a ticket, a discount ticket with the bands name stamped on it that the bands themselves were to distribute and in return receive 50% of the sales, and a free ticket that the bands could also distribute and receive no money from the gate, yet draw a crowd. The club owners didn’t really care as more bodies in the showroom equaled more drink sales.
I asked Bobby if he would be willing to give us three hundred discount tickets.
“What? How the hell can you distribute 300 tickets in 48 hours? You guys don’t even have a following, man.”
I saw no need to mention the Gazzarri’s show that was scheduled for earlier the same night.
“We probably can’t Bobby, but we can try. Give us the tickets and we’ll be there Sunday.” “Come on down and pick’em up. And thanks Mike, you’re really saving my ass by filling in, I’ll make it up to you in the future.”
He soon did.
I told the guys at rehearsal that night what had happened. After months of playing to no one except themselves and their girl friends in the studio, they were understandably excited at the prospect of playing two houses in a single night.
We had a strategy meeting with the roadies to formulate our rapid stage break-down, transport and re-set plan. I was confident that it would work.
“There’s one more important thing guys, and old Bill (Gazzarri) is not going to like it, but I want a stack of Troubadour discount tickets discreetly placed on every table in that club. I want everybody in the fucking showroom to know that we’re playing two hours later down the street and to get their asses down there.”
“I’ll announce it from stage Mike,” Bob volunteered.
“Good, but please wait until the very last song so we don’t get thrown out before we can finish the set. I know that basically stealing Gazzari’s audience is not all that cool but given the circumstances I’d rather piss them off and impress the Troubadour management since we have that option. We can probably get some of this Mickey Ratt band’s people there too. They shouldn’t care as they’ll have already finished their set.”
Standing outside the box office, I knew this was going to be more than an average, slow Sunday night on the Strip. People were arriving early and more than a few were holding our flyers in their hands. Junior and his crew had done a great job and the young East L.A. head-bangers were turning out en masse to see a band that finally cared enough about them to announce and promote their show dates to them.
As there were no dressing rooms at Gazzarri’s, one of the equipment vans was utilized. Passing around a bottle of Jack inside the makeshift facility, we wished each other good luck and I then went inside to check out Mickey Ratt who had just taken the stage.
Indeed, the crowd had grown, surely the busiest Sunday night I’d ever seen at the venue. Mickey Ratt proved to be surprisingly entertaining. Their songs were not bad and for a young band and the musicianship was tight and slick. I was particularly impressed with the lead guitarist whose name I later learned was Jake E. Lee. He wasn’t a heavy shredder like Bob, but had more of a melodic style not unlike Eddie Van Halen’s.
Once Bob, Gene and Karl staged it took only a couple of songs for me to see that they had gotten over their first show jitters and were playing with confidence. There were flaws here and there and with notebook in hand I scratched down notes throughout the entire performance for the next day’s post-show critique meeting I had planned. The packed house was responsive and very much into the show. Overall for the first time out, I was pleased.
As planned, Bob made the announcement.
“It ain’t over yet you fuckers!” “Second show in two hours at the Troubadour, grab the tickets off your table and we’ll see you there!”
There was a mass exodus from the showroom. I told the band and crew to hustle ass and get down the street fast. “I’m going on down there and make sure everything’s covered” I told the guys.
Not bad, one show down and one to go all within a few hours. Even more impressive was the line I saw growing outside the Troubadour box office as I arrived. I knew that it had to be our crowd that had made its way down from Gazzarri’s. The plan was working even better that I had hoped.
As our equipment was starting to arrive at the rear loading dock, the Marshall amps still warm from the previous show and being prepared to rapidly stage, I took a few minutes to check out the band that was performing before us, Bitch.
During their set there was a constant stream of bodies entering the showroom. It was our people and wasn’t long before the house was packed.
Bobby found me in the crowd. “These are your people Mike?”
“I would say so.”
“How the hell did you do all this in just 48 hours?” “The bar’s running out of fucking beer man, we didn’t expect this many people tonight!”
I winked. “It’s my secret, Bobby.”
The Gazarri’s show two hours previous had proven to be only a warm up for both the band and the crowd for this set. The guys were in top form, confident in their performance and the audience, who was by this time, very well lubricated were banging their heads to Images Hollywood opening night debut, part two.
It had been a great start and we chose to celebrate it later that night over several large pizzas and pitchers of beer at the Rainbow.
I was under the mistaken impression that people who worked in the music and nightclub businesses slept late. Either I was very wrong or the fact was they simply stayed up all night. The later eventually proved to be the case. Bobby phoned far too early for my liking the next morning, still curious as to how we managed to pull that many people in (the final count was over four-hundred) at Midnight on a Sunday with only 48 hours to promote the show. He offered us several new dates within the next six weeks, all of which were Fridays and Saturdays. Without hesitation, I agreed.
“I’m going to do something else for you Mike.” He asked me if I had heard of BAM and Music Connection magazines, the two most prominent Southern California music trade publications.
“Sure, why?”
“They call me every week to find out who’s pulling the biggest crowds for their live charts. I’m telling them about last night, I’ll hype you guys up to them.”
That proved to be one hell of a shot in the arm for Images local credibility among bookers.
CHAPTER TWO
I really didn't want to be there, but my then and soon to be former employer had just purchased the hotel and wanted all his employees to attend the grand opening party.
At the bottom of the invitation in fine print it read, ‘Attendance Mandatory’ making it clear we all were to be there. I thought “What the fuck, I'll go and keep everybody happy....”
Bored as I was with the crowd once again wishing instead I was back at the Rainbow or Troubadour. I became engaged in a deep conversation about music and the current state of the industry with the mobile D.J., who was spinning records for the large crowd in attendance. Seems his family ran a record distribution Company in New York and he knew a lot about the business. The guy had a great equipment set-up, not only a state-of-the art sound system, but overhead lighting trusses, strobes, fog machines and pyrotechnic ‘flash pots’ that rivaled on a much smaller scale, anything I had seen at a recent KISS concert at the Inglewood Forum arena.
Thinking this would really enhance Images stage show, I asked where he bought his gear.
“A guy in Hollywood has a small operation making pyro devices in his home. He does pretty well with it too, and it’s good stuff.”
He didn't have the phone number with him at the party, but he gave me his D.J. card and said if I called him the next day he would turn me on to the guy, which I did the next morning.
“His name is Steve Duran, here’s his number.” I immediately phoned Mr. Duran as Images was scheduled to play the Whiskey the next weekend and there were expected to be a number of record people there, I wanted a full stage show for that night, flash pots, smoke machines and all.
Guzman said he could have a set ready by Saturday if I'd drop by his house and leave a deposit.
A couple of days later, I drove to his apartment, a two story older building on Las Palmas Avenue in a rather seedy part of Hollywood. The first thing I found odd were the four or five classic Jaguar XKEs parked in front of the building in various stages of restoration. They didn't seem to fit with the neighborhood.
I walked into the small courtyard and was greeted by this giant of a man, probably at least 6’6” with extremely long blue-black hair and visibly somewhat overweight. My first impression was that he was an American Indian. (Later I learned he was indeed one-half Cherokee)
“Steve?”
“Yep, I'm Steve, you're Mike?”
We shook hands, spoke for a few minutes and then he proceeded to demonstrate his basic pyrotechnic system right there in the building courtyard. I was pleasantly surprised when a few minutes later there were no fire trucks in front. I guessed the neighbors were accustomed to his explosive sales demonstrations.
“Cool rig, Steve, this is what we need. I’ll take a basic system.” I was curious. “Interesting business, how did you get into it?”
“I’m a pyrotech, do a lot of work for TV. You ever watch ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep?”
“Matter of fact, I do.”
“Those explosions are mine” he said gleaming with pride.
We went into his apartment where I was invited to have a seat. The apartment, although small, was furnished with heavy wooden medieval type furniture, including what appeared to be a mix between a throne and a prison electric chair, complete with wrist and ankle straps where Steve sat down and proceeded to ask me questions about Images as well as my thoughts on metal and my business management philosophy.
During our conversation I heard a rustle near the ceiling and glancing up I see a drop-dead gorgeous ‘Playmate’ quality blond wearing nothing but panties and a bra, looking a little hung-over with smeared mascara, coming down a ladder that led to a small second-story loft.
She went over, bent down and kissed Steve in an almost God-like way. Steve asked her to bring us some coffee. A few minutes later, an equally beautiful as well as equally almost naked brunette comes out of the kitchen with a silver coffee serving tray.
Kissing him also, she proceeds to serve us.
The music business conversation continued but frankly I was very distracted not only by the
girls, but wondering in my mind how this guy manages to get these ‘perfect 10’s’ and has what appears to be a miniature Hefner-like harem, Hollywood style. I'd find out real soon.
I gave him a cash deposit for the equipment and we walked out to the sidewalk together. I commented on the Jaguars and he said they were his, he collects and restores them.
Driving home, I kept thinking about this guy. Something about him was special, a commanding presence. Just who the hell is he?
The question bothered me for a few days until....
It was a rainy Wednesday night when my buddy Jan paged me and asked if I wanted to meet him at the Troubadour for a drink. I was at an Images rehearsal that was just wrapping up at Falcon Studios so I agreed to meet him on my way home.
It was a very slow night at the Troubadour, with only a handful of people at the bar sipping Long Island Iced Teas, Coronas with lime, shots of J.D. and chatting.
Walking in with Jan, he says “God, there's Blackie!”
“Blackie who?”
“Blackie Lawless, right there.”
I immediately recognized him as ‘the flash pot guy’ and told Jan, “His name's not Blackie, its Steve, Steve Duran, I met him a few days ago at his apartment.”
“No, no, It’s Blackie! He gets the hottest pussy in Hollywood, by the bus load, dude. He's a pussy God.”
Upon thinking about that last statement and remembering my first encounter with him at the apartment and seeing his in-house his ladies, I was starting to believe Jan.
Curious as well as wanting to check on the progress of the pyro gear, I pulled up a stool next to Steve at the bar and said hello. He immediately offered to buy me a drink and said the equipment was ready, I could pick it up anytime and “Oh, by the way, I wanted to give you this, it wasn't back from the printer when you were at my place the other day.”
He handed me a rather large flyer advertising an upcoming Troubadour show: W.A.S.P. Saturday Night! Subtitled: ‘The Torture Never Stops’ and ‘On Your Knees.’
Very professional looking flyer I thought, not like the hand scribbled crap that was often handed out in the Rainbow parking lot at 2am by hungry musicians trying to get a crowd to their shows. Each member of W.A.S.P. was individually pictured. Chris Holmes looking like a mad-man commando with hand grenades on his belt, Steve (Blackie) with a buzz saw cod piece, and Tony Richards and Randy Piper looking equally sinister. I remember thinking ‘these guys are serious, whatever the hell they're doing.’
We talked for a while and I promised Steve that I would to make it to the show and check it out.
CHAPTER THREE
The phone early the next morning. I didn't mind as soon as I realized it was a very sexy female voice all excited. “We're on the. bill Mike!” “I got the call at 2am!”
“Who? What bill?”
“W.A.S.P. Saturday night at the Troubadour!”
As I started to regain conconess, I realized it was Betsy Weiss from ‘Bitch.’
Bitch and Images had a brief but close history going back a few months when each band started out playing the Troubadour dates together. Our crowd liked them, and their crowd liked us. We would trade equipment and co-promote our shows sharing ads in the local press. I liked Bitch a lot, and there was discussion at one point where I would take over their management (amicably) from her mother who was currently handling the bands business affairs.
I felt Betsy and her band could fill a niche void in the now-emerging (local) metal genre as a novelty act at the very least. She was extremely hot looking, very aware of her sexuality, had a decent voice and happened to be great performer. Additionally, the bands original songs were decent enough that I felt would garner at least some radio airplay and the musicians themselves were talented and skilled.
Part of the Bitch stage show was her submitting to a gang-bang wherein the lead guitarist and the bass player would throw her on the floor, handcuff her to the drum riser, rip off her black pumps, fishnets and garter belt, tossed into the audience and proceed to violate her in ever way you can imagine with their guitars. The crowd loved it and besides, she seemed to enjoy it. Rock doesn't get any better than this.
I had already thought of a title: Porn-Metal.
I arrived early at the W.A.S.P. show while the large crowd was filtering in. The line snaked four blocks up Doheny Drive, a unusual mixture of Hollywood regulars and a good share of Aqua-Netted ‘Valley-ites’ drawn by the ads W.A.S.P. had run in BAM magazine as well as The L.A. Weekly and Music Connection.
Walking in, I took a few minutes to say hello to Big 'Biker' Ron, head of Troubadour security, Lyle Atkins, Ron's assistant and a former Vietnam era Navy SEAL and then current member of a famous motorcycle club (who was to later work security for me) as well as Tony the manager and the various bartenders and waitresses I had come to know over the previous few months.
I then went upstairs to Bitch's dressing room to wish them good luck with the show. "It's not good luck”, it’s "break a leg" Betsy pointed out to me. O.K, OK... so I'm kind of new at this but "I don't want you to break a leg, Hon, I want you to have a great performance.”
To this day I still hate that “break a leg” expression, but it seems to be a show-biz law.
Taking a reserved seat by the front of the Troubadour stage, I noticed a number of very unusual items the roadies were putting in place. A log with an imbedded axe, a large cheese-grater, various propane tanks, hoses and a steel framework of sorts, a meat grinder and a cage of white rats. White rats? I'm thinking maybe this Steve ‘the flash-pot guy’ is going to perform medical experiments on stage.
Suddenly a very attractive young lady leaned over the table and grabs my hand, staring at my palm. “You have a wonderful life-line.”
“Huh?”
She goes “I'm Nikki Costa and I read palms. My big brother Don is in the opening act tonight, that's his cheese grater up there.”
“OK, that’s uhhh...a nice one,” meanwhile thinking this girl is either way kooky or her brother's going to make pizza for the audience. In any event it was a very nice cleavage shot.
Don. Don Costa? The name rang a bell in my mind. I remembered he was Ozzy's bass player for the ‘Speak of the Devil’ tour. Let's see what he has to offer tonight with his new band ‘M-80.’
Lights go down and ‘Tubular Bells,’ the theme from ‘The Exorcist’ starts playing on the sound system, nice effect as the stage is smoked. Don, along with his guitarist/singer and drummer hit the stage with a powerful riff and a song called ‘Get out of Town before Sundown.’ I wasn’t terribly impressed, but yet altogether not bad.
Don was dressed head to toe in strips of white cloth, mummy-style. He was insane on stage.... At the end of the set during a wild strobe-lit drum solo, Don turns and grabs the cheese grater and starts ripping the skin off his knuckles over the crowd’s heads sending blood and tiny chunks of flesh into the audience. Always thinking business, I'm wondering how he plans on recreating this stunt each night if he happened to get a tour.
It was a decent show overall, yet I'm wondering how W.A.S.P. will follow this. The rats, meat grinder and axe are still sitting up the on the stage waiting for whatever purpose they are about to serve.
The WASP roadies begin putting the final touches on the stage set as the Doors song ‘The End.’ the Apocalypse Now version complete with the sound of the helicopter blades was blasting through the P.A.
The house lights go down once again throwing the showroom into total darkness, the walls now shaking with nothing but the sound of the helicopter rotors. From the top of the dressing room stairs leading down to the stage, a figure appears silhouetted by a lighted ‘caveman’ type torch he’s holding runs down, hit's the stage and lights a gas-filled metal framework behind the drum riser which creates the effect of being inside a burning building. Considering how old and fragile the Troubadour was, it was a very strong possibility that the real thing could happen at any minute.
Blackie takes center stage starting a blistering version of what I later learned was the song ‘Hellion,’ dressed in only chaps and the soon-to-be-famous buzz saw codpiece as well as thigh-high red 6” stiletto boots. Being straight I'm not an expert on male butts but it was obvious that some liposuction or a membership to a gym could come in handy here.
The song concluded with a multiple blast of concussion bombs fired from the rear of the stage and a near riot in positive response from the crowd.
At this point there was only one problem that I saw with the show and it was a major one, at least from my point of view. The bone-shaking volume pumped throughout the custom sound system that Blackie had brought in for the night was far too damn loud to hear any semblance of the songs themselves. I'd always felt that if my ears didn't ring for a couple of days after a concert it wasn't loud enough but in this case, my ears were cooking on site. Part of the problem was that the back wall of the room was only 35 feet from the stage which caused a sonic ‘roll’ of sound that was impossible to decipher as anything other than the roar of being inside a jet engine. Dramatic yes, but I was always looking for possible radio airplay material and really needed to hear song writing skills, melodies and hooks.
Actually the only lyrics I heard throughout the entire set was the ‘I Wanna Be Somebody’ mid-song acappella chant, the opening lines to ‘Sleeping In The Fire,’ and something to the effect that he ‘Fucks Like A Beast.’
A few songs later, Blackie grabs the rat cage and approached the log and axe. Holding the rats in one hand by their tails, he looks questionably and silently to the audience with a sinister grin on his face pointing to the axe then to the meat grinder. The audience votes for the grinder. Blackie strolls over, drops the rats in the machine and starts grinding away, all to the bombastic back beat of Tony, Randy and Chris's drum/guitar solo and a heavy light show and yet more smoke. The meat starts oozing from the tube and Blackie proceeds to toss it into the crowd who began fighting over it like it was a fly-ball at a World Series game.
No rats were actually hurt in that stunt. I later learned that it was a custom grinder prop Blackie had built so as when he dropped the rodents in they simply slid down a enclosed chute to the safety of a second, hidden cage to await the next show, quite possibly partying with awaiting mouse groupies, perhaps enjoying a backstage cheese buffet. The meat was only raw hamburger that had been pre-loaded before the show to extrude while turning the crank.
OK...so far this evening I've been showered with knuckle skin, bone and blood and what I thought at the time was ground rat burger. I couldn't help but wonder ‘what's next?’ I made a mental note not to sit at a front table the next W.A.S.P. show, sexy kooky palm reader girl with great tits or not.
Several songs later, again with a massive strobe light display Blackie pulls out a large pillow from seemingly nowhere, rips it open on his buzz-saw cod piece and sprays the room with feathers.
Add feathers to the previously mentioned list.
After more concussion bombs and fireworks the guys exit the stage, house lights once again blackened to the point of total darkness. The crowd is going insane with everyone’s ears still ringing and optical nerves firing off from the now dead strobe lights.
Suddenly the ‘fire framework’ ignites once again and the band encores with the opening lines of ‘Tormentor.’ Tony, Chris and Randy go into a solo so powerful that it would rock the gates of Hell. An intense spotlight shines on Blackie, holding up what looks like a human scull. In ritualistic, later to become classic Blackie manner, he holds it high above his head and pours gobs of bright crimson blood down his throat. The crowd surges forward trampling those in front (myself included) holding empty beer cups and cocktail glasses up to the stage to be filled with the red liquid.... and to partake and share in this new metal sacrament.
The song ends to the sound of more concussion bombs, the stage empties and the house lights go up. It’s over. Wow…All this from the ‘flash-pot guy’ who spends his Saturdays quietly restoring classic British autos. I'm impressed. Just wish I could have heard their songs plainly.
It popped in my mind that I was glad I wasn’t the janitor that had to clean up the stage that night. My second thought was to drop in the dressing room and say hello. Third and more reasonable thought... No. I'll call him tomorrow, keeping with my policy of never talking business with bands in dressing rooms immediately after a performance. I didn't consider it professional.
Besides, I wanted to show respect and support for Bitch that was to follow after a quick set change. Looking around the room however, I saw most of the crowd, exhausted and drained from what they had just experienced leaving through the front door.
It's been said that bands tend to draw their stage energy from the audience. If that's true, Bitch was in trouble from the start that night as there were only a handful of people left in the showroom. Despite a gallant and professional performance, after W.A.S.P, frankly no one was terribly interested and I actually felt sorry for Betsy and the band.
The Bitch set concluded, I decided to call it a night and drove the short distance back home, still thinking about W.A.S.P, comparing them in my mind to earlier acts and wondering what Blackie’s influences were for this spectacle.
KISS? Comic book characters with great business savvy. Nah...
Alice Cooper? Close, but Alice never took his stage persona this seriously. It was a big goof that was and of course to this day very entertaining.
The Crazy World of Arthur Brown? Perhaps. Although basically a ‘one-hit-wonder from the late sixties with ‘Fire,’ Brown became a featured act on the rock club circuit. He appeared in wildly colored flowing robes, face streaked with makeup and his hair on fire. From this apparition came shrieks, jumps growls and singing that electrified his audience. This later proved to be not only my opinion as Blackie, in a Kerrang interview mentioned that Arthur Brown was a huge influence on his concept for W.A.S.P.
I also guessed that Blackie had heard of or was a fan of ‘Scream’n Jay Hawkins’ who was probably the original ‘shock rocker’ going back as back as far as a 1958 tour with Fats Domino where he earned his reputation for performances that bordered on lunacy at the time. On the Alan Freed package tours, he was carried onstage in a flaming coffin and spit fake blood into the audience.
Yeah, my first impression of W.A.S.P. from the flyer Blackie had given me was right. These guys are serious.
Yet, I still had only heard a loud roar. No song dynamics that would reach out from a car radio and grab the listener by the throat, which was my philosophy for a rock act to break, become and remain successful.
CHAPTER FOUR
Country–Western music has never been big in Los Angeles, period.
Someone should have informed former nightclub manager Chuck Landis of this fact before he and his investors spent several million dollars renovating a huge defunct Save-On drug store in the San Fernando Valley district of Reseda into his dream of a state-of-the-art hillbilly music palace.
Even with the Nashville and Austin, Texas quality acts booked that were more accustomed to the county fair circuit than a plush, urban night club venue only a handful of patrons showed up each night to hear the twang’n, drink beer, fight and ride the mechanical bull.
The doors were locked and the place was vacant and bankrupt after only a couple of months.
Enter the Wolf & Rissmiller Corporation.
Steve Wolf and Jim Rissmiller were the principals of ‘Wolf and Rissmiller Attractions,’ unquestionably the number one concert promotion firm in Southern California in the late '70s and early '80s.
Having met while attending college at UCLA the two, who shared a great love of rock music, as well as an admiration of Bay Area promoter extraordinaire Bill Graham and a passion for business, immediately became best friends and soon partnered promoting small rock concerts on the campus.
It wasn't long before Steve and Jim were moving their shows to larger and larger venues from UCLA Halls to the 3000 seat Santa Monica Civic Auditorium by the ocean and eventually to the 18,000 seat Forum in Inglewood.
They treated their acts well during their reign. Everyone from The Pretenders to The Clash, The Knack to Van Halen, The Who, Zeppelin and many more international bands had not only respect for the pair, but a certain amount of loyalty.
A case in point… The Forum, which was the premier ‘arena’ music venue in Los Angeles was owned by a very wealthy elderly gentleman by the name of Jack Kent Cook, who also owned the Los Angeles Lakers basketball team, the Kings hockey team, the Washington Redskins as well as the Empire State Building in New York City.
Cook sold the Forum, Lakers and Kings to Los Angeles real estate magnates Jerry Buss and Frank Mariana whom I came to know personally through my then employer, L.A. Clippers basketball team owner Donald T. Sterling. As likable and business savvy guys as they were, they were a bit naive as to the ways of music concert promotion.
Buss was quoted as saying shortly after the purchase of the Forum “Why do we need Wolf & Rissmiller? We own the venue, just get Van Halen's agent on the phone and we'll promote the show ourselves.”
Good business logic, but it didn't (and still doesn't) work that way. Artists, agents and managers develop relationships with established concert promoters who have been around for a while and those unspoken bonds are honored as sacred.
With that factor in mind, Wolf and Rissmiller saw an opportunity to turn the boarded up Country Club showroom into a ‘breeding ground’ wherein they could develop smaller acts of all musical genres and build that same trust and loyalty to their Company as the acts grew in their careers.
Their timing was excellent. It was 1981.
From their large concert operations, Wolf and Rissmiller had the finest stagehands, security, lighting and sound technicians in Los Angeles already on their payroll. The same guys that had rigged the lighting trusses for Led Zeppelin and did the sound checks for the Who over the years were more than happy to spend their off-nights from the Forum or the L.A. Sports Arena concerts setting up the Country Club for small acts. The professionalism at this large club venue was unparalleled.
The Country Club immediately became the place for up and coming local Southern California bands to play. Acts that were happening at the time such as Missing Persons, The Tubes, Devo and Oingo-Boingo were booked on a regular basis and their fans packed the venue.
Riding upon the success of the Gazzarri's/Troubadour shows and given the publicity that Images had received in the local music press, I was not quite surprised but yet still ecstatic when I received a call from the County Club's in-house booker, John Miller. He told me they were planning a ‘heavy metal’ weekend and wanted Images to headline Saturday night.
Second on the bill would be Quiet Riot, who at the time was going by the name DuBrow and thirdly an unknown power trio, White Sister. This was an unusual offer as metal was just barely, if even at all booked there. Prior to this planned weekend the heaviest band that had played the Country Club was REO Speedwagon at their industry release party for ‘High Infidelity.’
Not only was the exposure and prestige of Images being invited to play there very welcome, but the dollar offer was very attractive too. This was years before the ‘pay-to-play’ days that essentially created a ‘tax’ of sorts on struggling bands.
I accepted John's offer immediately. As it so happened, we had a show that night at the
Troubadour with our new friends Dante Foxx, (Whom within a couple of years were to change their name to Great White) and Bitch.
Holding back my enthusiasm, I decided to give the band the good news in person. When the Images equipment trucks arrived at the stage load-in dock that afternoon, the boys found their manager sitting there, grinning from ear to ear with a bottle of champagne and a fistful of good cigars.
“Oh-Oh, Mike's got something good going on” Bob remarked as he stepped out of the truck. He was right.
“Guy’s, we're headlining the Country Club”
“No shit!” Gene was in near shock as it had only been a few months before that we had been thankful to receive a Sunday night slot at Gazzarris. We shared the champagne in plastic cups sitting in the alley behind the Troubadour enjoying the cigars like we were the Beatles who had just been invited to appear on the Ed Sullivan TV show in 1963.
The band gave a great performance that night due in no small part to the enthusiasm that was felt over the upcoming Country Club date.
As happy as I was over the day’s events, the real highpoint of the evening for me personally was when my soon-to-be-ex girlfriend, a wretched bitch who, in her drunken stupor parked her broom outside, stormed in the club and demanded that I let her go on stage and introduce the band. Declining her offer, she strutted over to the side of the stage and found a nice little black box to sit and pout on, arms folded, totally unaware that the convient seat contained one-half pound of explosive flash powder and the roadie who was controlling the system (the Blackie-built system mentioned earlier) was underneath the stage with the trigger and couldn't see her sitting there. I've heard her pubes never grew back.