David Lee Roth “Your Filthy Little Mouth”
Any way I looked at it, the road led here. I couldn’t continue working through Bryan Ferry and Tom Waits albums without having to pay. I knew it couldn’t last. I knew I’d have to eat the dog food. I knew, at some point soon, I’d have my Waterloo. So, last night, with genuine trepidation, I pressed play on David Lee Roth’s 1994 album, “Your Filthy Little Mouth.”
I was scared because it was not a safe choice. I did not remember the album. I am not a Van Halen devotee. I had read the reviews. I recalled Diamond Dave’s tenure as morning talk radio DJ. I had heard his Emergency Medical Tech stories. The accumulation of evidence left me with the image of an aging hard rock god -- now all hair plugs, grin and tan -- completely unable to stick with a single thought or idea and completely capable of remembering and saying absolutely anything.
That lack of boundaries and attention, combined with immense talent and ego once made David Lee Roth incredibly famous. But it made me nervous. It wasn’t always this way. In the early and middle 1980s, I thought DLR was kind of spectacular. He did on stage what I wanted to do on my dirt bike. He leered at scantily clad girls and winked at me in his videos as though to say, “I get it, kid. It’s cool.” I wasn’t specifically a fan or not a fan of Van Halen’s music. I thought the videos were fun and funny. And when he went solo, his “Crazy From the Heat” videos only confirmed my sense that David Lee Roth was the grown up rock star who best understood pubescent humor and desires. Of course, I couldn’t have articulated that as a pre-teen, but I intuited it.
While I thought I understood David Lee Roth the cool, famous guy, I never considered David Lee Roth the musician. And as I got older, I related to DLR — the guy — less and less. He didn’t sound like any adult that I knew. He sounded distracted. And troubled. And odd. I knew there was a bright light, loads of talent and a nimble mind inside his spandex. But he seemed increasingly jittery and unaware of context. Over time, he became harder to understand. But, I didn’t especially dwell on the matter. I grew older and, as I began to listen to less Pop and Hard Rock, I simply stopped wondering about David Lee Roth.
Or so I thought. Apparently, I had just suppressed the anxiety. Because, in 2020, I was immediately, and deeply anxious about the notion of getting too close to DLR again. Even searching his name on Spotify made me feel like I was in the vicinity of someone who did not understand boundaries. Based on the little I knew of his solo career, I was nervous about spending more time with his music. I simply didn’t know what to expect. It could sound like Korn. Or like Frank Sinatra. Or like JAY-Z. Anything seemed possible. I wondered if, over thirty years since we last convened, whether Diamond Dave still wanted to be a Hard Rock god? Did he want to front a legendary cabaret act? Did he dream of being a naughty, loud country trailblazer? As I soon discovered, the answer to all of those questions was, “Absolutely.”
Across thirteen sprawling songs (not including the bonus track "You're Breathin' It" Urban NYC Mix) and fifty one minutes, we get the full, forty year old, solo David Lee Roth Experience on “Your Filthy Little Mouth.” This album, released in 1994, effectively marked the end of Roth’s career as a solo rock star. In the heyday of grunge and the spring of Alternative rock, “Your Filthy Little Mouth,” simply had no home in commercial radio, MTV or retail shelves. Not only was David Lee Roth out of vogue, but his eclecticism had fully come back to bite him in his tan, toned ass.
“YFLM” is almost entirely a collaboration between Roth and guitarist / Van Halen fan Terry Kilgore. As one might expect, much of it sounds like Van Halen demos. Were it 1981, David Lee Roth might have actually believed these songs were gold, but, with the Van Halen brothers nearby, they would never have made a final album cut. The tracks are mostly built upon giant riffs, chugga-chugging along with a single joke that Roth feels compelled to share in the moment, and then quickly move on from. I suspect that there were probably fifty songs like the ones on “Your Filthy Little Mouth” that littered the floor of every Van Halen session. However, in 1994, without Eddie and Alex as filters, Diamond Dave’s garbage piled up with only one place to go — into our ears.
The playing is, unsurprisingly, professional enough. Dave’s band is ostensibly a Hard Rock Jam band. They search for a groove and (optionally) a melody, erupt with the occasional solo and then continue the search in another direction. The songs go everywhere, barely connected through the big riffs, the plodding drums and Dave’s personality. Song to song, everything else feels like a half baked idea or a whim. For what it’s worth, Dave’s voice sounds mostly intact at this point. To my ears, he has some range, but his inability to focus on a tune makes it hard to know for sure. Once upon a time, the titanic melodies of Van Halen’s hits buoyed Diamond Dave’s vocal play. Here, though, Dave’s singing sounds unnerving and even painful, without the scaffolding of form. The album was, oddly enough, produced by Nile Rogers, who did just enough to make the record sound “significant,” but who had no reasonable space to inject rhythm and bass. The paring is both unexpected and unnecessary.
It’s not all terrible, though. In fact, I could say that the Dave and his band sound like the very best, but not famous, band that would headline the Hard Rock Casino’s second stage on an off night. They sound capable of some crowd pleasing covers. They sound somewhat like what I think Bruce Willis was going for on “The Return of Bruno.” I know this all sounds backhanded, but, objectively, it’s not. But it’s also not what we want from our rock gods. The single, a hit on Rock Radio for a minute, is “She’s My Machine.” It is precisely what you’d think — a bulging riff to help Dave come on to his “lady car.” As singles go, it’s weak. And it’s impossible to imagine this song getting oxygen amid a dial full of Smashing Pumpkins, Bush, The Cranberries, Live, Pearl Jam and Weezer.
The record’s first half never takes off. Four songs in, perhaps realizing that something is not working, Dave slows things down, moves over to a stool inside a smokey lounge, and reflects on “Experience.” He talks through most of the song and, then chooses the absolute wrong octave in which to sing the verses. It’s unclear what he was actually going for, but as he pinches his voice, he sounds like Rick Moranis trying to howl. Honestly, don’t seek this song out. And you’re welcome.
It gets better, though. “Cheatin Heart Cafe” is a honky tonk duet with Travis Tritt. And guess what? It’s pretty good. There’s an alternate universe wherein Diamond Dave fronts his version of ZZ Top or emerges as the Blake Shelton of 1994. His voice fares well in Country. In this alternate reality, middle-aged “Country Dave” jump kicks and splits his way across State and County Fairs. He slays -- impressing the Dad’s and Grandpa’s, charming the Grandma’s and winking at their daughters and granddaughters.
The album’s middle almost picks up steam. With the bar lowered, it’s a solid C+/B-. If only Dave was capable of brevity, he could have ended mercifully. However, by track ten, things are off the rails again. “Your Filthy Little Mouth” (the title track) is a ZZ-fried, piece of crap about sexual expression. I think. It also features the lyrics that confirm most of what we’d expect (and fear) about David Lee Roth, man of sex:
“Tell me what you want
And I'll take the scenic route
Tell me what you want
With Your Filthy Little Mouth
How bout a little Henry Miller
With your Huckleberry Finn
Assume the position, honey
Let's begin”
Since his first run with Van Halen, Diamond Dave has been a rock star, a “has been,” an EMT, a major market radio DJ, a Youtube vlogger, a skincare entrepreneur and probably a dozen other things that I couldn’t fathom. I get exhausted just imagining the memoir. Obviously, I could try to view his “boundarylessness” as “boundlessness” and his attention deficits as “curiosity.” When I do that, it gets a lot easier to reimagine my former affection for him. But my generosity only goes so far. “Your Filthy Little Mouth” is, by almost any measure, awful. It’s equally ambitious, aimless, slick, cheap, loud, fun, boring, safe and a complete mess. It might have been the apotheosis of both the man and his music.
But, me? I’m relieved. I survived my Diamond Dave Waterloo. I can return to more polite, middle-aged fare. Anyone for Richard Thompson?