Mötley Crüe “Saints of Los Angeles”
Two bands. Both inspired by The New York Dolls. Both with silly haircuts. Both with bassists who died, though only one of whom stayed that way. Both famous for leaving destruction in their wake. Both accused of nihilism. Both filled the pages of tabloids. Both destroyed hotel rooms and stages. Both sold millions of records, though one who sold many millions more. One was born in 1975 and, for the most part, was done by 1978. The other formed in 1981 and, though they’ve said farewell numerous times, is still going to this day. One of these bands is thought of as art. Scholarly tomes obsess over them. Semioticians consider them. Meanwhile, the other band -- the generationally popular one -- is the butt of jokes. One is English. The other Californian. But other than 5,437 miles, there’s really not that much separating The Sex Pistols from Mötley Crüe.
I have no defense for Mötley Crüe — but that is not something I am proud of. Also, I don’t think it’s based on derision. Really, it comes from a lack of understanding. On the other hand, I do understand KISS, who made Mötley Crüe possible. KISS took the sharp and complicated aspects of the New York Dolls, ironed them out for commercial exploitation and then added science fiction and comic books and then -- voila. I also understand The Sex Pistols, who imported the snark and crudeness of The Dolls and made it ten times louder, ten times sloppier and dead, fucking serious. Even when they did not give a shit — maybe especially then — The Sex Pistols could be genuinely terrifying.
But Mötley Crüe I am far less sure about. They added speed, I guess. They translated what started in New York and made its way to London into something that befit 1980s Los Angeles — I guess. But, any way I slice it, they were a massive downgrade from their forebears and paled in comparison to Guns N’ Roses and Bon Jovi. — two bands that they spawned. Loudwire suggested that The Crüe were the twenty-second best Metal band of all time. Maybe, that’s accurate and enough of an answer. To some, they are probably not even in the top one hundred. But, to many, I suspect, they are still number one. To me, the question of status is unimportant. However, the question of meaning is nagging. What does Mötley Crüe mean? Are they a joke, are they in on the joke or, as I occasionally fear, are they something else altogether?
Without question, part of Mötley Crüe’s appeal is their LA-ness. The early 1980s were combustible times in Southern California. The state’s former governor had just become President. The sunny Laurel Canyon music scene had been burned down by upstarts who were inspired by Punk, noise, Rockabilly and Roots music. Magic Johnson had just arrived and The Lakers were champs, but his teammate Spencer Haywood was hiring hitmen to kill their coach. Arnold was The Terminator but not quite a movie star. Cocaine was everywhere but crack was hot on its heels. And the glitz and glamor of The Hills was co-mingling with the gutter of The Boulevard and The Strip. So, if you scratched at the shine of Jack Nicholson’s teeth or combed through the bounce of Farrah Fawcett’s hair, you might actually find something that resembled Mötley Crüe. Nikki, Tommy, Vince and Mick were the show just on the underside of “Showtime.”
Inasmuch as they were the litter of post-Punk, pre-Glam L.A., Mötley Crüe was equally grist for the tabloids. For over a decade, they simply could not stop making headlines. And though they were only partially beautiful, they were entirely photogenic. They lived near ground zero for the paparazzi and they were constantly, profoundly, fucked up, which meant that -- at any moment -- anything could happen. Sometimes it was relatively benign things, like urinating in hotel rooms. Sometimes it was setting things, or bassists, on fire. In December of 1984, it was a horrific tragedy. Vince Neil crashed his De Tomaso Pantera, killing Hanoi Rocks’ drummer, Nicholas Dingley. Frequently, it was addiction related. In 1987, Nikki Sixx overdosed from heroin and flatlined before being resuscitated by a paramedic, who was also a fan. But mostly, it was on account of the women who surrounded them and, in some cases, married them. Mötley Crüe had a thing for models, playmates and sex workers. That combination of Heavy Metal, cross-dressing, booze, drugs and sex was atomic fodder for gossip, which was, in turn, catnip for fans who, for their part, kept Mötley Crüe on top well beyond their shelf life.
While their style and location were canny, it would be unfair to suggest that their music was not at least some part of the appeal. Mötley Crüe was a very good, and relatively early, Glam Metal band. They were much slower and more melodic than Thrash. They were not gothic like early English Metal and were not as menacing as the New Wave of British Heavy Metal. Their initial breakthroughs in 1983 and 1984 were Satan and Manson adjacent, but the group always presented as drunk and horny rather than threatening. By the late 80s, though, their music caught up with their image. And that was when The Crüe became massive. They scored hits with a dull update of “Smokin in the Boys Room,” a power ballad that completely predicted Poison (“Home Sweet Home”), a too obvious homage to their heroes (“Girls Girls Girls”) and a couple faster, louder autobiographical numbers about drugs (“Dr. Feelgood” and “Kickstart My Heart”).
In retrospect, Mötley Crüe was far better than the average (but still really popular) Glam Metal fare -- RATT, Quiet Riot, Cinderella, Warrant and, most famously, Poison. That being said, The Crüe were never as consistent as Motörhead or as monumental as Bon Jovi. And, of course, the band that was ultimately most comparable to Mötley Crüe was also the one that rendered them irrelevant. And that was Guns N’ Roses. GnR had everything Mötley Crüe had, but better. Their power ballads were more powerful and more melodic. Their singer had more range. Their guitarist more muscle. They didn’t just date playmates, they dated actual supermodels. They were cooler. And more menacing. And more Punk Rock. They were also from L.A. And they were, at least for a moment, the biggest Rock band in the world.
Somewhere between Winger and GnR is not the worst place to be. It’s enough to plot Mötley Crüe on a musical axis. But it doesn’t do much to help me understand what the band “means.” And I probably should have some thoughts on the matter. Why? Well, for one thing, because I’m curious about this sort of stuff. Also, because I lived through it all -- heard it on the radio and watched it on MTV. But mostly because, for a short while, I was right there. It was 1997, I was just out of college, at Elektra Records, in my very first job, watching the train wreck that would become “Generation Swine.”
By the mid-90s, Elektra was an oddly eclectic record label, on account of a series of mergers that combined Jac Holzman’s iconic catalog (The Doors, The Stooges, Television) with remnants of David Geffen’s Asylum Records, with ATCO’s Metal leanings (AC/DC, Pantera) and East/West’s R&B (Keith Sweat, Gerald Levert). When I arrived, the label was drunk on Third Eye Blind, Missy Elliott, Busta Rhymes, Natalie Merchant and, mostly, Metallica. And though they’d been on the roster since 1982, Mötley Crüe was considered a slightly embarrassing remnant of the past. In the high days of Alternative Nation, The Crüe was past prime. That was settled law. It had been five years since Nirvana turned Metal on its head and eight years since the last album to feature Nikki, Tommy, Vince and Mick. Their previous record, with singer John Corabi, had tanked. And, by that point, the band were mostly known for an infamous sex tape. It was unclear how much of a market remained for Mötley Crüe in 1997. But it was entirely clear how much enthusiasm the record label had for the band’s forthcoming album: zero.
During weekly marketing meetings, in a modest show of respect and a greater sense of obligation, the label team would review plans the forthcoming album: A set of local “listening shows” would be scheduled ahead of the album’s release. A promotional, blue soda, called “Mötley Brüe,” would be produced. And their proper reunion, after years without Vince, would be promoted at the MTV Video Music Awards. Nobody talked about the album itself. Honestly, nobody seemed to care. Its fate seemed to be a foregone conclusion.
As expected, in March of that year, “Generation Swine” debuted in the top ten of the U.S. sales charts. And, as expected, the next week it was barely in the top two hundred. Within a month, nobody was talking about Mötley Crüe. They were off the label meeting agendas. They were off the radio. We were back to trying to conjure the next Third Eye Blind and seeing if Hype Williams was available for another Missy video. It was almost as though “Generation Swine” never happened. Like all of my co-workers, I’d forgotten about it before 1998.
In fact, it would be years before I really thought about Mötley Crüe again. They were still around. Kind of. You’d catch a glimpse of something on the TV. Tommy quit the band. Neil’s trying to lose weight. Nikki is dating Kat Von D. No he’s not. Yes he is. Mick’s arthritis is crippling. You’d hear all sorts of things. Most were sad or bittersweet -- and relatively tame, by Mötley Crüe standards. The thing I almost never heard, though, was their music. Not that they were ever staples of Classic Rock radio, and not that I ever listened to much Classic Rock radio. But, once upon a time, and especially on Labor Day weekends, The Crüe would sneak their way onto the FM dial in between Zeppelin and AC/DC. In those rare instances, “Dr. Feelgood” or “Home Sweet Home” comported themselves just fine. Those days were over. Poison had market corrected the band, Guns N’ Roses buried them and Nirvana turned them into a punchline.
For nearly two decades, Mötley Crüe was relegated to relic and cautionary tale status. In my mind, they existed only ironically or nostalgically. I was certain that they still had loyal fans and that if I drove through the center of the country, I would hear their music at bars and parties and, maybe even, on the radio. But, otherwise, they were ghosts. I’d even forgotten about that case of Mötley Brüe I'd once stashed away in my apartment in Brooklyn and then drank on a dare ten years later (note: no ill effects other than a blue tongue for a couple of days). But then, a few years ago, something in the zeitgeist unexpectedly shifted. Those ghosts apparently painted on some makeup, sprayed their hair up, squeezed into some old leather, and crawled out of the Hollywood gutters.
In 2019, Netflix released a film adaptation of “The Dirt,” based on the 2001 Mötley Crüe “group autobiography.” While it was roundly considered a failure, it was also accused of being dull, mildly offensive, silly, fun and shocking -- not a terrible summation of Mötley Crüe. I didn’t read the book or see the film and, in a world where Netflix was making disposable movies at an unthinkable pace, I didn’t consider the event to be all that much of an event. A few years later, however, Hulu released “Pam & Tommy,” a limited series that featured actual stars, a formidable roster of producers and, most famously, a talking penis. While “The Dirt” aspired to nothing more than entertainment, “Pam & Tommy” was in search of meaning.
Though I never finished the series (too much good TV in 2022), “Pam & Tommy” did reignite a spark in me. It made me wonder what had happened since “Generation Swine.” Not what happened with the men or their significant others. I kind of knew that. But rather, what happened to the band and their music and whether, in the end, I could discern anything from it. That curiosity led me through “New Tattoo,” the group’s unremarkable, album from 2001 which featured Randy Castillo on drums in place of Tommy Lee. And then, inevitably, it led me to “Saints of Los Angeles,” the record from 2008 that featured all four original members and which is, to date, the final Mötley Crüe album.
“Saints of Los Angeles” is music that could only be made at the tail end of one’s career. It’s deeply nostalgic and highly literal (though not quite literary) -- a chapter by chapter recollection of the Mötley Crüe story. As he’d done on most Crüe albums -- even when he was in the depths of heroin addiction -- Nikki Sixx handled primary songwriting duties. This time, though, he was assisted by members of Sixx:A.M. (his other band) and by super-producer, Marti Frederiksen. “Saints of Los Angeles” was released seven years after “The Dirt,” but only one year after “The Heroin Diaries,” Sixx’s memoir about a year of drugs and superstardom. That book would eventually be transformed into an album and then, eventually, into a theatrical stage show. All of which is to say that “Saints of Los Angeses” sounds as much like a soundtrack to an autobiography as it does like new music from Mötley Crüe. And that is probably a good thing. There’s no foray into EDM. There’s not much Nü Metal. They don’t try their hand at Country. “Saints of Los Angeles” is roughly 25% Mötley Crüe for Broadway and 75% a solid pass at their late 80s selves.
In 2008, after miles and miles of abuse, Mötley Crüe only barely resembled Mötley Crüe. Nikki Sixx looked like Criss Angel, but saggier. Mick Mars looked like Marilyn Manson, but bonier. Vince Neil looked like the most popular guy at a Chili’s in Key West who’s also on the verge of a heart attack. And Tommy Lee looked like an aging supermodel who owns an art gallery that only shows his (fifth) wife’s work. They didn’t look even remotely like men capable of making good Rock music, but, amazingly, for nearly half an album, they did just that.
The first third of “Saints of Los Angeles” is stage ready. The album opens with “L.A.M.F.” -- a silly, spoken word invocation -- that references their hero, Johnny Thunders, while also loosely suggesting something more demonic. It’s less a song and more a campy welcome letter recited by middle-aged Vince Neil. More than anything, the opener lets us know that the show is about to begin.
After “L.A.M.F.,” and in quick succession, The Crüe rolls through the three catchiest songs on the album. “Face in the Dirt” is a throwback to 1982 — highly competent Punk Rock fronted by a Heavy Metal singer. “What’s It Gonna Take” is everything Poison wishes it could have been — catchy, dynamic, loud and obvious. It’s the sort of song that would play in a scene from “Heavy Metal Musical” (a play that I just invented) where the band is young and desperate and living off vodka and drugs, but still somehow finding their magic. It might also be the best song on “Saints.” “Down at The Whisky,” up next, is a solid, if predictable, ode to those nights (and days) in the club, when they were still just fucked up innocents climbing their way to the top.
A third of the way through “Saints of Los Angeles,” I’m taken by how much work is expected of Mick Mars, the band’s lone guitarist, and how much work Tommy Lee likes to make for himself. The Crüe’s legendary drummer is all over these songs. He’s athletic to the point of being gymnastic. And, even when the songs don’t require it -- which is all of the time -- his beats seem to want to find their way to the dance floor. Vince, meanwhile, sounds fine. Which is not to say great. His range is limited and his instrument lacks the force it once had. But, he still mostly resembles Vince Neil, which is at least ten times better than Bret Michaels.
From there on out, the “Heavy Metal Musical” begins to lose its footing and, also, its musicality. “Saints” has the feel of an album that was, in parts, made in conversation with “The Dirt” and, elsewhere, made to catch up with 2008. The album’s title track (and first single) is loud and sinful, recalling GnR’s “Paradise City,” but with much less ferocity. It’s immediately followed by “Motherfucker of the Year,” the album’s second, and less successful single. Screeching and self-loathing, it fails to capture the rage that its title promises.
The back half of “Saints” is less cogent than its first half — and not much fun. “The Animal in Me” unsuccessfully flirts with Rap Rock while it strays from the musical’s plot. And “Chicks = Trouble” and “This Ain’t a Love Song,” are dull one-liners. However, “Welcome to the Machine,” is solid Heavy Metal, in the neighborhood of Hardcore. And “Goin’ Out Swingin” (no idea why they opted for the first apostrophe but not the second one) is an apt farewell -- mindless, melodic and loud -- like if Mötorhead was interested in sounding like Queen.
“Saints of Los Angeles” is as close to self-awareness as Mötley Crüe ever got -- at least on record. But self-awareness is not the same as self-knowledge. Similarly, one can absolutely be self-aware and not in on the joke. It’s also possible that Mötley Crüe is in on the joke, but that the joke is simply not very funny. After several tours through their final studio album, I can’t say for sure. That being said, I probably have a better appreciation for their musical appeal. Beyond the clothes and the hair and the girls and the drugs, The Crüe were a very good -- possibly great -- Metal band. And especially if Glam or Punk or Hardcore are your things, rather than, say, Thrash or Noise or Speed or Death. So, yes, maybe they are simply the twenty-second best Heavy Metal band of all time. Maybe that’s all that they are. And nothing more.
But, also, they are so much less. In their heyday, and for too many years afterwards, Mötley Crüe pissed on, puked on, set fire to and fucked anything they could. They were twice as filthy as The Sex Pistols but completely lacking in fury. And, for the better part of the last thirty years, they have been reduced to gossip and cliches. Recently, there have been attempts to both resolve and absolve the band. Some have been trite and nostalgic while others have aspired to something more intellectual. As evidenced by the thousands of words here, I’m guilty of both. And yet, the deeper I dug into Mötley Crüe, the less answers I found. I could appreciate their musical virtues. I could place them in LA after X and The Germs but right before Magic met Larry in the finals and a beautiful blonde named W. Axl Rose arrived in LA.
But that’s all just history -- context. As to what Mötley Crüe represents, I still have no idea. I don’t know whether they’re the dirty coal that became diamonds. I don’t know whether they’re the intersection of feast and famine. Or where entertainment meets reality. Are they a cautionary tale or a celebration of survival? “Saints of Los Angeles” provides zero answers. It is so literal as to suggest that there is no greater motivation and no larger significance. There are no metaphors. No backstories other than what everyone who never read “The Dirt” could have already surmised. There’s no evolution. No insight. The jokes are plentiful, but inane. And I sincerely can’t tell if that’s because The Crüe understand precisely who they are or if they have no idea. It’s possible that The Sex Pistols were nihilistic but that Mötley Crüe were actual nihilism. Or that Mötley Crüe means “whale’s vagina.” Or that I’ll simply never know.