by Noel Monk
Perhaps it was destiny, perhaps it was fate—or maybe perseverance and a little bit of luck, but the Van Halen brothers became the backbone of their band, spending countless hours fine-tuning their work and sharpening their abilities, so it’s no wonder David decided—after Mammoth had outlived its usefulness—to name the band after them.
There’s some question as to whose idea it really was to call the band Van Halen. David’s long taken credit for the switch, which occurred in 1974. To anyone who knows him and his oversized ego, this would seem to be an uncharacteristically magnanimous suggestion. But I don’t think so. When it came to career aspirations, David was nothing if not pragmatic. He wanted nothing less than to be famous, and he knew exactly what it would take to get him there—and that something was Edward Van Halen. When they first met, David saw straight past Edward’s long hair, insecurity, ragged vocals, and innate shyness; instead, he saw Edward’s potential to be a guitar virtuoso. Somewhere underneath Ed’s rough and unrefined exterior, David recognized, instantly, that he had just witnessed greatness in the making.
This kid is a genius. Let him have the name.
David later told me that he loved the sound of the name—that it was about more than just an acknowledgment of its founding brothers, but simply a “cool fucking name.” It was simple, declarative, and powerful.
Van Halen!
David was smart. He understood that in order to make his dream come true, he would need someone extraordinarily talented on his team, and he knew that Edward—with his natural gift and obsessive dedication to cultivating it—was already on an upward trajectory toward fame. David responded accordingly, by doing whatever he could to be a part of Edward’s musical vision, and by magnifying his own strengths: charisma, a strong sense of humor, and a personal brand of creativity. Also, he could jump pretty freaking high. He had a lot of dreams, and he spent as much time in his own little world as he did trying to impress the crap out of this one.
I certainly don’t mean to minimize David’s contributions in those early days; nor do I mean to imply that he merely rode Edward’s coattails. Having spent considerable time with both men, I think I have an unusual degree of insight into their complex relationship. They were friends, partners, rivals; they both inspired and infuriated each other.
By the time the name was changed and the band’s backyard shows were becoming so large and unruly that police intervention was often warranted, a new bass player had been added to the lineup. His name was Michael Anthony Sobolewski, although Van Halen fans know him only by his stage name: Michael Anthony. Why Michael chose to legally change his name to one that neatly hid his ethnic background (born in Chicago, he was of Polish descent), I do not know. Michael was not a young man who wore his anxiety on his sleeve, or who liked to share his deepest feelings. He was sweet and likeable and ultimately a bit of a loner.
A former baseball player, he had played in several bands by the time he got to know Edward when the two were taking classes at Pasadena City College. When Mark Stone left the band, Edward offered Michael a chance to audition as his replacement. He passed the audition and accepted an invitation to become the final member of Van Halen. While he may not have been the greatest bass player in history, Michael was a solid supporting player whose most underrated skill might have been his ability to provide backing vocals during live performances. He actually had a very nice voice and was perhaps a more technically proficient singer than David, but there is more that goes into being a lead singer than just technical proficiency, and Michael certainly had neither David’s charisma nor his unique stage presence. He was content to be a role player and he filled that role exactly as it was written.
For three years after their formation, Van Halen worked their asses off, playing as often as humanly possible in everything from small clubs and high school gymnasiums to suburban back lawns and bar mitzvahs. They would print up their fliers and distribute them to local high schools and burger joints, eventually amassing a small army of loyal, local fans. The truth is, they did it like everyone else with a dream does it. They hauled ass, hustled, and got people talking. Van Halen had a reputation in SoCal as a hard-drinking, hardworking, hard-playing force to be reckoned with. In short, Van Halen brought the party like no other. They earned every inch of their rep, and it wasn’t long before they were playing clubs like the Whisky a Go Go or Gazzarri’s, both conveniently located on the Sunset Strip. It was at the latter—where they had once been turned away for being too loud—that they were approached by none other than Gene Simmons of KISS. He helped the boys put a demo together, which he proceeded to bring to his own management team, who promptly tossed it in the trash.
Even as Van Halen was emerging as a hot property in the party town of LA, they remained just one of hundreds of wannabe acts from the outskirts of the strip. This was the age of the vinyl LP, when record companies were flying high and ruling bands, promoters, and the industry in general with an unyielding fist. The lawyers who advised the bands and their frequently inexperienced managers were to some extent in the pockets of the record companies. Simply put, the young and eager band members of Van Halen, while talented and loaded with potential, not to mention a unique sound, were at the mercy of forces well beyond their control.
Still, it was only a question of time before someone with might and muscle saw the commercial appeal of Van Halen. That person—or in this case persons—was Mo Ostin, chairman of the board of Warner Bros. Records, along with Ted Templeman, producer extraordinaire. In addition to producing a long string of hit singles in the ’60s and ’70s, Ted worked with Van Morrison, the Doobie Brothers, Eric Clapton (Eddie’s all-time idol), Aerosmith, Carly Simon, and Fleetwood Mac, among others, producing some of the most groundbreaking and unprecedented albums of that time. By ’77, his position as a legendary producer was cemented in stone, and together he and Mo were two of the most powerful and influential men in the record industry. Their presence at the Starwood, a club in Hollywood, lit the fire under an explosive show that signaled Van Halen’s life-altering rise to stardom. Forget about backyard beer parties and bar mitzvahs; say goodbye to 300-seat clubs on the SoCal minor league circuit. Seemingly overnight, Van Halen had become a hot commodity.
A few months later, they were signed to Warner Bros. and preparing to venture out on their first US tour. Since I had successfully wrangled the Sex Pistols, Carl Scott had a good feeling that I’d be up for the job. He also wanted me to understand what a fantastic opportunity this was, and so when I sat there in his office that January day, he did not spare the superlatives.
“This band is going to change everything for us,” Carl explained. “And for you.” I underestimated just how right he was.
In January of ’78, while I was out on the road with the Sex Pistols, Warner Bros. distributed a five-song Van Halen EP, pressed on red vinyl. The record was not available for sale and was released only to radio stations for advance airplay. On one side of the EP was the track list—“Runnin’ with the Devil,” “Eruption,” “Ice Cream Man,” “You Really Got Me,” and “Jamie’s Cryin’ ”—while on the other side was the image of Elmer Fudd emerging from the Looney Toons logo. (This was Warner Bros., after all.) The EP had precisely the desired effect, gaining considerable airplay and whetting the public’s appetite for a band that promised to reinvigorate the guitar rock genre. (Van Halen would occasionally get lumped into heavy metal, but the band was generally far too melodic and accessible to fit that category.)
Most of the tracks were recorded in the fall of ’77, at Sunset Sound Recorders. The Hollywood studio reeks of pedigree, which is exactly what you’d expect from the place where the Rolling Stones’ Exile on Main Street and the Beach Boys’ Pet Sounds were both recorded. Whether inspired by the ghosts of artists past, or merely working with the tireless spirit of youth, Van Halen needed just three weeks to record the album, which was mostly done “live”—live, in this case, meaning that the band played in one sound booth and David sang along in another.
There was little overdubbing or any other sonic tricks typically utilized to polish a band’s sound—techniques that had become common practice among many arena rock bands of the era, most notably Boston. The idea was to capture the intensity and spontaneity—the sheer rawness—of a live Van Halen show. To that end, minor mistakes were not just overlooked but embraced. The album was completed and stashed away for several months while Warner put together a marketing campaign and launch strategy, and Van Halen went back out on the road, continuing to build a following despite not yet having even released an album.
Until I met with Carl Scott that day, I knew none of this, because I’d been on tour with the Pistols. It’s amazing the way your world contracts when you go out on the road with a band. Your entire existence revolves around the needs, desires, and obligations of a small handful of musicians and the promoters who have booked them into various cities around the country (or the world). Nothing else matters. In terms of music, you know your band’s set list and maybe the set list of the supporting act—or the headliner, if you happen to be the supporting act. Other than that? Silence. It wasn’t just Van Halen; I didn’t even know who Fleetwood Mac was, and at that time they were the biggest band in the world. It didn’t matter—my focus was on the band I was working for, and no one else.
Carl and I had worked together on a number of projects over the years, and while some had been more successful than others, not one of them had been catapulted to superstardom. Nevertheless, I really did love the work. I enjoyed putting together tours, advancing the bands, working with promoters. In those years I learned an enormous amount about all facets of the music industry, and most of it I learned either directly from Carl Scott or because of opportunities that he provided. So, while I had developed a layer of skepticism that naturally comes with seeing the dreams of one band after another dashed by the harsh realities associated with trying to earn a living in an artistic field, I was still eager to jump aboard any ship that Carl chose to captain. That day in Carl’s office—and this might sound shocking—I didn’t ask to listen to the demo. I didn’t give a shit what the band sounded like. Carl said they were great, and that was all I needed to hear, especially if he wanted to hire me as their tour manager. I trusted his opinion.
This, by the way, was a promotion I did not expect and certainly did not anticipate when I sat down in Carl’s office. I only knew that Carl liked winners, and that he had expressed an unusual degree of confidence in these four young men from Pasadena. In fact, as Carl gushed on and on about them, I thought that they seemed almost too good to be true.
Wait till you see this guitarist. Just amazing!
The front man is incredible!
And by the way—we got them for a steal.
This last part was a little too accurate, as I would later find out. But for now it wasn’t important. What mattered to me was the product. The guys in Van Halen were young, handsome, and talented; they were going to make a lot of money for Warner Bros. The enthusiasm was infectious.
“Carl, this sounds fantastic,” I said. “I can’t wait to meet them.”
“Glad to hear it, Noel,” he said. “Because you’re having lunch with them next week.”
2
VAN HALEN UNLEASHED
I can’t believe they’re late.
That’s what I remember thinking as I sat at a table in a restaurant in Burbank with Carl Scott, Ted Cohen, and a member of the Warner Bros. publicity department. The four of us were supposed to meet with the guys from Van Halen at one in the afternoon. Now, I understood as well as anyone that the majority of musicians have only a tenuous grasp on the concept of time, so punctuality is generally not to be expected. But I’d hoped this would be different. A new band—young, eager, and on the cusp of stardom, having just received its big break; a band whose first album was scheduled to be released on a major label within the next month; a band that soon would be embarking on a major tour to support said album. You would think (or at least hope) that a band in this situation would show up for a meeting with its bosses and new tour manager on time, or maybe even a little early.
But you’d be wrong.
I looked at my watch. 1:10. Then I looked at it a bunch of times. 1:15. 1:20.
Where the hell are these guys?
Finally, around 1:35, they showed up, looking not just disheveled, which is what I had expected, but utterly exhausted. And by “exhausted” I don’t mean that they looked like they’d been up all night, living up to their reputation; no, instead they were red-faced, sweaty, and breathing heavily. They looked like they had just competed in some sort of athletic event—and lost. David, naturally, did most of the talking, as would be the case for the next seven years, although he was far more subdued in that moment than the man I would come to know. He apologized on behalf of himself and his friends and explained that no disrespect was intended.
“Our car broke down on the way over,” he said, rather sheepishly. “And we ran the rest of the way.”
Behind him were the Van Halen brothers and Michael Anthony. They nodded in agreement before taking a seat at the table. I looked at Carl, then at Ted. They both just sort of shrugged.
Ah, what the fuck. It’s rock ’n’ roll, right?
Actually, no. As the meeting went on, I came to the conclusion that these guys were probably telling the truth. Their car really had broken down and they really had legged it all the way across town to the meeting. It was one of those things that showed the kind of dedication needed to make an impression in a business like this. Whatever it takes, you do. They didn’t carry themselves with even the slightest bit of arrogance or hubris; indeed, they seemed downright shy and humble—not exactly what I had come to expect of musicians in general, and certainly not from a band that had been so highly touted by Carl Scott. I expected these guys to strut into the restaurant like kings, as if they believed that rock ’n’ roll was theirs for the taking. Given what I had heard (and I’m not talking about their music—I still hadn’t heard a single Van Halen song), I expected them to be self-assured, if not downright cocky.
They weren’t.
Instead, they were a quartet of long-haired kids in tattered jeans and worn boots, barely out of their teens. If I had seen them on the street, I probably would have assumed they were younger—maybe even in high school. They were shy and reserved and clearly nervous about meeting the men who were going to be largely responsible for whether their careers soared or sank over the next few months. They knew they were late for an important meeting, and they clearly felt bad about it, which I found rather endearing. They understood the stakes, and they conducted themselves in an appropriate and respectful manner. Truth be told, it was pretty charming.
Carl introduced everyone, and I quickly tried to put names and faces to the descriptions I had heard from him beforehand.
David was tall, good-looking, with long hair and a mouthful of big teeth (teeth that needed a good bleaching, by the way; David had ignored dental hygiene for some time, an issue that we had to address fairly early on, but it was an easily correctable flaw). Here was the lead singer and front man that Carl had raved about. He talked more than the others, but not so much that I could gain any insight into his true nature, or into the charisma that he would display onstage.
Edward was cherubic, with an ever-present smile and eyes that always seemed half-closed, as if he were stoned. He was friendly, polite, and surprisingly shy—and I liked him right from the start. Was he a great guitar player—who the hell knew? I certainly couldn’t tell just by looking at him.
Alex and Michael were supporting players, even in this setting. Alex was skinny, with long, kinky hair and protruding teeth. He didn’t talk much, and neither did Michael, who was shorter than the others, and much stockier, with a strong upper body and muscular arms that he liked to show off. He was friendly, if reserved.
None of the boys did a lot of talking at this meeting, but David and Edward handled whatever needed to be said, and made i
t clear that they were the leaders of the band, not just onstage and vinyl, but in matters of business as well. Here’s the thing: I could tell right away that they were naive and innocent, or maybe just intimidated. For whatever reason, they asked very few questions during this meeting, nor during the follow-up session after lunch at the Warner Bros. headquarters. I was the person designated to be their tour manager, so one might have expected that they would be curious about the logistics of touring. But they weren’t. Mostly, they just wanted to ask me about the Sex Pistols and what I thought of Johnny Rotten and Sid Vicious.
Unlike so many of the other bands I was used to working with, Van Halen were really still just . . . normal. They were excited and enthusiastic, of course, but also as awestruck and intimidated by the industry as you’d expect a bunch of SoCal kids to be. It was kind of refreshing. So I told them the truth—that Sid and Johnny were just like them. Younger—definitely dirtier. Worse table manners. Hopefully much more difficult to take out on tour than Van Halen would be. I had high hopes—what can I say?
And, as is common in the record industry, this innocence had already been exploited, long before I entered the picture. By the time we met for lunch, they had already been fed into the music machine and spat out in a tale as old as time: find a new, unproven and unmanaged band desperate for stardom, offer to propel them to the top, and have your high-priced Hollywood entertainment lawyers wave a stiff, extremely skewed contract in their faces. Like many that came before them, and would no doubt come after, the boys were unprepared for the ruthlessness of the industry, and so they signed said contract amid assurances that it was “industry standard.” After all, what if they never got another offer like this? Or another offer, period? Their future as a band hung in the balance, so to speak. So it’s no wonder that Van Halen had signed a contract that heavily favored Warner Bros.
