by Noel Monk
Ordinarily, as a nonheadliner, that would be the end of the night. But now, if all went well, we would wait in the wings as the crowd cheered for more. If the guys had done their job, an encore would be expected and appreciated. I reminded them, too, what was at stake—that it was not only their first show in France and a warm-up for the four-week UK tour but also a performance in front of several WEA brass. Far from being apprehensive about this scenario, the band was excited. They viewed it as a challenge.
I noticed David looking at Edward, who then looked at Alex. Michael stood off to the side, almost on his own. But after a few pensive moments, they all began to smile. And I knew everything would be okay.
A few hours later Rudy took the mic.
“Is Paris ready to rock ’n’ roll?!” he screamed, using his best French accent to say the name of the city: Pa-ree. “Let’s hear it for Van Halen!”
They were. And Van Halen was ready for Paris. The boys took the stage with a confidence that bordered on cockiness, David strutting and laughing and Edward carrying his guitar with the swagger of a true impresario, as they launched into a blisteringly authoritative version of “On Fire.” Given the historic setting, the pressure of carrying an entire evening on their own, and the unpredictability of playing before a French audience for the first time, it certainly would have been understandable for the band to be intimidated, or at least anxious. But they weren’t. Not in the least. Playing balls-out from the opening chords, the band performed a slightly elongated set that lasted a little more than forty-five minutes, ending with a gloriously rough and tumble version of “You Really Got Me,” exactly as planned. Then came the first encore, “D.O.A.,” a staple that didn’t make it on the first record but would be part of the band’s second release, followed by Eddie Cochran’s classic rave-up, “Summertime Blues,” and a scorching instrumental outro from Black Sabbath’s “Symptom of the Universe,” and finally “Bottoms Up,” another track that would end up on Van Halen II. After more than fifty-nine minutes of ferocious playing, Eddie hit the last chord and David yelled, “Thank you, Paris . . . we love you all!”
The audience reciprocated with thunderous applause. Standing in the wings, taking it all in, I felt almost like a teenager attending his first rock show. The cynicism and tedium that so often accompanied my job melted away as I watched these four kids from California gather at the edge of the stage and wave to the audience, before walking off triumphantly. On display was the transformative power of rock ’n’ roll, in all its youthful glory. A crisis had not merely been averted; it had been transformed into a huge victory. On this night, it felt like anything was possible. Van Halen was invincible.
FOR THE NEXT COUPLE DAYS, we made good use of the luxury transportation that had been provided and did our best to soak up the nightlife of Paris. I shared a car with David and Peter on our first free night; our driver, DoDo, was reportedly among the most knowledgeable guides in the city, and he certainly lived up to his reputation, squiring us to an assortment of wholesome and traditional Parisian sights during the day, and then to some of the less traditional parts of town after the sun dipped below the horizon. The wine was superb and the women were beautiful—and at only one hundred francs for a brief liaison, a relative bargain. David and I walked the streets together, talking of record sales and grand schemes to raise our profile in the press and with radio stations. It was on such occasions—away from the arena, recording studio, or the Warner offices—that I felt closest to David. Sure, we were discussing business, but in a casual and comfortable environment, in a way that felt relaxed and natural, even friendly. That night, I certainly didn’t mind being in his company, and I’ll admit that, even when he would suddenly cut off the conversation and introduce himself to one of the beautiful working women who passed by, he could be downright charming.
In the morning we shared stories with the rest of the band and crew. They had wound up in a slightly rougher section of town, near a park where the hard-core street girls plied their trade. Deals were made, cash exchanged, and sex acts performed quickly and without elegance. Which would have been fine, except for the fact that Alex’s roadie Gregg apparently had said something inappropriate to one of the girls. As Alex related the story, the sex worker pulled a knife and attempted to slash Gregg in his backside as he leaped through the rear window of their limo. The car pulled away with the girl giving chase and screaming probably well-deserved French epithets at her foul-mouthed customer. But no one was hurt, and everyone had a good time, and Gregg presumably learned his lesson; the attempted assault merely added color to the evening and to its subsequent rehashing, which was in some ways the most enjoyable part.
To me, that three-day break in Paris was not just necessary in terms of recharging our batteries; it was one of the most enjoyable experiences I had in all my years in the business. There is nothing like Paris, of course, especially in the springtime. The trees are in full bloom, the Seine is flowing strong, and the lovely Parisian women are everywhere. And all of this is presented against a backdrop of some of the world’s most extravagant and beautiful architecture. There is nothing like it, and I was thrilled to see the band and crew apparently enjoying their time in Paris.
Or so I thought, until the following day, when David knocked at my door.
“We’ve got a problem, Noel.”
“Oh, yeah? What’s bothering you, David?”
He shook his head. “Ain’t me, man. It’s Edward.”
This seemed surprising to me, as Edward had been his usual laid-back self since we had arrived in town.
“Something wrong with Edward?” I asked.
“I guess you could say that.” He paused, sort of laughed a little under his breath. “He wants to go home. Like . . . now.”
To say I was surprised would be an understatement. Edward had seemed perfectly happy in Paris; he had played his guts out (as usual) at the Mogador, and had since been enjoying the sights, sounds, and tastes of the city (and its residents). And there was that photo at the base of the Eiffel Tower. I couldn’t imagine what could possibly be wrong. So I walked down to Edward’s room and knocked at the door. Some time passed before the door opened and Edward stood before me. His eyes were red and cloudy—I presumed he was high. Maybe he was, but he’d also been crying.
“Everything okay, Ed?” I asked.
He shook his head and began sobbing. Then he threw his arms around my neck and pulled me close, crying so hard that his body shook.
“Jesus, Edward . . . what’s wrong?”
I honestly expected him to tell me that something terrible had happened—a death in the family, perhaps, or at least a diagnosis of terminal illness. Perhaps the Jehovah’s Witnesses had finally caught up with his mother. But it was nothing like that. The truth was, simply, that Edward had been overcome by a severe case of homesickness.
“I want to go back to LA,” he said, his breath catching on every word. “I don’t want to do this anymore.”
My initial inclination was to shout some sense into Edward: Are you fucking kidding me? Every aspiring guitar player in the world wants to trade places with you right now! You have the world by the balls, young man!
Then I would have sent him to his room without dinner or groupies, like a responsible road manger. Instead, I simply held him tight and let him cry. Eventually, the anxiety and sadness poured out of him. “Fucking David—that asshole—he wants to be a big rock star.”
“Well, yes, he does,” I said. “But that’s kind of the point of this whole thing, isn’t it?”
Edward drew a hand across his face, wiping away some tears and snot, and shook his head aggressively. “No, not for me. I don’t want to be a rock star. I hate this bullshit! I just want to go home and play jazz and funk . . . I just want to noodle around.”
Noodling is what Edward did during most of his free time. You’d walk into his hotel room and he’d be sitting there on the bed, guitar in hand, just sort of . . . creating. Letting inspiration guide his miraculous
fingers. He did this when he was sober or stoned, happy or sad. I’ve truly never met a musician who seemed more attached to his instrument, and so on some level I understood what Edward was saying. It’s possible he really was at his happiest when he was alone with his guitar.
But I also knew that part of him enjoyed being a guitar god—desired by women and worshipped by young men. I mean, seriously—who wouldn’t? Regardless, he had an obligation to Van Halen—to his bandmates, his record label, his fans. And to himself, for goodness sake. Didn’t he wonder, How big is Van Halen going to be? I sure as hell did. But there was no sense in arguing the point with Edward. His sadness and isolation were legitimate. He was an unusually sensitive and introverted guy, and right now he was hurting. And I didn’t doubt for a moment that he really did want to go home. So . . . as we sat down and continued talking, I played the home card.
“Listen, Ed. You’ve always told me you want to buy your parents a nice house in Pasadena. They live in a little home. It’s nice, but it’s small, and your mom and dad aren’t all that happy there, right?”
Edward shrugged. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Well, the truth is, you’re not going to be able to get them a house this year—not when you’re making a hundred seventy-five dollars a night.” He laughed. I could tell he was coming around. “But I can promise you this: if things keep going the way they’re going now, and this band breaks the way I think it’s going to break, you’ll be able to buy them a new house. You can even buy your dad a boat. You can get them a new car. You’ll be able to get them everything they’ve ever wanted.”
I paused, letting it sink in, and then asked, “How does that sound?”
He smiled at me. “Pretty good, actually.”
As I looked at him, I couldn’t help but see him for the kid that he practically was. It was easy to get caught up in how explosive their live show was, in how talented Eddie was, and forget how new to stardom he was. Because they’d burst onto the scene finely tuned from their years of playing together, they seemed so fully formed. And yet, they were young on so many levels—even David, who took to stardom and the music business most naturally. Having been around the block with other young bands a few times, I’d seen naïveté like this before; the difference with Van Halen was that they actually had a shot at making it. But if they were going to survive, they were going to have to grow up—fast.
Perhaps no one embodied the discomfort that rapid fame brought more than Edward. He may have been the resident genius, but he had a lot to learn about the world. And, while there were so many ways in which his complex upbringing had hardened him, there was still an innocence there that I recognized from past experiences with other artists. I also recognized how quickly it could fade away if given the right mixture of support and success.
“Look, Edward, you can’t leave now. You won’t just disappoint the people here, in the band and crew, but you’ll also disappoint everybody back home. They’re expecting you to come home a hero. Do you want to let them down? You want to explain to them that you’re not interested in being a superstar and a millionaire? I know you’re homesick, but you’ll get over it. I promise.”
Edward took a deep breath. He looked out the window, at the most beautiful city in the world, but he didn’t say anything, so I did.
“Come on, Edward,” I tried again. “Life is good.”
He laughed. “Yeah, okay.”
So I guess you could say I sort of talked Edward into becoming a superstar. What the hell—somebody had to do it.
6
HOW DO YOU LOSE A ROCK STAR?
(YOU GET HIM REALLY HIGH—THE REST TAKES CARE OF ITSELF)
What is it they say about sports? It doesn’t build character; it reveals character. The same is true of life on the road. How you treat your coworkers and friends when you’re stuck on an aging commercial bus for a month, with a persistent and thundering headache born of equal parts carbon monoxide, sleep deprivation, shitty food, and overindulgence in chemical substances, says a lot about the person you are.
After our delightful and first-class vacation in Paris, we headed out on the next leg of our tour—a grueling journey through the United Kingdom in which the band played a breathtaking twenty-five shows in thirty days (it would have been twenty-six, if not for the fact that one date was canceled). By any measurable standard, this was an incredibly ambitious schedule, even for a band composed of four hungry and healthy young men. Even more remarkable? On every one of those dates we opened for Black Sabbath, heavy-metal legends from the UK who were more than a decade into their careers and clearly starting to feel the ravages of time, from both a creative and a physiological standpoint. But while we suffered through four weeks on a commercial sit-up bus, the hard-partying gents of Black Sabbath, who were closer to middle age than they were to adolescence, traveled in relative luxury, with a tricked-out tour bus befitting their status as rock icons.
I worried from the first day of this tour that an outburst or confrontation was inevitable; you can’t live in such close proximity to the same group of people for this length of time, day after day, without tensions boiling over in response to injustices both real and perceived, major or seemingly insignificant. And I kept a wary eye on Edward—if the kid was capable of being incapacitated by homesickness while staring out the window of a luxury hotel suite in Paris, what would become of his fragile psyche on a four-week bus tour of the UK? I don’t mean to be facetious. It was a legitimate concern. Touring on a bus with all the amenities of home (including wives and girlfriends), as Van Halen did in later years, is one thing; bouncing around the countryside on a commercial vehicle with wheezy shocks and a poor ventilation system is another matter entirely.
Surprisingly, though, Edward took to it just fine, as did Alex and Michael. I realized on this leg of the tour that Eddie was basically like a kid at summer camp: the best way for him to avoid homesickness and depression was to stay as busy as possible. If we could get him onstage every night, he was just fine. It was the downtime he hated. Three days in Paris without a gig left too much time for pondering the meaning of life. The formula for keeping Edward happy in those early days was simple: lots of weed and alcohol, and as many concerts as possible. Edward may not have wanted to be a “rock star,” but he loved playing guitar.
The schedule on the UK tour took care of that aspect of things. When you’re playing a different show every night, there isn’t time to get depressed. But the other accoutrements that typically came with being in a popular band were harder to come by. Consider, for example, that Van Halen from the outset was a band that appealed to both males and females, and our audience reflected that popularity. Lots of wannabe head-banging teenage boys, and plenty of nubile young ladies just dying for a chance to meet one of the guys in the band. When we toured in the States, and in most places internationally, there was never a shortage of female companionship. In the UK, while supporting Black Sabbath, the demographic was quite different indeed. I don’t know the exact numbers, but when I looked out into the crowd every night, it seemed like 98 percent of the audience was young (and not so young) men. And they all were dressed in black: black jeans and T-shirts, black leather jackets. Lots of piercings and tattoos. A hard-core metal crowd.
Nothing wrong with that. The fans in the UK warmed quickly to Van Halen, and the guys in Black Sabbath even made jokes about how we were kicking their ass on a nightly basis. But the lack of easy sex presented a sudden and disheartening change of pace for a group of boys who had come to see these dalliances as part of the job—the best part.
Compounding their frustration was a distinct downturn in both the quality and quantity of drugs available. Van Halen thrived on weed and alcohol in those days—weed, especially. Marijuana was not so easily procured in the UK, so we settled for a mixture of hash and tobacco. The guys in Black Sabbath were working-class Brits and had been rolling their own cigarettes for years, so it was no big deal to them. The four guys from Southern California had been smoking f
or years but probably had no idea what was even inside a cigarette. They tried to learn, but usually wound up with something that looked like an understuffed joint. More often they would try to insert hash into their prerolled American cigarettes, but the cigarette would either break apart or there wasn’t enough hash to provide much of a buzz. Sometimes they would stuff the hash into an empty can, drill a hole in the bottom, set it ablaze, and try to get high by inhaling the fumes off the makeshift bong. Didn’t work very well. The stuff tasted like shit and simply didn’t get the job done. That’s about as bad a combination as you can get.
So, without sex, drugs, and the luxuries of the American road, the boys often were in a truly foul mood, especially David. While the others were merely aggravated and annoyed, David took this entire scenario as a personal affront—as if the paucity of drugs and women was a response by the British government to the arrival of David Lee Roth; a conspiracy of sorts to deprive the star of the very lifeblood of stardom.
David’s response—and this would get worse as the years went on—was to take out his anger and frustration on those closest to him. We were maybe a week into the UK tour when David began calling daily mandatory band meetings. Ostensibly postmortems on the previous night’s show, they were actually just an excuse to rant and rave—to publicly pick at whatever bug had somehow managed to penetrate the layers of spandex and leather and take residence in David’s ass. We’d gather in the middle of the bus—a dozen members of the band and crew—and subject ourselves to David’s wandering, unfocused harangue about the myriad ways in which we had fucked up the most recent performance. With venom and spite, David would complain about anything and everything—from sound to lights to every stage move and vocal or instrumental mishap he could think of. The tongue lashing was of indeterminate duration: if he was too tired to work up much of a lather, it might last only fifteen minutes. If he was particularly agitated, it might go on for the better part of an hour, while we all sat stone-faced and bored.
