by Billy Idol
Our tour in South America coincided with the first Gulf War’s Operation Desert Storm, and during the day we watched the attacks taking place in Iraq. It was an incredible thing to witness the impact of modern weapons, so clearly shown on TV.
In between shows, when we had a few days off, we went to a little peninsula resort northwest of Rio called Búzios, a rather appropriate name as about all we did there was drink, party, and go into the little town to pick up girls. One day Mark Younger-Smith felt the effects of partying too hard and called for a doctor and nurse. He wouldn’t say he’d overdone it, just that he didn’t feel well and thought he needed a doctor. Later, as we were making our way to a little boat that would ferry us back to Rio, we ran into the doctor who was just coming from seeing Mark. When we asked the doctor his diagnosis, he said simply, “Intoxication.”
“We could have told you that!” we all replied.
CHAPTER FORTY
THE MADAM AND THE PREACHER
Hollywood and Las Vegas
MY CAROUSING AROUND TOWN RESULTED in my entanglement in an episode notorious in American tabloid culture. In late 1990, Art Natoli had gotten to know a woman in her twenties named Heidi Fleiss. One night, Art took me to meet her and a few of her girlfriends at Trader Vic’s. Over the course of the next few months, Heidi invited Art and me to some parties she’d planned in West Hollywood. A plethora of beautifully coiffured and fashionably dressed girls in their late teens or early twenties could always be found at these parties, as well as some well-known actors. It didn’t take long to realize that these girls’ “charms” were for sale. Art and Heidi had become close friends, and I would often snag a girl or two or three. They were very lovely, and nothing was asked of me in return. As a bachelor in my early thirties, why would I say no?
We remained friends with Heidi, and as the months passed and her business grew, she told us that she wanted to expand. She started to talk about wanting to buy a more private place, so as to avoid disturbing the neighbors. She spoke to Art and me about how she was going to buy Michael Douglas’s old house in the Hills. We both warned her that a young woman buying a place like that, at over $2 million, might draw some attention from the authorities—tax or law enforcement—but she seemed quite unaffected by our concerns and bought it anyway. Her business continued to expand, and it was almost as if what she was doing was an open secret in Hollywood. She even gave an interview for a piece in the L.A. Times discussing her business, although it didn’t mention her by name. She was described in the article as the “Hollywood Madam.”
During the U.S. tour to promote Charmed Life, Art met a girl in Florida called Miami. Though she was only eighteen, he brought her back to L.A. to live with him on Camino Palmero in Hollywood. They seemed very happy, but after a few months they had a fight and Miami ran off to Heidi’s. The girls there were among the few friends she had made in L.A.
Art really liked Miami and was distressed when she left him. When he found out she was staying at Heidi’s, he freaked at the thought of Miami possibly working for Heidi. He told me he felt betrayed by Heidi and that he wanted Miami to return to Florida.
He called Heidi’s house often, trying to speak to Miami, but she wouldn’t come to the phone, and he felt that Heidi was taking pleasure in his frustration. He told me that Heidi was winding him up that Miami was going to become one of her girls. Art became incensed, and it seems that the phone calls between him and Heidi were becoming particularly unpleasant. Each complained to me about the other. Heidi seemed to delight in the idea that she could keep hold of Miami and show her a good time, but at the same time, she claimed Art was threatening her. Art, in turn, griped that Heidi was taunting him and had driven past his apartment with Miami in her souped-up red sports car, honking the horn so that he would see that his ex was with her and not him. Threats went back and forth between Art and Heidi. I did my best to stay out of it.
Heidi even had prominent people in the film industry phone me to tell me to fire Art. I wondered whether the calls were motivated by concerns about the info in her famous black book, rather than concerns for me. But I said to those who called me, “Why doesn’t Heidi just let the girl go? She’s got plenty of eighteen-year-olds up there—why does she need to keep this one around?” Heidi herself even called me a couple of times, telling me to fire Art. I responded by appealing to both her logic and her ego, telling her she was bigger than this feud. But Heidi wouldn’t listen to me: it seemed that she and Art were well past listening to logic from anyone.
I was a little dumbfounded, but feuds often make no sense, and when emotions are stirred up, things can get crazy. The situation was getting nasty, and I was trying my best to not get caught up in it. Other former girls of Heidi’s sided with Art, and the two cliques feuded for over a year with no resolution until finally, Art told me Heidi had been caught using some stolen credit cards somewhere in Beverly Hills. When she was questioned by authorities about the stolen cards, she said she had gotten them from Art Natoli.
When the police confronted Art, he became angry that Heidi would try to set him up, and he saw it as his opportunity for payback. He told the detectives, “Do you know who you have here? I don’t think you realize who this woman is!”
He referenced the newspaper interview she had given anonymously, and though they were aware of it, they hadn’t known exactly who the Hollywood Madam was—until now. Art told the cops the story of his girl Miami and how Heidi was involved. He told them how all he wanted was for the girl to go home to her mum, and that he hadn’t given Heidi the stolen credit cards. He told them her accusations were all part of this feud. The police went into action and busted Heidi.
The next time I heard of her was on the news, in the headlines and on TV. She was in court and going down. I felt sorry for all parties involved, as I liked Heidi, Miami, and Art, but I felt fortunate to be removed from it all, as the entire situation had devolved into a reality TV nightmare for all involved.
BACK WHEN PERRI AND I first moved to L.A., we went to the Comedy Store and were lucky enough to see Sam Kinison perform. Sam was a former Pentecostal tent preacher who had turned his oratorical gifts away from the church and toward comedy. I first saw him in 1984 on HBO’s Young Comedians Special, hosted by Rodney Dangerfield, which was Sam’s big break, alongside fellow comedians Andrew Dice Clay, Louis C.K., and Dave Chappelle. We ended up hanging out with Sam and his comedian mates after the show that night at the Comedy Store. The evening spawned a friendship between Sam and me.
We hung out fairly frequently, and eventually Sam asked me to appear with other rockers in his video for his comedic cover of “Wild Thing” that also featured a big-breasted Jessica Hahn rolling around in a mud-wrestling ring (minus the mud). We went to Bowie’s Glass Spider tour together one night and ended up backstage to see David. When he saw us, he good-naturedly said, “Oh no, not you two, together,” with a big grin on his face. Madonna was also in the room to see David, and a photographer captured all of us lined up backstage, laughing and having great fun.
Around this time Sam was consuming a lot of blow and was beginning to act more like a rock star than like a comedian. He truly loved rock ’n’ roll and played a mean guitar—the insane rush that comes from putting oneself well out on a limb to play a live rock set in front of a crowd must be similar to what one feels when delivering a comedy act. Sam occasionally came shopping with me looking for rock ’n’ roll duds, but finding cool pants to go around his fifty-eight-inch waist was difficult. He favored long coats to minimize his substantial bulk.
Soon, his cocaine consumption began to bring out his paranoid side. He had a lovely young girlfriend who had a sister and they would dress up as Vegas showgirls and generally serve as eye candy for Sam’s act. He became unpredictable and without warning would suddenly pick a fight with someone in the room, claiming they were out to steal his girl.
Sam began featuring music in his comedy act, and I occasionally went to Vegas when he was appearing there, to get up and
do a song or two with him. On one occasion I went with Mark Younger-Smith to do two shows in a single day with Sam at the Sands Hotel. It was on this trip that my friendship with Sam Kinison came to a crashing end. Sam called me up onstage at the end of his afternoon act. Mark and I did “Mony Mony” and then we supported Sam while he did “Wild Thing.”
Sam was a high-decibel comic, and his guitar playing echoed this, as he came out playing three times louder than anyone. While he was soloing wildly on his axe, I was over to one side of the stage, and I got in between the two sisters dressed as Vegas showgirls. I was doing nothing particularly suggestive, but Sam, paranoid and jealous, concluded I was up to something. I could see at the end of the song that he was looking particularly bothered. He couldn’t get to me, so he punched Mark, who was playing near him.
Well, that’s really out of order, I thought. We had come there to support Sam, not to end up in a fight. We tried to get out of Vegas that night in an effort to defuse the situation as much as possible, and actually went to the airport but couldn’t get a flight. Returning to the Sands, I saw that Frank Sinatra was also performing there that night. We ditched Sam’s second show and decided to see the septuagenarian Sinatra instead. Hotel management comped us great seats. They were aware of the fracas with Sam and understood why we wouldn’t want to return for an encore.
Frank was marvelous! He arrived on the stage fresh from a penthouse suite that delivered him via elevator, straight onto the stage. His son Frank Jr. was directing the orchestra for him, and Frank Sr. would occasionally consult with his son about which number they were doing next. His son would now and then lean down from his perch, where he was conducting the orchestra, and whisper in Frank’s ear. At one point Frank audibly said, “I’m not doing that!” His son gave a funny look and offered another suggestion, to which Frank nodded. The show featured numbers spanning his entire career, including “Soliloquy” from the musical Carousel, an eight-minute song about an expectant father awaiting his firstborn and wondering what the future will be for the child. During this song, Frank touched his forehead several times, feigning concern that he was sweating, and making sure the audience took notice. He began to remove the orange handkerchief from the breast pocket of his own midnight-blue jacket but, thinking better of it, quickly reached out and used his son’s matching handkerchief to mop his own brow. He made some comments about how he couldn’t regularly smoke or drink, but had a cigarette and a hit of Jack during the show. It was special, my first and only time seeing Ol’ Blue Eyes live.
I was sorry that my relationship with Sam ended the way it did, but if he hadn’t gotten so paranoid and jealous that evening in Vegas, I never would have seen the Chairman of the Board. In his mid-seventies, he still sounded good and seemed to be enjoying himself. It was truly inspiring and made me think that if you work hard and have the desire, there is no reason you can’t sing professionally well past retirement age.
I was terribly saddened when I learned of Sam’s tragic death in a car accident in April 1992. He was sober and drug-free, driving from L.A. to Laughlin, Nevada, where he was going to perform before a sold-out audience. Sam’s brother and manager, Bill, followed Sam’s Trans Am in a van, along with two assistants and Sam’s dog. A couple of teenagers in a 1974 Chevy pickup truck were approaching from the opposite direction on U.S. Highway 95 near the California-Nevada border, drinking and driving fast on a Friday night. That’s when the pickup crossed the center line, colliding head-on with Sam’s Trans Am. With only minor cuts on his lips and forehead, Sam stumbled from his mangled vehicle and lay down, after being begged to do so. He said, “I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die.” And then he paused, as if listening to someone only he could hear. “But why?” he asked. “Okay,” he finally whispered. “Okay . . . okay.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
MIND FIRE
Golgotha Studios, Hollywood Hills, Los Angeles
DRAWN BY THE RETREATING RUSSIAN army, Napoléon pushed on harder into the unwelcoming Russian hinterland, ignoring the star that had guided him. He hurriedly readied his Grande Armée, which was beginning to feel the strain of the three-month march, along with the lack of food and rest. “They must turn and face me at the walls of Moscow,” he said. “Then I’ll have the decisive battle I seek.” And so the march continued and Napoléon doggedly followed in the forlorn belief in his destiny, which had been so right up until then. One more big battle and I’ll have them beaten, he thought to himself, as the blistering heat of summer burnt his nostrils and the hot wind blew eternally over the vast Russian tundra. Caulaincourt, his Master of the Horse, shook his head in vain as they moved deeper into the stark unknown. Napoléon lay sprawled out while he studied his inaccurate maps, languishing behind the lines while letting Murat and Davout fight the Russian rearguard, who had outfoxed the French and kept the mighty Grande Armée at bay like a snapping dog chained at its heels, just out of reach. “One big battle,” he muttered underneath his breath to no one.
Despite various frustrations and distractions, I was basking in the sunshine of a dramatic recovery from my accident and a successful tour (that I hobbled through on a cane). I felt the satisfaction of accomplishment and rocking while doing so. I didn’t let my injury get me too down. I just went hell-for-leather to get better to be able to perform the album that I had completed prior to the crash. Maybe that was what spurred my recovery; I had something to get better for . . . the thing I loved. At that point, I was happy just to take care of Willem, then a toddler, and see Bonnie whenever I could.
As Errol Flynn put it in Captain Blood, “Faith, it’s an uncertain world entirely.” I was at the top of my game and at the top of the charts all over the world. My production and management teams were coming up with the goods.
Still, some deep-seated fear was taking hold of me that I couldn’t explain. My drug and alcohol consumption left me feeling lifeless. I wasn’t bouncing back from my binges like I had come to expect. What was wrong with me?
Had the making of Charmed Life and the motorcycle accident taken more out of me than I could have imagined? Had I toured too soon after the accident? A life-threatening accident, seven operations, and straight into a five-month world tour without even thinking about taking a break, and I had still found time to party during and after the tour. What was I thinking? Like Napoléon, I ignored my symptoms, as I hoped to open a new vista for myself. I had aspirations of taking advantage of the momentum of a successful album and tour to come up with something new and unanticipated, but I was feeling hamstrung by fame and expectations. I found that I often couldn’t think clearly regarding musical decisions, where before, my instincts had rarely failed me. I was listening to a lot of dance music from England, stuff like early Prodigy and Future Sounds of London. The rave scene was in full swing, almost making rock ’n’ roll seem quaint and old-fashioned. I had become interested in the techniques these bands employed: home recordings, samples, collages, musique concrète. John Joseph Wardle’s post-PiL Jah Wobble records, The Orb’s dubbed-out house, and On-U Sound Records’ reggae-influenced productions. I liked this new world but, looking back, I may have gravitated toward it at that moment because I didn’t have enough energy to commit to any more rock ’n’ roll records. Plus that world had been taken over by grunge, which to me was nearer to heavy metal and hard rock than it was to punk. While this description didn’t necessarily apply to Nirvana, I felt it was the case with Pearl Jam and Soundgarden.
I started to become interested in the prediction of the cyber-revolution and the possibilities intrigued me. At the same time, I wanted to make an album that was completely dance-oriented just as Charmed Life was rock-oriented. I wanted to explore musically and take some risks, whether it was the right move for a long-term career or not. I should have allowed myself to take stock and perhaps take the break I never had after the accident, but I didn’t.
I had survived fifteen years of serious drug use, and enough drugs for another fifteen years in just three weeks in Thai
land. And then there was the breakup with Perri. All this had taken a bigger toll than I had been prepared to acknowledge. I had no energy. I was shattered and I couldn’t sleep. I was paying the piper.
I was flailing about like a beached whale gasping for air, out of my element, far from my beloved rock ’n’ roll. Like John Lennon sang in “Yer Blues,” “Feel so suicidal / Even hate my rock ’n’ roll.”
Trying to be a trooper, I plowed on regardless. The scholar and poet Rossiter W. Raymond once wrote, “Death is only a horizon; and a horizon is nothing save the limit of our sight.” I felt I had arrived at one musical horizon and wanted to pass through to see what was on the other side.
I decided to try a different producer for what would become the Cyberpunk album and found Robin Hancock, who recorded using an early Pro Tools rig, with its array of samples and effects. Bringing in my new guitarist Mark Younger-Smith, we started to write and record new songs, such as “One Touch of Venus,” “Tomorrow People,” “Shock to the System,” and “Power Junkie,” which featured a sample of Muhammad Ali yelling, “I’m a bad man! I shook up the world!” after upsetting the allegedly unbeatable Sonny Liston.
I got the idea for the album from an interview with Legs McNeil, who interviewed me in the hospital and, seeing my leg hooked up to this electronic muscle stimulator, dubbed me “Cyberpunk.” In the mid-’80s, I’d read William Gibson’s classic books, including Neuromancer; now I immersed myself in the genre of cyberpunk fiction and began reading books such as Neal Stephenson’s Snow Crash and Gareth Branwyn’s influential 1992 manifesto, “Is There a Cyberpunk Movement?” I began seeing cyberpunk as a new way to reexplore my punk roots.
I had no desire to emulate the recording process and the partying of Charmed Life so I decided to record the album in my house. It was my attempt to do an indie record, but the world had already decided I was a mainstream artist and expected a straight-ahead rock record as the follow-up to Charmed Life. I realized that the emergence of affordable technology would have a major impact on bringing about a new era for DIY punk music. “It’s 1993,” I told the New York Times. “I better wake up and be part of it. I’m sitting there, a 1977 punk watching Courtney Love talk about punk, watching Nirvana talk about punk, and this is my reply.”
