CHAPTER ONE
I was reminded by a co-worker. “Don’t forget Ron’s birthday party tonight Mike. 8 o’clock at Dan Tana’s.”
“I’ll be there, see you then. By the way, where exactly is Dan Tana’s?”
“It’s just East of Doheny on Santa Monica, next door to that Troubadour place. Careful walking past there, it’s a dump. Weird people, it’s kinda dangerous.”
“I’m not worried, but thanks.”
I wasn’t surprised at his words of caution. It was a very conservative office with even more conservative people, basically a law firm which had invested heavily in apartment and office buildings. Working in the management division my forte was frequently representing the Company in court when there was a legal dispute with a tenant.
I had been acquiring a few small investment properties myself within the last few years and really didn’t need to keep the job, but it was an on-going learning opportunity, as well as being advantageous to have the resources of experienced attorneys when problems came up with my own properties at virtually no cost.
None-the-less I had planned to quit soon. My entrepreneurial sprit was far too strong for a corporate environment and I couldn’t imagine spending the rest of my business career in what was essentially a mundane daily grind, great money or not.
I knew there was something else out there more exciting but I sure didn’t know that I would discover it that very night by accident.
‘Christ, don’t these people ever talk about anything but their fucking money, ski trips, stocks and cars?’ I thought silently as I was listening to my colleague’s conversations over the dinner. It occurred to me that even though this was to have been a joyous birthday party celebration, I had yet to see one of them smile or laugh all evening.
Between glancing at my watch every few minutes out of boredom, the activity next door on the sidewalk through the restaurant window kept catching my eye.
It was the ‘weird people’ outside of the Troubadour that I had earlier been warned to avoid. They looked like they were having fun. My curiosity was peaked.
The dinner party was at long last concluded and my associate Ron proffered an invitation. “Mike, we’re all going to Yamashiro’s in the Hollywood Hills for a night cap, meet us there.”
“Not tonight Ron, I’ve got an early morning.”
I made a polite yet fast exit and walked unseen to my car where I proceeded to toss my tie and jacket. Strolling back down Doheny Drive, I was anxious to find out what this Troubadour club was all about. Assorted bits and pieces of drum kits, guitar cases and speaker cabinets littered the sidewalk waiting to be loaded into the Ryder rental trucks parked in the front. A group of bikers were hanging out and admiring each others custom Harley-Davidson’s. Beautiful girls were swarming everywhere I looked, laughing and talking. Almost everyone had a drink in their hand.
Now this was my kind of place.
Buying a ticket and taking a seat in the showroom it occurred to me how long it had been since I had seen a decent live rock show in an intimate club setting. Far too long. The Kenny G. and Billy and the Beaters shows at the Roxy that I had been dragged to kicking and screaming by assorted yuppie girlfriends within the past few months certainly didn’t count.
Whatever name-less rock bands performing there that particular night didn’t matter either. It was a decent line-up of acts and I was impressed that this place was packed to the rafters with this many excited bodies on a Tuesday evening. Bodies that were spending money on admission and booze but most of all, just having a blast. I had entered a different universe and I didn’t find it hard to stay there until the last band’s encore, after which I hit the front bar.
The bartender, a tall blonde who had introduced herself to me as Tina was extremely cute and friendly. Being accustomed to Beverly Hills hustlers, as we chatted I was surprised she didn’t ask me what I did for a living or even the old L.A. cliché, ‘what do you drive Hon?’ It was refreshing.
During our conversation I happened to notice a rather large hand-written sign on the back bar wall…
Mötley Crüe and Stormer appearing next Saturday, 8pm.Tickets on sale now.
“What’s that all about, some kind of special show Saturday?” I asked her, pointing to the sign.
She wasn’t exactly sure but said that the office was really excited about the booking, “They’ve already sold a lot of tickets.”
When told her I’d probably be down to check it out she scribbled down her phone home number and handed it to me saying with a smile “I’m off that night, but I’d like to join you.”
This was too easy.
I didn’t go into the office the next day as I wanted to spend some time pondering and planning my next step. Desperately wanting a much needed challenge, the music business suddenly seemed like the logical choice especially after the previous night’s experience.
I had always felt that people only succeed at what they truly enjoy doing and I certainly enjoyed music. I envisioned finding a raw, fresh band or bands with some basic talent, desire and commitment. Groom them into a professional, marketable commodity and by using my business skills and resources create something profitable for everyone involved.
The actual business model I had in mind was not altogether different from what I had successfully done in the past with real estate which was to find a ‘diamond in the rough,’ a run-down property with good ‘bones’ in a great location and fix it up. Fine tune it and market it to the ultimate buyer. Best of all, acquisition of a percentage of a band would be an investment that, unlike real estate wouldn’t require the services of a mortgage banker, realtor or other assorted pains in the ass. It should be a relatively easy asset to acquire and develop, and if the act indeed happened to become successful, the financial rewards could become unlimited.
Research into my newly envisioned venture proved to be an education in and of itself. Making a list of all the rock clubs in Hollywood I began investigating each one almost every night, wanting to see who and what was drawing crowds at the Whiskey, the Starwood, Gazzari’s and of course, the Troubadour.
My first revelation was that unlike any other type of nightclub I had ever been familiar with, these rock venues had virtually no ‘in house’ crowd. The bands were required to promote their own shows to their fans and basically bring their own audience. The Starwood’s diversity of acts was perhaps the best example of this. On any given weekend there would be a Black Flag or an X performing Friday night with a hardcore punk attendance and yet the next night there would be a long-haired crowd turning out to see the more mainstream rock acts such as Quiet Riot, Smile, Snow or Al La Carte. Then there were the new wave bands that would draw from their own pool of fans on other nights as well.
Naturally, the acts of whatever genre with the largest followings were given the best dates and time slots by the club bookers. This became a Catch-22 type concern of mine as I wondered ‘how can a new band actually develop a following without live exposure and they can’t get that live exposure unless they already have a following?’ I was to come up with a creative solution to that question real soon.
Overall, it was obvious upon the journey into the jungle was that there seemed to be no consistency within the rock community as it was extremely fragmented.
The Starwood Club, Santa Monica at Crescent Heights Blvd.s, circa 1980. There always seemed to be somebody in the gutter, even during daylight hours.
The local Hollywood rock scene was a blend of old style metal and glam bands that frankly looked rather tired as wel
l as the angry Mohawk and shaved-head punk dudes, skinny-tied new wavers and a bit of rockabilly thrown in for good measure. There was a state of flux happening and everyone seemed to wear their own badge of preference as dictated by dress, hairstyles, attitude and behavior.
I usually ended most of my nightly excursions into this new world of music and clubs at the Rainbow Bar & Grill on Sunset for a nightcap or a late dinner. There was little if any diversity of musical styles here as it was strictly a hard rock hang out.
One particular night I happened to start talking with a fellow who was sitting next to me at the back bar. During the course of our conversation I mentioned that I was looking around for a band to develop, manage and promote. Introducing himself as Bob, I wasn’t too surprised when he told me that he had a band that was he felt was ready to hit the club circuit but needed some business direction. I asked him to tell me more.
“It’s a power trio, all originals, similar to the band Triumph, the Canadian band. I’m the lead guitarist and vocalist. It’s a complete package. Man, we have great equipment, even a team of roadies and trucks, all we need are bookings and management.”
I told him that I might be interested in checking it out and we exchanged cards. He invited me to their next rehearsal which was scheduled for the following Sunday afternoon. Giving me the address of the sound studio, we shook hands and I promised to be there.
As it was obvious to me that this guy was a professional and up on what was happening around Hollywood, I had one last question for him. “By the way Bob, everywhere I go I hear about this band Mötley Crüe, what do you know about them?”
“I haven’t seen them yet, but their bass player Nikki invited me to play lead in the band a few Months ago.”
I was curious and asked why he didn’t.
“I’m sold on my own project, you’ll see why Sunday. And besides, Nikki said I’d have to dye my hair blue black. I’m a surfer, and man I can’t do that.”
I laughed. “See you Sunday.”
It made sense to me that if he was telling the truth and had indeed been asked to join this Mötley Crüe band, he must have something going for himself. It was certainly worth a couple of hours of my time to give his band a listen.
‘What a fucking dump this place is’ was my first impression as I walked into the Falcon Rehearsal Studios on Santa Monica and Western Avenue in the worst part of East Hollywood. Little did I know at the time that within a couple of years I would end up the owner of ‘this fucking dump.’
Bob was happy to see me there, having told the other band members whom he proceeded to introduce about the ‘music biz dude’ he had met at the Rainbow a few nights prior. Nice enough guys, but I had to wonder if they always rehearsed in full stage clothes and makeup. It then occurred to me that this was not intended to be a rehearsal at all, but a private showcase for my benefit. I must have made an impression on Bob that night at the bar, or perhaps they were just desperate for acceptance from anyone who would listen to their music.
Despite the overall slum-like environment of the facility I had to admit that the sound stages themselves were not all that bad. The room was very large with a decent stage and a high ceiling with a small lighting truss. The outboard sound system looked as impressive as it later proved to be, too.
As the set began I immediately realized Bob had not lied or exaggerated that night at the Rainbow. He was an incredible guitarist and the band itself was extremely tight and professional. Their sound was powerful and their original songs had, at the very least some potential. I was intrigued, thinking maybe this could be the band that I had been looking for.
After the set concluded, I told them that I was interested, but I would want a twenty-five percent share in whatever profits would be forthcoming, adding that I would, for the time being, re-invest my share back into the band. They readily agreed. Although that percentage may have seemed a bit high, it wasn’t unheard of as other managers such as Bill Acoin (Kiss) and Peter Grant (Led Zeppelin) had become equal partners with their respective bands and if it was good enough for them, it sure as hell was good enough for me. In exchange, we agreed that I would provide full management, promotional and booking services.
“Great, let’s write it up now,” Bob said enthusiastically.
“No, there’s need to sign any contracts right away, let’s get some activity going first and we can worry about that later, guys.” That may have seemed to be a very reckless omission on my part to those that truly believe that every agreement must be in writing, but from my legal background I knew that a personal service contract, at least under California law, was not worth the paper that it was written on and could be easily overturned in Court. The paperwork could wait, I was anxious to get started.
We all shook hands.
“What’s our first step Boss?’ Gene asked.
“We’ll need a demo tape for starters, maybe we can bring in a portable system and record it right here at Falcon. And we’ll need publicity photos that we can probably shoot here too.” I promised that I would make the necessary arrangements to get everything done immediately and then we could get started planning our overall strategy.
Although I didn’t let it show, I was concerned as to how the band was going to develop that all important following in order to get the best dates. An opening act slot with a more established band was a possibility, as was the proven yet tired method of passing out tons of flyers on the Strip and slapping posters on every other telephone pole. I wasn’t too thrilled with that method, feeling it was ‘drawing from the same well’ as every other band. No, we needed to bring in new faces from somewhere fresh, build an audience from a source that would normally not attend a Hollywood rock show.
I had a brainstorm one night while at rehearsal. Images roadies were young guys just out of high school. They seemed very much into the band’s music and took their duties seriously. They were also Hispanic. I asked the crew leader, ‘Junior’ to step out into the hall.
“Junior, you’re really into metal, huh?”
“Love it man, it’s my life.” He answered.
We talked for awhile and after learning that he lived in East Los Angeles, I asked about his friends taste in music.
“Metal, man, nothing else, it rules!”
“OK Junior, if that’s true how come I don’t see more Hispanics at the local shows?
Sighing, he said “no promotion, the bands don’t seem to care about us, man, I guess they just don’t want us there for some reason.”
“Well, we’re going to change that right away. Do you speak Spanish?”
There was no hesitation. “Oh sure, Mike, fluently.”
“So, if I were to bring you a promotional flyer you could translate the text into Spanish?”
“No problem.”
“Great, and one more thing Junior, would you and the rest of your crew be willing to donate some of your time flyering the parking lots of High Schools around East L.A.? Video arcades too and maybe spend a few hours at the local malls passing them out?”
“No problem, anything for the band, it’ll be a cool way to meet chicks too.”
Perfect. I had just discovered Images new core audience; now all we needed were a couple of dates, which didn’t prove to be as easy as it first sounded. Shopping the newly recorded demo tape to bookers at the local clubs, the response was almost unanimous. “Well, how can you bring us a crowd if you haven’t played anywhere?” The Catch-22 factor that I had been concerned about earlier.
Despite my best sales pitch the most I could do was secure a Sunday night 10pm slot at Gazzari’s on a Sunset closing for another then unknown band called Mickey Ratt. Although the notoriety of the club and the legend that has developed around it over the years is now famous, Gazzari’s was actually the least desirable club on the Strip for a band to play at the time. There was a pitiful little sound system, poor lighting and tiny stages. Van Halen and the Doors may have performed there in their early days, but they sure as hell didn’t sta
y very long before moving up to the better clubs.
But at least it was a booking. None of the guys were thrilled to hear that it was the best I could come up with, but I stressed that we would promote the hell out of it, put on a professional show and ‘Guys, try and look at it if nothing else as a paid rehearsal.”
Everyone agreed.
As planned, I designed a flyer for the show which Junior translated into a Spanish version before delivery to the printer. I also had several hundred large full-color cardboard posters printed to be tacked on every available vertical surface in Hollywood. I didn’t know it at the time, but those posters would soon lead to my very first adventure behind bars.
Attending a band rehearsal a couple of weeks before the date, I asked Bob to give me a ride home as my car happened to be in the shop. Deciding to stop by the Rainbow for a quick drink, in route Bob abruptly pulled his truck into a parking lot at the busy Sunset/LaCienega intersection.
“There’s a good one!”
“A good what?”
“A telephone pole, look at it!”
After stopping the truck directly next to the pole, Bob hopped out and proceeded to remove a sixteen foot ladder from the bed as well as several posters and a shiny chrome staple gun.
“Hold the ladder for me Mike, I’m gonna put this fucker up so high nobody can tear it down.”
As Bob was in mid-staple, I heard a commanding voice directly behind me shouting “Get down off the ladder and keep your hands where we can see them.” Turning, I see two Sheriff’s deputies with hands on their pistols. This looked serious to me but that impression must have been much different from Bob’s, who yelled down “In a minute, I’ve just got to staple one more poster up here.”
“I mean now asshole!” The guns were suddenly drawn.
Metal, Madness & Mayhem - An Insiders Journey Through The Hollywood 80s Page 1
