The band gave a great performance that night due in no small part to the enthusiasm that was felt over the upcoming Country Club date.
As happy as I was over the day’s events, the real highpoint of the evening for me personally was when my soon-to-be-ex girlfriend, a wretched bitch who, in her drunken stupor parked her broom outside, stormed in the club and demanded that I let her go on stage and introduce the band. Declining her offer, she strutted over to the side of the stage and found a nice little black box to sit and pout on, arms folded, totally unaware that the convient seat contained one-half pound of explosive flash powder and the roadie who was controlling the system (the Blackie-built system mentioned earlier) was underneath the stage with the trigger and couldn't see her sitting there. I've heard her pubes never grew back.
Yet that was not to be the only Spinal Tap moment of the night. Earlier in the week Bob had called me excited about a new wireless transmitter that he had bought for his guitar/amp rig. This was 1981 and few if any club-level bands had wireless equipment as the technology at the time was expensive. Bob mentioned to me that during his mid-set solo, he wanted to leave the showroom and walk through the crowded Troubadour bar area while still playing. It didn’t sound like a bad idea, but something went terribly wrong.
Bob leaves the stage as planned, spotlight following him out the door. The wireless unit is working just great with his soaring guitar riffs blasting through his dual Marshall stacks perfectly. It was nice for a couple of minutes, but was becoming insane after he had been gone for seven or eight minutes. The audience was becoming bored. I always knew that he as well as most lead guitarists can be painfully over-indulgent in their solos and I constantly warned him to keep them limited. At the ten minute point, I knew something had gone wrong as he was still playing somewhere as we continued to hear him through the amps.
Gene and Carl were understandably pissed and wanted to get on with the rest of the show. “Where the fuck is he?”
“I don’t know man, I’ll go find him.” It was not to be an easy task. I looked, but he wasn’t in the front bar nor was he serenading the crowd that was waiting to get into the club on the sidewalk. Yet I could still hear him playing from somewhere through the showroom amps, even over the roar of the freight train that was rolling directly in front of the club. (Railroad tracks had run East-West along the median of Santa Monica Boulevard from Downtown Los Angeles to Culver City for years. They were removed in 1984 and immortalized in the Eagles song, ‘Sad Café,’ which was an ode to the Troubadour).
The train! He couldn’t be. He was. In his enthusiasm over the his new wireless connection toy, as well as being engrossed in his guitar solo he had wandered across the tracks and was stuck on the other side when the boxcars rolled by. Caboose finally passing, Bob pranced across the asphalt, dutifully still playing. Luckily, he would not trip on the tracks in his stilettos and finally returned to the stage to finish the show, much to the relief of Gene and Carl. It was probably the longest guitar solo in the history of metal.
Starting early the next morning, I prepared press releases for the Country Club show to be sent to the media as well as invitations to be sent to key record company personnel. Within a few days, the phone started ringing with RSVPs.
Finally, at the very least we had a fair shot at some major exposure that hopefully would result in possible label interest. We needed it and needed it immediately. The band's expenses were hemorrhaging money and due to the time I found myself spending on the music business, I had sorely neglected not only my ‘day job’ at Sterling’s office but my personal investments as well, including a large house in Benedict Canyon that I had purchased with partners to fix up and resell. Remodeling was going painfully slow on that project and the monthly carrying costs were killing me. Aside from that, the Southern California real estate market was sliding into a recession due to rising interest rates. If that house wasn't ready to be put on the market soon, there would be little chance of me breaking even, much less see any profits from it to continue funding the music ventures.
We booked time back at Falcon studios and spent each night rehearsing and fine-tuning the stage performance. Meanwhile, I was busy continuing to invite A & R reps to the show as well as booking agents and a hand-picked list of rockers, hoping to be able to get the band an opening slot on a major tour.
Eddie Van Halen’s secretary called in an RSVP, as did ex- Blackmore's Rainbow vocalist Graham Bonnet who was scheduled to play there the following weekend with his new project Alcatraz. I made the tactical decision not to tell the guys who would be in the audience as they were nervous enough already.
While all of the preparations for the Country Club show were happening, I was still thinking of the future and working on booking stragitic shows that would expose the band to a wider audience. The loudest buzz on the street was still Mötley Crüe. I contacted Bobby at the Troubadour and asked if Images could get an opening slot with Mötley Crüe the next time around. He told me that I would have to speak directly to their manager, a Mr. Alan Coffman in Grass Valley, California as they and only they chose their opening acts.
“Fine, what's his phone number?” Bobby gave it to me and asked if I had ever seen the Crüe live. “No, when are they playing again?” Bobby said the next weekend and invited me down.
I mentioned it to Bob who reluctantly agreed to join me there the night of the show. “Sure, let’s go and laugh at them, they’re just another shitty Starwood band.” Bob’s ego had expanded greatly within the last few weeks.
As it happened, Images rehearsal ran late the evening of the show and we weren't able to get there in time. I was sorry I missed it.
Saving Coffman's phone number, I decided to put the entire Mötley Crüe thing on hold until after the Country Club date.
The day of the show finally arrives. Fresh stage clothes, a well-rehearsed set including some new songs, a large custom made backdrop and a newly expanded crew of volunteer roadies. We were ready. Arriving at the venue in the late afternoon, Bob was his usual very hyper pre-show self who confessed to me that he was too nervous to sound check and even more, to tune his guitar, assuring me that his new guitar tech Juan was more than capable of assuming those duties.
Hopefully.
I was thinking ‘fuck, if this guy is too stressed out to do a simple sound check what the hell is he going to do at show time?’ I held my breath, sized up his ass to see if my foot would fit on it in case I had to kick him onto the stage, then took him into the bar for a drink. Or two...
Later, in what was then typical professional Country Club fashion after sound check we were given a number of backstage passes for wives, girlfriends, crew and invited guests.
We were then escorted to our dressing rooms. My eyes bugged. I don't think Led Zeppelin could have been treated any better at the Forum. There were kegs of premium beer already on ice, an assortment of whiskey, rum, vodka, mixers and a nice selection of wines as well as a deli tray, hor'dourves and finger sandwiches. No plastic cups or paper napkins either. It was all crystal and linen.
Fresh, steaming hot towels were awaiting us in the dressing room bathroom.
All that was missing were some fine strippers, a Jacuzzi and toga robes.
As always though, my mind was on the money first so after seeing this display worthy of Caligula I found John in the hallway and asked if this was being deducted from our night's pay.
“No of course not, it’s our treat, enjoy.”
Shit, I could live here.
A bit later, out of professional courtesy I felt we should drop into the Quiet Riot dressing room and introduce ourselves. Bob balked at the idea. “Fuck them! Who the hell is Quiet Riot anyway, just old shit's from the Starwood? We can blow them off the stage."”
My thinking was that while ego can be a positive thing in rock, this was not a boxing match and it can't hurt to make some new friends. Bob reluctantly went along with me and we found the Quiet Riot guys to be very friendly and cordial.
&nb
sp; Countdown to show time began. During the White Sister opening set, I had made a point to wander around and introduce myself to the invited VIPs in the audience and to thank them for attending.
Eddie Van Halen was a pleasure to meet, taking the time to chat and to introduce me to his wife. Not being a big TV fan I didn't realize it was Valerie Bertinelli. Graham Bonnet was also a pleasure and a perfect English gentleman.
At this point Images is ten minutes from taking the stage. I went back to the dressing room for a last minute pep talk.
In retrospect, perhaps I should have been a sports coach as I probably would have made a lot more money.
Images took the stage with their opening anthem ‘Welcome to the Party’ and I immediately realized something was terribly wrong with the guitar harmonies. Imagine chalk on a black-board pumped through three 100 watt Marshall stacks.
Juan! Thanks Bob, you hired a tone-fucking-deaf guitar tech.
Bob wasn't aware of the sound problem, but Gene sure was. Apparently Juan had tuned Bob’s guitar a half-note down from what it should have been. Gene was looking at me as I was standing off-stage and later he told me that he didn't know whether to play one bass note up or one note down to try to compensate for the problem.
Resisting my temptation to run out the back door, I cringed my way through the show. There had been a lot of time, energy and money invested in this night and it was being flushed down the toilet due to a damn improperly tuned guitar.
Thankfully the show that seemed to last for hours eventually did end. There was one encore that preceded a near fist-fight between Bob and Gene back in the dressing room, avoided only because one of our crew interrupted the fracas to tell Bob that his very drunk girlfriend, Sherry, was partying naked with some of the Quiet Riot roadies in the next room.
I needed a break. Grabbing a much overdue drink and cigarette from the dressing room bar, I walked out to the balcony overlooking the stage to check out Quiet Riot, who had just started their set with ‘Let's Get Crazy.’
Sorry Bob, but if this had been a boxing match, Quiet Riot would have scored a knock-out in the first round. Catchy songs with lot's of action on stage, charisma on the part of singer Kevin DuBrow and none the least of which, perfectly tuned guitars. Impressive, but I'm going home and cut my loses for the night. Tomorrow’s another day. I hoped.
CHAPTER FIVE
I desperately needed something to cheer me up the next morning. In my opinion despite all the hype I had created Images had looked like a high-school garage band the previous night in front of a prime audience and made me look like a damn fool. I was having serious doubts that the band was ready for the next step up and wondered if I was wasting my time in this whole music thing.
Hung-over and stumbling into my second bedroom that I used for a home office to grab a cigarette lighter, I noticed the hand-scribbled phone number that Bobby Dean had given me laying on my desk.
It was Alan Coffman's phone number...with the notation 'Mötley Crüe.’
“Mr. Coffman?”
“Yes this is Alan.”
“Alan, I'm Michael Flaherty, I was given your number by....”
“Bobby Dean.” he interrupted. “He mentioned you would be calling me.”
“Yeah, Bobby's a really good guy, I like him. He said I should to talk to you about getting my band on a Mötley Crüe bill,” making a mental note that if that happens, murder Juan prior to the show.
“Sure, sounds good” He then asked, “You're in Los Angeles Mike?”
“Sure am.”
Coffman went on... “I'm coming to L.A. in a couple of days, why don't we try and get together then. The boys are going into the studio to begin work on their first album and I'll be there for at least a couple of weeks. Give me your phone number and I'll call you when I arrive.”
“Great.” I gave Alan the number and said goodbye.
It was all of a three minute conversation, but I felt surprisingly positive about it. Alan was very friendly and sounded much younger than I had pictured him to be.
Sure enough, a few days later I received the call. Coffman said that he’ll be practically living in the studio during the recording sessions, so I should plan to meet him there. We set up an appointment for the next day.
As it happened, the studio was only a few minutes from my house. ‘Hit City West’ on Pico near LaCienga Boulevard.
Armed with an Images press kit and demo tapes, I was there right on time. Alan comes out and we shake hands, suggesting that we chat in the studio lounge, “But before we get into talking business, I would like Nikki to be in on the meeting and he's just finishing up a bass track. He'll be through in a few minutes.”
“Sure, no problem.”
We sat down and began making small talk while waiting for Nikki. I mentioned to Alan that I too was in the real estate/construction business. He seemed genuinely interested in my business and I was rather impressed with his manner and style. He was not at all what I had expected.
Although a bit on the 'rural' side wearing polyester pants and a vinyl jacket he came off quite unlike the music executives I had recently met. A bad dresser perhaps, but much more sincere and down to earth.
It wasn't long before Nikki came into the room and Alan introduced us. I started into my Images pitch and they while they were attentive, suddenly I felt like the meeting was going downhill for some reason. Nikki and Alan's only response was “We'll have to see them live before we can make a decision. Let us know next time they play locally.”
“Sure, I'll let you know as soon as something is booked."
An uneasy silence swept over the room. Nikki and Alan were glancing at each other yet saying nothing. I'm thinking perhaps I said something wrong, but what?
Alan broke the chill by asking a very off-the-wall question. “Mike, what do you know about booking bands into College shows?” Knowing nothing about the subject what-so-ever I bluffed extremely well.
“Generally that's done by the student unions, usually mid-day shows. The college crowd is an often overlooked source of exposure for new acts.”
In my mind I'm patting myself on the back for that bit of bullshit.
“That's exactly what we're thinking!” Alan exclaims, smiling. “We've been approached by an agent who wants to book a college tour for us and I although I really like the concept, fresh audiences and all, frankly I don't like the agent.” (I was to find out why later) “Nonetheless, we desperately need to get out of the Hollywood club circuit, somewhere, and anywhere. We’re stagnating here in Los Angeles.”
He did indeed sound desperate and there was almost a tone of fear in his voice. Fear that Mötley Crüe would be stuck in the same merry-go-round of Hollywood club shows that had worn out other bands like Smile, Snow, Ala Carte, Y & T and to a degree Quiet Riot.
“Who's the agent?” I was curious.
“Jeff Stiller, out in the Valley. You know him Mike?”
I had often heard of Jeff Stiller. He was a young guy with a reputation of having five-thousand music deals going at once but not one of which ever seemed to materialize.
“Never met him Alan, but I've heard the name.”
Nikki popped in. “We'd be very interested in doing something like that, maybe you have some ideas.”
Before I could answer, he asked “By the way, have you ever been inside this studio?”
“No, no... I haven't.”
“Well, check it out.”
Alan and Nikki proceeded to give me the full tour. Nice state-of-the-art facility by any standards. Down at the end of a long hallway adjacent to the main studio, I was introduced to Mick Mars, who was in the process of placing a microphone in front of a Marshall half-stack by the restroom. I asked him “so, what's doing here?”
“We're trying to create a natural deep echo effect for one of the tunes,” Mick replied.
“Well.... that's creative” I said, realizing that these guys were taking their recording project very seriously.
We then went
into the large room where I met Tommy, who was adjusting his cymbal stands in a semi-enclosed drum booth. After a brief chat, Alan walked me out.
“You haven't seen the band live Mike?”
“No, I haven’t, not yet. Rehearsal ran late last week and I missed the Troubadour show.”
Alan said “We're playing the Roxy in a couple of weeks. I'd like you to be our guest.”
“Sure, I'd love to.”
Shaking hands, Alan said “We'll talk soon.”
Driving home, I got the distinct feeling that I was being ‘courted’ or ‘sized up’ for something. Not exactly sure what but it was more than just having Images open for the Crüe, of that much I was sure.
I knew this could be interesting.....
The day after the meeting with Nikki and Alan, I received a phone call from an A & R representative from Pasha Records who had attended the Country Club show the previous Saturday night. I had heard of Pasha, which was a small independent company based in Hollywood owned by a gentleman by the name of Spencer Proffer.
Frankly I was shocked that any label would be interested in Images after having seen that disastrous show but nonetheless, it was possible good news.
We set up an appointment to meet the next day at their office-studio facility on Melrose Avenue.
At the meeting, an offer was put on the table. Pasha would sign Images to a ‘development’ deal, put them in the studio with a professional producer, record an EP and shop it to the major labels.
If it flew, Pasha would get 10% of the eventual gross sales less recording and manufacturing expenses. Images would receive a ‘good faith’ advance of $5000 immediately. This of course was pennies by today’s standards but it was ‘something’ of a deal, and certainly more than anything else we had going at the time.
Returning home, I called the guys and set up a meeting for that night to discuss what had been offered. We agreed to meet at Gene’s small antique store at 7 pm after it closed. It would be a quiet place where we could think and talk over a few beers.
Metal, Madness & Mayhem - An Insiders Journey Through The Hollywood 80s Page 4
