Tattoos & Tequila: To Hell and Back with One of Rock's Most Notorious Frontmen

by Vince Neil

  But then the coach told me I had to cut my hair if I wanted to play.

  I thought about it. I really did. But my hair was pretty important to me then, as now. It was long, down below my shoulders, a sandy blond color. I wanted to play ball, but I didn’t want to, you know what I mean? What I really didn’t want was to become one of the jocks. I didn’t want to alter my appearance. I didn’t want to have to change the person I was. I just wanted to play ball. (Not to mention the fact that I was good enough to make their team, right? And as a freshman.)

  But I wasn’t going to cut my hair. No way.

  So that was it. I quit the team.

  Who knows? If I decided to cut my hair I could’ve been a pro ballplayer. Maybe my life would’ve went that way. Maybe my life would have been a lot different. But I decided to keep my hair—I made the choice about what was important to me.

  And wouldn’t you know: It was literally my hair that ended up getting me into rock ’n’ roll.

  Chapter 3

  BEER DRINKERS AND HELL-RAISERS

  Growing up, I never thought for one minute I’d end up in music—I had no idea what I wanted to be. I never even thought about it. Sure there were daydreams. What kid in those days didn’t imagine what it would be like to be Magic Johnson, Buzz Aldrin, Mick Jagger? But me ending up where I did? I would have bet a million dollars against it. I know all my teachers would have, too. And probably my parents if you asked. Let’s face it. I was going nowhere fast.

  It all started when James Alverson showed up in school. He was a transfer. This was the beginning of my junior year at Charter Oak High School, a month or so before my son, Neil, was born. James was a long-haired rocker guy—he looked like a surfer, you know, with blond curly hair. He fit right in. I’d seen him in the hallway, but that was kind of it. Never talked to him. Never gave him one minute’s thought. He was just the new kid in school, you know?

  He was obviously a guitar player; he wanted everyone to know. He carried his axe with him wherever he went; he was always playing it. One day he comes up and starts talking to me about forming a band. He didn’t know anything about my history of lip-synching. Nobody really knew about that; it was a while ago. I had no reputation for singing. I had no reputation at all, really, for doing anything. (Except that people knew not to fuck with me, like I said, since my fight with the football douche bag.) I was a stoner park guy, popular with the chicks but pretty much under the radar. But right out of nowhere James just walked up and he asked me, “Would you like to sing in a band?”

  And I’m like, “Why did you ask?”

  And he’s like, “ ’Cause you have the longest hair in school.”

  It was long. I mean, longer than it is now. A lot more volume. And maybe because I had made the choice between my hair and baseball, I was definitely letting my freak flag fly, if you know what I mean. My hair was a statement I proudly wore—I’m gonna do whatever the fuck I wanna do. There weren’t that many long-haired people in school, so I guess I kind of stood out—most people’s hair was just maybe touching their shoulders.

  So there you have it. Had I decided to play baseball, maybe some other guy from Charter Oak would be writing this book.

  Next James recruited our classmate Robert Stokes for drums. I can’t remember the name of the bass player. There were a couple. The longest one was Joe Marks. Both of them were surfer dudes with long sideburns. Beginning with our first jam, in somebody’s garage, I can’t remember whose it was, it felt pretty good; we just clicked. We were a tight little band. James modeled his playing after Eddie Van Halen; he was quirky and animated. Somehow my voice complemented his driving, high-octave licks—maybe because I sounded like Robin Zander with his balls being pinched. James was the unquestioned leader. He owned the PA system. He came up with the name Rock Candy. In typical sixteen-year-old-style, he thought it would be cooler to spell it weird. Thus, Rockandi was born.

  People ask me all the time how I became a singer. It’s a good question. I never sang in the school choir. I don’t really remember ever going to church. I never even sang in the shower. Nobody in my family sings. I never took a lesson. I never knew what I was doing. Basically I faked it from the jump. When I think about it now, I guess I just built on the lip-synching—I had the act down; all I needed was the voice to go with it. It was all about the attitude. What they call “selling the song.” Out of that came the voice—not that this was conscious on my part. I didn’t even think about it; I just did it. That’s pretty much another subtitle for this book; it kind of defines my whole life. I didn’t even think about it; I just did it. So it was with singing, too. What came out is what came out.

  At first I was just imitating other singers. I think I have a gift for mimicking. Like if I’m singing a Cheap Trick song, I can sound like Zander. It’s not me singing—it’s me trying to impersonate somebody else. Now of course, after thirty years, I have my own style. I have this instrument—it’s my voice. I’m a professional. But back then I was just singing in other people’s voices, you know? That’s sort of the evolution you go through as an artist. You start with imitation and it leads to your own individual style. It’s the same in classical music and in jazz, probably in all the arts. I never even knew I could sing until I actually tried it at that first practice. And then it was like, Wow, I’m not that bad! Then I remember after that, sitting in my truck with eight-track tapes, writing down lyrics. Now that I think about it, that was probably more writing than I’d ever done in my life. I don’t think I had any problems with it, either.

  Once we’d gotten an entire set together we started playing people’s backyards. That’s really how we learned to play together. That’s the best place to practice, playing in front of people. It’s never the same in the garage or the rehearsal studio. We’d get someone to throw a party at their house—we’d find out whose parents were going to be away for the weekend. We’d tell them we’d play at their house for free if they would get some beer and stuff. We’d take care of the music and the chicks, because all the chicks would come to hear the band; there wasn’t much else happening in Covina, let’s face it.

  We charged a dollar a head to get in, all you could drink, whatever. We’d spread the word at school—we designed flyers; me and James would go out in the streets and stick them to anything that didn’t move. We played AC/DC, Zeppelin, Bad Company, Black Sabbath. “I Want You to Want Me,” by Cheap Trick; “Sweet Emotion,” by Aerosmith; “Smokin’ in the Boy’s Room,” by Brownsville Station (which, along with the power ballad “Home Sweet Home,” really ended up saving our asses on that piece-of-shit Theatre of Pain album). We also did some songs by the English glam-rock band The Sweet.

  The parties would be packed. There’d be like four hundred kids—four hundred bucks for the band, a hundred bucks each for doing what we loved to do. We’d keep on playing until we ran out of songs, and then we’d call the police on ourselves and complain about the noise. The cops would arrive, shut the party down, and toss everyone out into the street. And we would take off with the money (and some of the chicks), leaving whichever poor kid whose house we’d commandeered with a disaster area on his hands.

  Back then, at these weekend parties, we weren’t doing it because we imagined someday we’d be rock stars. At least I didn’t. James wanted to be a rock star and he made no bones about it. But for me, in high school (and really, in a way, for the rest of my life), being in a band meant free beer and a steady supply of girls. That’s why I was into it. Girls wanted to get with the guys onstage, especially the singer. That was pretty much it. What else was important in high school? That was my entire reason for getting into a band. Fate has obviously been at work on me. To some degree, I’m the object lesson: What happens to someone who always takes the path of least resistance? I have always been someone who absolutely goes with the flow. I’ve never been the type to swim upstream. It’s just too much effort. I don’t want to hassle. I’d just as soon cut bait.

  One time my parents went away for
the weekend. I decided to stage a Rockandi gig in our backyard. Performing was like a drug to me. Nothing else was as important. It was the gateway to everything good in my life: getting high, getting lots of attention, getting laid. As it happened on this night, things turned out like the plot of some B movie we’ve all seen a million times. Just as the party kicked into high gear… my mom and dad decided to come home early from their trip!

  There were like four hundred kids partying in the backyard when they pulled up. I thought they would kill me.

  To my amazement, they didn’t break up the party.

  They joined right in.

  The next thing I knew, my mom was serving drinks; Dad had a great time dancing with the girls. If I had to explain the whole thing I’d probably say that maybe they were pretty impressed with my band. They’d never heard me sing before. I’m sure they thought we were just a bullshit garage band or something. After the party, they never said a word to me about it. But I’ve always wondered if that was it, that they were actually proud of me. I guess they would have told me if they were. Who knows? Some people aren’t good at telling their feelings. I guess I get it honestly. I wasn’t about to ask them or to fish for compliments, you know. That’s never been my style.

  I played with Rockandi for almost three years. I’m surprised James never made it to the big time. As a guitar player he was as good as a lot of people I know who are famous now. I think maybe his problem was he never committed to himself. He tried to change with the times instead of sticking to one clear vision. Like for a while he tried to imitate Eddie Van Halen—he even had the striped guitar and stuff—and he was amazing. Then when New Wave came in, he cut all his hair off and wore skinny ties. And then New Wave went out again—you know what I’m saying? It’s like he didn’t know who he was. If he’d have stuck with rock, he probably would’ve been in a big band.

  Say what you want about me, I’ve always stayed true to the music I love. I never tried to change with the times; I never rode the trends—well, there was that solo album with the Dust Brothers, but that was more a case of “before its time.” Just because it’s popular doesn’t mean it’s for you—you know what I mean? I know who I am as a performer. I sing rock music. That’s what I do. I knew it then and I know it now. Like somebody once said: “Keep it simple, stupid.” It works for me.

  James Alverson Rockandi Lead Guitarist and Founder

  My dad was a technical writer for the aerospace industry, but he really wanted to be an actor and a photographer. He did a lot of little theater. He played bagpipes. I grew up going to Disneyland and all the local fairs; he played in a bagpipe band; he’d do funerals. I’m real familiar with bagpipe music. He also played guitar and banjo. He was a musician, a self-taught artist type. I sort of think of my parents as beatniks, like they were hippies without the drugs.

  I took guitar lessons in first grade. Then I quit because it hurt my fingers. Then my brother started playing, and I got jealous, so I started playing. This was in ’72, ’73. I was twelve or thirteen. I’m one year older than Vince, almost exactly. At one point, three of us in the band all had birthdays in February.

  My folks owned this house in the La Puente area. It was a really shitty neighborhood, near El Monte, but we had lots of toys, you know, everything we needed as kids, and we would go away a lot on vacation. So it was kind of the trade-off—by living in this shitty neighborhood we could have a higher standard of living. But in like ’76, ’77, my dad was suddenly, like “Fuck this, I’m going to pursue an acting career full-time.” He up and sells the house. And we all move to this rented place in Covina. And he pays up one year of rent and he goes, “Okay, we have one year here. And I can’t tell you what’s going to happen after that.” He wanted to pursue the acting and writing thing. This was his last big shot. I was seventeen, going into my last year of high school.

  I transferred to Charter Oak High School. Boy, what a change. Where I was from it was the closest thing to an inner-city school. There were a lot of gangs, a lot of violence. I mean I’d seen a lot of stuff. People getting knifed and beaten up—I got chased myself; I had guns pointed at me…. I was in this gang-infested neighborhood and that’s for three years of high school.

  And then I move to this all-white neighborhood and it’s like culture shock. Most of the kids were white. There was probably only one black kid in the whole school. And there were no Mexican gangbangers. All the Hispanics, if there were any, were you know, assimilated, I suppose you would say. So that was weird for me just from the beginning. Because here I am, my senior year in a brand-new school. I didn’t know anybody. And I was kind of shy, so I only talked to people who talked to me. I ended up always talking to these strange outcasts—which I was one, too. I had this long blond hair and I dressed probably a little differently, and I was from the bad side of the tracks. Plus I was the new kid in the senior class. It was not a recipe for success.

  I remember seeing Vince walking through the hallway. He had longer hair; most of the kids didn’t. And I had long hair. And I was always looking for a singer because that was always one of the problems of getting a band together—it was impossible to get a singer. I saw Vince in the hallway and we probably nodded at each other or something because we both had long hair, but probably both of us were too shy to break the ice. At some point somebody introduced us, or they told me about him; they told me that he played in a band or sang or something or had a guitar. I remember the first time we spoke… there was this park right across the street where all the kids would go and smoke pot. It was called Charter Oak Park, and he was over there and he was going to show me his guitar in the back of his 240Z. He was with his girlfriend at the time, Tami. It was one of those cheapie little guitars. And I go, “That’s nice, that’s nice,” you know, trying to be friendly, even though he had this bullshit toy guitar. And that’s how we kinda like started talking.

  Vince told me that first day that he played in a band, but I didn’t believe him. My brother had been in bands—I was pretty savvy to who was what. I’d seen a lot of bands. He just didn’t seem like he was talking the talk. It was really one of those little beginner guitars. So I knew he was making it up, whatever. But it didn’t matter. I needed a singer. I asked him if he’d sing, and he said he would sing, and I said, “Well, let’s get together.” So we probably exchanged numbers; I don’t remember the exact thing. And I put together some songs; he brought this drummer named Robert Stokes. I brought Danny Monge to play bass. I knew him from my old school. He was from Nicaragua. He was a character; he got on my nerves. It was hard to find a bass player at first. We went through a couple before Joe Marks ended up taking over. He was Vince’s buddy, too. I remember the first rehearsal. I remember playing “Hot Legs.” That was like the first time I got to hear Vince’s voice.

  He was a little bit of a natural; it was obvious to me he wasn’t a singer, but I thought he could be a singer, you know? He was really timid, real quiet. I thought his intonation was pretty good. And I thought he looked pretty good. He had long hair and he wasn’t completely hideous—you know, like a lot of guys are. The thing was, I was a huge Van Halen fan, right from the early days, before they were big stars. I remember my brother taking me down to the Whisky and watching Eddie Van Halen and David Lee Roth and the whole band. Roth was just phenomenal. I mean he was just the greatest frontman. It was a fun band to watch and they didn’t take themselves too seriously, which is something that always bothered me about certain musicians. They kicked ass. That was my model. And I thought Vince even looked a little like Roth. I remember trying to teach Vince how to sing, basically. I remember I told him, “Just pretend like you’re yelling at your sister, or your parents, you know. Just scream.” I thought he had it in him. I don’t think Vince had ever sung before, anywhere. Probably in the shower, or something. But he was a pretty quick study and he was dedicated.

  Rockandi was the first real popular band I was in. The other bands I was in were just kinda like I was just learning. This band,
I had a plan; I knew exactly what kind of material we needed to do. I had a focus—it was quite successful. I mean, I wasn’t a big Led Zeppelin fan, but I knew that’s what everybody wanted to hear. We played a ton of Zep and Vince did it okay. We also did some ZZ Top and some Aerosmith. I remember we played the school for our first gig. It was at lunch hour. We played, like, three or four songs. It was really cool. It was really, really cool. As a seventeen-year-old, lemme tell you, I thought I’d found heaven.

  When I met Tommy Lee he was playing in this band called US 101. We used to rehearse at the same studio down in Covina; the owner used to put on these showcases for local bands. Vince and I worked around the place in exchange for rehearsal time. I think Tommy’s parents paid for their time. US 101 was absolutely horrible. We used to make fun of them ’cause they were so shitty. I mean they were just like, they were like some church band where the parents put them all together, right? So they could all barely play and it was just—oh my god. And Rockandi, we were like these bad kids, you know, the juvenile delinquents or whatever.

  Tommy was maybe a little bit spoiled. His parents were definitely upper middle class. He always had all the stuff. They were pretty horrible. We used to just laugh at them. They were maybe like what you call soccer parents today. They were like all involved. My parents supported me, but they didn’t follow me around. Vince’s parents supported us, but they didn’t follow us around. But you know in Tommy’s band their parents would take the equipment for them and help them set it up. It was just—it was just the opposite of us.