Free The Dirt by Tommy Lee Page A

fuck in that thing.” We had a good time, and she made sure we got free studio time until we wore out our welcome.
    During the last song we recorded for our demo, “Toast of the Town,” O’Dean refused to take off his gloves to clap in the background. He thought that removing his gloves would ruin his mystique, despite the fact that the only mystique he had was the mystery of how he had such a good a voice. Nikki was enraged when O’Dean wouldn’t clap like the Sweet did in “Ballroom Blitz,” and Mick hated him anyway because he thought he was a fat fuck, a shitty singer, and a closet spiritualist.
    “I don’t like that guy,” Mick kept muttering during rehearsals. “He’s a hippie. And I hate hippies.”
    I told Nikki, “Mick doesn’t think O’Dean’s God.”
    “Fuck no,” Mick said. “I want that skinny blond fucker I saw at the Starwood the other night in that band Rock Candy.”
    “You mean Vince?!” I asked.
    “Hell yeah, I mean Vince.” Cousin Itt scowled at me. “That’s the guy. I don’t even care if he can sing or not. Did you see what he was doing with that crowd? Did you see what he was doing to those girls and the way he carried himself onstage?”
    “I went to school with that fucker,” I told him. “Girls love him.”
    I had given Vince my number at his show, but he never called. After we fired O’Dean, I dropped by Vince’s house, gave him a demo tape, and begged him to audition with us. We waited for weeks for Vince to call or come by, but he never did. Finally, I broke down and called him again.
    “I’ve been trying to reach you,” Vince said. “I accidentally washed my jeans with your number in them and couldn’t get ahold of you.”
    “Listen,” I told him. “This is your last chance, dude. You’ve got to check out this band I’m in. The stuff we’re working on will blow your mind. Nikki Sixx is in the band, and we’ve got this rad guitar player who looks like Cousin Itt from The Addams Family .”
    “Okay,” Vince said. “My band fucked me over the other night, and I’m on the verge of quitting. I’ll tell you what: I’ll come by on Saturday. Where are you going to be?”
    Saturday was a nice day: The sun was out and a cool breeze was blowing. I was drinking schnapps, Nikki was chugging Jack Daniel’s, and Mick was sipping his Kahlúa outside IRS rehearsal studios in Burbank when Vince pulled up in a 280Z with this girl who we nicknamed Lovey on the spot, because she was blond, rich, and stuck-up like Lovey Howell from Gilligan’s Island .
    She got out of the car and looked us over like she was his manager. “Well, I have to check out the guitar player because he’s got to be really good if he’s going to play with you, baby,” she cooed, getting on all our nerves instantly. Vince stood there like a little kid, half cocky and half embarrassed, with platinum blond hair exploding out of his head like fireworks. Nikki gave him some lyrics, and he started singing. He wasn’t right on top of the song, but he hit all the right notes and stayed in key. And something else started happening: His squeaky high-pitched voice combined with Nikki’s ratty out-of-time bass playing, Mick’s overamped guitar, and my way-too-busy-and-excited drumming. And it sounded right, despite all the background vocals from Lovey, who kept complaining that the songs weren’t right for Vince.
    On the spot, Nikki started rewriting his songs for Vince’s voice, and the first result was “Live Wire.” We were Mötley Crüe right then. At that fucking moment. We created one of our classic songs five minutes into our first jam with Vince. I couldn’t believe it. Missing Persons were rehearsing next door, and we got so excited that, just to be assholes, we grabbed the padlock hanging on the outside of their door and locked them in their studio. I don’t know how they got out—or if they ever did.

    fig. 5

    fig. 6

    Rock Candy: James Alverson (left) and Vince Neil

I was really