Dirt: Confessions of the World's Most Notorious Rock Band

From Barnes & Noble

"The wildest rock 'n' roll story ever told," is how one reviewer typified The Dirt, Mötley Crüe's crude and unrepentant group autobiography. This colorful book drips with staggering stories of mass orgies, drug binges, and backstage antics that would embarrass even Ozzy Osbourne. Celebrities such as Heather Locklear and Pamela Anderson make revealing appearances; band members rap on heavy metal philosophy, concert brawls, and the proper handling of groupies. A parent's worst nightmare in throbbing prose.

From the Publisher

After six multiplatinum albums, seven consecutive Billboard Top 20 albums, and four Billboard Top Ten singles, Mötley Crüe are the undisputed heavyweight champs of rock music. Since the '80s they've been the voice of a barely pubescent Generation X, the anointed High Priests of pentagram rock, pioneers of Hollywood Glam, and the creators of MTV's first "power ballad." Their ravenous sexual appetites consumed celebrities from Heather Locklear to Pamela Anderson to Lita Ford, while their legendary scuffles involved everyone from Axl Rose to 2 Live Crew. Now, for the first time, the most influential, enduring, and iconic rock band of the 1980s reveals everything in a tell-all of epic proportions. They've collected automatic weapons, pushed the envelope of total drug abuse, and dreamt up backstage antics that would make Ozzy Osbourne blanch with modesty. They are the trailblazers of modern excess. Provocatively written and brilliantly designed, this book includes never-before-seen photos and behind-the-scenes paraphernalia. Whether you're a fan of Mötley Crüe, a fan of rock 'n' roll, or just a fan of outrageously bad behavior, you owe it to yourself to read this book—and experience the madness firsthand.

Publishers Weekly

In the beginning there was the Motley House, crawling with cockroaches and rats, beer cans piled on the porch so high they threatened to spill into the house every time you opened the door. "That place gave birth to Motley Cr e," the band recalls in The Dirt: The Autobiography of Motley Cr e. After the record contract, they write, "like a pack of mad dogs we abandoned the bitch, leaving with enough reckless, aggravated testosterone to spawn a million bastard embryo metal bands." Cr e members Tommy Lee, Mick Mars, Vince Neil and Nikki Sixx also team up with New York Times music writer Neil Strauss to tell the story of their band's rise to phenomenal success: their tours, friendships, alcohol and drug problems, music, influence and, above all, girls. No heavy metal fan will want to be without this crude, honest chronicle. ( May 22) Copyright 2001 Cahners Business Information.

Product Details

• Table of Contents
• Read an Excerpt

Table of Contents

Read an Excerpt

Chapter One

Vince

Her name was Bullwinkle. We called her that because she had a face like a moose. But Tommy, even though he could get any girl he wanted on the Sunset Strip, would not break up with her. He loved her and wanted to marry her, he kept telling us, because she could spray her cum across the room.

Unfortunately, it wasn't just cum she sent flying around the house. It was dishes, clothes, chairs, fists -- basically anything within reach of her temper. Up until then, and I'd lived in Compton, I'd never seen anyone get that violent. One wrong word or look would cause her to explode in a jealous rage. One night, Tommy tried to keep her away by jamming the door to the house shut -- the lock was long since broken from being repeatedly kicked in by the police -- and she grabbed a fire extinguisher and threw it through the plate-glass window to get inside. The police returned later that night and drew their guns on Tommy while Nikki and I hid in the bathroom. I'm not sure which we were more scared of: Bullwinkle or the cops.

We never repaired the window. That would have been too much work. People would pour into the house, located near the Whisky A Go-Go, for after-hours parties, either through the broken window or the warped, rotting brown front door, which would only stay closed if we folded apiece of cardboard and wedged it underneath. I shared a room with Tommy while Nikki, that fucker, got the big room to himself. When we moved in, we agreed to rotate and every month a different person would get the solo room. But it never happened. It was too much work.

It was 1981, and we were broke, with one thousand seven-inch singles that our manager had pressed for us and a few decimated possessions to our name. In the front room sat one leather couch and a stereo that Tommy's parents had given him for Christmas. The ceiling was covered with small round dents because every time the neighbors complained about the noise, we'd retaliate by pounding on the ceiling with broom handles and guitar necks. The carpet was filthy with alcohol, blood, and cigarette burns, and the walls were scorched black.

The place was crawling with vermin. If we ever wanted to use the oven, we had to leave it on high for a good ten minutes to kill the regiments of roaches crawling around inside. We couldn't afford pesticides, so to exterminate the roaches on the walls we would take hair spray, hold a lighter to the nozzle, and torch the bastards. Of course, we could afford (or afford to steal) important things like hair spray, because you had to have your hair jacked up if you wanted to make the rounds at the clubs.

The kitchen was smaller than a bathroom, and just as putrid. In the fridge there'd usually be some old tuna fish, beer, Oscar Mayer bologna, expired mayonnaise, and maybe hot dogs if it was the beginning of the week and we'd either stolen them from the liquor store downstairs or bought them with spare money. Usually, though, Big Bill, a 450-pound biker and bouncer from the Troubadour (who died a year later from a cocaine overdose), would come over and eat all the hot dogs. We'd be too scared to tell him it was all we had.

There was a couple who lived down the street and felt sorry for us, so every now and then they'd bring over a big bowl of spaghetti. When we were really hard up, Nikki and I would date girls who worked in grocery stores just for the free food. But we always bought our own booze. It was a matter of pride.

In the kitchen sink festered the only dishes we owned: two drinking glasses and one plate, which we'd rinse off now and then. Sometimes there was enough crud caked on the plate to scrape a full meal from, and Tommy wasn't above doing that. Whenever the trash piled up, we'd open the small sliding door in the kitchen and throw it onto the patio. In theory, the patio would have been a nice place, the size of a barbecue and a chair, but instead there were bags of beer cans and booze bottles piled up so high that we'd have to hold back the trash to keep it from spilling into the house every time we opened the door. The neighbors complained about the smell and the rats that had started swarming all over our patio, but there was no way we were touching it, even after the Los Angeles Department of Health Services showed up at our door with legal papers requiring us to clean the environmental disaster we had created.

Our bathroom made the kitchen look immaculate in comparison. In the nine or so months we lived there, we never once cleaned the toilet. Tommy and I were still teenagers: We didn't know how. There would be tampons in the shower from girls the night before, and the sink and mirror were black with Nikki's hair dye. We couldn't afford -- or were too lazy to afford -- toilet paper, so there'd be shit-stained socks, band flyers, and pages from magazines scattered across the floor. On the back of the door was a poster of Slim Whitman. I'm not sure why.

Outside the bathroom, a hallway led to two bedrooms. The hall carpet was spotted with charred footprints because we'd rehearse for our live shows by setting Nikki on fire, and the lighter fluid always ended up running down his legs.