The Dirt

The Official Motley Crue Biography (p. 36-37)
By Motley Crue and Neil Strauss

Nikki Sixx:

When Lizzie and I weren't trying to get our own band together, I tagged along with Angie to Redondo Beach, where she rehearsed with her band. I hated them because they were into Rush and had lots of guitar pedals, talked about hammer-ons and, the egregious of all, had curly hair. If there's one genetic trait that automatically disqualifies a man from being able to rock, it's curly hair. Nobody cool has curly hair; people like Richard Simmons, the guy from Greatest American Hero, and the singer from REO Speedwagon have curls. The only exceptions are Ian Hunter from Mott the Hoople, whose hair is more tangled than curly, and Slash, but his hair is fuzzy and that's cool.

For women, the equivalent of curly hair is being cockeyed. If there's one genetic trait in women that predisposes them to hate me, it's having a cockeye. I always fail with cockeyed women, one of whom happened to be Angie's roommate. One night I got drunk and tried to climb in her bed, and she told Angie all about it the next day. I tried to convince Angie that I thought it was her bed, but she knew me too well and kicked me out of the house. I moved into a drug-infested, prostitute-riddled Hollywood slum, and concentrated on staying in my own bed and getting my band with Lizzie together.

We found a dog collar-wearing, bronze giant of a drummer named Dane Rage; a keyboard player named John St. John, who hauled a giant Hammond B3 organ from gig to gig; and a singer name Michael White, whose claim to fame was that he had recorded something for a Led Zeppelin tribute album once. That, right there, should have let me know that he was not the man we were looking for. That, and the fact that he had curly hair. And was kind of cockeyed.

Nikki Sixx, Dane Rage and Michael White

We tramped around Hollywood in high heels and tube tops and anything else we could muster up to shock Rush and Led Zeppelin fans dinosaurs. It was 1979 and, as far as we were concerned, rock and roll was dead. We were Mott the Hoople, the New York Dolls, the Sex Pistols; we were everything that no one else was into. In our alcoholic minds, we were the coolest fucking band ever, and our confidence (and alcoholism) attracted fanatic groupies after just a few shows at the Starwood. We called ourselves London, but what we really were was Motley Crue before Motley Crue.

Except for Michael White. Everything that I despised, he worshipped. If I like the Stones, he liked the Beatles. If I liked creamy peanut butter, he liked Chunky. So we fired him for having curly hair, placed an ad in The Recycler, and met Nigel Benjamin.

The Adventures of Michael & Nikki Before Motley Crue

I met Nikki Sixx in 1979 through a mutual friend that suggested that we might team up and write some songs together. I was game to try it, so we met and talked about it. After a few sessions he asked me to join his band, London, which I wasn't too keen on. You see, I already had a fairly successful career going for myself playing with "The White" to sold-out clubs all over Southern California. I also owned a rehearsal studio that made me a decent living. So I had plans of my own that were already in gear when he came along. This is what happened next.

He was very convincing with his vision of what he wanted the band to be. And basically, he sold me on it. I bought into it and decided to play with "London" ...while keeping "The White" as well. The bands were so very different style-wise they didn't interfere with one another. "The White" sounded like Led Zeppelin and "London" sounded like an evil version of "The Sweet". The thing is that I enjoyed singing both styles. But to Nikki being in a band was like a marriage and he thought I was cheating on "London" by playing with "The White". I might have listened to what he had to say about it, except for the fact that he was never sober. I mean, other than the first few times we had met (when he was very business like) he was constantly drinking, drunk and/or high. At some point I started not to listen to his drunken ramblings.

We had booked a weekend (Fri & Sat) in early 1980 to play at The Starwood in Hollywood and in preparation for it I layed out $800 cash on things we needed for the performance. Light bulbs for our light show, various equipment rental, a U-haul truck to carry everything and gas to get there and back. I fronted the band the money under the condition that I would be reimbursed from the $2000 we were to be paid for the performances. Well, we played the shows and after the final show on Saturday night Nikki left immediately without saying goodbye. I went to get paid from the club manager David Forrest and he informed me that Nikki had already been paid the $2000 fee in full - two weeks prior to the shows.

I was livid. But since Nikki lived in the San Fernando Valley and I lived in Long Beach (about an hour away) I decided to go home to get some sleep and cool down before driving out to his house. The following morning I woke up and phoned him but there was no answer. I decided to chance it and drive out to his place. What a pissy dump of a duplex it was. Actually, it reminds me of the house they describe in the book 'The Dirt'. In fact, I think it was that place. And in a minute you'll know why they describe the front door the way they do.

Anyway, when I got to his front door I heard some noise inside so I knocked. It got quiet. So knocked harder. I started knocking harder still until finally the peep hole on the door jarred open by fluke. I looked thru the peep hole and there was Nikki standing in the middle of the room half naked... and stumbling drunk. He saw me looking in at him and he was at once startled. He immediately froze, then fell to the floor hiding behind a big trashy couch. I began asking him to open the door, citing that I already saw him and he wasn't fooling me. But he just stayed down there hiding. I don't know what he thought might happen if he stood up and faced me... except maybe a can of whup-ass might have been opened up on him... which was probably accurate at the time. I kept pounding the door when finally the old lock gave way and it swung open. At which point Nikki's head poked up from behind the sofa. I asked him, "Do you have my $800?". He answered no. I asked him if he had any idea when he would have my money? He answered no. He looked like a deer caught in headlights.

Nikki Sixx, Dane Rage and Michael White

I looked inside to the right of the door, and to my surprise there leaning on the wall within reach was his bass case and Ampeg SVT amp head. I leaned in and grabbed the bass and said to him, "Until you get my money I think I'll hold on to your bass as colladeral". I started walking towards my van which was only about 20 feet away. He came to the door and stood there in the doorway like he was affraid to exit his house and chase after me. He managed to scream, "I'm going to call the cops on you!". Not the response I had anticipated, but then I don't know what I was expecting from him. I guess I had hoped that he may have been bluffing and actually had the money in the house and would have come forward with it to pay me. But no. So I left. As I was driving home I started thinking about what he said and if he maybe did call the cops... or if by now he had thought about it and wanted to give me my money. So I got off the highway and I called him. To my surprise a detective answered the phone and started telling me I was in big trouble, etc. I couldn't believe that little weasel Nikki actually called the cops... but he did. Our drummer, Dane Rage, who lived only blocks away was now there at Nikki's house. He got on the phone and kinda negotiated the situation out. He agreed to satisfy Nikki and the cops by coming to my place the next day and retrieving the bass since I didn't want to go back there and chance getting arrested.

So the next day when he arrived at my door I gave him back the bass and told him I quit the band. That was the last time I saw Dane (he was a real nice guy with a good heart...I hope he is doing well). I have seen Nikki several times since that day. I guess a lot of water has passed under the bridge since then and by-gones be by-gones and all that. It was at the Robert Plant after show party in 1983 in Hollywood when I last asked him about the money. "I'm broke man", he told me at the time, "but as soon as I get on my feet and get some cash together I'll give it to you." I'm still waiting for him to get on his feet. In the mean time... I hope he bought a new couch.

Coming soon, part two: "Nikki! Nikki! Nikki!"