Posted on March 29, 2019
by Steve Janowick

You didn’t see any melancholy.  No sad faces or tears. You didn’t see any peace signs.  You didn’t hear any self-righteous jibber-jabber about starving children or persecuted world leaders.  You probably didn’t hear any flutes or harpsichords or even acoustic guitars. You didn’t see a lot of hipster-types thinking deep thoughts in the front row.  You didn’t see a Me Too Movement booth set up in the promenade.  No Prius’ in the parking lot. And you definitely didn’t see any nuns in baggy clothes.

These are just a few of the things that you didn’t experience at a Motley Crüe concert back in the day!

They were the arbiters, The Godfather’s, of the 80’s hair band era.  The inventors. They took all of the rock and roll clichés of excess and hedonism from the prior decade, threw in some killer catchy riffs, cranked it all up to 11–and let it rip!  They fused the crunchiness of Van Halen with the over-the-top stage presence of Kiss with the sexual energy (and androgyny) of David Bowie and created a rock sub-genre that would be emulated, but never duplicated, throughout the rest of the entire decade.

Love ‘em or hate ‘em (and yes, there were lots of detractors) they never wavered from their identity as a fun, balls-to-the-walls rock and roll band.  Sure, no one ever mistook them for virtuosos (although each was certainly very respectable at playing his instrument-no pun intended). And no one ever used adjectives like high-brow or profound or thought-provoking to describe their musical output.

But they didn’t care what the critics and the snobs thought…and neither did we.

Because if you were a teenager back in the 80’s looking to devolve a bit on a Saturday night; tap into your wild, uninhibited side or just go a little nuts playing your air guitar while head banging-than no other band was more apt to assist than The Crüe.

Raw and real, Tommy Lee, Vince Neil, Mick Mars and Nikki Sixx weren’t some posse of posers like many that followed.  These cats walked the walk. They lived it. Took it right to the edge-and even went over that edge a few times. And, unfortunately, that recklessness (and the serial killer known as Grunge) saw the rapid transformation of Motley Crüe from relevant groundbreakers to glorified cover band getting fat, regurgitating the old hits and living off of a reputation that long ago faded into an autumn sunset.  And now, in 2019, the winter of retirement.

Father Time is still undefeated!

But no one (not even him) can take away our memories.  Our memories of a time when the hair was high, the jeans were tight, and the girls were loose.  Yea, I get it, that was a long time ago. Decades ago. We’re all different now. Refined. Responsible adults with kids, mortgages and all that other shit.  But let me drop the needle on Shout at the Devil or Girls, Girls, Girls and I’d bet a dollar to a donut that the fingers would immediately turn to horns, the head would start thumpin’ and the mind would go back to a time when…

when…

Hell, I say we are still…kickin’…ass!

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