Reason #12 to stay away from drugs: midgets will climb on your back and tell you riddles while you’re trying to play guitar
Jones Beach Theater
16 August 2005
“Don’t fucking shake your head at me,” Tommy Lee yelled at me. This was during the Tittie Cam segment of the Mötley Crüe show, when the band takes a camcorder to the crowd, shaming breasts until they’re fully exposed up on three megascreens. Breasts–whatever. I know about those. What I was fucking shaking my head at was the girl who had stripped down to panties, waiting for the camera with her left breast generously stuffed into her own mouth. She was also bouncing such that her right breast swung violently into her right arm. I shook my head because I always thought the breast in mouth, tit wrecking ball thing was less Crüe, more something you might see at a Deerhoof concert. This was shock, not morality. Either way: “I’ll fucking come down there and beat the fucking shit out of you.”
The rest of the reunion show, dubbed the Carnival of Sins (not “Sinn”, the German word for “sense” or “reason” needled onto the cap Nikki Sixx surely thought himself quite the punster for wearing), featured all the Crüe’s boring-ass songs that people who don’t know any better request at weddings, including “Girls Girls Girls”, a Sex Pistols cover, and five other songs that sound like “Girls Girls Girls.”
But let’s give credit where it’s due: Somebody had to convince those post-glam cracked out pasty-wearing sex acrobatesses to paint their chests with dark glitter so from afar their rib cages look collapsed. Somebody had to pay that midget to ride a midget unicycle out on stage and juggle midget clubs while Nikki Sixx picked a mortified Mick Mars’s nose, then stuck the finger in his own mouth. And I don’t know what it took to get that girl to put a buzzsaw to her metal-plated crotch so her vagina would shoot sparks, but somebody had something to do with it, and that’s saying a lot. I’ve never seen so many goddamn sparks in my life.
After the first set Crüe gave up on musicianship (except for Mars) and stuck to variety-show style entertainment, which is all anybody wanted, really. Tommy gave bad-joke toasts: “Here’s to the king! The king, you ask? The fu-king! Thank you!” Then he hooked himself into a harness and flew sixty feet above the stage into remote drumkit stations with kicked kegs for toms and saucers for snares, which Tommy banged around over pounding techno beats. The segment dragged, until all of the sudden Tommy started jamming, no joke, to Alter Ego’s “Rocker.” I forget where I was, but then I remembered: I’m in America, surrounded by Americans telling other Americans how nice their knockers are (which they should show during you know when). And just a second ago, a man on stage with paint all over his face spit saliva six feet into the air and watched intently as it landed right back in his mouth. “Who the fuck wants a shot of Jagermeister?”