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Motley Crue's High-Wire Rock
Raunchy Reunion Harks Back to '80s
By Sean Daly
Washington Post Staff Writer
Tuesday, March 8, 2005; Page C01
Tommy Lee, the reliably shirtless drummer for Motley Crue, was very unhappy with the women of Washington on Sunday night. Prowling a massive stage made to look like an X-rated big top -- think Cirque du Soiled -- the endlessly tattooed Lee aimed a video camera into the near-capacity MCI Center crowd and demanded that female fans flash their support for the recently reunited headbangers.
"Dude, that is so sad," Lee scolded when only a few obliged with a show of skin. "I resign."
Bassist Nikki Sixx quickly tried to broker a deal: Maybe if Lee showed his naughty bits first? "It's not like you haven't seen it before," Sixx chuckled to the audience. (The drummer teased but ultimately remained zipped.)
For those expecting a more enriching level of discourse during the two-hour-plus show: Wow, were you in the wrong building. Love 'em or lock 'em up, this is the essence of the Crue: four shameless hair-metal immortals -- Lee, Sixx, singer Vince Neil and guitarist Mick Mars -- who have spent the past 24 years unapologetically upholding the principles of sex, drugs and rock-and-roll.
This tour, the Crue's first with its original lineup since 1999, has proved a surprise smash across the country, selling out at almost every stop. Plug your ears and lock up the kids: Irony-free metal is back, in a big booming way.
The four forty-something Crue members Sunday unveiled bikini-clad contortionists dangling from ropes, a menacing dwarf, three oversize motorcycles, a porno movie flashing on a massive video screen, evil clown roadies, blinding pyrotechnics -- and that was just for one song, "Girls, Girls, Girls," that grinding ode to golden-hearted strippers the world over.
Touring in support of a new double-disc hits collection, "Red, White & Crue," the famously feuding rockers -- it's truly a miracle the tour held up long enough to get to us -- kept the hits and the sensory overload coming, a silly but utterly satisfying tribute to the hairy days of old.
Let's just say that the classiest moment of the night came when one of the dancers did a poetic interpretive dance -- all the while shooting sparks from a most uncomfortable place.
Oh, this show was filthy for sure. From the bombastic opener, "Shout at the Devil," to an encore of the Sex Pistols' "Anarchy in the UK," the Crue proved it is unrivaled when it comes to creatively utilizing the f-word and related vulgarities.
And for what it's worth, the Crue sounded spectacular -- or at least sounded as chest-rattlingly loud and utterly nuance-free as it ever did.
Each band member was given a chance to relive past glories. The blond beach boy Neil -- whose recent bout of plastic surgery has left him looking thin but also somewhat melted, as if he were left in the microwave too long -- can still unleash a wicked shriek, and his rather sweet readings of pole-dancing ballads "Without You" and "Home Sweet Home" had the Bic lighters out and ignited.
The Sasquatchian Sixx, a former heroin addict who has cheated death more times than Indiana Jones, played both his bass and his bass lines low and menacingly, sneering the throngs into a frenzy during classic rumbles "Looks That Kill" and "Wild Side."
Looking like a cross between Mr. Toad and the Grim Reaper, Mars was a power-chording marvel, which is impressive because a degenerative spinal disease has left him hunched and frail. Like any good metalhead, Mars knows that guitar solos are as important to fans as lyrics, so he faithfully hammered out the licks during the band's most frenzied rockers, "Kickstart My Heart" and "Same Ol' Situation (S.O.S.)."
And say what you will about Lee -- and Lord knows, most of it has been said (and seen on the Internet) -- the former Mr. Pamela Anderson is a phenomenally active drummer. His limbs and sticks flail about as if he's fighting off a swarm of bees. Back in the day, Lee would perform epic solos in a spinning drum kit that would soar across the length of stadiums. He's older now, of course, so these days he performs solos on two stationary setups -- each of which is some 50 feet in the air and 20 feet from the other. You could hear a collective holding of breath as a high-wired Lee leapt like Peter Pan from one rig to the other.
At night's end -- after the giant inflatable jester and the fire-breathing exotic dancers were brought out, that is -- the Motley men came to the front of the stage to receive an obligatory but deserved standing ovation. Was Lee still irked about the gratuitous skin snub from the ladies? Well, he did grab himself below the belt and spit out a giant ball of phlegm. But in Crue-speak, that means all is forgiven.
© 2005 The Washington Post Company
