A Farewell to Mötley Crüe

 As teenagers in a small town, we would often spend our evenings driving up and down Main Street in a ritual we called cruising main. We would stop at Gopher's and buy Twinkies and Mountain Dew. As we drove, we would watch the cars passing by to see who else was cruising main, and check out which chicks were hanging out in the South Chapel parking lot. Invariably, our drive included lots of conversation and plenty of music. When it came to our bands of preference, there were the big three: Metallica, Guns-n-Roses, and Mötley Crüe.

When Mötley Crüe released their hit album, Dr. Feelgood, I was a junior in High School, and had just received my driver's license. I was a true Crüe fan by then, having already owned a Girls, Girls, Girls tape. I even remember buying a heavy metal magazine with Vince Neil, Mick Mars, Nikki Sixx, and Tommy Lee on the cover.

I liked the beat of the music. A lot of the lyrics I didn't care for. Some of them I considered to be down-right evil. But they knew how to write songs that really kicked butt!

As I graduated High School and moved on with life, Mötley Crüe got pushed to the nether regions of my mind. Maybe it was some sort of mid-life crisis that resurrected my passion for loud music.

With the new technology of MP3's, I began not only downloading all my favorite Mötley Crüe songs of the past, but also new (and old) songs that I had never heard before.

My wife and I even drove to Las Vegas to watch them in concert at the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino.

So, who are these guys? I recently read a book on them, and my eyes were opened.

They are four of the most decadent people I have ever learned about. In some ways, I'm not even sure why I like them so much because their lifestyles and music go against almost every moral creed I believe in.

The cliché of sex, drugs, and rock-n-roll, fits these guys to a T―and then some. As far as drugs go, they did them all: cocaine, heroin, quaaludes and more. And they did a lot. Nikki Sixx spent thousands of dollars a day on drugs at one time. Mick Mars once had to be propped up for a photo shoot because he was so wasted. Their albums Theater of Pain and Girls, Girls, Girls were a miracle that they were even produced. That entire period was just one long high.

Along with the drugs, the sex was unrestrained also. There was no limit. Many of their sexual forays even bordered on rape. No one seemed to care or do anything about it. The band members got exactly what they wanted.

Vince Neil, the lead singer, and sole member with blonde hair, was high on drugs one night and crashed his Ferrari, killing a close friend who was in the passenger seat. Vince spent a month in jail, time in rehab, and performed many hours of community service as restitution.

Several years later, his four year old daughter, Skyler, died from a cancerous tumor in her abdomen. This devastated Neil and sent him into a drinking binge that was even worse than before.

Nikki Sixx, the bassist, I think is the brain-power behind the band. He was born Frank Ferena, but later changed his name when he decided to disown his father for never being around for him. He was mostly raised by his grandparents from Idaho. They were the only stability he had in his youth.

During his time with Mötley Crüe, he became extremely addicted to heroin. After a tour in 1987, Nikki overdosed on heroin and was considered dead until doctors were able to revive him. This pivotal experience became the genesis for their hit song, Kickstart My Heart. I believe that he has been sober for eight years now from any kind of drug or alcohol.

Guitarist Mick Mars is the oldest, and in my opinion, the most mature member of the band. He didn't struggle with drugs as much as the others, but was a deep alcoholic. He, too, was able to conquer his addiction.

His biggest battle was against a chronic disease called ankylosing spondylitis, a cruel condition that turns the bones in your body rigid and hard. Mick is often perceived as stiff on stage, but in reality, it hurts him to move.

Tommy Lee, the drummer, was considered the kid of the band, and could bang the drums loud and hard. He is infamous for his tattooed body and Hollywood wives, Heather Locklear and Pamela Anderson.

I learned that his mother was Miss Greece before she immigrated to the United States. As long as he was willing to take the first steps, his parents always supported him in whatever he did.

Tommy always wanted to have kids of his own and finally was able to with Pamela Anderson. Shortly after his second child was born, he and Pamela began having marriage problems, which eventually led to a domestic fight, four months in jail for Tommy, and a divorce. This was the period when Tommy left the group for a while and was replaced by former Ozzy Osbourne drummer, Randy Castillo.

Through all the drugs and sex and foul language, I saw glimmers of growth in the band. They, in their own way, could see some of their folly and sought to improve themselves.

With Nikki's heroin overdose, the band had a wake-up call and decided to check into rehab, making a pact that they would go sober. This meant refraining from all drugs, including marijuana and caffeine. They also abstained from red meats and engaged in daily exercise. They cloistered themselves at a location in Canada and began working on music for their best-selling album, Dr. Feelgood. The album went on to be 6x Platinum and reached the top of the Billboard 200 Chart.

When Mötley Crüe declared they were making a stop in Salt Lake City on their final tour, I had to get tickets.

My wife and I traveled over 200 miles on a quick overnight trip to attend the concert. We were tired, but enthusiastic to watch the show. Energy Solutions Arena―the same place where the Utah Jazz play ball―was the venue. Mötley Crüe would play with Alice Cooper, an added bonus!

When we walked across the parking lot to the venue, we found a long line of anxious fans waiting to be first through the doors at 6 pm. A couple of radio stations broadcasted live from the sidewalk.

We saw a lot of tattoos, a lot of black Mötley Crüe shirts, and a relatively calm crowd, either standing in line or relaxing beneath the shade of a tree.

I walked the circumference of the building and found large lines on three of the four sides. On the back side I found several large semi trucks and tour buses backed up near the loading dock.

We weren't there long when a lady walked through the crowd selling T-shirts. “Twenty dollars here or forty inside!” she yelled. I didn't know if she was telling the truth, but I thought that I had better jump on it, just in case. I handed her a twenty dollar bill and purchased the very first rock and roll t-shirt of my entire life.

At six, the doors didn't open. At seven, we were still waiting outside. They started handing out complimentary water bottles. That pacified us momentarily, but once eight o'clock rolled around and the doors remained shut, the crowd began to transform from restless, to resentful and ornery. By this time, many had consumed several beers and began to taunt and jeer the venue employees.

Instead of taunting, we found a nice couple from Preston, Idaho to talk with. She displayed a Utah Jazz tattoo on her ankle, and he wore long blonde hair, a bandana, and a rounded nose that made him look like a pudgy Axl Rose. They told us of their ten kids and how their house burned to the ground three years ago―one day after attending a Guns-n-Roses concert.

Finally, three hours late, we were let inside the venue! We still had to wait in the halls for another forty-five minutes before they would let us into the arena. I don't know if this was a good idea because now everyone had access to the alcohol venders. About 75% of the people I saw had a plastic cup of beer in their hand.

The guy next to us in the hall kept trying to mumble something, then finally spilled his beer right on the floor. I was relieved when the arena doors were finally let open and we were able to enter inside.

The first thing we noticed were the two roller coaster-like tracks that ran up, then down, then back up again―right over center court. [After the concert, we learned that Energy Solutions was short-handed with help setting things up. These two large tracks on the floor probably contributed to the delay.]

At 10 pm, while people were still filing in, the lights went dim, and Alice Cooper came on stage and the crowd went wild.

This post is not about Alice Cooper, but I will say that I was very impressed with him. He has a very spooky or Gothic persona, and on stage, this is exactly how he portrayed himself. He was a great showman. During the performance, he wrapped himself with a giant boa constrictor, turned into a Frankenstein monster, and cut off his head with a guillotine.

I was also impressed with his gorgeous blonde guitarist, Nita Strauss. (Even my wife agreed that she was hot!) It's not often that you see a female guitarist with any rock band. And she was good, too, pounding away at those strings like any well-seasoned guy. I later learned that she was voted #1 in Guitar World's list of “10 Female Guitar Players You Should Know.”

The show lasted one hour, and soon the stage crew was working hard to tear down Alice Cooper, and set up Mötley Crüe.

When the Crüe took the stage, the entire arena became engulfed with swaying lights and heart pounding beats. They led the show with their hit song, Girls, Girls, Girls.

From our vantage point on the balcony, we couldn't see many details of how they looked. For this, I brought a small pair of binoculars.

Nikki Sixx had his face painted white with black stripes. Tommy Lee looked like a punk kid going berserk on the drums. Mick Mars didn't get too crazy on stage, but his hands looked like a machine gun on the guitar. Vince Neil, although a bit heftier than in his glory days, and without the long bleached blonde hair, still played the perfect role of front-man, running all around the stage.

As expected, these guys didn't know how to form a sentence without spewing out a line of expletives.

Then came the moment of the Crüecifly, flown by pilot, Tommy Lee.

Drugs have taken their toll on the Mötley Crüe drummer. Tommy usually shows up to concerts shirtless, with earrings, nipple rings, and tattoos over his entire body. Sometimes he looks like a freak. Despite all that, he can voraciously play the drums like few others. Often his name will come up in lists for the greatest drummers of all time. And he has a charisma that helps make Mötley Crüe who they are.

The Crüecifly is like a large indoor roller coaster that straps Tommy in and raises him and his drum set high above the crowd, rotating upside down and moving slowly across the arena. The rest of the band leaves the stage, and for over eight minutes, Tommy Lee pounds a drum solo. A funky blend of techno and rap music accompany the solo, probably of Lee's own creation.

After four minutes of soaring over the crowd, he gave one last bang, and in an instant, all the music stopped and the swaying red lights shut off. Tommy Lee stood up at his drum set, now on the other side of the arena, and spoke to the crowd.

“What the f--- mother f------! What's up baby?”

“Holy s---!”

“Everybody say hello to the g-- d---- Crüecifly, baby!”

“I wish there were f------ more seats on this thing so we can all go for a ride, don't you think?”

“Hey, man, by the way, we f------ apologize for the late a-- start, but you know what, it's a f------ party, so who gives a flying f---!”

“Let's go baby!”

And with one pound of the drums, the white lights went off, and the swaying blue lights filled the arena, and Tommy Lee was hammering away again while flipping upside down and slowing coasting back toward the stage.

This is who Mötley Crüe is. They are decadent. Since the beginning they have aimed for the bad-boy image and have done a pretty good job at keeping it up.

After twenty songs, and a constant barrage of head-rattling music, flames, dancing women, fog, and enough explosives to light downtown Baghdad, Mötley Crüe rocked the walls down with their finale, Kickstart My Heart. The entire arena turned a cloudy white, with the music and the blasting echoing off the walls, and confetti and streamers falling from the ceiling.

Then, in an instant, the band disappeared from the stage.

Of course, we all know how this goes. Everyone comes to their feet and begins cheering and clapping and chanting as loud as they can, and cheering some more, and sustaining as long as they can for an encore.

Then, we see four flashlight beams emerge from the tunnel below the stage, and soon we can see Vince, Nikki, Mick, and Tommy in full light, walking toward the opposite end of the arena. They climb onto a small make-shift stage at the back of the arena where Tommy sits down to a large piano.

The stage slowly rises until they are high above the crowd, and Mötley Crüe sings their classic ballad, Home Sweet Home. Vince misses a couple notes, and the rest of the group appears haggard, ready to go home.

After twenty-five years, they've played in a lot of venues and have seen a lot of faces. I think that I'd be ready to go home, too.

I'm on my way, just set me free,

Home sweet home.

Mantua, Utah

West of Brigham City, the highway quickly gains elevation along the narrow, but short, Box Elder Canyon. Quickly, it arrives at a lush basin in the mountains that the early settlers called “Little Valley.”

I remember this valley when passing through as a youngster, beholding the large lake and the picturesque little town that resides along its shores―a sight not too common in Utah. This would be just before the highway curled back over another mountain hill and into Sardine Canyon, a corridor notorious for its treacherous wintertime conditions.

We never stopped in this little town. The road-sign read “Mantua,” but I never knew how to pronounce it. I even remember seeing a couple of moose feeding down by a stream one day as we passed through.

Little did I know that a couple of decades later, my in-laws would buy a house there and I would come to know the place a little more intimately.

The first thing I learned was how to pronounce it: Man-a-way.

In the beginning, I didn't get to know the town very well―just the backyard and fields around my in-laws' home. Bugs were everywhere: mosquitoes, gnats, dragonflies, May bugs, and snowy aphids. Notably the snowy aphids. Sometimes, especially in the evening when the glow of the sun is just right, swarms of these tiny white bugs billow over the air like wafting smoke. They don't seem to bite much, but if you leave a door to the house ajar, they will invite themselves inside and linger around the light bulbs.

The bugs are there because of the lake. My in-laws' home is half a mile from the southern shore.

I soon discovered that a four and a half mile walking path circumvents the lake. One morning I woke up and ran the length of it. I enjoyed the long daybreak shadows from the trees and the smell of wheat fields that grow along the side. I saw a couple does feeding in the field.

The edge of the lake is very swampy. Knarled trees grow from the water and in some spots it can feel like you're on the bayou. A metal dock at the southern edge of the lake floats in the water and provides a place for locals to launch canoes and other small vessels.

One day I decided to walk half-way around the lake and then climb a large knoll on the eastern edge of the water. I hiked at an angle straight up, over small rocks and through cheat grass. It was all worth it because at the top there is a view like none other.

The entire lake comes into view and the tiny village on the other side, with the small store and a yellow church and steeple. But they are so far away. I could finally find my in-laws' house, surrounded by fields in all directions, and could distinguish our little matchbox Trailblazer parked in front.

Little did I know that I had climbed the same hill that Lorenzo Snow, Apostle of the Mormon Church, had climbed in late spring of 1864 with many of the early settlers. Elder Snow named the little knoll “Mount Hope” and dedicated the land and the water that it might be a blessing to the people. The little town was given the name “Mantua” in honor of Elder Snow's birthplace in Mantua, Ohio.

Mantua truly lies in a basin surrounded by mountains. In a way, it is in a world by itself. That, I think, is part of the appeal. Although Brigham City, the Wasatch Front, and the smoggy I-15 corridor are only miles away, they are completely out of view. Mantua might as well be a village in Switzerland.

Finally, after my in-laws had lived there a few years, I began to research the history of Mantua.

Before the settlers, the Shoshone passed through the valley during their annual migrations from Bear Lake. Mantua was also well known to fur trappers, who traversed the Wasatch Mountains.

The Mormons came into the picture in 1851 when Brigham City was settled. The valley, or Little Valley, as it became known, was a popular place to run cattle.

Around 1859, one of the two mail routes that led from Brigham City to Logan traveled through Little Valley. The story is told of one of the carriers, Samuel Alonzo Whitney, who had only one arm. Although there were some conflicts with the Indians, Samuel was on a friendly basis with them. The Shoshone called him “Burrowit,” meaning “one arm gone,” and would often escort him through the valley. He spoke the Shoshone tongue fluently.

The trail that he rode is the Indian Trail, and was a major route used by early mountain men and Natives that traveled over the mountains from the Paradise-Avon area into Mantua Valley.

In 1863, Elder Lorenzo Snow called five Danish families to create a settlement in Little Valley. The settlers were to grow flax, which church leaders thought would grow well in the valley due to the cool nights and short growing season. The crop grew well enough that the nickname “Flaxville” was given to the town. The idea was soon abandoned due to the coarseness of the fiber.

These Danish settlers persisted and built up a lovely little community. Several generations raised their families in Mantua.

Now, in the year 2015, I am stepping outside my in-laws' home on Reservoir Drive, a short graveled road that reaches the southern dock of the lake. Immediately I am welcomed by a nasty swarm of snowy aphids, just beyond the door and hovering over some shrubs in the front yard. I hurry to the road and begin my walk up the street.

I walk past a field of freshly cut alfalfa and a soft breeze catches the scent and gently blows it my direction. The piles lay in even rows and wait to be raked and baled.

Soon, I am on Main Street, a lightly visited road with no painted white or yellow lines. On my right is the Mount Haven R.V. Park and Country Store, the only “supermarket” in town. It looks a lot like a barn and isn't much bigger than a house. I wouldn't be surprised if somebody lives upstairs. No cars are parked in front.

During my journey, I notice that all the lawns are very well manicured. Grass has been freshly mowed, hedges perfectly trimmed, vegetable gardens growing in exact rows, and no weeds between plants. It's not just one lawn, but plot after plot.

While passing one house, I spot a Plymouth Rock chicken strolling along the shady side of a tree in the front yard. As I pass the large base of the tree, I see a rooster in the crook of a branch, clucking back and forth in a panic when he sees me.

Farther up the road is a large building with yellow vinyl siding and black steeple on top. On the front porch are two arm chairs and a mailbox. Apparently, this is the “old church,” as opposed to the “new church,” which is across town. Many years ago, someone bought and converted it into a home. The view here is ideal as it sits on the west shore of the lake.

I turn around at this point and return the way I came. I walk along the sidewalk on the west side of Main Street, leaving me mostly in afternoon shadows.

Although I am across the street from the reservoir, I can only see a horizontal slice of water. Fisherman wait on casted poles and a paddler pilots his canoe beyond the shore.

A stream of water emerges from a conduit beneath the road. This would be Big Creek, the drainage point of Mantua Reservoir, and it will quickly coalesce with Box Elder Creek.

Instead of returning to the house, I make a right-hand turn and walk up Center Street toward the cemetery. There are no businesses on this street. All are residential homes with the same perfectly manicured lawns. Two thoughts cross my mind: first, these people must take great pride in living here to keep their homes looking so nice; and second, why does my lawn at home look like such a dump?

At last, the road comes to an end and I arrive at the cemetery. The cemetery lies on a hill and just below, but out of sight, is the main highway that runs between Logan and Brigham City. Here it feels secluded. There is a peaceful feeling that should exist in every cemetery.

I don't know what to expect as I begin to meander through the headstones. Right away, I notice the abundance of Scandinavian names: Peterson, Ekelsen, Andersen, Olsen. Generation after generation of the sames names tells me that families have stayed in the valley for over a century.

The earliest death date I can find is that of Caroline Jeppesen, who died in 1879. I'm sure there are others that are older, but I can't find them.

I see a small flat headstone for Elder Joseph L. Moffitt, missionary. The only other inscription is a drawing of the state of Idaho, and the Boise Temple. In the top-right corner is a small outline of the state of Massachusetts. He died at the age of nineteen. It is obvious that there is a story here that I may never know. In my mind I ask where he served his mission and why is he buried in Mantua.

As I am about to leave the cemetery, I come across the most touching headstone of all. Atop the base of the large black-marbled monument are two bottles of Pepsi. The labels are a bit faded from the sun. It is a double headstone, with both the husband and wife's name etched in, although the wife hasn't died yet.

I read the name of the deceased: Cade Fenton Wyatt. He died at the youthful age of twenty-six, having been married to his wife for only four years. Across the front is an engraving of the Salt Lake Temple, and below it the inscription, “Eternally Yours, Forever Mine.” I'm sure that one bottle of Pepsi was placed there by his wife, and the other by his son.

As I walk back to the house, through the shadows and scents of pre-dusk, I contemplate the fragility of life and the beauty of the world. The two often merge in exactly the same place and are so poignant that they seem paradoxical.

Back at the house, just for kicks, I pull out a local cookbook that was put together by the ladies of the local LDS ward. I flip through the pages to see if there is anything unique.

I notice many of the same Scandinavian names that I found in the cemetery. I also come across a few recipes that may have been handed down through the generations: Danish Tea, Danish Dumplings, Swedish Bread Dumplings, Swedish Pancakes, Norwegian Pancakes, Swedish Roll-up Hotcakes, Swedish Meatballs, Danish Dessert Cake.

Perhaps I'll never know the origin of these recipes, but these are the kind of things I think about.