Once upon a time, in a galaxy seemingly light years from where we currently sit, four seedy Hollywood misfits schemed to take over the world and set about putting the ultimate rock ‘n’ roll band together. This quick vignette could apply to a litany of aspiring artists, but this one, in particular, would go on to literally see it all—ridicule, fame, fortune, scorn, dismissal, irrelevance, and finally, renewed interest, all in the span of 40 years. In spite of all the surface-level brinksmanship, Mötley Crüe has had its share of ups and downs.
Something I’ve always found interesting was the paradoxical nature of the group. On one hand, the band is viewed by many critics and detractors as bloated, vacuous rock stars more in it for the lifestyle than the music. But at the same time, the Crüe has had a knack for churning out massive hook-laden anthems that have stood the test of time and are now kind of seen as Americana. No matter where you’ve stood, there’s no denying the sheer earworm appeal of “Shout at the Devil” or “Kickstart My Heart,” which, coincidentally, gets played at virtually every sports event on the planet. So what if it’s basic, if you like it, you like it.
Starting out a bit below the curve in terms of musicianship when compared to many of their peers in the LA club circuit at the dawn of the ‘80s, the band was undeterred, and pushed forward, in spite of its limitations. Mastermind and bass player Nikki Sixx emulated the spectacle and bombast of ‘70s glam rock while also being impressed by punk’s DIY aesthetic. With the addition of singer Vince Neil, drummer Tommy Lee, and guitarist Mick Mars, the lineup was solidified and Hollywood would never be quite the same. Embellishing their scrappy pop/metal/punk sounds with candelabras, smoke, fire, and scary poses, the band’s ambition often outweighed its natural abilities, but the feeling was there. Initially ridiculed and laughed at by heavier bands and virtuosos, the band soldiered on, eventually building a following.
Keeping with its DIY aesthetic, the band would release a single “Toast of the Town,” and soon, its full-length debut Too Fast For Love on its own imprint Leathür Records. A heady mix of metal and pop with a raw punk edge within its primitive, seamy grooves, the album—especially in this early incarnation—is rife with attitude and zero pretension. Here was a band that knew its way around a catchy refrain, especially in numbers such as “Public Enemy #1” with its bombastic intro and melodic refrain, and the title track which is as unformulaic and quirky as anything the post-punk scene was coughing up across the pond. The main difference was that the Crüe were more literal and earnest than their alternative peers, whose disaffected and introspective approach seemed to resonate more closely with esteemed critics. When Elektra Records eventually signed the band, the label would have Queen’s producer Roy Thomas Baker sanitize the sound and buff and polish some of the rough edges that made it special.
The band would eventually become one of the biggest acts of the ‘80s, releasing four more major releases before hitting some bumps in the ‘90s, and completely falling out of style for another several years. Trying its hand at embracing the alternative stylings of that decade would only serve to alienate the band even more in a scene that largely turned its back on the cockier bands of the prior decade, of which, Mötley Crüe had played a starring role.
Then, around the turn of the century, the band came clawing back. A wildly successful tell-all book, The Dirt, won praise from critics and fans across the board for its unflinching look at the highs and lows of the band’s rise and downfall. Around this time, Tommy Lee had also become a frequent headline in gossip magazines for his high-profile romantic connections and home-video exploits. During this time, something miraculous happened, many of the pop-metal bands from the ‘80s were now seen as part of a classic rock revival movement, and the Crüe were the leading lights of this development. The band that was once the bain of the existence of the music media, latte-swilling hipsters, and grunge fans of the prior decade was now in fashion again and hasn’t looked back since.
Now, with a successful movie version of The Dirt, new recordings here and there, and top-drawing tours under its collective studded belt, it’s no surprise that a box set would also be forthcoming. Enter Crücial Crüe: The Studio Albums 1981-1989 (BMG).
This buxom box features the band’s first five albums, the aforementioned Too Fast For Love (1981), Shout at the Devil (1983), Theatre of Pain (1985), Girls, Girls, Girls (1987) and Dr. Feelgood (1989). Conspicuously missing are 1994’s self-titled grunge-style album (without Vince Neil), 1997’s industrial experiment Generation Swine, 2000’s New Tattoo (sans Tommy Lee, this time) and the band’s comeback album from 2008, Saints of Los Angeles. Each LP in the set comes on thick, high-quality splatter-colored vinyl, with a different variant per album. The glossy discs come complete in thick LP jackets with original artwork in tow. Missing from this otherwise impressive set are any bonus materials; rare tracks, live recordings, or a retrospective book. So, it’s less of a career catch-all and more of an almost elegant showcase of the band’s prime-era albums, at a somewhat hefty price tag.
It would’ve been nice to have gotten a copy of the original Leathür Records version of Too Fast For Love, for a truer view of the band’s evolution from street-urchin hedonists to multi-millionaire hedonists. But either way, as a capsule of the band’s major contributions to the musical zeitgeist, Crücial Crüe is a classy affair, perhaps a little too pristine for this particular band, if you think about it.
For questions, comments, or something you’d like to see, drop me a line. @JimKaz1
