Mötley Crüe is closing out its 34 years with spectacular performances despite every effort to cremate themselves and all their fans. The Miami show was pure, unadulterated Crüe, this time with an investment in pyro-mayhem sure to add at least a percentage point GDP and worsen the average scientist's climate change forecast this quarter.
Conversely, there are few artists for whom I have had more disfavor over four decades than veteran ghoul-master Alice Cooper. In fact, I was compelled to see his performance if only for my curiosity that the only topper for his past legendary antics would be to bite the head off a CGI toddler and spit it into the audience. Thankfully, that wasn't the case.
As the stage was converted at intermission, the Crüe committed contextual terrorism with the music played. This culminated in my watching a female audience member in her fifties dressed as a satanic pirate prance and pirouette about the stands singing every word of The Sound of Music's "So Long Farewell" perfectly while her male-counterpart-associate nursed a beer with one hand and massaged his cascading girth with the other. Most of the crowd's black-laden females followed similar gleeful suit, as if Disney's "It's a Small World" ride was suddenly the gateway to Hell.
And then the Crüe appeared to the Harley-thundering backdrop of "Girls, Girls, Girls." My dominant first impression was Vince Neil's (54, lead singer) ability to still aggressively belt the high notes like a bad-ass Edith Bunker. Tommy Lee (52, drummer) continues to be shockingly lanky, likely on account of the calories burned from perpetually schlepping about an allegedly disproportionate body part. I feel compelled to move on. Nikki Sixx (56, bassist), a full-body tattoo, was the most spirited of the bunch. In fairness, if I had the teaching moment of hovering over my corpse as paramedics revived me from a temporarily fatal O.D., I would also be fluttering about like a whirling dervish at every opportunity.
Alas, the entire band is laden with head-to-toe tattoos from an era when they were still gauche. Of all the risks this band has taken in the name of success, this might be the most significant, as a reckless three-decade on-the-road lifestyle might stretch the image of a cannonball into an eggplant before you can say cirrhosis of the liver.
My admiration for Mr. Sixx's energy contrasts my sympathy for Mick Mars' (reportedly either 60 or 64, lead guitar) ongoing battle with ankylosing spondylitis, an arthritis diagnosed at age 17, allegedly freezing his lower spine. A doppelganger for Jack the Pumpkin King having unsung musicianship I believe comparable Eddie Van Halen's, his willingness to grace the stage amidst a reported $40 million net worth showcased his undying love for music. He heads into retirement as a character in Disney's upcoming theme park attraction, "The Hall of the Wicca." I have now broken the record for Disney references in an article about Mötley Crüe with a mere two.
Incidentally, now having reviewed the syllabic patterns of each band member's name, it occurs to me that my Mötley Crüe name would be Glenny Balls, sure to get my studded leather briefs run up a flagpole aflame.
The show did have its touching moments, particularly as Mr. Neil and Mr. Lee constantly reminded us of how much love Crüe nation has for our mothers. My expert pre-show ticket haggling yielded an expenditure of only 22 cents per "motherf****r" compared to an average 76 cents in Crüe shows past. I did feel rather cheated, however, to be far removed from Mr. Sixx's repeated spitting of a red blood-like substance on front-row concert-goers. This classic heavy metal show theatric is now reported not to have been staged, and rather, to be in reaction to his distaste for selfies the fans were snapping, taking a page from the legendary self-help classic, How to Lose Friends and Alienate People.
Requiring a belly full of Bonine, Mr. Lee turned the latest in a long line of storied theatrical solos into an amusement park ride, as his drum kit traversed the arena lengthwise almost in the rafters on a rollercoaster-style track, flipping all the way. At the back of the arena, he reinforced the fondness we all have for our mothers a handful of times and then retreated to the main stage. This was, by far, the greatest feat of engineering I've seen in the multi-hundreds of concerts I've attended.
Regardless, the hallmark of the show was the constant conversion of the American Airlines arena into the surface of a meteor. A first for me was Mr. Sixx attempting to barbecue the ceiling with his bass guitar, on it mounted a full-on flamethrower, during "Shout at the Devil." This song was the soundtrack to which I completed the lengthy written requirements for my Catholic Confirmation, which explains a lot. I have never come close to seeing so many flash-bangs and so much blatant pyro-chaos on a stage, a five-story pentagram being set ablaze top-to-bottom.
The lack of communication between band members throughout the show, Mr. Lee's post-show tweet that read, "I want to apologize for the sh*tshow tonight! Well... I played good!," and Mr. Mars' physical struggles as security shepherded the Crüe into a tunnel directly below me made it regrettably clear that this was the band's last heated hoorah.
Mötley Crüe was the perfect juxtaposition of just enough brash hardness and melody to make great music, just enough antics and business sense to hold it all together, and just enough a-hole behavior and talent to make us keep watching. At the show's close, my fellow concert-goers internalized the sentiments of the title of the tour, "All Bad Things Must Come to an End," as jubilance morphed to mourning. As the Walking Dead filed out of the arena, I drew the experience out for another half hour, sharing my solidarity with Crüe nation by helping a smattering of stewed aficionados find their cars (easy, given they were standing right in front of them), hoping now they made it "Home Sweet Home."
Glen Tibaldeo is a bestselling humorist, media personality, columnist for Psychology Today, and author of bestseller "Radical Sabbatical," which Pulitzer Prize winning humorist Dave Barry claims "is the funniest book I've ever held in my hands." Glen is a lifelong explorer of the answer to the timeless question of whether to write more about this or that.
Stay tuned for news about near-completion of the "Radical Sabbatical" screenplay.
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