On paper, this debate seems like complete nonsense. But it’s a crystal-clear example of why every true metal fan in the world took Roth’s side when he split with the rest of Van Halen. Dave didn’t think like a musician; he thought like a rock guy. He understood the vile depravity of keyboard metal.
This, however, causes a problem.
I cannot remember what this vile depravity was.
Oh, I assure you: I used to know. If I could be fifteen again, I could have written this entire book on why keyboards are gay (and I wouldn’t have needed Charlie Benante’s philosophical support). But today, I can’t think of even one justification for why I (or—for that matter—“we”) hated keyboards, besides the fact that they didn’t “rock.”
And that says a lot about metal culture.
The Keyboard Issue was like a secret handshake. People took it seriously (and sometimes to unjustified extremes), but disliking the concept of keyboards wasn’t really about the bands or the music. It was actually about the fans. It was a sign of credibility for someone in the metal subculture. It separated “metal fans” from people who were along for the ride. Keyboards strayed outside the metal ethic, just as long hair and self-indulgent guitar soloing were unacceptable in the punk and hardcore scene.
What’s especially strange is that—at least metaphorically—synthesizers made perfect sense as glam instruments. Glam was about a false reality, and synthesizers epitomize a false instrument (they can mimic any sound the musician wants). In theory, the keyboard should have been the premier machine of the glam age. But the problem was that it defied hard rock tradition. Weird as it seems, hairspray metal was a staunchly traditional genre. Nothing was really new. Both visually and musically, glam metal was always an extension of what had come before it. Therefore, only three instruments were acceptable: guitar, bass, drums. Dogmatically, the combination of those three sounds is how you make heavy metal music.
Proof of that traditional thesis can be spotted in the last part of Benante’s statement: After blasting the use of keyboards in rock, Charlie feels obligated to make UFO a specific exception to this rule. Though the bread and butter of metal was an anti-authority message, there was a bizarre, undying respect for old-school heroes. UFO is best known for their 1977 LP Lights Out. Outside of metal circles, UFO is completely forgotten; even most ’80s metal fans weren’t familiar with the band’s work. But the drummer from Anthrax felt they were important enough to mention in a statement that—quite frankly—had absolutely nothing to do with the rest of the interview.
This is the third thing we learn from Benante’s off-the-cuff quote: It was important to recognize where you came from. Here again, we see a principle that goes against the way teen culture is usually described. We usually assume kids want to tear down the past and kill old idols; sometimes that seemed to be the only force driving punk. But metal always suggested otherwise, even if its fans didn’t care. Personally, I didn’t give a damn about Zep or Sabbath or the Stones when I was in junior high. It wasn’t my music, and it sounded painfully archaic (far, far more than it does now). But I would never have said that to anyone I hung around with. We had an unspoken respect for all those groups, even though we never listened to any of them. Those cues were mostly aped from the artists we liked (such as Helix). In the 1980s, you did not see bands attack their influences.
Perhaps that was what made Guns N’ Roses seem so fresh. GNR was the first metal band that didn’t seem to care about the past. It wasn’t so much that they attacked people either—they just seemed like a band who fell out of a hole in the sky (or at least they did initially—over time, they would evolve into the world’s most expensive cover band, and Axl would credit every artist who existed, including the Skyliners).
To use a sports analogy, it’s kind of like the behavior of Allen Iverson, a guard for the Philadelphia 76ers. Iverson, a boundlessly talented gangsta playmaker, was constantly discredited in his rookie season for not “showing respect” to the veteran players (and—by association—the entire game of basketball). The irony is that Iverson never overtly criticized anyone; he never suggested he was a more explosive scorer than Michael Jordan, and he never declared that he could have made Oscar Robertson his bitch. But his demeanor and posture was deliciously transparent: You could tell he did not care about the past establishment. He felt no obligation to pay homage to anyone; their achievements did not apply to him. And this made him seem very, very dangerous. A sportswriter for Sports Illustrated once asked Iverson why he wore cornrows in his hair, and Iverson said he did it to scare white people.
That statement reminded me of almost everything Axl Rose ever did.
“Police and niggers, get out of my way,” sneered Rose on 1988’s “One In a Million,” a song that still seems mildly shocking twelve years later. Though never released as a single, it’s one of Guns N’ Roses’ best-known songs—but for uncomfortable reasons. The lyrics attacked blacks, gays, and foreigners, and the ensuing controversy helped Rose and his bandmates become the biggest group in the world, a position they held for almost five years.
Lyrically, the track was like a gritty, acoustic B-side to “Welcome to the Jungle,” GNR’s breakthrough single from their ’87 debut Appetite for Destruction. “One In a Million” explains Rose’s experience as an ignorant kid from middle America who takes a bus to Hollywood; his initial encounters with diversity are not positive: Rose blames “immigrants and faggots” for taking over neighborhoods and spreading the AIDS virus. A few pages ago, I mentioned how no one uses the word “faggot” anymore. This song marked the end of that era.
Yet for all its unmasked prejudice, “One In a Million” was actually intended to upset the white establishment, not the minorities it ostracized. If anything, Rose should be criticized for using special interest groups as pawns for annoying knee-jerk liberals and social conservatives.
Though one can never be certain about another man’s motivations, it’s unlikely that Rose was truly advocating the ideas in the song. For one thing, Rose’s then bandmate Slash is half black (however, it should be noted that Slash halfheartedly criticized the song’s inclusion on GNR Lies, later saying, “That song was taken exactly how I thought it would be”—in fact, there’s reason to believe Slash didn’t even play guitar when the song was recorded). If Axl had any sincere distaste for gays, he certainly picks strange heroes; he adores Elton John and Freddie Mercury and was briefly obsessed with the Pet Shop Boys, even sending them flowers after a concert. And—according to the Lies liner notes—Rose’s main problem with foreigners is that they get jobs in convenience stores without a proper grasp of the English language. That complaint almost seems justified. (It should also be noted that Rose has come to conclude that the constant misinterpretation of “One In a Million” isn’t worth the trouble; on future pressing of GNR Lies, it will not be included on the disc. This is a shame and a mistake, but I guess it’s his song and his life.)
Despite the controversy it caused (or perhaps because of it), side two of GNR Lies is modern heavy metal’s watershed moment. For the band itself, it was a mark of separation from the rest of the genre; from this point forward, GNR could no longer be called glam, nor could they ever be connected with Krokus or Kix or Keel. But GNR Lies is more important for its symbolic value to a certain class of fan. In fact, it unconsciously destroyed everything metal had been about for the past ten years, dooming that style’s future in the coming decade.
For those who are unfamiliar with the work, GNR Lies came out in December of 1988, right when the hysteria over 1987’s Appetite for Destruction was in full force. The original title was supposed to be Guns N’ Roses: The Sex, the Drugs, the Violence, the Shocking Truth! It was technically an EP, but it was almost as long as a full-length album. The aforementioned side two of Lies was four new acoustic tracks, including the immensely popular ballad “Patience.” Side one was supposedly material GNR had released independently in 1986 under the title Live ?!*@ Like A Suicide.
I use the w
ord “supposedly” because there are serious questions about the legitimacy of that claim. In his 1991 book about Guns N’ Roses, Mick Wall indicates that this re-release story is legitimate and that ten thousand copies of Lies were printed in December of 1986 (some of which even made it to Europe). Apparently, the original EP included two more live songs (a cover of “Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door” and an original called “Shadow of Your Love”). However, it’s now well-established that the EP was actually a Geffen marketing ploy. Guns N’ Roses did record an early project prior to Appetite, but it was not a live, independent recording—in fact, the songs that ultimately made it onto Lies might have been versions that were recorded in a studio only weeks before the EP’s ’88 release. Geffen paid for everything. The crowd noise is obviously fake, a fact that the band has basically admitted.
Today, this kind of practice is completely common; alternative bands are always trying to earn their so-called street cred, so major distributors create vanity labels that make the band seem like an indie (for example, the first Smashing Pumpkins album was “officially” released on the independent label Caroline, even though the band was already under contract with Virgin). But back in 1988, this kind of chicanery was an altogether new idea, and it worked beautifully.
Regardless of their genuineness, these first four songs fall somewhere between “a little above average” and “pretty damn good.” Two of them are covers (Rose Tattoo’s “Nice Boys” and “Mama Kin” by Aerosmith) and two are originals in the Appetite vein (“Reckless Life” and “Move to the City,” yet another song about a character who leaves home for the mean streets of Cali). But it’s the material on the record’s flip side that really matters. Omnipresent metal critic Chuck Eddy said the acoustic tracks on Lies might comprise the best music of its generation. Though I disagree with the totality of that assessment, it’s not too far off the mark.
“Patience” was (and is) a very good heavy metal love tune, which I suppose makes it a “power ballad.” It doesn’t seem like that term fits the song though. Whenever someone says the words “power ballad,” I think of the Scorpions and White Lion. “Patience” was far better, or at least far different, than most of the songs that seem to define the power ballad concept. It was followed by “Used to Love Her,” the EP’s second-most controversial track. Taken literally (and—to be honest—there’s really no other way to take it), “Used to Love Her” is about a guy who kills his girlfriend for talking too much, and then he buries her in the backyard. It’s a wonderfully constructed tune that uses an effective (and I suppose ancient) songwriting gimmick: It places negative ideas against a happy melody. In that respect, it’s almost like the Carpenters’ “Good-bye to Love.” The melodic sweetness makes the lyrical horror all the more striking.
The third cut was a reworked version of “You’re Crazy,” which was one of the weaker electric songs on Appetite for Destruction. Now slower and meaner, it is most recognized for the over-the-top vulgarity that dominates the song’s conclusion. The closing profanity of “You’re Crazy” segues into the six-minute “One In a Million.” Lyrically, it was a politically incorrect train wreck—but to make it even more dangerous, “One In a Million” was a brilliant example of songwriting. People who loved emotional musicianship noticed the song as much as the people who hated the lyrics.
There’s something highly compelling about these four songs, especially when considered as components of one another. Though “Patience” was an overplayed radio favorite and “One In a Million” is often singled out as an autonomous monstrosity, I prefer to look at the four songs as they were consumed by the hardcore GNR audience—that is to say, as a twenty-minute listening experience.
I started substantially reevaluating GNR Lies while I was watching the PBS mini series From Jesus to Christ: The Early Christians, an eight-hour documentary from the producers of Frontline. My favorite segment of Jesus to Christ was on the gospels, particularly the analysis of how their differences reflect when and where they were written, and—more importantly—who the audience would be. (Reader’s note: I realize this undoubtedly seems superfluous at the moment, but bear with me—consider the next four paragraphs as a hidden bonus track at the end of an album, available only on the Japanese import.)
The first three gospels—Matthew, Mark, and Luke—are commonly referred to as the synoptic gospels. They tell a (relatively) similar story and are clearly built upon one another. Meanwhile, the Gospel of John is a wild card. It was written much later (probably after 95 A.D., a couple of decades after the Gospel of Mark had been composed) and is intended for a more mature phase of the early Christian movement.
John Dominic Crossan, Professor Emeritus of Religious Studies at DePaul University, used an interesting example to illustrate key differences in these four tomes. He brought up the scenario of the tense evening prior to Christ’s arrest by the Romans. In this day and age, we always refer to this event under the general term “The Agony in the Garden,” but Crossan points out a fairly important reality: In the Book of Mark there is no garden, and in the Book of John there is no agony. In fact, the two narratives paint the personality of Jesus in two wholly different ways. This is because each gospel writer catered his story to suit the specific class of people who were going to read it. But two thousand years later, our singular image of Jesus (and his life) is formed through an unconscious combination of these four separate books. Like unknowing Gestaltists, we construct the sum of Christ’s parts without even trying.
How does this relate to Guns N’ Roses? Obviously, the content does not. But the construction does. The four acoustic songs on Lies can be seen as the four components that tell us who Axl Rose is, and it works in the same way that the gospels painted the portrait of Jesus. Those first three songs are the synoptic tracks, and “One In a Million” is an autonomous cut that simultaneously works with (and against) the other material. It’s akin to the “Agony in the Garden” paradox: In “Patience,” there is no sex, drugs, or violence; in “One In a Million,” there is no shocking truth. But when placed in context with each other (and with the two tunes in the middle), the EP’s original title suddenly becomes disturbingly perfect.
There is, of course, an obvious problem with this analogy. Unlike the Book of John, “One In a Million” wasn’t written dozens of years after the other three tracks. Time, place, and prospective audience is not a justifiable explanation. However, there is a marked difference in philosophy. Consciously or unconsciously, “One In a Million” serves a different purpose than the rest of the record. It’s Axl’s unabashed attempt at personal iconology, and it appeals to a very specific audience. Rose was trying to speak to the kind of kid he used to be (and—in a lot of ways—still was).
February 1, 1987
My mom makes stew for supper.
This is a story I had totally forgotten about, but my sister just reminded me: A few members of my family were sitting around the dinner table in the middle of winter—it was me, my mom, my sister Rachel (who’s three years older than me and used to like Culture Club), my brother Bill (who’s seventeen years older than me and used to like Three Dog Night), and my dad. At some point in the conversation, my father started talking about a local farmer who owned an especially unattractive herd of cattle. It seems this farmer was sort of a slacker and did not properly feed his livestock during the winter months. Moreover, his stockyard was populated by a rag-tag collection of cattle comprised of several different breeds (a few Herefords, a few Angus, possibly even a couple Holsteins). This is a very bush-league move in the world of ranching. Predictably, my dad was disgusted. “What a motley crew that is,” my father said of the cows. At that point, Rachel and Bill began laughing like hyenas, and I just sort of stared into my stew. I can only imagine what my dad suspected everyone was howling about.
This kind of memory would bother some people. It would make them feel alienated, or detached from their paternal life force, or depressed that their male parent had absolutely no interest in something t
hey loved. But I don’t feel that way at all. When I recall this incident, I simply find it reassuring to know my father obviously never entered my bedroom the entire time I lived in his house.
April 18, 1987
MTV premieres Headbanger’s Ball at 11 P.M.
Watching random rock videos from 1987 is not nearly as nostalgic as you’d expect it to be. You’d think the old images would cause hard rock memories to come rushing back into your consciousness, but that doesn’t really happen. In fact, you’re struck more by what you don’t remember.
This is a relatively unique sensation, especially when compared to other modern forms of mass media. It’s certainly not true for conventional TV, the most recycled form of entertainment that’s ever been created. I see The Wonder Years more often today than I did when it was broadcast originally; I still catch Happy Days constantly, and I had already seen virtually every episode of that series (via syndication) before I entered sixth grade. Cable has made television less memorable by making it eternally contemporary. There really isn’t any era (or genre) of TV that I can’t find whenever I want. The VCR and Blockbuster Video have done the same thing with the film industry—it’s easy to reexperience St. Elmo’s Fire, Urban Cowboy, and I Am a Fugitive from a Chain Gang in the scope of a single evening.
Music is also easy to recapture (at least in a sonic sense). When people buy records and cassettes, they usually hold on to them—and if they don’t, it’s almost guaranteed that the songs have been transferred to CD. I still possess 98 percent of the music I’ve purchased (or dubbed) over the past fifteen years. However, I probably have access to less than 2 percent of the videos I’ve seen in that same period, and it’s likely I’ll never see most of them again.