Tales of Rock – Motley Crue Rubbed Egg Burritos On Their Dicks To Mask The Smell Of Groupie Sex

According to pop culture, hiding an affair is a complex plot involving secret phones, meaningful glances, and constantly sniffing and re-sniffing your clothes. It’s a high-stakes game, and if you don’t want to lose, you better be willing to do anything. Just ask Motley Crue.

In the early days of the band, most of the members had girlfriends — which is problematic when your job kind of insists on you sexing groupies. Not wanting to break up with the loves of their lives, but also wanting to constantly be boning other people whenever they weren’t home, the Crue came up with a plan. After every piece of backstage or recording booth tail, the band would take Tommy Lee’s van to a place called Naugles. There, they celebrated their infidelity with a round of egg burritos — one to eat, and one to slather all over their dicks and balls.

Now, rubbing Mexican food on your junk isn’t some old-fashioned cure-all for groupie-related STIs — this ritual was all about the smell. The band figured that the smell of egg burrito would overpower even the most pungent of backstage favors. And before you ask “Couldn’t they just shower?” remember that this is Motley Crue we’re talking about. Look at them. Taking a shower would raise more suspicions than coming home smelling of strange vaginas. As Vince Neil described it, “We would tell our girlfriends, ‘Oh, we dropped the burritos in our laps.'” Every day of the week. Maybe their girlfriends were too worried about them dying of high cholesterol to be thinking about them cheating.

As we know you’re dying to find out, they used the burritos like washcloths, not like fleshlights. The Crue didn’t ram their members into piping-hot eggs. At that point of the evening, their dicks were already burning plenty.

 

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Wildwood Daze – The Union Jacks – Dirty John – Part 1

“Okay, He’s freaking out like a retard. Put him in his bed and we’ll go.”

I had been to the restaurant where Brian our drummer worked part-time as a busboy. I don’t remember, but I had been there to meet up with him once for some reason. I do remember Brian telling me the bartender there liked my “friend with the big eyes.” (Me.) I don’t remember that person and quickly dismiss it in my mind.

One night Brain wants to bring us to the restaurant where he works for drinks. We get there and the band sits at the bar. Brian introduces us to the bartender, Frank. Or, as Brian calls him, Frank the Fag. Now I get it. Frank fancies me. It’s a compliment, but I’m straight.

We all order bottles of beer. Frank is being Frank but he’s nice as could be. We’re all just chilling at the bar and it’s nice to all go out and have a drink as a band. It’s like we’re somebody now. People recognize us when we’re out and I like it.

We’re sitting there for about an hour chatting about music, when Frank presents me with not one, but two large tumblers filled with a frothy pink liquid.

“What’s this?”

“It’s called a Dirty John.”

“Thank you, but I never drink hard liquor. I just don’t do it. I’m a beer guy only.”

“I’ll drink it!”

Jim is the youngest and newest member of the band. I think he wants to show that he’s a bad ass that can hang with the older guys.

“That’s really not necessary Jim.”

“No. I want to.”

Jim proceeds to chug the drinks.

We settle up and walk outside. Brian and Mark say they’ll bring the car around. I’m smoking a cig waiting with Jim. Brian doesn’t allow smoking in his car so we wait.

“I gotta take a piss.”

“You could have gone in the bar, Jim. Actually, I gotta go too. Beer goes right through me. There’s some tall hedges behind the restaurant. Let’s go back there.”

We walk back and are standing next to each other as if we’re just a couple of students pissing in the urinals in the Boys bathroom at Wildwood High. I suddenly hear this rustling noise and a thump. I glance to my right and Jim has vanished. I zip up my fly and go to the spot where he was.

There’s Jim, face down in the next yard. While pissing he literally just collapsed forward between the hedges. What the fuck was in that drink? Whatever it was, it hit him like a sledgehammer.

Brian and Mark pull up in his yellow ’77 Ford Mustang II.

“What the fuck’s up with Wolfie?” (Brian sometimes referred to Jim as ‘ Wolfie’ because the way he brushed his hair back, it resembled Lon Chaney’s monster.)

“Guys get over here!”

Brian and Mark scramble from the car and run over. We get Jim to his feet and he is just gone. Slurring and stumbling and we get him to the car. It takes all three of us.

“He went from buzzed to black out in a matter of seconds!”

Brian’s driving. Mark’s riding shotgun, and of course I’m in the back with drunk boy. He’s really out of it. Conscious, but super fucked up. More drunk than I’ve ever seen anyone ever in my life.

Brian’s driving him back to his house. “He better not fuckin’ puke in my car! I swear to god!”

We get to Jim’s house and I’m about to get him out and he pukes all over me. He doesn’t even know I’m there. Now I’m wearing the Dirty John meant for me.

Thankfully his parents weren’t home when we dragged our new guitarist back into his house.

We carry him through the door, in front of at least a half dozen siblings. They all look on in utter horror. I assure them their brother isn’t dead. He’s just sick and we’re taking care of him.

The kids know me from school. I’m the kid that comes and waits for Jim each morning and lets my glasses steam up while watching the Today show waiting for my friend so we can walk to school together.

 

It’s a mess. The little kids are clueless. We are simply a group of guys bringing their older brother home because he’s sick. Everything’s fine. Just like in any household in the 70’s. It didn’t happen.

We bang Jim up the stairs to his bedroom. When I say, bang I mean he was dead weight and me, Brian and Mark did the best to get him to his room.

This is all new ground for all of us. We’re new musicians, but we don’t know anything about but extreme behavior even if it’s accidental.

My best friend is so sick. I am wearing his puke. We try to run his head under the shower to revive him. He cries out like a molested child so we withdrawal.

“Okay, He’s freaking out like a retard. Put him in his bed and we’ll go.”

Brian was always so pragmatic.

“Turn him over on his stomach.” (I say) Put his face at the edge of the bed.”

“Why?”

“Umm… Bon Scott….” (See: Tales of Rock – Bon Scott) 

“He’ll be fine.”

” Dude. Hendrix died choking on his own puke.”

“He’ll be fine.”

We leave our lead guitarist in his bed and all go home. It’s bee a fucked up night.

My best friend got poisoned by a drink meant for me. What was Frank’s plan? Get me drunk beyond recognition and take advantage of me? That’s kind of evil.

But the worst part of it is… Was Brian in on it?

 

 

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Tales of Rock – Bon Scott

Ronald Belford “Bon” Scott (9 July 1946 – 19 February 1980) was a Scottish-Australian singer and songwriter, best known for being the primary lead vocalist and lyricist of the Australian hard rock band AC/DC from 1974 until his death in 1980.[1]

Scott was born in Forfar, Scotland, and raised in Kirriemuir, before moving to Melbourne with his family in 1952 at the age of six. They lived in the suburb of Sunshine for four years before moving to Fremantle.[1] Scott formed his first band, The Spektors, in 1964 and became the band’s drummer and occasional lead vocalist. He performed in several other bands including The Valentines and Fraternity before replacing Dave Evans as the lead singer of AC/DC in 1974.[1]

AC/DC’s popularity grew throughout the 1970s, initially in Australia, and then internationally. Their 1979 album Highway to Hell reached the top twenty in the United States, and the band seemed on the verge of a commercial breakthrough. However, on 19 February 1980, Scott died after a night out in London. AC/DC briefly considered disbanding, but the group recruited vocalist Brian Johnson of the British glam rock band Geordie. AC/DC’s subsequent album, Back in Black, was released only five months later, and was a tribute to Scott. It went on to become the second best-selling album in history.[1]

In the July 2004 issue of Classic Rock, Scott was rated as number one in a list of the “100 Greatest Frontmen Of All Time” ahead of Freddie Mercury and Robert PlantHit Parader ranked Scott as fifth on their 2006 list of the 100 Greatest Heavy Metal Vocalists of all time.[3]

 

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Tales of Rock – Lori Maddox – Part 2

MICHAEL OCHS ARCHIVES/GETTY IMAGES
COURTESY OF LORI MATTIX

 

 

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Tales of Rock – Lori Maddox – Part 1

“I LOST MY VIRGINITY TO DAVID BOWIE”

IN THE EARLY 1970S, the Sunset Strip was a magnet for rock stars: Bowie, Zeppelin, Iggy Pop, Mott the Hoople, The Who. They all hung out in the VIP rooms of louche LA nightclubs like E Club, the Rainbow, and Rodney Bingenheimer’s English Disco. And with them, of course, came groupies. Scantily clad 14- and 15-year-olds like Sable Starr and Lynn “Queenie” Koenigsaecker sipped cherry cola, dropped pills, and evolved into pubescent dream girls for the platform-shoed rockers who could get anything and anyone they desired. 

MICHAEL OCHS ARCHIVES/GETTY IMAGES
MICHAEL OCHS ARCHIVES/GETTY IMAGES

 

 

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Wildwood Daze – Spring of 1980 – The Union Jacks – Part 1

“Thanks to my dad, (the classical music enthusiast,) ‘Tommy” was properly released to the world.”

I went to my dad and ran by my band name dilemma. I don’t know why but the more I thought about it the more it made sense.

They never got me guitar lessons and gave piano lessons to non-musical sister Janice for two years. I discovered music and rock on my own. Forced my way into bands and made my own way. Bought my own killer guitar with my own earned money. They in turn bought me the finest amplifier on the island to speak my voice. (Actually to roar the voice of the unheard louder than anyone on the island with that Marshall amp.)

All is forgiven and awesome in the same breath.

My dad’s brother Jack had always worked in the music industry all his adult life. Columbia Records. The real deal.

My father loved classical music and opera. Jack knew nothing of this and would give my dad dozens of great records every year. My dad could understand them and tell Jack what was good and what was sub par.

My uncle Jack worked with the likes of Barbra Streisand and Andy Williams. He was a major producer, but I never thought of him as a person that could help me make it, just a bit of guidance.

Once My uncle Jack was working with a rock band that was very popular in the sixties and seventies. They wanted to do a concept album. A rock opera, which was unheard of then. Even the Beatles hadn’t of thought of that. (Well, Sgt. Pepper)

They submitted their work to then producer Jack for some input and he had no clue about opera. He only understood popular music, the business, production and vocalists.

He turned to his brother, my father with the concept of a ‘rock opera’ by a popular rock band.

“Well if their serious about making a rock opera then they need a libretto. Every opera has a libretto.” My father said to his brother.

li·bret·to
ləˈbredō/
noun
 
  1. the text of an opera or other long vocal work.

 

My uncle Jack went back to Pete Townsend of The Who and told him they needed to make a libretto that must be included with their finished work.

Thanks to my dad, (the classical music enthusiast,) ‘Tommy” was properly released to the world.

One of the greatest creative achievements by The Who.

That is some real shit right there.

So I go to him and tell him what we’re doing. I need to come up with a cool name for our band.

“It sounds like you guys play plenty of British music. Beatles, Stones, Led Zeppelin, The Stones. What if you call the band, Union Jack?”

My dad was always a deadly marketing guy and could have killed it in the ad business.

“What’s that?”

“The British flag is called the Union Jack.”

“I like that. I’m going to take that back to the boys.”

_________________________________________________________

Two nights later everybody is making their pitch for what the new band should be called and I explain why we should be called Union Jack.

Everybody loves it except Brian.

Why?

Brian is in love with John Waite and the a band called the Babys. I get it. I love that band too. They are terrific and horribly underrated. They just ironically came out with an album called “Union Jacks.”

He wants the band be called, “The Union Jacks.”

Jim agrees with me that ‘Union Jack’ is enough but we yield to Brian’s might.

We are now The Union Jacks.

But… thanks dad. You fucking rock.

As the band Nazereth would say: “Close enough for rock and roll.”

I had acquired a drab green army jacket and had the Union Jacks put on the back of it. Jim followed suite and had the name of the band put on the back of his denim jacket.

It was cool to be part of a cool new band and felt the name gave us an identity as a musical entity.

One night Jim and I were walking down the boardwalk together in Wildwood, and this group of teenage girls were like, “Hey Union Jacks!”

We just smiled and waved and enjoyed the fame.

This little blonde shouted, “You’re the guy with the black guitar!”

I think I had a Lief Garret moment right then. (google it youngsters)

 

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Tales of Rock – Kris Kristofferson

This is one of my all time favorite Tales of Rock posts. It’s just such a great story! I love it!

 

Among all of the thousands of rock artists who have recorded a song, talented Kris Kristofferson probably has the most impressive background.

 

Kris is the son of a retired U.S. Air Force Major General. In high school Kris was Class President, honor student, and football star. He was a Rhodes Scholar and attended Oxford University. He has authored several books and won first prize in a collegiate short-story contest sponsored by the Atlantic Monthly. In school he played football and was a Golden Gloves boxer.

In Vietnam he was a helicopter pilot. He was an Army Captain and attended flight school. As a civilian, he flew helicopters and served as a janitor at the Nashville Recording Studio. He is a Grammy winner and has appeared in numerous movies, including A Star is Born, playing opposite Barbara Streisand.

He has also composed such hit songs as Me and Bobby McGee and Help Me Make It Through The Night.

Now that, is an impressive resume and a fantastic life!

 

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