The beginnings of American metal (part 3)

Nineteen eighty-one was the year when metal’s dimly flickering fuse finally met the napalm jelly. The genre dimly illuminated the periphery of musical possibilities in the ‘70s, but the ‘80s is when the music of leather and spikes came into its own. The previous year was a coming out party for the New Wave of British Heavy Metal, and gave us classic albums from stalwarts like Judas Priest, Motorhead, and Black Sabbath. Ozzy Osbourne also found new life as a solo artist, harvesting bassist Bob Daisley from Rainbow and yanking Lee Kerslake out of Uriah Heep. Discovering a tragically short-lived guitar wunderkind in Randy Rhoads didn’t hurt either.

But Randy was from Los Angeles, and while his influence was immense that story has been told many times over. Our focus moves to the other coast, returning to New York City and to Mark Reale. Reale’s band Riot impressed crowds in the supporting slot for various big name tours, but Capitol Records was less than pleased with the subsequent demos. Their previous two releases spawned no radio hits, and the label grew impatient. The suits wanted a glossier, shinier, top-40 friendly product, as hard rock and metal bands were largely invisible in the USA. The band, meanwhile, was inspired by what it heard on tour in England. Riot sought a more aggressive and heavy European style, and the label would hear none of it. The third album was nearly strangled in the womb!

It is to Riot’s credit that they kept recording, and their hard work paid off via a lucky break. Reale and company had just enough overseas fans to convince Elektra Records to buy the rights for Fire Down Below. The album is now regarded as an American metal classic, not that many Americans heard it at the time. Riot had one foot across the pond anyway, taking cues from Diamond Head and Def Leppard. And yet, something about them remained inescapably American. Our heroes emitted slight odors of funk, soul, and blues; things that were uncommon in British metal bands of the period. A Riot album was a place where you could pay attention to syncopated beats and active basslines. Lyrics emphasized the tension between city and countryside, hinting that America was only differentiated from England by race and space.

But dueling guitars and leather-lunged songs were not what America was looking for. US charts were dominated by pop country and easy listening, with the occasional merciful interjection of new wave. MTV had yet to breathe life into our post-disco stagnation. Riot would shortly disintegrate and nearly flame out due to personal conflicts and corporate ultimatums. At the west coast, another band emerged who had no such problems. The Los Angeles hard rock scene was full of bands who either took after Van Halen or Ozzy Osbourne, if not both. Before the name Motley Crue became synonymous with banal schlock, there was a fun and trashy little band. Their checkered genius connived to mix the emerging sounds of LA hard rock with metal slivers of Saxon and Judas Priest.
“Too Fast for Love” was Motley Crue’s debut album, and it became part of the lore for what we now think of as “beer metal.” It’s dumb, un-subtle, hyper-sexualized music that fits a barroom like its own personal codpiece. The metal elements have the sleaze set nigh unto maximum, paving the way for those all important arena rock choruses. Nikki Sixx actually wrote some quality riffs, which were played with a minimum of technical competence by Mick Mars. Vince Neil sounded like a man having his sinuses cleaned by Drano, which he probably needed to do after the ‘80s. Tommy Lee was actually better than average, so of course he took a backseat in every composition. The singers and musicians of bands like Motley Crue rarely rose above the standard of “adequate,” but the best examples carried a unique charm and the blunt force of irresistible fun. This semi-literate thesis gave us Twisted Sister, Manowar, Warlock, and Anvil; bands who aspired to get asses moving and drunken voices shouting. It’s important to have realistic life goals.

Nearly four hundred miles to the northwest and aiming even further below the belt were Y&T. The San Francisco four piece spent the late ‘70s playing yeoman’s hard rock, cutting two respectable proletarian albums before going metal with 1981’s “Earthshaker.” Y&T were powered by a turbocharged blues engine, adapted from the designs of ZZ Top and UFO. They welded this to an arena rock and metal frame of Van Halen, Scorpions, and Whitesnake. A friend asked me in passing “how much more testosterone infused need a band be, unless you are Manowar?”

I offer only the feeblest defense. Not ALL Y&T songs were misogynist anthems to backstage debauchery with teenage girls, just enough to make me very uncomfortable. I suppose I should say that Dave Meniketti could seriously fucking play, because his guitar work is the first, last, and only reason to listen to this band. In between promises to give the crowd some “rocking” and his genitals some vile satisfaction, Meniketti oozes with passion and style upon the fretboard. That pairing of six string pyrotechnics and pointless macho bravado is a rock n’ roll tradition as enduring as overpriced concert beer and uncoordinated dancing. It goes back through arena rock and glam rock, proto-metal, hard rock, and all the way back to rockabilly and jump blues. Y&T was a supporting strut on an arc of history headed to the dead end of cock rock, where all debauchery centered on the paradoxical fear of women and pursuit of sex.

Unlike those bands, however, the members of Y&T would never be confused with sex symbols, which might be why none of this earned any exposure. Motley Crue went on to fortune and fame, and devolved to something far less interesting in the process. Y&T and Riot attempted to emulate that formula, and received naught for the Faustian bargain. It’s a sad postscript, reminding us that metal’s innovations are not always positive, and that sometimes its worst themes are also its most enduring.