JULY 1987



Backstage, 8 p.m.

This has become the airport blow job tour. After the gig when we get to the airport there’s always a line of girls waiting…we’ve started taking them in the bathrooms of the private airports.

Oklahoma kicked ass. The show had that old school heavy metal energy. We almost had a riot before the doors opened but besides that all is normal.

Showtime. See ya…


On the jet, 1:30 a.m.

We’re sitting on the plane getting ready to take off for Biloxi. There is something about the fans in the South…they’re insane. They’re wilder and louder than the East and the West. That was a great show…what did I tell you about airports? As I sit here with a big smile on my face, the stewardess just brought mea bottle of white wine and a silver plate with one Halcion and four lines on it. I’m on my private jet and reading a review of how much we suck. It looks like everything is right on track…


TOMMY LEE: The Girls Girls Girls tour was absolute debauchery. It was fucking bananas. We started collecting bras, panties, shoes, dresses, skirts, naked Polaroids…everything. I remember walking on to one of our crew buses and it looked like it was fucking raining panties–there were literally thousands of pairs. It looked like a fucking bordello on wheels. They still exist somewhere: we put them all into road cases. Maybe we should open a museum?

NIKKI: The owner of the plane wouldn’t let us hang them in the jet so we made the crew buses keep our “awards.” It smelled like a fucking fish market in there. I hear they’re at the Mötley warehouse…God help the poor bastard who opens that sealed road case.

Hotel, Biloxi, 5:30 p.m.

Just woke up. We stay here tonight. We all need a day off. Vince’s voice is trashed, Tommy’s hands are covered in cuts and scabs, my body is a wreck from throwing myself all over…and off…the stage, and Mars’ back is killing him. He gets worse every year. I worry about him. I need to wash my leathers or even have a shower–it’s been six days.

Off to the show…

NIKKI: The wear and tear of the road is something not usually seen by the fans firsthand. It comes up in photos–a line on your face here and there, or bags under your bloodshot eyes–but is easily hidden and always ignored. Showering was a luxury that myself, Mick and Tommy normally regarded as a nuisance, not a perk.



Reading back on this diary entry, I now realize the pain Mick Mars was in, but who would guess it would rear its head so violently in later years that he would suffer from a chronic degenerative bone disease called ankylosing spondylitis and would need a hip replacement operation? To put it lightly, he is a man of steel…all praise Mick Mars, the strongest man on earth.


Hotel, Biloxi, 5:20 p.m.

I tossed and turned again all night. No drugs. I should have taken something to sleep but I’m trying to be good…

I just got the new Rolling Stone with us on the cover. Of course they had to take a swipe at us. The cover says:


I guess if I wanted critical acclaim I’d have picked music that doesn’t ruffle any feathers…so maybe it’s a compliment? Because we are loud, ugly and won’t go away. Mostly ’cause they want us to.

NIKKI: When that issue of Rolling Stone came out, I was hugely offended. I really thought this would be the time we finally got the praise we deserved for our music. Looking back, I can’t believe I took it so seriously.


Backstage, 6:10 p.m.

I’ve been thinking a lot about Nona. She will have passed away a year ago next month. How life changes. She really was a mother to me. I only have good thoughts of her…she always had a smile and put food on the table. She was really into fashion so she would put patches on my clothes or make me bell-bottom pants when I started to emulate my rock ’n’ roll heroes. In Jerome, Idaho, you might as well have a pink Mohawk as go into a store and ask for bell-bottoms…at least in the men’s department of JC Penney…

Hell hath no fury like a small town boy with a dream.


Sometimes I feel turned around And upside down And sometimes maybe I drink too much But my heart’s still in touch

I remember standing tall telling you I’m gonna be a rock ’n’ roll star When someone said, Sit down boy You already are

BOB MICHAELS: There was never a July Fourth that I didn’t think of Nikki after one particular year–I think it was 1984. I went over to his house and he was stoned, and he fired a huge bottle rocket out of his garden. It set a forty-foot palm tree on fire and it fell onto a 1965 Mustang convertible that went up in flames. Nikki thought the whole thing was just absolutely hilarious.


Hotel, 1:40 a.m.

Great show…sold out. We were jamming on Dancing on Glass and some guy threw a bindle onstage to me and motioned to his arm like he was shooting up. Nice. Anyway we’re spending the night tonight. I have a great story about a girl, a banana and some leftover fireworks…but I’m tired. Off to bed…on my own.

I think the guys are going out to a strip club. I just know I’d get in trouble if I go. I’m gonna work on some music tomorrow and I don’t want a hangover. Once I start, I can never stop…so I’ll stop now…

DOC McGHEE: Nikki was actually more manageable than usual on the Girls Girls Girls tour. He wasn’t as aggressive as he usually was. He didn’t want to go out to clubs so much–I guess because he was sunk into his fucking heroin den. In a way I was almost grateful. When the other maniacs were doing their fucking crazy shit, I could think at least Nikki is in his room–he didn’t kill anybody today.


Hotel, Memphis, 7 p.m.

Day off…nothing too exciting. Reading a book called Nigger by Dick Gregory. It’s killer. It’s about one of the first black comedians and all the prejudice that happened to him in the ’50s and ’60s. I can relate to prejudice. When my mom was dating Richard Pryor people gave us so many looks and comments…a bit like the ones I get in the hotel gift shop downstairs when I still have my stage makeup on and my stinky sweaty leathers. It’s like I’m a leper to people in the Midwest. Maybe I’m just a nigger?

NIKKI: I remember my mom dating Richard Pryor. He was always nice to me. One of my most vivid memories was living in a ninth-floor apartment in Hollywood. I used to take Ceci down to the parking lot to play–we didn’t have a yard because we were right on Sunset Boulevard. Mom hadn’t been home in days, and we were playing when Mom and Richard pulled up. They were both smashed and my mom fell out of the car and hugged me, and they both said hi, then went upstairs. I stayed in the cement underground that was our playground. It didn’t occur to me until years later what kind of scars that sort of stuff left on my childhood…and it never even came to my mind that Richard was black and my mom was white. I’ve never cared about unimportant shit like that.

DEANA RICHARDS: I was working as a croupier in Lake Tahoe when I met Richard. I was working dealing blackjack one night, and I looked up from the table and into these eyes, and–BAM! I had never been out with a black man in my life, and I didn’t even notice that it was a black man standing there. I just looked into those eyes and that was it.

I saw him a few nights later and it hit me again, and then a friend arranged for us to meet up. We met and went out and ended up backstage at a show talking to Bill Cosby. Then when Richard went back to Los Angeles, we used to fly back and forth to see each other–we were deadly serious about our relationship.

Richard was a very deep, intense man who was terribly hurt by the world. We used to go down to the beach a lot and he’d run through his routines and I’d suggest things he could change. He was always running around the beach with his arms up, yelling, “Will you let me be me?” He said I was the only person who had ever appreciated his soul. I certainly appreciated his spirit.

Nikki was about five then and Richard loved him–he thought Nikki was so cute, just “It.” But this was the early ’60s, and Richard and I would encounter racism. We’d go into restaurants and people would look at us really weird, and the waiters would refuse to serve us. Richard was very outspoken so he’d always say something and cause trouble, and then we would have to leave.

Eventually I moved to Los Angeles to be with Richard and left Nikki with my mother and sisters. I was going to send for him when I was settled, but when I got to LA, everything fell apart–Richard got arrested for beating up a hotel desk clerk and went to jail. Everything went to hell…and when I finally got Nikki back, it was hell on him too.


On the jet, 2:30 p.m.

Every time I try to get Neglektra to do something exciting they always complain. They don’t wanna spend the money…fucking lame. I used to think this was the cool label because they had Queen. Now I can see the truth…they probably fucked up Queen’s career too…

When you’re hot they act like they love you (they do love the money we make them)…but when you need the support, there is no love to be found. Bob Krasnow is so in the Stone Age. Eventually we need to get rid of this record company. All they do is put our albums out…there’s little or no promotion and we still sell millions of albums and sell out tours.


It’s not just the label…it’s management too. They just don’t know how to motivate the label or threaten them. Imagine the damage we could do if Elektra did more than throw it against the wall and hope it sticks.


1. They’re the bank for the music.

2. They distribute the music.

3. They print and press the music (and charge back a huge %).

4. They should never own anybody’s music just for doing 1, 2 and 3.

5. You never see this happen in other businesses.

P.S. We do all the work, write all the music…they loan us money…we have to pay it back, and they own us? What the fuck is wrong with the music business? No wonder they like us fucked up on drugs. If we’re out of our heads, we won’t see how they’re taking advantage…it’s slavery.

P.P.S. See what happens when I don’t get fucked up? My brain starts to work again.


IAN GITTINS: Mötley Crüe eventually regained control of the master tapes of their albums from Elektra Records. Both Nikki Sixx and the band’s current manager, Allen Kovac, are legally bound from discussing the circumstances that led to this coup and the terms of the deal, but it is generally accepted that Elektra surrendered control of the masters in exchange for Mötley waiving royalty earnings that were due to them. As Mötley Crüe is still releasing new albums and touring massive arenas a decade later, it seems fair to surmise that Elektra may very well be deeply regretting that particular decision.

NIKKI: We had to sign a non-disclosure agreement so other artists couldn’t find out how we did it. I can tell you this: Elektra chief executive Sylvia Rhone fell for it hook, line and sinker.

Rule Number Three:


TOM ZUTAUT: As smart as McCartney, Jagger, Bono, Page and Plant may be, none of them own their masters that they signed away as kids to a record company. Nikki signed his masters away to Elektra as a young kid filled with hopes and dreams, yet as an adult he was shrewd enough to irritate then-head of Elektra Records, Sylvia Rhone, by behaving like a kid again to get her to give them back to him. Big music corporations rarely make mistakes like that, and it’s no accident that it’s Nikki who got his masters back. That’s Sikki Nixx for you!

SYLVIA RHONE: Would I like to take part in this book? I don’t think it would be appropriate.


Hotel, St Louis, 4:30 p.m.

Need to go to the gym. Been having a few drinks (a half-bottle of Jack) every night but that’s mostly it. I’m pretty proud of myself. But dear diary, I’m so bored. I can smell trouble lurking…is that why I agreed to let Vanity come to Minneapolis??


Hotel, St Louis, 10:55 p.m.

Another night in the same hotel. I met two girls in the lobby last night. We had a little ménage à trois. I was doing lines of blow off this one girl’s ass…now THAT was fun. Fred came down to my room and said, Damn, Sixxdog, what are you doing? I said trying to beat the boredom, and he said, “It looks like you’re doing a pretty good job.” I love Fred. So I asked him if he wanted a bump and he said sure. I tapped out a bump on this other girl’s ass and Fred snorted it, said, “Thanks” like it was an everyday thing and left.

God, do we lose sight of what’s real out on the road, or what?


FRED SAUNDERS: We had laminates made for all that production staff on the Girls tour with special codes. We started doing it because the hotel lobbies were always swarming with kids so we couldn’t say the band’s names on our walkie-talkies: if we’d been overheard, there would have been a riot! So we gave everyone numbers:

  • 1. Doc McGhee
  • 2. Doug Thaler
  • 3. Rich Fisher
  • 4. Me
  • 5. Vince
  • 6. Nikki
  • 7. Mick
  • 00. Tommy

Then it spread to cover other things:

  • 20. where are you?
  • 100. krell
  • 101. hotel
  • 129. gig
  • 268. tour bus
  • 714. groupie
  • 747. pig with lipstick

So we might say something like, What’s your 20? Well, I’m with 6 who has a 747 and some 100 on the 268 on the way to 129. It stopped people eavesdropping and was a bit of fun as well. Sometimes the band would talk like that all the way from the gig back to the hotel…I mean, from the 129 to the 101.


Hotel, Wichita, 4:10 p.m.

What’s with all the black girls chasing me down these days? Ever since Vanity started talking to the press, they’re all coming on to me. It’s like a fucking epidemic…

Tommy and Vince have been squabbling again. Those two can drive me and Mick crazy. But the band’s sounding really good, and that’s all that matters in the end…

7 p.m.

Whitesnake is supporting us now. They are so boring. I hate their new corporate music as well. David Coverdale was in Deep Purple so you’d think he was cool as fuck. But no, yesterday he told the crowd he had diarrhea…can you believe that shit? (joke!) And the fucked-up thing is he DOES have it. I walked into a bathroom after him and he told me not to go in the can ’cause he just sprayed water out his ass. Then he goes onstage and whines to the audience about it!

Every time I meet rock stars, I seem to lose faith…are there any left? Earth to Johnny Thunders, please wake up and put the Dolls back together…please.

That chick Tawny Kitaen that Tommy used to bang is out here with David Coverdale. I hope Tommy fucks her while Diarrhea Boy is onstage…

FRED SAUNDERS: What was Whitesnake like on the Girls Girls Girls tour? They were a joy to work with. They were just totally professional. Mr. David Coverdale is the Richard Burton of rock.


Backstage, 7 p.m.

After the show last night we left for the airport at 1:30 a.m. Some days, when I sit in the plane looking over the skies, I wonder when this tour is gonna end.


I forgot–Vanity is coming in tomorrow–or is it tonight? I think she’s been trying to stay off drugs so maybe it won’t be a disaster–I guess she means well.

FRED SAUNDERS: Whenever Vanity came out to meet the tour, I wouldn’t see her or Nikki apart from at the shows. I think she liked coke and heroin–well, certainly coke–as much as Nikki did; they would just go and lock down behind the bed in their hotel room and do huge quantities of drugs.


On the jet,

1 a.m.

We’re flying into Minneapolis right now for a day off. The band sounded like shit tonight, everyone was drunk. Mick’s on this Mars-ade kick…what is Mars-ade, you ask? Well, it’s a lot of vodka and a splash of Gatorade (for coloring) so basically it’s just vodka.


Hint: Never go to Mick’s side of the stage for water. I gulped some down last night and just about puked…it was pure vodka. I think he’s buffering his sorrow over that bitch he was with. I think a gun would cure his sorrow a lot better and faster. Shouldn’t murder be legal for gold diggers?

MICK MARS: I was mostly drunk at all the shows on the Girls Girls Girls tour. I would drink straight vodka onstage, and sometimes Nikki would come to my side of the stage, think it was water and drink it. So on top of his habit, he’d get really drunk. We were all fucked up–I don’t know how we got through a song, let alone the set. I’d fall off the stage quite a bit. We weren’t the best sounding band, but somehow people seemed to keep coming and keep screaming.


Hotel, Minneapolis, 6:10 p.m.

We’re doing two shows at the Met Center. It’s always a badass gig. 17,000 kids each night, sold out…nice…home of the Minnesota Vikings…

I’m so bored being off junk. At least I’m still able to get drunk every night, and zombie dust rules. It’s my new best friend.


Hotel, Minneapolis, 3 a.m.

Tim is mad at me ’cause I made him drink Jack in front of the audience tonight. I got a little carried away and it got in his eyes and all over him. He’s not digging that I make him dress like a priest. Besides that the show kicked ass. I’m so tired of saying that…it’s more exciting when we suck. God bless the Sex Pistols.

Vanity came in but stayed at the hotel…cool. She is a nice girl at heart but she just drives me nutz. After the sex, I wish she would turn into a bottle of Jack.


TIM LUZZI: Girls Girls Girls was the tour of hell so I guess they needed a priest. I would go onstage every night in a priest’s robes and Nikki would grab my hair, tilt my head back and pretend to make me drink Jack Daniel’s. He would hold his thumb over the bottle so I didn’t actually have to drink, except for a few nights when he moved his thumb so loads of Jack cascaded down my throat. Maybe it was his revenge because I wouldn’t take heroin with him.

EVANGELIST DENISE MATTHEWS: The earth has been known for vomiting itself up because of the sin and idolatry it produces. That is just what happened to my body. I had a demented, careless vision of my future and it wasn’t very bright, but isn’t that what the limelight is–the green slime underneath a filthy bathroom toilet seat?

NIKKI: I thought the Limelight was a club in NYC?

EVANGELIST DENISE MATTHEWS: Eventually it is idolatry, and that is what the Devil has led us to believe is the road to stardom, fortune, riches and the glamorous life, as if to fulfill our every desire. But then you wake up and find yourself lost and alone. We go from one person to the next looking for love and can’t find it because we haven’t healed our insides yet. We feel filthy inside and try our hardest to be pretty outside. Most people are walking around in a daze wishing they weren’t alive.


Backstage, 8:20 p.m.

After tonight’s show we fly straight to Chicago. I don’t see any end to this tour…


Hotel, Chicago, 6 a.m.

Did a ton of cocaine tonight with Tommy and Fred after the Met show and on the plane to here. Went to an underground club in Chicago at 3 a.m.…the usual whores and hangers-on. I loved it, but now the girls are gone, my ears are ringing and I’m coked out of my mind watching the sun come up. So I’m gonna rant…let me grab a couple Halcions and a cocktail…then I gotta get some sleep.

Sometimes I feel like we’re a dirt magnet. All the lawsuits and accusations are just a way for slimeballs to try and rape us for our money. People think we’re so fucking rich. If they really understood how much we spend on a tour like this (or any other) they would be blown away.

Out of 100% of the money made, tours like this bring in about 20-30% after all the costs (this shit ain’t cheap). Then we split it four ways, and then there’s that asshole Uncle Sam. So out of $10 million we bring home say $3 million. Split it four ways equals about $750,000, then tax that…gives each guy about $400,000.


Now I’m not complaining but after 12 months on the road that’s about $30,000 a month. Then deduct car, house, clothes and just living–you get the idea. We’re not fucking rich. There’s not enough to give it away to little fucking assholes with made-up lies just to gouge us.

Why the rant? Because we’re getting sued by some fucker who said he lost his hearing at our concert a while back. I bet he could hear just fine if I asked him if he wanted a check for $25k to go away.


Good night. Or good morning…

P.S. I left Vanity in Minneapolis–maybe she can hook up with Dozen Roses Boy. God, I’m an asshole.

4:30 p.m.

Just woke up. Another day, another show, another hotel…nothing on TV, nothing on my mind, nothing to write about…

Off to sound check. If it wasn’t for these pages I call my friend, I would surely have no escape for the demons in my head.


Hotel, Chicago, 5:55 a.m.

Just got back from the show and then a transvestite bar where we all drank vodka shots, ate caviar and laughed our asses off at all the characters of the night. We had these twins with us who were making out with each other for our entertainment. Fans were outside the club for hours and the police came in at one point. When they did we had these silver trays with silver lids with lines of coke on them. I felt like it was going down but a cop just said they love the band and if any cops bust our balls while we’re in Chicago just call them, and he gave us their numbers.

I almost asked if they wanted a line, but thought, Why push my luck?

Even with all that’s gone good I feel the boredom of the road has started to set in and bigger and badder versions of Mötley hedonism are waiting in the shadows. It’s lurking and whispering my name. Here’s the sick part–I’m proud to say I’m just doing pills, blow and drinking (a lot)–no heroin. Good night, my sleeping pills are calling.


9:20 p.m.

Damn it. Dark outside already and I just woke up. I unplugged the alarm clock so I can’t see its fucking glow. Now the big dilemma…what the hell to order from room service?


Hotel, Chicago, 4 a.m.

Went to some strip club with the band. I asked the Whitesnake guys to come with us (saw them in the bar downstairs) but one of them…Vivian I think his name is…said he was gonna stay in and practice. What the fuck? There’s too much world to destroy to be sitting in your room playing the same shit you played when you were 15. These guys put my ass to sleep. I can’t wait for Guns N’ Roses to come out with us. I gotta go, there’s a redhead in my bed passed out, and I gotta kick her out.

Bored in Chicago, Sixx.

DOUG THALER: During the Girls Girls Girls tour, Whitesnake was actually bigger than Mötley Crüe. Mötley had a Number 2 album, but Whitesnake had a Number 1. They were originally only going to play a few early dates, but after I increased their fee from $4,000 per night to $10,000, they ended up staying with us right until the end of October–and I was glad they did.

On the jet, 2:30 p.m.

Sitting on the jet hungover. I guess I drank more than I thought last night. Vince and Fred said I was smashed. I think the zombie dust gives me the illusion I’m keeping it together. Oh well, beats junk…four aspirin, please.

We have a gig in Indy tonight then after the show we’re leaving for my favorite rock city in the world…Detroit. Two sold-out shows…badass.

On the jet, 1 a.m.

Tonight we shot a live video for Wild Side. What would people think if they knew they were singing a raped and dismantled version of the Lord’s Prayer…and knew how I came to write it? I wonder how Becky is now?


WAYNE ISHAM: When we came to shoot the “Wild Side” video, Nikki said what he always said to me: “I don’t want the same old Bon Jovi shit.” So we decided to do a really mental over-the-top live video.

I put cameras everywhere. Tommy had his revolving drum kit, so we put a camera on that. I wanted to put a camera on Nikki’s bass but he wouldn’t let me, so we put it on Mick’s guitar instead. Then there was a huge Plexiglass ball with a camera in it that we threw into the crowd to get some crazy shots from there. Of course, being Mötley fans, they ended up breaking it.

The problem was Mötley had this thing called Double Bubble…they’d give you a bottle of Jack Daniel’s before the show and shout “Double Bubble,” which meant you had to drink straight from the bottle until the bubbles went up it–twice! So I was trying to work the main camera onstage, shit-faced, and Nikki came up behind me and bit me really hard on the arm. I suddenly had this searing pain and Nikki was standing in front of me, laughing his head off. He thought it was the funniest thing in the world.


Hotel, Detroit, 5:25 p.m.

Floating in depression. I can’t seem to find a footing in life. I don’t know why but some days I wish I was a kid back on the streets of Seattle, hanging out with other musicians who were bent on reinventing the music that drove us from insanity…Rob Hemphil, Rick Van Zandt and the others. School was a thing we did so we could do what it is we really want and need to do and that’s to dream.

Now my dream is here and I don’t have the tools to undo the damage done to me as a child.

Why am I so pissed?

Why do kids relate to me?

I got the second answer, but not the first. It’s easy, ’cause I’m fucked up like them. Not by our own actions either…others broke us…not that it’s hard to break a kid. Now us (the kids) are gonna break you.

Fuck everything…somebody get me a doctor.


Backstage, 11:45 p.m.

I love it when the band is on fire. Great show, second one sold out here. We slithered through the set like a sidewinder, fangs exposed yet somehow charming at times. I smiled all the while, what a Cheshire cat I must have looked like. Swigging whisky, reeling in contentment…moments like these must be savored…


Hotel, Detroit, 6 p.m.

I’ve been going from very up and happy to feeling completely depressed lately and I don’t know why. No more or less drugs and booze than usual. Pills by the handful but nothing less than slightly out of control. I feel like something is gonna crash soon…it feels like impending doom.

I’ll be at home this time next week. I don’t know if that’s good or bad…maybe both.

DOUG THALER: In some ways Nikki didn’t seem so different on the Girls Girls Girls tour. The truth was that often you just couldn’t tell if he was on a coke high, or a Jack Daniel’s high, or whatever. All that we knew was that he was kind of shifty and we had to watch him like a hawk.



Hotel, Detroit, 8:40 p.m.

Lay in bed all day watching TV. Nothing too exciting except that Doug called and told me Too Fast for Love has gone platinum…not bad for a lil punk rock record.


On jet to Cincinnati, 2 p.m.

Vince can never sleep alone. He has a different girl every night. I can’t understand that, because I need to be alone. I’m always alone in a room full of people. I can never understand Vince holding hands with a girl that he’s just met. It blows me away. It’s not just getting laid–he has one flying in and one flying out every day. I’ve seen them pass in the hallway. He not only never gets caught, he has no remorse. Sometimes one is his old lady too.

Vince is a sex addict, but I guess me calling him an addict is the pot calling the kettle black.


FRED SAUNDERS: Vince Neil was very high-maintenance on the Girls tour. I think he thought he was Elvis Presley. When he got really drunk I would take all of his jewelry off him before he went out, because he was always getting robbed. The other thing he’d do was come in all the time boasting about exactly how many girls he’d slept with. Oh yes, he was a real piece of work all right.


Hotel, Cleveland, 2 p.m.

Woke up in Cleveland. These hotels are starting to look all the same. Another show tonight, I really need a day off. Thank God I’m home in three days. My hands are so bruised and cut up–my body is fucked up. I seem to do things to my body onstage that I don’t feel until the adrenaline wears off–or the alcohol…


On the jet to Hebron, 4 p.m.

Sometimes I just run out of juice. I hit a wall and I can’t move. It’s not the hangovers or the half-life from the pills…it’s something else. I don’t know what it is, but the only way through it is to put your head down and drive into the end zone. It’s like I have a chemical imbalance.

I was reading a story in the newspaper recently about low blood sugar and alcohol. I wonder if I have low blood sugar.

I can’t wait to get tomorrow out of the fucking way and get home.

Anyway, I’m fucking bored and just rambling, so rather than bore you with my mundane scribbles, I’ll just put down the pen and pick up the guitar. There’s gotta be a song in there somewhere, just waiting to come out–I just gotta muster up the energy to pull it out…

MICK MARS: By this stage of the tour I couldn’t tell if Nikki was high because I was normally high too. The shows were all pretty consistent: here comes the Jack Daniel’s bottle, who can drink the most, how many bubbles can you do with it. I would line up shots of vodka one after the other then go back to my room and order champagne and wine–it was pretty fucked. But I don’t think I ever realized quite how bad Nikki was getting.


On the Mötley jet to LA, 2 a.m.

There were 40,000 kids tonight…what a great show. The band was firing on all cylinders. We were on top of it–40,000 kids all with their fists in the air, shouting at the top of their lungs. Some days you just nail it like a machine. The band was so tight and I could just feel the electricity from the crowd. This is a really nice way to end. Now we have four days off. Should get in about 8:30–I can’t wait to sleep in my own bed. My clothes stink so bad. I need to change out my suitcase with new clothes.

FRED SAUNDERS: Buckeye Lake was a huge outdoor show with Whitesnake and Anthrax. We had a small disaster that day. When Mötley played “Smokin’ in the Boys’ Room,” Vince was supposed to play a harmonica solo. Vince can’t even play the harmonica but I can, so we’d cut Vince’s mic off and he’d lip-synch and pretend to be playing, while the truth was that I was hidden at the side of the stage and playing into a mic. I used to watch him up there, posing and sucking in his cheeks. But at Buckeye Lake, I was practicing and the hidden mic was somehow on, so this “Smokin’ in the Boys’ Room” harp solo suddenly came blasting out of nowhere in the middle of a different song completely. Vince looked real pissed, as usual.


Van Nuys, 9 p.m.

Home. Thank fuck. I washed my clothes, washed my car, checked my answering machine. I had 67 messages…erased them all. Went through the mail…I had a check for $650k sitting there. I keep telling the office to collect my mail and redirect it when I’m on tour. Come on, over half-a-million dollars sitting there in my mailbox on the street? That’s some crazy shit…


Van Nuys, 10:20 p.m.

Slept all day.

I just wrote a new song called A Is for Asshole.

A is for Asshole

B is for Being Me


Van Nuys, midnight

I wish I missed someone as much as I miss smack. It haunts me like a lover I never got to say goodbye to.

Can’t wait to get out of here. I feel like I’m hanging by a thread. I feel safer from junk on the road. I’ve been fending off the wolves who have come knocking at my door. They all know I’m home…

God, please keep them away…


Van Nuys, 6:40 p.m.

Today I’m laying in this bed and am so lonely–at the top? I feel trapped in my own destiny. On days like today, I understand suicide. I wonder if I will make it all the way to the end of my life? I wonder if I have the ability to love someone enough to make them feel safe?

Days like these I hate to leave my house. I can muster up a fake smile and be cordial, but deep inside I feel nobody really likes me…and worse…nobody understands me.

I feel like I am completely alone on this planet.

NIKKI: In retrospect I can see now that depression was not just knocking at my door but had clearly kicked it in and made itself right at home in my head. Sometimes things are so close that you just can’t see them. I love the word “accumulative”…emotional problems are so often the end result of many things going on. It wasn’t just the drugs, the alcohol, the pills, the fame or the childhood. It was accumulative, and the list was growing and growing…and growing…


On a flight from LAX to Cleveland, 11:45 a.m.

My time at home went so quick, so now it’s another month on the road. I can’t count the miles, or remember the hotels. I don’t remember the cities and I can’t see the end in sight. If it wasn’t for the music and the fans this would be as close to Chinese water torture as you could get. Repetition…over and over and over…drip drip drip…

Ya I’m whining. I guess I’m just tired. This flight left LA at 9 a.m. We land in Cleveland at 4 then catch another flight to Pittsburgh where we land at 6, then we have a show…it’s a good one. 16K, sold out. So I better get some sleep. I sorta forgot to go to sleep last night–I had some late-night visitors. Jason hasn’t changed…

It’s good to be outta LA.


I've got the power

I've got the power

I've got the power

But it still hurts when you're all alone.