Mötley Crüe Pt. 1: Sex, Drugs, and Even More Sex and Drugs: How Are These Dudes Still Alive?

Summary

Disgraceland Episode Summary: "Mötley Crüe Pt. 1: Sex, Drugs, and Even More Sex and Drugs: How Are These Dudes Still Alive?"

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Introduction to Motley Crüe's Wild Lifestyle

The episode kicks off with an electrifying portrayal of the notorious 1980s LA metal band, Mötley Crüe. Listeners are introduced to the band's infamous reputation for excessive behavior, including violence, substance abuse, and rampant sexual escapades. The host, Jake Brennan, sets the stage by describing the band's tumultuous dynamics:

"The stories about 80s LA metal band Motley Crüe are totally insane. They had a violent fuck it all approach toward anything and anyone who got in their way."
— Jake Brennan [02:55]

Formation and Early Days

The narrative delves into the origins of the band members, focusing primarily on Nikki Sixx, whose real name was Frank Ferrana. Nikki's transformation from a teenage delinquent to the bass powerhouse of Mötley Crüe is vividly depicted:

"Frank Farana was a vacuum cleaner salesman who dealt quaaludes on the side with his next door neighbor. Frank Farana was also a punk, a fiend. A single minded rock and roll animal whose one ambition was to become the biggest baddest bass player in the world's biggest baddest rock band."
— Jake Brennan [05:00]

Nikki's relentless pursuit of his rockstar identity is emphasized, showcasing his disdain for softer punk bands and his desire to embody the raw, untamed spirit of heavy metal.

Band Formation and Chemistry

The formation of Mötley Crüe is chronologically narrated, highlighting the serendipitous meeting of band members Tommy Lee, Mick Mars, and Vince Neil. The chemistry among them is portrayed as instantaneous and electrifying:

"When they got down to it and picked up their instruments, the chemistry was instant. Tommy's energy pulled Nicky's sloppy bass playing into a makeshift pocket. Mick's guttural riffs provided a dark platform for Vince's anthemic voice."
— Jake Brennan [09:54]

Their collective talent and shared hedonistic lifestyle quickly propelled them into the spotlight, setting the foundation for their relentless pursuit of fame and excess.

Excessive Lifestyle and Near-Death Experiences

The episode delves deep into the band's notorious lifestyle, characterized by unrestrained indulgence in sex, drugs, and violence. Multiple near-death experiences are recounted, illustrating how the band seemingly defied mortality:

"The excessive sex, drugs and violence led to several near death experiences. Multiple car crashes, fires, fights, drownings and drug overdoses. Yet Motley Crüe made a habit of cheating death and made some great music along the way."
— Jake Brennan [02:55]

A particularly gripping story involves Nikki Sixx's brush with death:

"Nikki Sixx died on December 23, 1987 at Cedars Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles, California... Death suited Nicky. It came with a calm, a sense of inner peace and a balance that he could never quite attain in life."
— Jake Brennan [30:25]

However, in a dramatic twist, Nikki miraculously revives:

"And bam. Niki opened his eyes and bolted upright on the gurney, back to life."
— Jake Brennan [32:28]

This near-death experience reinforces the band's almost mythical ability to survive the chaos they perpetuate.

Tragic Events and Continued Chaos

The episode also covers the tragic car accident involving Vince Neil and Razzle, the drummer of Hanoi Rocks:

"The Pantera purred like a panther as it was designed to do the signs at 25 miles per hour... Razzle Dingley, drummer of her promising heavy metal band Hanoi Rocks and expectant father, died later that evening at the hospital."
— Jake Brennan [20:27]

Vince's reckless behavior leads to the loss of a friend, yet he remains unscathed and unfazed, epitomizing the band's reckless defiance of consequences.

Nikki Sixx's Final Demise and Legacy

The episode culminates with the recounting of Nikki Sixx's ultimate demise:

"Sid Vicious died of a heroin overdose. Pussy Johnny Thunders also died of a heroin overdose. Also a pussy. Nikki Sixx Immortal Death Cheating Rock God in his mind at least..."
— Jake Brennan [32:38]

Despite his drug abuse and near-death experiences, Nikki's legacy as a rock 'n' roll icon remains untarnished, symbolizing the band's enduring mythos.

Conclusion: Immortal Rock Legends or Mythical Creatures?

In wrapping up, the host ponders whether Mötley Crüe's ability to survive countless dangers points to their status as immortal beings or simply as incredibly fortunate individuals:

"But I don't know. I say it's even odds they were vampires. Has anyone ever seen Mick Mars in the daylight? I haven't."
— Jake Brennan [34:29]

The episode leaves listeners contemplating the fine line between legend and reality, encapsulating the essence of Disgraceland's exploration into the dark and thrilling lives of rock stars.

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Notable Quotes:

• Jake Brennan [02:55]:
  "The stories about 80s LA metal band Motley Crüe are totally insane. They had a violent fuck it all approach toward anything and anyone who got in their way."

• Jake Brennan [09:54]:
  "A rehearsal with Tommy, Nicky and Mick was arranged. The chemistry was instant."

• Jake Brennan [32:28]:
  "And bam. Niki opened his eyes and bolted upright on the gurney, back to life."

• Jake Brennan [34:29]:
  "But I don't know. I say it's even odds they were vampires. Has anyone ever seen Mick Mars in the daylight? I haven't."

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Final Thoughts

This episode of Disgraceland masterfully intertwines the raw, unfiltered history of Mötley Crüe with dramatic storytelling, offering listeners an immersive dive into the band's relentless pursuit of fame amidst chaos. Through vivid anecdotes and gripping narratives, the episode captures the essence of why these rock stars remain both infamous and legendary figures in music history.

Transcript

[Jake Brennan]

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[Jesse Weber]

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[Jake Brennan]

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[Jake Brennan]

The stories about 80s LA metal band Motley Crue are totally insane. They had a violent fuck it all approach toward anything and anyone who got in their way. Bass player Nikki Sixx once Hammered a nail through a so called poser's ear. Bored on tour, the band would break bottles over each other's heads and see who could swallow the most broken glass. In the early days, they would pimp out their 17 year old drummer Tommy Lee for beer money. In studio time they had sex with or tried to have sex with anyone in anything that moved. Nicky once went so far as to try to bed Tommy's mom. And of course they all slept with each other's girlfriends behind each other's backs. And when they made it big, they took their earnings and bought a plane. But it wasn't enough just to own their own jet. Motley Crue had to paint a giant dick and balls on the tail so that when they landed it would literally look like they were flying in to the city. The excessive sex, drugs and violence led to several near death experiences. Multiple car crashes, fires, fights, drownings and drug overdoses. Yet Motley Crue made a habit of cheating death and made some great music along the way. That music I played you at the top of the show, that wasn't great music. That was a preset loop from my melotron called Vienna waltz. Marimba Low MK1. I played you that loop because I can't afford the License for Faith by George Michael. And why would I play you that specific slice of diddly esque Pleather Cheese? Could I afford it? Because that was the number one song in America on December 23, 1987. And that was the day that Nikki Sixx, bass player of Motley Crue died. And of course it was also the day he came back to life on this episode. Pleather Cheese, Waltzing Marimba, Cheating Death and Motley Crue. I'm Jake Brennan and this is Disgraceland. In 1977, Frank Ferrana was a 17 year old teenage delinquent. He was a pill popping weed head and devoted Johnny Thunder's wannabe. Frank Farana was a vacuum cleaner salesman who dealt quaaludes on the side with his next door neighbor. A neighbor whose wife he was secretly sleeping with. Frank Farana was also a punk, a fiend. A single minded rock and roll animal whose one ambition was to become the biggest baddest bas player in the world's biggest baddest rock band. Frank Farana was Nikki Sixx. Frank stole his stage name from a childhood musician friend whom he deemed unworthy of such a badass moniker. So Frank did what came natural to him. He saw what he wanted and he took it. And voila. Nikki Sixx was born. Fuck that other guy. So Nikki Sixx took to the streets of late 70s Hollywood Hell Bent for action. Unlike most, he didn't see his idols as people to live up to. He saw his idols as people to outlive. For Nicky, Johnny Thunders of the New York Dolls and Sid Vicious of the Sex Pistols were warm up acts for the real thing. Him, Nikki Sixx might not have been in a band yet, but he lived the life. He stole, cheated, fucked and fought his way to the top of the Sunset Strip heavy metal heap. Punk rock was burning out of the pulp public's consciousness and fast. His beloved Sex Pistols were over, as were the New York Dolls. Bands like the Clash and Elvis Costello's attractions were, in Nikki's mind, too soft and had sold out the promise of punk rock to the mainstream and were more concerned with being political and seeming smart rather than being rock and roll. Too clever by half, that Nikki envisioned a world where the sleaze and glamour of this beloved punk in British glam bands would dominate the pubescent imaginations of teenagers everywhere. He began dressing the part he was scripting for himself. Silver studs, skin tight black jeans, Capezio boots or better yet, Capezios with stiletto heels, hair dyed jet black and piled up high to the Hollywood hills, and of course, eye makeup. It was part bleaker and Bowery punk and part Spiders from Mars glam. It was androgynous but masculine at the same time. It was tough and it was sexy. You didn't know whether you wanted to Nicky or fight Nicky or both. It didn't matter. The look was meant to confuse, to compel. And who was this hot chick hanging out at the club who looked like he wanted to kick your ass? Oh yeah, she's a he. And he's in a band. What kind of band? He doesn't look punk, he doesn't look glam. What the hell is he? Shock, awe. That was the idea. If you didn't like it, you could fuck right off, head downtown with the new wave geeks or out to Venice with the hardcore kids and gang bangers who never got laid and took their frustration out on each other in the pit. Slam dancing, bunch of pent up late and homosexual frustration if you ask Nikki. Nikki Sixx was at the club for two reasons. To find his future bandmates and to fuck your girlfriend. And if you didn't like it, well, that was your problem. When not at the bar or hanging out, Nicky was either sleeping off a buzz or regrettably, working. Nicky hated work, but he didn't hate where he worked at the liquor store. Chicks from Sunset Strip were always wandering in and eager to check out the glamazon Italian kid with the makeup and dreamy eyes working the register. And work the register he did. Nicky was regularly skimming off the top to buy drugs, booze and musical band gear. But the real reason he didn't hate where he worked was because it was close to the action. Musicians from bands playing and hanging out at nearby clubs, the Starwood, the Rainbow Room and the Troubadour were always popping in. Most of them were posers, hairdressing weekend warrior types who wouldn't know sweet from Cheap Trick. But Nikki was optimistic. One of these nights a like minded rock and roll warrior would walk in and Nicky would finally have a bandmate. And so it happened. The dude looked like he was Gene Simmons Mini Me. That is if Gene Simmons were actually as badass as his image purported him to be. This dude was far fucking out. He was dressed head to toe in black, a beat up Les Paul guitar case in hand, platform boots with duct taped heels, silver studs, his eyes heavily mascaraed and buried beneath his jet black bangs. He spoke in barely audible mumbles and Nicky commented on the guitar, asked him his name and wanted to know the bands he was into and the little alien looking cousin it dude told Nicky but Nicky wasn't listening because it didn't matter.

[Jesse Weber]

A cousin.

[Jake Brennan]

It could have said John Dever or Judy Collins and it wouldn't have mattered at all because the dude's look was right and like the rock gods Jagger and Ronson before him, his name was Mick Mick Mars and he was perfect in all ways but one. He was on his way to Alaska for a tour with his lame band. Shit. Nicky wasn't deterred though. He was determined and kept up the search. Through a mutual friend he hooked up with a 17 going on 12 year old drummer and ball of frenetic energy named Tommy Lee. Tommy was young but he had chops and he was a skinny Adonis. The chicks loved him before he even sat down at his kit. Plus he and Nicky had legit chemistry and Tommy idolized the older Nikki Sixx who'd already gained a rap on the Strip as a dude not to be fucked with and a dude who was going places. But they still needed a guitar player so they started combing Recycler magazine's classifieds. Tommy spotted the listing first. It read loud, rude and aggressive guitarist available. And there was another listing with the exact same number and this one with even more spot on Descriptors Extraterrestrial guitarist available for any other aliens that want to conquer the earth. Tommy couldn't get the little wheel on the rotary telephone to spin fast enough. He quickly dialed the number to set up a jam session and in a couple of days a FAYE knock on the door produced none other than the alien looking cousin it dude from the liquor store. Nicky could not believe his eyes. It was the universe talking. Mick Mars had arrived. Three down, one to go. They needed a singer. Tommy knew a guy. It was a long shot. The guy was beyond cool. Way cooler than Tommy. Maybe even cooler than Nicky and Mick, but Nicky and Mick didn't give a fuck. And really, what's cooler than not giving a fuck? Nothing. But Tommy's ex schoolmate was like the coolest dude on campus. He was a singer in a local band that jammed on Cheap Trick and Aerosmith and that mainly existed as a means for the band to get league. Not that the singer who Tommy coveted needed any help. He was gorgeous. He had that Spicoli look before that Spicoli look was even a thing. Long blonde sunstroke, surfer hair, eternally tanned, ripped Levi's, devilish eyes. And the dude could not only hit those high Robin Xander notes, he could work the crowd like Steven Tyler. And Tommy's timing couldn't have been better. The singer was on the outs of this band. So a rehearsal with Tommy, Nicky and Mick was arranged. The 280Z roared into the parking lot at Burbank's IRS Rehearsal Studios with authority and 18 year old Vince Neil hopped out of the driver's seat trailed by his very attractive, very rich older girlfriend, the owner of the 280Z who proceeded to tell anyone who was listening no one was just how stupid an idea it was for Vince to be stooping to Tommy Lee's level. She was thoroughly ignored. A gallon of peppermint schnapps was shared as were a few words on musical references and the usual suspects. The Dolls, the Pistols, Sweet Sabbath. And when they got down to it and picked up their instruments, the chemistry was instant. Tommy's energy pulled Nicky's sloppy bass playing into a makeshift pocket. Mick's guttural riffs provided a dark platform for Vince's anthemic voice. And they quickly demonstrated a knack for making powerful, electrifying music. And in no time Motley Crue was born. And throughout their life as a band they would demonstrate an uncanny knack for cheating death.

[Jesse Weber]

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[Jake Brennan]

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[Jesse Weber]

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[Jake Brennan]

Everyone knows vampires aren't real. Everyone except Angelenos, LA residents have a special relationship with the creatures of the night. A weariness almost like an acceptance that yeah, vampires exist anywhere. And they probably exist here in LA. Up the road in Sacramento. In the late 70s, Richard Chase, an enterprising 27 year old serial killer, drank his victim's blood before cannibalizing them. He was known publicly as the vampire killer. And in Hollywood there'd long been rumors of secret vampire societies where members were now known to subsist on raw filet mignon and to drink the blood of teenage girls during sex. Whenever residents read in the paper about a Jane Doe turning up dead, maybe underneath a bridge down in the Valley, they couldn't help but think about the lost boys out in Venice or the bad boys out on the Strip, standing in the shadows with designs and the blood pumping through the good girls home with broken hearts. Dom Menendez was a God fearing man and he was outside his apartment complex watering the flowers in his front yard like he did every Sunday morning before church went. Out of the front door stumbled what Dom believed to be one of Hollywood's rumored creatures of the night in the flesh before his very own eyes. Could it be? Tall, menacing, dressed like an extra from a Mad Max movie, with skin the color of milk and one tattooed army shielding his eyes. But what was most telling and most frightening was the blood. It covered his face and it was most intense around the vampire's mouth. Fresh from a feeding frenzy in Dom's apartment building on a Sunday before church, Dom dropped the garden hose and passed out face down in his petunias. And Nikki Sixx didn't give him a second look as he bounded by and hopped into his Porsche. He flipped down the driver's side visor to check his mascara in the mirror. And that's when he noticed the blood. Shit. No wonder the old man was looking at him strange. Nikit looked like a glammed out Vlad the Impaler. The blood must have been from the nerdy neighbor he'd been going down on earlier that morning. She clearly had her period and judging from the amount of blood, it was day one. Nikki didn't care. He was spiraling out of control. It was 1984. Motley Crue's second album, Shout at the Devil had established them as a band not to be fucked with. Critics hated it, kids loved it, and it was selling big time and Nikki and the rest of the boys were living the life. But fresh off the road from an epically debaucherous tour with the Prince of Darkness himself, Ozzy Osbourne. Nicky was at loose ends. He'd discovered his girlfriend at the time, former Runaways guitar player and five alarms smoke show. Lita Ford had been set up with another dude by one of her skeezy punk rock guy friends. And Nicky was pissed. So he grabbed Tommy and a couple two by fours and headed over to Lita's apartment where he knew her punk rock friend was staying. The two burst in like a heavy metal buddy cop duo and proceeded to beat the punk dude to near death with the two by fours. Then it was off to Reseda Country Club. Nicky had dropped Tommy off at his place and picked up a date. He was high on Quaaludes, drunk on Jack and with this new girl who was hot to try and the two pulled into the parking lot and hopped out of the Porsche, but only made it as far as the hood before giving in to their carnal desires. It was broad daylight and Nicky was fully engaged in intercourse with his date on the hood of his car in the middle of the Reseda Country Club parking lot. A crowd began to gather and started to egg them on. Nice car, dude. Nice dick, dude. Hey, is that Nicky from Motley? It is. Too hot. Nicky, despite the distraction of the crowd and despite his inebriation, brought himself to climax, rolled off his date and onto his back on the hood of his Porsche. With Frank Ferrana's salami still hard and fully exposed, he looked at the crowd of wastoid metalheads. And staring at him, he wondered, who am I? Is this real? Am I really alive? We'll be right back after this. Word. Word, word.

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[Jake Brennan]

$65 purchase Living long was never the plan. Living fast was the plan. Johnny Thunders didn't have a retirement fund and Sid Vicious didn't have a fucking ira. And to paraphrase Farron Young, live fast, fuck hard and leave a notorious memory. But Nicky, Mick, Tom and Vince were beginning to sense their immortality. Again and again they managed to escape their certain fate. There was the fire in the hotel room in Germany where they managed to get out unharmed. And there was the other fire on stage where Tommy's drum tech set his face aflame with the smoke machine and flooded the stage. Yet the band avoided electrocution. And there was a time Nicky walked away naked and dazed from a bad car accident where he wrapped his Porsche around a tree. And there was the constant drug abuse, coke, heroin, speed. Speedballs. And yet no overdosing. Not yet at least. And of course there was constant casual sex. Casual is too casual a word for Motley Crue. Sex wasn't casual. Sex was a 247 full time occupation. The band was DTF fully and fucked all the time. They slept with everything and anything. Vince had been having sex with multiple women multiple times a day since he was in high school. Before he was even a star. In the early days they pimped out Tommy for beer money. They made him sleep with the engineer at the first studio they recorded at for free. Studio time to throw the girlfriends off the scent of their Sunset Strip sexual conquest. The boys would hit the taco truck on their way home at night, buy a couple egg and cheese burritos and stick their dicks in them to mask the smell of sex. And when they became famous, it just became more insane. Sex backstage was a given before and after shows. Like immediately after shows. As in walk off stage, grab a girl, any girl, and get right down to it quick in public view of everyone else around. It is no exaggeration to say that life for Motley Crue was quite literally a non stop orgy. How they all hadn't contracted HIV was a miracle, yet there they were, living it up and cheating death. Mick Mars had been drinking for days straight, trying to avoid his girlfriend, his bandmates and any and all sense of responsibility that his newfound fame was now cramping his style with. He was the type of drunk that is hard to explain to people who haven't gone on serious two, three, four day benders. The type of drunk where the consistent drinking and lack of sleep creates an alternate reality in one's mind, one where you feel in total control even though of course you totally aren't. Your thoughts make sense to you, yet you are completely out of step with reality. You speak to your friends and you hear the words come out of your mouth and they sound perfectly articulate, but what your friends hear is a garbled backward mess of words. You get ideas like, hey, I don't necessarily want to go swimming, but I just want to walk into the ocean because it seems peaceful. And yeah, I know I've been drinking rum and Coke since last Tuesday, but still, I got this. It doesn't matter that I can't swim. I'm just going to walk into the ocean. I'm not even going to take my clothes off. Besides, it's nighttime. Nobody's even here. Doesn't the water look so peaceful? And so Mick Mars, like Sterling Hayden in a long goodbye, stepped into the Pacific Ocean from the sandy shore below Vince Neil's Redondo beach home. One step and then another. His mind began to quiet finally. And then blackness. Where's Mick? Tommy asked Vince at the party upstairs at Vince's place. Who the fuck knows? Vince could have cared less. He was busy watching Tommy's fiance, Honey, take turns at Tommy's insistence on going down on a row of guys and Vince's Jacuzzi. Honey would do anything for Tommy and Tommy would do anything for his friends. The Hanoi Rocks guys were in town from Finland and they were at Vince's Redondo beach house celebrating the US Tour they were waiting to embark on. The party was epic, even by Motley Crue standards. Not only were the Hanoi guys in town and in need of being shown a good time, but famous producer and Hollywood Hills party impresario Roy Thomas Baker was hanging out. He'd been the first to show Motley Crue how to throw a party. Rtb, as they called him. His parties were as legend as the Queen and T. Rex records that he made. So Vince was serious about returning the favor. Only problem was they were out of beer. And where the was Mick? The 1972 Ford Pantera is a serious automobile. It was Ford's answer to the Ferrari, the Lamborghini and Porsche sports cars. It's a small car built for speed, a V8 engine capable of pumping out an impressive 330 horsepower. Most Ford Pantera owners are car hobbyists, weekend track rats who use their powerful speedster to rail around with other semi pros. Vince Neil used his Ford Pantera for beer runs. After staying up for three days straight drinking and doing blow, Vince pumped the engine. The Pantera purred like a panther as it was designed to do the signs at 25 miles per hour. The odometer said 50 miles per hour and the engine now roared. Razzle Dingley, drummer for Hanoi Rocks, hung on for dear life, his right hand clutching the handle above the passenger side door, his left hand cradling a couple hundred dollars worth of booze and beer or brown paper bags on his lap. The curvy Redondo beach roads were unforgiving. Vince pushed the accelerator 55 miles per hour. Razzle grinned, exhilarated. Slick with freshly fallen rain, the road unwound before them. Vince wound the engine faster, 60 miles per hour faster still, 63 miles per hour even faster, 65 miles per hour in a 25 mile per hour zone. Then headlights. Razzle's heart pumped with fear. Vince pumped the brakes and the Pantera spun, angling passenger side first, across the road and right into the front of the oncoming Volkswagen. Its passengers were pinballed together violently. The side door nearest Razzle, now an accordion, pushed his prone body onto Vince's lap. Blood. Razzle's blood was everywhere. The impact was too much. Razzle Dingley, drummer of her promising heavy metal band Hanoi Rocks and expectant father, died later that evening at the hospital. Vince Neil, singer of the world's most hedonistic rock band, Motley Crue, emerged unscathed, blew a 17 on the breathalyzer, paid a $2.1 million fine, served 30 days in a country club posing as a prison, and hit the road with his band again like nothing happened, having thoroughly cheated justice and death for what seemed to be the umpteenth time. Tommy Lee, perhaps realizing the STD bullets he dodged up to this point, took himself off the market and married actress Heather Locklear. Vince Neil, fresh out of rehab and jail, went right back to being Vince Neil, snorting drugs, banging everything that moved on that fateful night that Vince Neil's carelessness brought death to his friend Razzle's door. Mick Marr is washed up on the shore beneath Vince's house. After his half hearted stab at suicide, he awoke to the blinding Pacific coast sun. His clothes dried and wrinkled on his dry and wrinkled skin. The ocean had spit him back out. Death, it seemed, didn't want him on that day, and nor did it want Vince or Tommy. But death hadn't quite made up its mind yet about Nicky. Nikki Sixx died on December 23, 1987 at Cedars Sinai Hospital in Los Angeles, California. The doctors pronounced him dead before midnight. Death suited Nicky. It came with a calm, a sense of inner peace and a balance that he could never quite attain in life. The feeling overtook him. He dug it. A warm wave embraced him as he ascended out of the ravaged, tattooed and track marked shell of a body he'd been dragging Nikki Sixx around in for the better part of a decade. A body he'd been injecting with cocaine and heroin regularly, daily, sometimes at the same time.

[Jesse Weber]

A body that used to be beautiful.

[Jake Brennan]

But now was little more than a glammed out road worn bag of bones. He could see it lying there at first exposed to the jarring fluorescent hospital lights, then lying unnaturally still under a sheet atop the gurney he'd been on since back at the Franklin Plaza Hotel. The party at the hotel with the Guns n Roses and Megadeth guys was turned up to 11 per usual. Someone offered to tie Nikki off with some sweet Persian heroin and as soon as the drug hit his vein he went blue and passed out. Someone called 91 1. The drug dealer jumped out of the window and took off down the street.

[Jesse Weber]

Yelling, I just killed Nikki Six.

[Jake Brennan]

GNR guitarist slash, confused and frightened, decided it was a good time to trash the hotel room's bathroom. The EMTs quickly made the scene and strapped Nicky to the aforementioned gurney and hustled him to the hospital. And now here he was. Dead. He could see the commotion all around him, but felt no turmoil. Emergency room staff frantically booted him up with adrenaline shots from big ugly hypodermic needles, but nothing. He heard the EKG monitor chirping intermittently, but now it just sang a sad one note song. A nurse with thick flower forearms repeatedly smacked Nicky's cheeks. A doctor shouted, we're losing him. Hospital staff buzzed in and out of the room. He heard someone ask, is that really him? And through all of the tense energy surging around him, Nicky remained calm and watched his death unfold below him. He was content for the first time in his life. Except he wasn't alive. He was dead, lying on a gurney under a sheet with his eyes closed. Yet he could see everything around him. He felt nothing but peace. He had no sense of guilt or ego or addiction. Just calm. Then the worst pain he'd ever felt in his life. A jolt to his heart that was part lightning bolt, part Peterbilt tractor trailer grill.

[Jesse Weber]

And bam. Niki opened his eyes and bolted upright on the gurney, back to life.

[Jake Brennan]

But feeling like a truck hit him, the pain was immense. His headache was blinding.

[Jesse Weber]

His eyes burned, his stomach gnawed, he itched all over.

[Jake Brennan]

He was admitted, given a room and questioned by police who wanted to know who gave him the heroin. Nicky asked if he was under arrest. The cops said no and pressed him again to give up his dealer. Nicky told him to fuck off, ripped the IV needles out of his arms, pulled the tubes out of his nose and walked out of the hospital shirtless in just his leather pants and motorcycle boots. Sid Vicious died of a heroin overdose. Pussy Johnny Thunders also died of a heroin overdose. Also a pussy. Nikki Sixx Immortal Death Cheating Rock God in his mind at least, Nikki Sixx, like Tommy Lee, Mick Mars and Vince Neil were more like complete degenerates, doing anything at the expense of anyone, even themselves, to live the rock and roll animal life to the fullest. Vince's behavior, of course, resulted in the loss of life of a friend in a stupid and careless accident. And Motley Crue lived hard. So hard that death just wasn't deadly enough. Or maybe they were actually the undead, immortal creatures of the night, cheating death from its due. You know, kind of like those rumored Hollywood vampires. Of course, they could have just been batshit crazy and a little bit lucky. Insatiable rock and roll animals determined to outlive out, drug out, brawl and out ball their heroes. But I don't know. I say it's even odds they were vampires. Has anyone ever seen Mick Mars in the daylight? I haven't. I'm Jake Vernon and this is Disgrace.

[Jesse Weber]

Disgraceland was created by yours truly and is produced in partnership with Double Elvis. Credits for this episode can be found on the show notes [e-mail] if you're listening, as a Disgraceland All Access member.

[Jake Brennan]

Thank you for supporting the show. We really appreciate it.

[Jesse Weber]

And if not, you can become a member right now by going to Disgracelandpod.com Membership members can listen to every episode of Disgraceland ad free. Plus you'll get one brand new exclusive episode every month, weekly unscripted bonus episodes, special audio collections, and early access to merchandise and events. Visit disgracelandpod.com membership for details. Rate and review the show and follow us on Instagram, Tik Tok, Twitter and Facebook Disgracelandpod and on YouTube at YouTube.

[Jake Brennan]

YouTube.com Disgracelandpod Rocka Rolla.

[Jesse Weber]

He's a bad bad man.

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