Now let me just, for a few moments, incautiously extoll the virtues of unalloyed, tacky, sexified hair or glam metal (to be used interchangeably throughout) — all of it gauche, vain, eccentric, fun and sometimes wholly idiotic.
It should be noted that my infatuation with this terrible music isn’t entrenched in some bullshit millennial novelty fetishism but, in actual real-life fandom. I’ve often stumbled home at 2 or 3am hammered beyond reasonable cognition in search of a sandwich, headphones in blasting some of the most obtusely life-affirming shit ever put to tape. There is a weird revelry in some of these songs that reminds me that any moment in my life can be turned into something worthwhile and fun if W.A.S.P. are playing loud.
The following songs are generally considered to be bigger hits in each respective artist’s repertoire because it’s late, you’re drunk and looking for a reason to live, not for some obscure b-side or deep cut from the ass end of a catalogue to explain away your guilt and legitimise your right to like such uncool music. Nobody wants that, just Shut Up And Play The Hits™.
NOTABLE EXCLUSIONS
- Guns N’ Roses (not hair metal, don’t you ever fucking forget it. I utterly reject and refute the tag)
- KISS (they went through a bad glam phase, and one from which they never seemed to be able to break free, God love ‘em)
- Alice Cooper (his career trajectory obviously framed part of the genesis of the glam metal thing but I’m hard-pressed to include him by sheer virtue of his precursory preexistence, prescience and subsequent longevity after the true death of the genre, which I believe happened on September 24, 1991 when this weird kid called Kurt released this album that went on to be pretty big or something, you know)
- Bon Jovi (because I assume that you, the reader, are in fact, not so utterly basic that I would stoop to insult your intelligence by including a song by the hairiest, glammiest pop metal band of all time — I know we’re not looking for deep cuts here but come on. We’ve all heard “Dead or Alive” and the other famous one. You know it, see?)
- Van Halen (it’s a half half one — see: Bon Jovi, also see: GN’R)
- W.A.S.P. (because I already mentioned them, it would seem a cop out to use a W.A.S.P. song)
Let’s party:
POISON – NOTHIN’ BUT A GOOD TIME
Straight to the fuckin’ point, Poison. I like it. I like your style. I like how you don’t give a fuck about spellin’ or sayin’ nothin’ correct. That’s how committed you are to this hedonism, this token of fatalistic, epicurean combustibility. Poison are, in my opinion, the quintessential “awful” hair band; not awful in the sense that their music was terrible, although “Talk Dirty To Me” is probably almost definitely a violation of some UN Charter, but awful in the way hair bands strived to be awful.
Rollicking, subversive-but-not-so-much-as-to-lose-those-fat-middle-American-dollars, and let’s face it, Bret Michaels was probably patient zero for at leat 30 new strands of syphilis. Bret Michaels rose is almost certainly covered in um, thorns and Poison are fuckin’ nothin’ if not a good time.
WARRANT – CHERRY PIE
If there were ever a song that sounded as gross as glam metal looked, this is that song. Bonafide sleazeball classic, highly embarrassing to enjoy without headphones. Hard to enjoy if one does not have a soul or at the very least, a sense of humour. This song is fucking gross. I am gross. “Siri, play “Cherry Pie” by Warrant’… “PLAYING CHERRY PIE BY WARRANT’.
‘Siri… set to “repeat”’.
WHITESNAKE – HERE I GO AGAIN
What is there for me to really say about David Coverdale? He left Deep Purple a (probably) broken man, sorta creepy but sporting a voice that could have made him a famous peddler of AM radio muzak given some toned down reinvention and yet 1978 was the year of Trouble — a kind of humdrum “classic rock” album that also, in a haphazard way, seemed to prophesy a new and fruitful arena for his magnificent pipes and sorta-creepiness to thrive.
Saints & Sinners, released in 1982 featured the Snake’s biggest and brightest and hairiest banger, about loneliness, roads, walking, being alone, needing to be alone, feeling lonely and being a hobo and walking. I refuse to listen to the US ‘radio mix’ that appeared later on their 1987 self-titled (they replaced the word ‘hobo’ with fucking ‘drifter’ for fuck’s sake). It’s sanitised (see hobo v. drifter thing, previous sentence). It’s neutered (shorter). There’s no bombast (no over-the-top organ), no ambition (the organ thing again), no soul (give us the fucking organ).
I much prefer the pomposity of Coverdale wailing “AND LAWWWWD I PRAY YA GIVE ME STRENGTH TA CAAARY AWWWWN” over that terrific organ (this is the organ I’m talking about, it really is quite something) in the O.G. album version. What fucking presence he has, and if you’re ever drunk, up late and looking for a reason to keep on living I always say throw on some Whitesnake. I fucking love Whitesnake. I fucking love David Coverdale.
WINGER – MILES AWAY
It’s probably fair to say that if you’ve ever heard of Winger, the song you’ve heard is “Seventeen” from 1988’s Winger, a supremely despicable ode to statutory rape. It’s a disgusting message, the lyrics are, for lack of a better word, fucked and the song itself is the kind of bottom-feeding, half-assed, tactical shock rocking detractors of hair metal take on as the onus for their casting aside the entire genre.
That said, it’s strange to me that such a vicarious tribute to preying on a teenaged girl was followed by this absolute fucking stunner of a power ballad a mere two years on. Most of 1990’s In The Heart Of The Young is decent, but nothing tops “Miles Away” in terms of sheer balls and non-exhaustive synthiness. “Headed For A Heartbreak” found on the self-titled debut is a classic power ballad jam-sandwich too with hella synths and groove to boot, so maybe it’s a split tie.
DEF LEPPARD – POUR SOME SUGAR ON ME
Ok. Yes. They’re the band with the one-armed drummer. They’re also the band that are among the world’s best selling artists, the band that released two of the most influential and exciting hard rock albums of the 1980s with 1983’s Mutt Lange produced fucking juggernaught Pyromania and then the 1987 magnum opus Hysteria which went gangbusters, like 25-million-records-and-counting-fucking-gangbusters which at 62.5 minutes was at one stage, one of the longest albums ever committed to a single vinyl record.
But yeah sure, lol, one armed drummer, lol. Tell your internet friends that Def Leppard were, at one stage, unimpeachable credibility, releasing this hour long behemoth with no less than 7 (SEVEN!) singles. Go to track 5. “Pour Some Sugar On Me”. Arguably the Lepp’s biggest hit. Throw that motherfucker on, turn that shit up to 11 and watch your dad and his sweet, chubby friends ascend into nothing less than the most spirited and heart-warming rendition of mid-life revisionism you’ve ever seen. This song is purpose built for jiggling man-belly cellulite. It’s the song I’ve always wanted to accompany my sexy striptease for a special girl, but have never admitted it out loud because I’m self-conscious about my body.
DANGER DANGER – BANG BANG
Would you just listen to how beautifully radio-friendly, how accessible, how un-metal, how vastly fucking over-the-top that chorus is? I gave you my love/and you shot me down. Stellar. The real killer for me is those backing vocals that come and go, rise and fall, all Queen-esque. They say so fucking much without saying anything, and my drunk self doesn’t give a shit. Sing damn it, you beautiful forgettable sirens, sing!
LITA FORD – KISS ME DEADLY
Me: (driving)
Future Daughter: (pointing to the radio) Dad, who is this?
Me: That’s Lita Ford, kiddo.
Her: Who’s that?
Me: Well, she was in this band in the 70s called The Runaways, kind of a seminal rock n’ roll band whose gimmicky public iteration was centred around this sordid, tasteless runaway jailbait kitsch thing which was sort of compelling in a really twisted way but also seemed, you know, a little perverse — almost vulgar? There’s an argument to be made that they were a pre-cursor to riot grrl and the burgeoning feminist rock n’roll movement, but yeah I don’t know, they seemed like a music industry invention to me. They were like — they were an “all girl” band, yeah, but that’s not important because what do I always tell you?
Her: That there’s no such thing as a “strong female character” because women are inherently strong so why should “strong” be the adjective before female, and that “female artist” is archaic and hypocritical because “male artists” are usually just referred to as “artists”.
Me: Attagirl. Anyways, seminal they were, and Lita was the first official “lead guitarist”, but in a lot of ways was unfairly overshadowed by Joan Jett whom I think, took the whole chaotic lead singer thing a little too seriously. And they broke up in 1979, went their seperate ways and Lita, also in my opinion the baddest of them all, embarked on a storied solo career wherein she did whatever she felt like and in 1988 released this here very song we’re enjoying now on classic rock radio. Because it’s a classic. She’s more than just a singer or guitar player Future Daughter, she’s the epitome of everything that rules about America, even though she was born in England. She embraced her considerable talent, sexuality and identity instead of trying to divorce them from each other and was defiant in that she didn’t become complicit with some bourgeoise intellectualist agenda. She blazed trails. She’s a rockstar. She was and is a feminist icon. She did what she wanted and made some fucking (included here for dramatic effect, not likely a word I will use around my children) terrific music.
Her: Dad… can we buy a guitar?
Me: Have I ever told you that I love you, and you’re the best thing that has ever happened to me?
MOTLEY CRUE – HOME SWEET HOME
The umlaut is so goddamned metal there are 5 seminal metal(ish) bands at least that employ it to great effect in their band names. The Crüe are on the more metal side of glam without a doubt, but goddamn were they ever glam. This is for the part of the night wherein one ruminates with considerable intoxicated effulgence about the place they consider the most “theirs”, in whatever sense.
A hometown; the chest of a lover; their parents kitchen; a dumpster; a gross hat they like to wear sometimes. I always think of Adam Sandler playing the role of Little Nicky in the extraordinarily bad but wonderful movie of the same name speaking of his boyhood home, the kingdom of darkness, Hell. “In the words of Mötley Crüe, this will always be my Home Sweet Home”.
It is etched into my consciousness now. It has everything a big classic rock song needs— soaring guitars, an obnoxiously honky piano tonking away underneath Vince Neil’s nasally, half-sincere, I’m-a-hellraising-jerk-but-also-have-a-sensitive-side-too-just-listen-to-this-ballad-buy-our-album sqawking, a colossal flat fifth and the extraneous, prolonged guitar soloing that ensured no self-respecting 21st century music critic would accept them with even a grain of legitimacy. It’s a shame too, because the Crüe were legitimate. Always.
WHITE LION – WAIT
“Huh? What a nondescript name.” Exactly; for you see, it wasn’t about the name with White Lion, it was all about the —
Wait just a moment before our love will die
Cause I must know the reason why we say goodbye
Wait just a moment and tell me why
’cause I can show you loving that you won’t deny —
*KAH tu KAH tu KAH tu tu tu*
RAAAAR, CHUGGA CHUGGA CHUGGA CHUG CHUG CHUG CHUG CHUG RAAAAAAR CHUG CHUG CHUG CHUG CHUG RAAAAR CHUG CHUG CHUG CHUG CHU RAAAR DOO DOO DOO DOO DOO DOO DOO DOO DOO
Timeless.
Y&T – SUMMERTIME GIRLS
Y&T stands for “Yesterday & Today”, only for some reason the abbreviated acronym is way more annoying to type than the actual band name.
Anyways, a studio version of “Summertime Girls” (or S.T.G.) was included on 1985’s Open Fire, a pretty underrated live album if you ask me, and this song could have set the world on fire were it included on an actual LP release. It’s joyous, weirdly sweet and is without a doubt, the sole example of a quintessential “hair metal” song I would play for any visiting extra terrestrial lifeforms looking for a fucking iota of joy or goodness on this unevolved, festering shitpile planet.
It’s hard to think of another song from the peak of that first wave of hair metal that incorporates virtually every truism of the genre within a compact 3:30 minutes — synths, chimey, fake orchestral glockenspiels jolting about with this sort of advertising jingle melody, a shreddy, too-fast-for-human-hands-but-slow-enough-for-human-consumption guitar solo, a blood-curdling howl courtesy of Dave Menniketti and that laugh — that fucking cackle halfway through or at the beginning of a song ubiquitous in the hair-metal lexicon of clichés and bromides (also courtesy of Menniketti).
Whew.
