This was it, dear readers. This was the memoir that broke me. The one that made me decide, definitively, to never read another White Dude Musician Memoir ever again.
I thought Keith Richards, with his “I’m a man in his goddamn seventies who still insists on calling all women ‘chicks’" act was bad. But at least Keith Richards, for all his faults and positively medieval gender politics, is the real deal. Keith Richards is a rock star, and Keith Richards is cool. The dudes in Motley Cru (I don’t know how to type the accents and I refuse to learn) are not cool. But god, are they trying so hard to live up to the rockstar image that they think they’re required to portray.
And in a way, that’s the only interesting thing about this memoir: the sheer, naked desperation that seeps from every page; the intense, embarrassing need these guys have to be considered cool. Everything they do is performative, from the way they insisted on trashing every space they inhabited beyond recognition, to the exhaustive descriptions of all the women they had sex with (including several instances where one of the guys is forced to admit that, yeah, okay, so I realize now that I actually raped this girl? But I feel really bad about it? Twenty years later?), to the repeated and tiring scenes where the band consumes every drug they can get their hands on. They're not behaving this way because they want to (or, god forbid, because they get any joy out of it). They're acting like assholes because they think it makes them cool.
It was weirdly fascinating to see how these guys cultivated their image, because in one sense, glam rockers like Motley Cru are almost like drag queens – they wear makeup, over-style their hair, and wear women’s clothes – but unlike, say, David Bowie and Freddie Mercury and yeah, Mick Jagger, who embraced and reveled in the feminine sides of their personas (and in the case of Bowie and Mercury, were open about their bisexuality), Motley Cru’s presentation is one long, prolonged shriek of NO HOMO, BRO. These guys can’t go a single goddamn page without reminding us of their blistering masculinity, and giving us every detail of their sex lives which we certainly did not ask for. (One delightful anecdote: after the guys had had sex with their side pieces, they would stop on the way home to buy egg burritos and stick their dicks in the burritos to hide the smell and oh my god I’m gagging just thinking about it.) All the descriptions of rock star riches and excess, much like those poor egg burritos, cannot disguise the fact that these guys are fucking disgusting.
The only truly innovative aspect of this memoir is that it’s told in chapter installments, with different band members telling their version of the story – and those different versions don’t always line up with each other. It was almost funny, reading one chapter that went “and then we fired so-and-so because he was a dick who refused to learn the music” and then going to the next chapter and reading “and then I quit the band because those guys suck and I hated the music.” But the men of Motley Cru remain, at best, petty and immature. And I can’t repeat this enough – those guys are all rapists, and also Tommy Lee fucking admits that he beat up Pamela Anderson, so in conclusion, they can all go fuck themselves.
But again, the band wants us to believe that all of this – the over-the-top clothes, the drug use, the frankly horrifying treatment of women – was just a product of their fame. Loving a rock star (and, on a broader level, any man with a shred of artistic talent or even artistic ambition) means accepting their garbage behaviors with a smile, because that’s the price you have to pay for the privilege of existing in these guys’ orbits. Even as the Motley Cru guys reflect on their past behavior and admit that maybe they were jerks back then, you can see them shrugging and grinning - ain’t I a stinker? - from behind the page. They have learned nothing, and they regret nothing, because why should they? What ever gave them the idea that they needed to be responsible for their own actions? They’re rock stars, babe! This is just part of the act!
I am so goddamn tired of the narrative that excuses asshole behavior in artistic men, as if their creative ability excuses them from basic human decency. The ability to make music does not exempt you from empathy and kindness, and the desperation to fit a rock star image is a pointless and futile endeavor. In a way, it was almost comforting to read this memoir and realize that everyone, even people you might believe are super cool, are just as insecure and desperate to fit in as everyone else. The real lesson that I took from this book, and the lesson I’m going to write here so you don’t have to bother reading The Dirt, is this: no one is truly cool and everyone’s faking it until they make it, so you might as well be nice to people.