The Return of Hanoi Rocks:
Taking A Very Long Shot at Twelve Shots
A Record Review by Jon Reed
Today I watched Apocalypse Now Redux, and I felt it from the first chords of "The End." "This is the end, my only friend," sang Jim Morrison once more for all time, and I felt that indefinable something that certain bands have at certain times - the power to create, to destroy, to make that which is old new again. This kind of musical power is impossible to categorize, but we can say this much: we know it when we hear it, and we don't hear it much at all anymore. The corruption of corporate rock is almost complete: our bands are pre-packaged, our hits are mostly pre-ordained. The closest to something I've heard in quite a while is Eminem's crackling "Lose Yourself." I don't care what the naysayers say, or how many bandwagons I am jumping on (or off), I can hear his glorious indifference to what I think of him, and it is pure bliss to sense his middle finger in my face. Are Eminem and Tom Petty the oddest couple in town, the only guys in the corporate music business that can't be bought - surely that can't be? But no matter, you don't have to agree with me about Eminem to follow along with me here, as I call upon the Gods to conjure up the spirit of the great, the only, Hanoi Rocks - our guys, a most noble entry in a revered lineage of bands who seduced us with their wild hearts and their ultimate indifference to the nauseating demands of commerce.
Perhaps we are Hanoi fans first and foremost, long after we should have grown up and grown old, because we feel this so intensely. We might like all kinds of music, but we have a special place in our hearts for music that has integrity only to itself. Its creators may be flawed - perhaps more than we ever wanted to know - but their hearts are untamed, and their musical creations, whether great or mediocre, are all injected with the lifeblood of unapologetic abandon. Hanoi Rocks fans know what I'm talking about, because we've all exasperated ourselves; we've talked ourselves silly over the years trying to justify our love, trying to explain that you can't just lump Hanoi in with Poison, Crue, and Ratt, or tack them onto the end of an "80's Hair Band Retrospective."
Perhaps we never succeeded in getting "Life According to Hanoi Rocks" across to our cynical friends and colleagues, but no matter, we kept the pact. Eventually we made our way online, and found, to our relief and amazement, that there were other whacked-out souls who felt as we did - others who had also kept this silent pact that no one, least of all Michael and Andy - ever asked us to take. But we took our vow anyway, and it was one of the purest things we could do in a world that's now considerably grayer and more complicated since our first adventures with the "11th Street Kids."
But of course Michael and Andy, shorthand for Michael Monroe and Andy McCoy, Hanoi's lead singer and guitarist respectively, had other plans. After fifteen years, they mended fences, formed a band, and then had the nerve, the gall, and let's be very clear - the absolute right - to call this new band "Hanoi Rocks." Fast forward half a year, and we have a new Hanoi Rocks album to reckon with. What was locked away in an idealized state of immortality must now be reconsidered. And we all know how this plays out: it never looks or sounds the same again. Michael and Andy have inserted their own ambitions and humanity into the equation and forced us to reckon with them. When they claimed the name Hanoi Rocks and stamped it onto this project, they raised the bar much higher than many of us were - at least initially - willing to go. Call this new project "Monroe and McCoy," (which I kind of like, but no matter), and you get a very different sort of record review.
Is that fair? No. Is it logical? Of course not. But it's the truth, and to be fair to Michael and Andy, I think they wanted to raise that particular bar; I think they wanted to push themselves the way Hanoi Rocks would push them. I know they wanted the marketing push the Hanoi name would provide them, and you can't really blame them for that. Who amongst us wants Michael and Andy playing "pass the tip jar" at Finnish coffehouses twenty years from now? If there is any financial lifeblood left in the Hanoi buzz, by God, let them have it. But let them be forewarned: call yourself Hanoi, and you just upped the ante in every conceivable way.
There's something tricky about being a hardcore Hanoi fan: there's a palpable sense from the "inner circle" that dissent on matters Hanoi is not appreciated. Fan "loyalty" seems to be defined as endorsing Michael and Andy's decisions, and disloyalty is perceived as questioning them. Those of us who adore the band but insist on expressing our own point of view wrestle with our disappointment. We do not for one moment want to be lumped in with the bitter hearts, the naysayers, the online pot-shotters and player-haters who trash the band for their own selfish reasons. We hope that our passionate (but real) view of the band might be perceived as the truest kind of love a fan can offer; we hope we are not spurned in favor of mindless hero-worshippers. So why is this relevant to a record review? Because the things I am about to say are likely to widen the gap between me and the "inner circle." But I guess that's a bitter pill any self-respecting critic has to swallow. And I have to believe that in the end, Michael and Andy expect no less. So I will say what I'm about to say with a sense of irrevocability, but also with a feeling of obligation to those who are committed to protecting the legacy of Hanoi Rocks.
Protect the legacy? Isn't the Hanoi name Michael and Andy's to do what they want with? What's an ordinary fan like me to say about it? Well, as it happens, a lot, and not to belabor the point, but I've been obsessing over this matter ever since I read Pete Townshend's indignant "Fuck off!" to all Who fans who have the gall to feel despair when Pete sells his songs like little hussies to the highest corporate bidder. "Fuck you," says Pete Townshend, "This was my band, these are my songs!" Well thank you Pete! At first I was taken aback, Pete, conceding all your points, but then I realized the fatal flaw in your argument: it was your band, and your songs, only as long as you and the boys were jamming in the garage. Once we financed your Magic Bus, once we paid your way to the top of the charts, once we followed you across the world, everything got complicated. The Who became partially our band, its songs partially our songs. We created the momentum that gave you a life we could only dream about. Yes, you retain final control over the fate of your music, but long, long ago, you ceded your right to be completely callous toward those who helped make your life what it is today. We feel a sense of ownership about The Who because without us, you're teaching elementary school and hawking your guitar for baby food. So you're stuck with us, and we're stuck with you. To argue otherwise, as you have done, is to reject the symbiotic necessity of the audience. Superstardom-be-damned: an audience that responds to one's creations is the greatest good fortune an artist can have. A band that finds its audience enters into a pact, and together, something is forged that cannot be had through any other means.
The analogies to the Hanoi situation are obvious and need not be flogged here. Let's just say this: while it didn't surprise me that the Twelve Shots CD liner makes no mention of the Hanoi fans who've kept the flame burning for twenty-odd years, it was another thing entirely to see no mention of
Razzle. You can't claim the Hanoi name with all its baggage and then claim an ahistorical context. You would need an exorcism! But lo and behold, that's exactly what we get, at the end of the lead song "Obscured," where Michael ends the song with a frenzied catharsis of Hanoi song titles of old - legends all - spitting them out with the fury of someone determined to have his cake and eat it too. Michael's simultaneous embrace and rejection of the past is both inspiring and disheartening. A refusal to sell out is one thing, a lack of visible appreciation towards those who helped to lay the foundation is another. One can only hope that this is not the case here, and one can certainly long for something more.
And we did get more: we got "Twelve Shots" and (hopefully) many more to follow. Before we dig in, let me say that I'm not one of those who buried Michael and Andy along with Hanoi Rocks. I have acquired a taste for both of their solo efforts. I have a special regard for Michael's work, for how much he's pushed himself as an artist since Hanoi. Michael's gone from a debut album of (mostly cover) songs to a substantial body of work in his own name. He's brought in a host of worthy co-conspirators, and, despite his own experience in Hanoi, Michael's never failed to credit his own collaborators. Along the way, he's detailed a bitter world of broken promises and hypocrisy - one in which his fierce integrity to himself was his (and our) greatest comfort.
Perhaps the only thing we missed in Michael's work was the Hanoi tunefulness that sometimes got lost in the punk aesthetic - and that's where the irreplaceable Andy McCoy enters the scene. Having stayed equally true to his own aesthetic, the gypsy to Michael's punk, Andy has also generated some interesting solo work - though aside from the Suicide Twins, nothing that truly pushed the formidable boundaries he had already established as Hanoi's chief songwriter.
But for all their obvious compatibility, this reunion was a long time coming. Say what you like about the new Hanoi Rocks, Michael and Andy back in the studio together rights one of music's big wrongs. Estranged for fifteen-odd years, and for what good end? Dave Dickson was right, the two belong to each other, and if I felt a twinge of sadness over the aforementioned ahistorical vibe of the CD cover, I felt equally inspired by the picture of these old warriors reunited on the back cover, looking as proud and unrepentant as I always imagined them. True, a closer look at the photo shows one of our "warriors" holding an ice cream cone, but who says you can't fight the good fight with ice cream in hand?
Truth? I'm not sure if I wanted to like this CD or not, but now that it's in my CD player, I don't have much of a choice, because the first song, "Obscured," is good from the get-go. "I love my freedom!" storms Michael out of the gate, and this sounds tough; this sounds right; this is the riffing McCoy that Michael needed. This is the kind of melodic hook we've learned to live without; this is the chorus flowing into the second verse; this is the riff stopping on a dime before careening into the second chorus; this is me riveted by lyrics that could not have been sung by the old Hanoi, being too young and innocent. Then we hit the bridge, and Michael brags that "They couldn't mess with my gang," and that's the first and only bit that doesn't ring true - after all, who got messed about by fate more than Hanoi? But then we're off into a crunchy guitar sequence, one that should have led to a signature McCoy solo, but no matter, we're rocking brilliantly now, then all-of-a-sudden we're down to near-a cappella, just a melodic post-punk riff with Michael singing faintly over it: "Been obscured by too much darkness, overcome with so much sadness," he sings, and each word weighs a ton. Michael is straining to hit the notes but it's somehow perfect, and I sense that for the last time 'round, he's going to take it even higher - NO WAY can he hit that note, but now he's out with it: "I'm still shining, bright as EVERRRRR." By God, he's done it, he IS still shining, and I am no longer where I was, I am somewhere else - that something has happened. According to my calculations, Michael and Andy both turned forty last year, so I can make this assertion: "Obscured" is the best rock song EVER WRITTEN (and performed) by forty year olds. Maybe I am overlooking something obvious, but in my exuberance nothing comes to mind. I'm shocked to find that I can still be reached; I am not used to music that matters anymore. I will later spend hours trying to decipher every old Hanoi title Michael spews out at the end of this four minute triumph of a song. Lads, I know "People Like Me" went number one in Finland, but this is your single.
Hold it: while I'm shocked by what's already been achieved, this is NOT Hanoi Rocks to me. Try as I might, I don't see an obvious musical thread between the old Hanoi and this new stuff, and as I get further into the CD, that feeling is confirmed. This stuff is meaner than old Hanoi; this is leaner; this is many musical twists and turns away from the Hanoi I once knew. Put a blindfold on me: I hear the Michael Monroe of Life Gets You Dirty; I hear the Andy McCoy of Building On Tradition, but while I can hear that trademark sax from time to time, I can't hear the Hanoi Rocks I know so well. I don't hear those endearing everything-but-the-kitchen-sink arrangements; I can't hear those sometimes wacky backing vocals; I can't hear the instruments fighting each other in a mix two steps from anarchy. I miss that joyous rock 'n' roll piano, that genre-busting "Whispers in the Dark" experimentalism; and most of all, I miss that "Back to Mystery City" rock swagger that was a direct lineage to all that was great about early Stones and early Aerosmith. That lineage has now been broken - Hanoi Rocks finally sounds like that hard rock band they always insisted they weren't. The old Hanoi and the new are separated by a gulf of "Do the Duck" irreverence. Old Hanoi records were far from perfect, but goddamn if they weren't fun! It's that accidental genius that separates the "old Hanoi" from this new effort. Sometimes you have it, sometimes you don't. When you don't, you have to work pretty hard to approximate it, and I imagine Michael and Andy worked rather hard on Twelve Shots. But if the results are not the stuff of legend, they are also far from shoddy. Give Michael and Andy this: Twelve Shots is a serious work that merits extended discussion.
The Ultimate Irony: Hanoi fans, bemoaning our band's premature demise and the ascendancy of the Hanoi-inspired Gunners, used to say that we could hear Hanoi Rocks in our Guns 'N' Roses - now we can hear Guns 'N' Roses in our Hanoi Rocks. We can hear the early Gunners in the choppy riffs and chorus of "Whatcha Want;" we can hear the Use Your Illusions-era Gunners in the piano-symphonic ending of "In My Darkest Moment." Hear me clearly: this is not a bad thing. It's refreshing to hear a band so determined to forge new ground for themselves musically, even if it means acknowledging the legitimacy of the heirs to their own throne. If there's one thing we can all learn from Michael and Andy, it's that the past is gone, it's irrevocably and irretrievably beyond our reach. Trying to build a bridge to that past through the music itself, as some fans seem to long for, would have been a futile gesture. Michael and Andy get some serious credit for not accommodating the nostalgic on the songwriting front.
If there's one thing I believe about so-called "reunions" of old-time rock 'n' rollers, it's that the primal essence of rock 'n' roll is best left to the young. It is well-near impossible for aging rock icons to capture the outlaw sexuality and dangerous posturing that is so integral to the best rock 'n' roll. That's not to say that old rockers like the Who or the Stones can't still play their tunes in convincing live fashion, but have you heard the new stuff? It's not exactly "Gimme Shelter." But then, playing a live concert on HBO is not the same as single-handedly destroying the naïve peace vision of the sixties one night in Altamonte either. Of course, as these "rock dinosaurs" get into their fifties and beyond, we do begin to feel a new kind of admiration altogether. But we're not out of bed at midnight to wait in line for the new CD either. After a point, there's something superfluous about adding belated songs to an already legendary (and complete) body of work. As unbearable as this might sound to some, it's time to face the Hanoi music: the 1980-1985 body of work, however absurdly interrupted, is essentially complete, or perfect in its tragic incompleteness. There's just no way to add to it now, save for tracking down a few scratchy rarities.
Yet despite these rock 'n' roll truths, there IS something older rockers can do that young rockers can't, which is to bring the wisdom and bitterness of their life experiences into their music. Instead of making a pathetic attempt to cater to the young with a vapid "sex and groupies" mentality (as Motley Crue did in unbecoming fashion on their last tour), older rockers have the opportunity to write about life in ways they never could have before. They can bring "lyrics of substance" to bear on fresh-sounding riffs; then we're onto something, just as Neil Young was onto something with "Rockin' in the Free World," and Aerosmith was onto something with the brilliant "What it Takes" - a reflection on loved-lost they couldn't have possibly written in their twenties. No, every rock song does not have to be "lyrically important," but the onus is on aging rockers to prove their relevance in a genre that is so tied to primal sexuality and the beauty of youth. To their immense credit, Andy and Michael seem to get this more often than not on Twelve Shots. Michael screams that "Radio and MTV need People Like Me," and anyone who doesn't think that it takes a load of balls for a forty year old to make such a demand, and sound utterly convincing, hasn't been catching much MTV lately.
Yes, "People Like Me" is a winner, and following closely on the heels of "Obscured" and "Whatcha Want," it kicks Twelve Shots off in very solid form. Talk of remixing this CD for further release seems silly - the energy and production quality of this CD is quite high throughout. If anything, I would point the finger at some spotty songwriting, especially towards the end. If there are "Twelve Shots" here, not all of them are body blows.
Go to Part Two of JR's Twelve Shots Review
.
