BOB ROCK, RE-GIFTER

It's long been my contention that Motley Crue's Dr. Feelgood is precisely as over-appreciated as David Lee Roth's majestic A Little Ain't Enough is neglected. The silly arena rock records share producer Bob Rock (fancy that there's a poll over there) and the presence of a thunderous should-be single ("Slice of Your Pie" and "Lady Luck," respectively). But there's more oh my yes. Rock sold to each the same riff, though cleverly hidden on late album toss-offs (shudder "Sticky Sweet" and giggle "Last Call"), and a awesome moody instrumental passage, i.e. the first notes of Dr. Feelgood (title track intro) and the last notes of ALAE (last half of "Drop In The Bucket"). Yeah I can see why Metallica hired him. But Rock was wise enough to stand aside and let the band cannibalize itself, and then the main riff on "...And Justice For All" was fed into the White Bread-izer 8000 and came out "Enter Sandman." Yawwwwwn.

DOUCHEBAGS DON'T SMILE

This week I went looking for a fight with MetalSucks don Axl Rosenberg in the most chickenshit way possible. But let's go back to "All My Heroes Have Failed Me" in Monday's MetalSucks: 

Eddie Van Halen - turned into a douchebag

David Lee Roth - turned into an even bigger douchebag

Axl Rose - turned into the biggest douchebag

Slash - whore

Izzy Stradlin - iTunes only

Joey Belladonna - dick

Eddie Ojeda - who?

Lars Ulrich - turned into a douchebag

James Hetfield - what the fuck, dude?

Whoa whoa whoa David Lee Roth is a lot of things: a dingbat, a flake, wingnut, doofus, stoner, lecher, selective amnesiac, hedonist, dancer, martial artist, motormouth. But does he wear tight tees with sparkly bone and wing designs? Has he ever endorsed a shoe or energy drink? I don't remember him getting a piercing or tribal tattoo. So after sputtering and harrumphing for a minute, I followed an ancient family tradition of conflict resolution: I emailed a guy Rosenberg and I both know, complaining about the misfired slur on DLR, which, honestly, shattered the boner brought on by last week's cuddlefest on Blabbermouth re: the DLR Band record's online availability. I was feeling shameful about my lame behind-the-back appeal to a guy whose collusion was guaranteed (if past deeds were indication). That's what we call foreshadowing cuz his reply shocked me to my very nads and I quote: "He IS kinda a douche." Son of a BITCH! People are always taking advantage of me!

 

TOO HAPPY TO LIVE

A fucking terrifying Lakers team dispatched the fantastic-until-Friday-night Denver Nuggets but just as awesome, the lovable, huggable Magic now have cockblocked both the Boston Celtics (assholes) and on Saturday, Lebron's Cavaliers. I basically threw my back out from trashing Lebron from my sofa this season, but now I also pity the guy. His game 6 body language was like David Spade in PCU: "Does anybody get what I'm doing here? Does ANYone follow me?" His teammates failed him, badly. And the people of Cleveland must be gutted to see the Cavs follow the NBA curse that dooms one-seeds to ignominious and premature playoff exits, a trend successfully eluded by the Celtics last year. But then again -- they deserve that shit, if for no other reason that they were hot-dogging jackasses all fucking year. So it's awesome that the Finals will feature none of that nor any crabass Garnett flexing his forehead vein. Thanks Orlando. Shall we celebrate with a tip of the cap to Orlando Metal? A capital idea! What's that? You say there isn't any? Well then how about David Lee Roth?!

UNVITATION TO LOVE

Like most Metal guys who act all belligerent, I love Love and relish the excuse to play the big gooey romantic occasionally. That’s not to say I don’t feel chump-ish penning lovey birthday cards or quoting Rimbaud while pouring champagne, but worse crimes have been perpetrated in the name of possibly maybe potentially getting a blowjob at the movies. Or naked ping pong. The sky’s the limit.

So anyway, I blew all my goddamn money on a fancy gift (rhymes with ShmyShmod) but before I could give it to my girlfriend while unzipping my pants suggestively, her rat-bastard cock-blocking friends beat me to the punch. Foiled! Now she has two fucking iPods, one for each record she owns. Which reminds me -- I even loaded up the motherfucker with good tunes before painstakingly repacking it like new. Y’know, so she wouldn’t have to chase down all those hard-to-find Van Halen records herself.

Speaking of Van Halen, they are a band according to guitarist Eddie Van Halen. Let's spare ourselves the world's flimsiest press release copy (by EVH's future wife) and get to the info. Ed tells AOL's Spinner.com:

Dave, Wolfie, Alex and I are a band. I hope that after Janie and I get married and Wolfie graduates [from high school] that we sit down and discuss recording new music, which I have tons of. If Dave's up for singing ... then do another tour, and just see where it takes us. Actually, next week or the week after, Wolfie, Alex, and I are gonna start jamming. Maybe we'll give Dave a call and see what he's up to. He's off, always doing his own thing, and he checks in every now and then to see how we're doing.

Ha maybe he'll invite Dave to the sessions. Feel the love folks, cuz this is about as warm as EVH gets with regards to DLR. It's not like Dave needs to watch them jam; the singer usually just sits there while the song gets worked out anyway. It's the thought that counts. The back-handed, belittling, arrogant thought. 

NAW BUT MY DAD DOES. HE CAN'T EVEN SIT ON THE TOILET SOME DAYS.

I've seen some absurdly fun David Lee Roth solo shows, but afterwards it's hard to shake a vague feeling that maybe I'd just creeped everybody out with my geekish enthusiasm. To explain: I party, ok? And furthermore, DLR makes me smile. Call it misguided but Diamond Dave is my role model. So should he happen to glance in my direction at any point during the show, all he would see is a googly-eyed weirdo, shimmying around unblinkingly while sporting a ridiculous, sweaty grin. It's not my goddamn fault that the guy is pure giggles, is it now? Nor that when happy I look like a Robocop villain.

Speaking of having too much DLR fun: If I didn't live alone, I'm sure I'd have felt the cold caress of gun-metal at my temple after about six cacophonous minutes of the hilarious David Lee Roth "Running With The Devil" soundboard. As of this evening (thanks MetalSucks), upgrade that to the hum of a gas-powered anti-artillery weaponry for the David Lee Roth Assteroidz game. 

Incidentally, while doing a search for DLR pics, I stumbled upon a snap of this vixen that caused my boner to stage a sudden and unrepentant attack on my palm. Bo-zee-bo-zee bop! Ditty-bop!

DIME, DAVE, RAY: OH MY GAAAWWWWD

My Monday crawled by due to lotsa Dime-related pouting. After whaling on Jeopardy, I got the sense that the late, great axeman wouldn't want me to just throw the whole day away. But what could turn my frown upside down? It was then that I remembered Dime's last words on that awful night four years ago, and on every night before taking the stage: Van Halen! Honestly, can any human resist a smile when David Lee Roth does his thang (above, with a little Michael Anthony)? 

Which got me thinking about the trio of splendid summer evenings I've spent front and center at orgiastic DLR shows. At the most recent gig, Dave's mood turned foul and venomous in a hurry thanks to newly-enlisted drummer Jimmy DeGrasso (Megadeth, Alice Cooper). DeGrasso rips but, oddly, is apparently the only fucking dude on earth not DNA familiar with classic Van Halen cuts; I'm no drummer yet could play those songs with my asscheeks, and my entire lower torso has been high since Reagan. 

DeGrasso wouldn't have been there if not for Ray Luzier, who left DLR's band to join the DeLeo brothers (STP) and Filter mainman Richard Patrick in Army Of Anyone (and now, Korn). But twice prior to his departure, Luzier thrilled me behind Dave with his hyper-energetic and singular playing; when AOA's record came out I felt a bit of weird pride at being a fan of each of the short-lived supergroup's members. But that's the power of Van Halen, and all those they've touched. Anyway, if that hi-larious "H4T" action doesn't do the trick, check out Luzier outplaying those other three guys (below). Van Halen!

MIGHT AS WELL JUMP UP AND DOWN ON EDDIE'S FACE

'HE WAS GETTING IN MY SHOT': The Eat 'Em And Smile Tour comes to an abrupt halt one night in 1986 when David Lee Roth crushes his teeny guitarist on stage.

Happy 54th Birthday Diamond David Lee Roth! Too bad Eddie already gave Ol' Number One his present: an enormous pain-in-the-ass in form of his new financee/VH publicist Janie Liszewski. We at HooM! are pricing these to counter Ed's gift, like when one friend got me a stripper and another left two condoms in the alley behind his house. Note: Don't staple condoms to a sleeping bum. It causes potentially-catastrophic punctures to latex and bum alike. If she and I hadn't blasted tons of crack, I'd be a father by now. Shudder.

Available In Exchange For Money: June 3 Edition

One day I was trying to buy Megadeth's Rust In Peace in peace when this asshole starting talking directly into my eye socket. Professor Awesome had an epiphany:

Asshole: See, you get why the record companies put out new releases on Tuesdays right? 

Me: ...

Asshole: Tuesday is not a day when anyone goes record shopping. 

Me: ...

Asshole: But here we are. We came to the record store to get ... whatcha got there? Megadeth? 

Me: ...

Asshole: Is Tuesday a convenient day for you to shop for records? I imagine not. But you came anyway.

Me: ...

Asshole: So they win. They're getting you into the store sooner. And more often.

Me: Did you actually drink urine? Or just bathe in it?

Metal CDs Available In Exchange For Money: June 3 Edition

Opeth

Windfall

Roadrunner Records

One way to spot an egghead is to shout "OPETH!" in a crowd then sit back and grimace at all the bad skin suddenly turned in your direction. But, hey -- These are our people. Never mind the fact that getting into Opeth is a Herculian task which I am too lazy/not baked enough to undertake. It took a lot of concentration to become a Tool fan, leaving little of the required brain power to digest the ouvres of Meshuggah and Opeth, both of whom trade in uncooperative, monochromatic foreheadcore. Both acts could learn from whiny upstarts Protest The Hero (winners of the Wrathchild America Award for awful bandname/awesome band) and the insufferable-turned-brilliant Between The Buttcheeks Buried And Me. More likely, the real problem is that Whitesnake, Badlands, and BulletBoys ruined my attention span, which is ironic since Opeth

frontman Mickael Akerfeldt seems to have suffered the same bittersweet fate. 

Bret Michaels 

Rock My World

VH1 Classics

The release of this hunk of shit -- thanks to VH1.com for streaming this beast -- seems a bit belated considering its hideously obvious post-finale nods to Ol' Headband's slut-tastic reality vehicle, Rock Of Love (Call me, Megan!). The wondrous thing about Rock My World is that though Michaels is buttfucking tone-deaf, he stubbornly resists that fancy studio auto-tuning that cleans up the barfy vocals of delusional assbags from Kid Rock to Cher! Not even a guest turn from Peyton or that retard Lacey. Just pure, unfiltered Bret. He's too rock n' roll to have a machine sing his songs for him. Oh, sometimes he's all country. 

John 5

Requiem

Adrenaline Records

Guitar instrumental albums are annoying as hell. But if anybody can succeed Chris Poland by making a non-idiotic guitar album, it's Rob Zombie tour guitarist John 5. Judging from Requiem's cover art, he's getting some quality Zombie run-off trim now, but sweaty dudes everywhere know John 5 (ne John Lowery) as the guy behind David Lee Roth's last great songs while the fine people at Hot Topic of Mayfair could tell you he did time in Marilyn Manson. The point is that dude can blaze aaand write songs, and thusly is required by the Laws of Metal to make the first non-pointless guitar album since Return To Metalopolis. Him or that dreamboat from Coldplay. We'll never know. 

Rock Of Love 2 girl Megan Hauserman wants to party all over my junk [not pictured]