And to Think, We Did All of This to Rock

[Above: Ty Manning and the author]

Ten hours. Two cars. Two planes. Three airports. A bus. Two taxis. One demented lunatic on the verge of a killing spree. This is what we endured en route to Atlantic City to cover Mötley Crüe frontman Vince Neil’s 46th birthday party, where—as with any ’80s rocker worth his salt—a new, personalized line of Tequila was to be launched. When I received the last-minute invite, I immediately phoned my good buddy Ty Manning—high-school art teacher, amateur standup comedian and spoken-word artist, semi-pro storyteller and beloved Athens, Ga., musician. He was out “bar-hopping,” and had just arrived at the 40 Watt Club in a full-body bunny suit. “We’re going to Vince Neil’s birthday party,” I told him. “Be at the Atlanta airport by 8 a.m. sharp.”

“Vince Neil? Hell Yeah!” he hollered back. And that was that. The next morning I spotted him wandering in, dazed, by the baggage claim, in full Ignatius J. Reilly garb, as if he'd just stepped off the cover of A Confederacy of Dunces.

I know we don't normally cover aging hair-metal icons in Paste, but I was weaned on the stuff—Mötley Crüe, Poison and Guns N’ Roses blasted me headlong into Led Zeppelin, which led to classic-rock radio, then The Doors, floyd, the Dead, American roots music, hip-hop, punk and, more recently, bands like Wilco and Morphine. Yep, before I earned my rock-crit stripes, I used to worship at the silver General Electric turntable of my metal-loving, Aquanet-addicted teenage sister Tracy, who blasted the Crüe’s Theatre of Pain, who had a pair of sunglasses from Ratt’s Stephen Pearcy on her bedroom wall, and who made me a fake guitar from scrapwood and kite string and dressed me in a headband and studded leather belt so my best friend, Bobby Farrell, and I could put on a lipsynched show for all the Collins Drive brats I’d conned into my living room at 25 cents a pop. (We were midway through our opener, “Round and Round,” when one wizened kid says, “Hey, they’re not even really playing!” And there we were, outed like Vanilli. We had no choice but to give the money back or risk a severe mob-beating at the hands of the neighborhood youth Gestapo.)

Ty and I arrive at the 42nd Street Port Authority bus station just in time to catch “The Gambler’s Express,” the shuttle that delivers a fresh crop of New York low-rollers every hour on the half hour to the dilapidated AC Hilton, where rough-looking senior citizens stare robotically, hard-luck pumping their social security checks into video slot machines while haggard security guards with bruised faces and similarly blank stares look on, fingers tapping their sidearms.

On the sweltering ride to Atlantic City, a very large and frightening man is having a violent argument with the world. As he repeatedly opens and clenches his fist and mutters long, unbroken streams of profanity and physical threats at no one and everyone in particular, I keep waiting for him to either detonate the plastique that must be strapped to his chest, or, at the least, turn and drive a switchblade into my belly. Miraculously, we arrive without bloodshed, and—after being hauled across town by a mute cabbie—pull up to our final destination: The Borgata Hotel Casino & Spa. Quite possibly the most exquisite building I’ve ever set foot in, its white marble columns dwarf us as we walk through the revolving doors and into the Tissero room for VIP check in. Before long, we’re walking tall like kings to our posh suite. Tonight, me and Ty, we’re a two-man Rat Pack.

After we drop off our bags, we head downstairs for dinner at SeaBlue with the hotel’s publicist and an assortment of celebrity and fashion journalists from New York, most of whom are here to see if DJ AM—who's spinning at the afterparty—will bring his new girlfriend, Mandy Moore, so they can her ask her questions like, “How do you stay so fit?” or “If someone wanted to be fit like Mandy Moore, how would they go about doing that?” While these red-carpet wranglers ramble on, Ty and I excuse ourselves before dessert and head for the casino to play the Kenny Rogers slots while we wait for Vince and his backing act for the night, Love Seed Mama Juice.

Inside the Gypsy Bar, a band of geeks is playing “Every Little Thing She Does is Magic.” Is this really the birthday party of Vince Neil—god of hedonistic ’80s glam? But, alas, there’s Vince, still kickin’ his trademark bleach-blond ’do. He steps onstage and the band (wait, this is Love Seed Mama Juice? “No, can’t be,” says Ty. “These guys played my cousin's wedding.”) kicks into Led Zep’s “Rock and Roll.” “Smokin’ in the Boys Room,” “Highway to Hell” and “I Wanna Be Sedated” follow, with Vince strutting in a grey suit, unbuttoned at the chest, so the tattoos peek through. He plugs his new line of Tequila, Tres Rios, as fans shout for their favorite Crüe songs. On finale “Home Sweet Home,” we all sing every word, fists pumping over our heads.

The Atlantic City night twists haphazardly through hard-liquor prisms as we follow Vince, accompanied by two scantily clad women both at least a head taller than him, to the exclusive VIP afterparty in the exclusive VIP area of Club Mixx. DJ AM is playing the role of pop-culture jukebox, while Vince and co. are sequestered in an even more exclusive area. I make small-talk with some of the red-carpet wranglers, and we people-watch, staring at the quaint regular folks grinding below. Ty eventually stumbles back to the suite, and I think about how fitting it is that VIP areas in clubs are usually high over the dance floor, so all the people who believe they’re really special can look down on everyone else, and think, man, I’m in VIP, I’m so important… and this free appletini is delish!

Back in the room at 6 a.m., I pull a crumpled cocktail napkin from my pocket and stare bleary-eyed at the shaky green-pen scrawl: Hasidic Jews at the craps tables? WTF? My head hits the pillow, and I’m no longer in Atlantic City—I’m sitting in front of my sister’s turntable and “City Boy Blues” is pumping from the speakers as I trace my finger along the edge of Theatre of Pain’s glossy cover. One of the two squinting masks on the front grins at me creepily, mouth agape, and the other, it sheds a single tear.