36. John Corabi
The Black Heart
11 November 2013
Buckle up, grab a cup of tea, or something stronger, because this one’s a ride. It all kicks off when my pal casually discovers that John Corabi, the man who bravely fronted Mötley Crüe during their unmentionable, Neil-less era and gave us one of their finest albums before being booted out, is doing an acoustic set in Camden. Naturally, we’re in. I mean, who could resist seeing the man who fronted Crüe’s “we-don’t-talk-about-it” era in the sweaty upstairs room of The Black Heart, Camden’s premier den of sordid metal lore?
The “Venue and Toilet” sign greets us on the way in, which we assume is directional rather than philosophical, leaving us to wonder how often the two have been confused here. Up the stairs and into a dimly lit box of a room where the line between stage and floor is very much theoretical. First up, the support act shambles out. The singer looks like late-stage Ozzy Osbourne; bracelets, eyeliner, but with the vague air of someone who might burst into tears at any moment. His guitarist sits to the side, with chord charts duct-taped to the floor like some kind of crime scene.
This guitarist is a man who would later become a pal, and with whom I would raise a glass to toast at his wedding, years later. But for now, he’s just some poor sod desperately trying to keep up after being roped in as a last-minute replacement after who knows what drama unfolded with the prior guitarist. To add to this bizarre scene, standing in the crowd is a man that we name “Meat Bucket”. He is stood directly in front of us, and he’s a gravitational anomaly of a man; a hulking Hell’s Angel in a battle jacket, so massive that the furniture around him seems to lean in slightly. We mentally note to maintain a little safety distance between us,
The band kicks off, and it is standard rock fare until things take a turn from bizarre to downright surreal. Out walks a girl, looking for all the world like Daphne from Scooby Doo, wielding a flute. She’s the lead singer’s girlfriend, and we speculate if, in some less-impressive Yoko Ono moment, she might be the reason why there appears to be a last-minute replacement guitarist staring at chord charts on the floor.
She launches into a bizarre routine of fluting, singing, and generally throwing off the entire vibe, whilst the hastily drafted guitarist stares at his chord charts like he’s been cursed. Ozzy’s howling, she’s tooting, and the music feels like it’s trapped in a fight with itself. From the corner of my eye, I catch Meat Bucket. He’s crying with laughter, big, heaving sobs of joy, tears streaming down his cheeks. It’s contagious. I start laughing. He turns to us, wipes his eyes, and utters: “Well, it ain’t Jethro-fucking-Tull.” We corpse.
Eventually, the madness ends, and the band awkwardly mingles with the crowd while the venue rearranges for Corabi. The guitarist wanders over, clearly relieved to be done, and Meat Bucket greets him like an old friend. Then Corabi appears, a rock god reduced to human scale in this tiny room and absolutely nails his set. He throws in Mötley Crüe tracks, Scream-era songs, and even a Paul McCartney cover, wrapping it up with a cheeky, “Who’s buying me whiskey?” to which the guitarist and I reply in unplanned unison: “Me.”
Fast forward to 1 a.m., and we’re downstairs at the bar, steadily working through rounds of Wild Turkey. Corabi’s regaling us with stories, and we’re getting smashed enough to believe we’re honorary members of the band. When it’s finally time for Corabi to leave, I call him a cab and pay for it on my app. In return, his manager hands me a signed CD, a memento of the weirdest, best night ever.
By the time the dust settles, I’ve gained a CD, bragging rights to say I drank with 25% of (sort of) Mötley Crüe, gained a new mate, and achieved one of the most crushing hangovers of my life. But then, some nights are worth the price of admission.