leave your inhibitions at the door
Just like last week’s Pussycat Dolls, another group of good-looking women…
Way back in high school and college, as a devotee of The Clash and New Order, I absolutely hated 1980s hairbands. When MTV wasn’t playing Madonna or Starship, they were shoving the likes of Motley Crue, Winger, Poison, and Ratt down our throats. It was an ugly time in America.
In my senior year of college, I had a roommate (and to this day one of my BFFs) not really named Miguel. As much as I tried to resist, Miguel’s influence gave me a newfound appreciation of two things – pro wrestling and heavy metal. Truth be told, I’ve always been a fan of wrestling since the days of Dick the Bruiser and Wahoo McDaniel, but I never understood heavy metal. But hours of listening to the likes of Metallica and Slayer, I started to dig it. But this was real metal, not a bunch of posers. In the early 1990s, when Nirvana came along, hairbands went from something hated to something laughed at.
Then around 2002, Miguel and I went to one of the Chi’s many street festivals and the headlining act was a tribute band named “Hairbangers Ball”. Their shows featured spandex pants, huge hair, pyrotechnics and they had names like “Chris Crotch” and “Zeke Zildjian”. They would play every hairband song – note for note – that you could think of. Sister Christian? Check. Quiet Riot? Double-check. Whitesnake? Of course.
Here’s the thing – as much as I hated all of that stuff in the 80s, I knew every damn lyric to every damn song. Somehow they stuck with me and I couldn’t get rid of it – a phrase I’m sure Tommy Lee’s repeated often. Happy Friday!
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