by Corey Taylor of Slipknot and Stone Sour
I remember it like it was yesterday.
I was hanging out in the living room, doing whatever ten-year-olds did in the ’80s. MTV was on in the background; it was my go-to when the after-school cartoons were over. I was accustomed to the usual Michael Jackson and Dire Straits videos, so I wasn’t really paying much attention. And then suddenly, something incredibly different and dangerous came on the screen that made me stop everything I was doing—playing, goofing off, and ultimately being ten years old. A bolt of lightning struck my life that afternoon and I was never the same again.
That bolt of lightning was “Looks That Kill” by Mötley fuckin’ Crüe.
From there, I never looked back. Sure, I was a fan of hardcore and punk and thrash and ska and hip-hop and everything else, but I’ve always been a massive fan of ’80s rock. Whether people have tried to call it glam metal or hair metal or butt rock or a host of other denigrating names, one thing remains constant: The songs were so fucking good. From the edginess of the Crüe and Guns N’ Roses to the pop sensibilities of Poison and Faster Pussycat, from the bluesy vibes of Cinderella, Kix, and Tesla to the gutter melodies of L.A. Guns and W.A.S.P., from the punch of Skid Row and Van Halen to obscure underground gems like Vain and Life Sex & Death, there was something for everyone, all wrapped in leather, spandex, and silk scarves.
There were the forebears like Aerosmith and Rose Tattoo; the first wave with Quiet Riot and Ratt; the Top 40 takeover with Def Leppard and Whitesnake; the international influence like White Lion, Europe, Loudness, and Sleeze Beez … It was a world of huge choruses and sexual tension, and it gave you the feeling that life after childhood did not have to suck as hard as it appeared to suck for our parents. It was music that gave you a vision of excitement and a need for release. Every dude wanted to be cool; every girl wanted to be hot. It was the Under-Age of Utter Abandon—we were alive, and the streets were the place to be wild.
Sure, in today’s mindset it was sexist, offensive, tasteless, Neanderthal, misogynistic, exploitive, aggressive, and based entirely in fantasy … but that was the point. It was supposed to be beyond the realms of this gray, concrete life. It was supposed to be a place that you dreamed about and that was ultimately unattainable. It was supposed to piss off the Vanilla Brigade, because who the fuck wants to be normal, passé, regular? Who the fuck wanted to be dead in the land of the living? This music had a pulse, a purpose, and a raging hard-on to get down and get with it. Lighten the fuck up and dress like a superhero. Find a girl or a guy and make out with the radio on. Why the fuck not? What are you waiting for?
Every mega-chorus was junk food. Every guitar riff made you mental. Every ending made you wish the song was longer. In a way, every song was a metaphor for every good time we had, clinging to the feeling and wishing it would stretch on forever. That’s why we’d rewind those tunes and sing ’em again—to hold on to that feeling as long as we possibly could.
I watch those videos and listen to those albums now and I’m transported to a time when you could be a force of nature, a freak in a denim jacket, and it was okay. It was my time. It was our time. It was a time where music made you feel alive, where it was more than a number on a streaming list …
It was the rush in your pulse.