I’d wandered out into this area looking for a loo, and surmised with a keen sense of deduction that, as the cars were still there the other members of the band must still on the premises. Outside in the lengthy corridor that led out of the venue and into reality, four limos were lined up, one for each member of Van Halen. Presumably the others had vacated the building? But no. By now, only Dave was left to entertain the mixed throng of hangers-on, groupies, record company types, the media and Krokus. Now here’s where it gets a little conspiratorial. Soon after, Eddie made his excuses and left the party. And it immediately cemented my belief that here was a band on the verge of a seismic split. But Eddie’s comment was the only time in this rather one-sided ‘chat’ that the guitarist had been anything other than indifferent. “Are you coming over to tour the UK this time?”Īt this point Noel Monk jumped into the conversation, fully aware that the ‘walking ego’ description was aimed in Roth’s direction and anxious to deflect any damage it was tantamount to washing dirty spandex in a very public situation. You must be pleased with tonight’s show?” The conversation went something like this: Was this really a band that had just taken the mainstream by the seat of its pants and given it a severe hard rocking? Why was it that only Roth looked as if he was having a ball? (And after all, I suppose it was his ball.) After about 45 minutes of watching the Roth cavalcade in full swing, I ambled nonchalantly over (well, as nonchalantly as one can when backstage with a band whose very name dripped with gold and platinum discs) and talked briefly to Eddie Van Halen. And Eddie Van Halen sat in one corner, huddled over a drink of indeterminate vintage, while occasionally muttering to band manager Noel Monk. Michael Anthony came into the room for all of 30 seconds, flashing a smile that was about as sunny as Bolton on a January afternoon. Drummer Alex Van Halen wasn’t anywhere to be seen he never even made a fleeting diplomatic appearance. The man was an in-your-face persona on stilts in a room full of shy, retiring metaphorical dwarves. And through it all, Roth simply did what he did (what he does?) best: commandeered the spotlight. Scantily-clad young ladies flossed in and out of the room if they were lucky they got a few precious seconds of the Diamond’s attention, before being whisked off into a far-flung corner.ĭrinks were flowing at a frightening rate, with bottles of Jack Daniel’s being knocked back as if a flotilla of thirsty vampires had just discovered bourbon was a damned sight better for the complexion than rhesus negative. Roth chose the music – which proved to be a broad cross-section of sounds old and new – and was loudly demanding everyone’s attention. In what had been designated a ‘party zone’, Roth had set up speakers in each corner of the room and was acting as MC, DJ, barman and general bon viveur. We were heading backstage at the time, both of us all too aware that walls have ears, as do attentive security hogs, so we were careful not to voice such opinions too vociferously for fear of upsetting the Van Halen brothers and bassist Michael Anthony, the other three quarters of the band who, that fateful evening, seemed to represent only about 20 per cent of the whole.īut if what had paraded on stage was effectively an ersatz band, that was nothing when compared to the sight that greeted us backstage. It was, I mumbled to Krokus vocalist Marc Storace, as if we’d just witnessed a Dave Lee Roth solo performance.
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