ROCK THE BOAT! Shiprocked Metal Cruise
Apr 06, 2011
Ain't nothin' but a good time when you hop a cruise ship for aging ‘80s hair metal aficionados (and the musicians who play it).
BY RODGER CAMBRIA
It's a balmy November evening and I'm sitting in a cruise ship karaoke lounge, fixated on the small stage where a shirtless fat man in a turquoise Mexican wrestling mask is singing, or rather grunting, a classic Mötley Crüe tune from 1983. Just before the Nacho Libre look-alike hits the chorus, he screams to the audience, "Y'all know the words. Sing it, motherfuckers!" The boisterous crowd rises to its feet, fists pumping the air, chanting in boozy unison:
Shout - Shout - Shout - Shout at the devil!
While there's no denying the allure of a chubby, half-naked man in fetishistic headgear performing karaoke for a drunken mob, it should be noted that this is not typical cruise ship fare. Today, most cruise lines cater to middle-American families and aging retirees, offering wholesome entertainment and a theme park sensibility.
But the tattooed miscreants gathered in this lounge are not your ordinary cruisers. They are shadow people, existing on the fringes of society. They are the deviants your mother warned you about. They are the bastards, the rebels, the misfits, and the damned. Curiously, they're also tax attorneys, dental hygienists, and kindergarten teachers. And now these denizens of darkness, these orgiastic Satan worshippers and part-time Lamaze instructors, have gathered on this 93,000 ton party boat for Shiprocked, a Bahamas-bound cruise celebrating all things Rock.
And when I say Rock, I don't mean the brooding melancholy of Pearl Jam or the electronic science fiction of Radiohead. I don't mean the esoteric blues of The White Stripes, and I certainly don't mean the bullshit studio formula of Seether or Finger Eleven. I'm talking about rock and roll, the kind that wears spandex and ladies' mascara while sucker punching you in the balls; the kind that inspires the trashing of hotel rooms, grotesque inebriation, and a never-ending rotation of groupies sucking cock in the back lounge of a tour bus. Of course, I'm talking about ‘80s arena rock, with its monster guitar riffs, sing along choruses, and pyro that'll singe the hair right off your junk.
"This music is about pussy, parties, and paychecks," says Stephen Pearcy of Ratt. "It's catchy and fun and it's got that element of danger. Some of us really like danger, and some just like the facade. I mean, I'll kill everybody."
Held on the gloriously tacky MSC Poesia, Shiprocked features a three-day itinerary packed with rock-related activities, including live concert performances by hair metal icons Cinderella, Tesla, and Vince Neil of Mötley Crüe. Though it might be tempting to write off this event as a sad bit of nostalgia or an exercise in hipster irony, I assure you these diehard fans are serious about the music. "This isn't a vacation, it's a lifestyle," says Sherri, a wild-eyed woman wearing leather motorcycle chaps and a faded Guns ‘N Roses t-shirt. "I quit my job two summers ago, and I've been following Mötley Crüe ever since. All my credit cards have been shut off and I'm about to get evicted from my place." She sips her frozen margarita adding, "I've basically given up my old life, and it's all good. I just want to rock out with my box out."
***
The MSC Poesia is a full-service cruise ship with every amenity for the discerning traveler, including spas, casinos, sushi bars, and a dinosaur-themed play area for those who want to get in touch with their inner Fred Flintstone. On this voyage, some 1200 metal heads registered for the Shiprocked event, giving them exclusive access to all the concerts and activities. This means that the other 1500 passengers on the ship, mostly families with children and tour groups of the elderly, have unknowingly been booked onto this floating Sodom and Gomorrah-a fact that does not go unnoticed by the wary travelers. "They took over the whole goddamn boat," I heard a crotchety senior tell his wife in the gift shop. "Did you see all the long hair and tattoos? They're goddamn hooligans."
Of course, not all the Shiprockers are hooligans, but they are a hard-partying bunch. For many of them, the blowout started several days before the Poesia even left port with pre-cruise gatherings at various Ft. Lauderdale watering holes. By the time these diehard fans actually boarded the ship, many were twisted three ways from Sunday. This was particularly evident during the mandatory safety drill where a pretty blonde crewmember gave evacuation instructions to the passengers. As she demonstrated the proper way to secure her life vest, a shoeless, slurring man in a frayed Trixter t-shirt screamed, "I've been drunk for fourteen hours. How the hell am I supposed to remember this?" Another man, obviously intoxicated, repeatedly shouted to the woman, "Do you like seamen? Do you like seamen in your mouth?" His comments, thankfully out of earshot of the young woman, were vulgar, infantile, and delightfully profane.
Clearly, I was among my people.
When I told my family and friends that I was going on a heavy metal cruise with Cinderella, Tesla, and the lead singer of Mötley Crüe, I was greeted with a certain amount of bemusement. Most seemed to think that these former chart-topping rockers were either dead, working at the Home Depot, or playing canasta with the dudes from Foghat at the retirement home of forgotten rock stars. The truth, however, is that nearly all ‘80s rock bands are touring in some capacity today. Many of these bands-like Skid Row, Slaughter, LA Guns, and Warrant-subsist at the club level, playing to a few hundred fans a night at beer-soaked dives with colorful names like the Crazy Donkey, Jerry's Bait Shop, and G.B. Leighton's Pickle Park. Though the stage may not be as grand as it once was for these middle-aged rockers, they can still make a decent living playing their music. But not all ‘80s rock bands are relegated to the biker bar circuit. The heavy hitters of the acid wash era-bands like Guns ‘N Roses, Mötley Crüe, Aerosmith, the Scorpions, Def Leppard and Poison-are selling out arenas in a tough economic climate when few artists have that kind of draw. In fact, the highest-grossing concert tour of 2010 belonged to New Jersey rockers Bon Jovi, not Lady Gaga, Taylor Swift, U2, or Justin Bieber.
But it's no longer just about touring: ‘80s rock has gone mainstream. The Guitar Hero and Rock Band video game franchises have boosted these artists' catalog sales and introduced their music to a new generation of fans. The wildly successful Broadway musical Rock of Ages-set on Hollywood's Sunset Strip in 1987 and featuring music by Night Ranger, Quiet Riot, and Whitesnake-was nominated for five Tony Awards and is now becoming a major motion picture. Bret Michaels of Poison became a household name on VH1's Rock of Love and Donald Trump's Celebrity Apprentice. Vince Neil recently appeared on ABC's Skating with the Stars. And now, Steven Tyler of Aerosmith is a judge on American Idol, one of the most-watched shows on television.
"For many of these artists, the marketing opportunities and potential revenue streams are greater than ever before," says Jeff Albright, president of the Albright Entertainment Group and publicist for numerous ‘80s rock bands. "With the combination of television, radio, video games, and internet, you can now be seen and heard 24-7. And more places to be seen and heard means more places to be sold."
***
I've got a few hours to kill before Cinderella takes the stage on this second night of the cruise, so I'm doing what any responsible journalist would do: I'm drinking Red Bull and Xanax daiquiris (my own recipe) by the pool and sunning myself like a monitor lizard. All around me, attractive women in thong bikinis seductively oil themselves, splayed on chaise lounges like bronzed, silicone goddesses. Perhaps it's the brain fog from all the benzo and rum, but I suddenly feel as though I've wandered onto the set of a late-night Cinemax movie. I half-expect to find Frank Stallone and Shannon Tweed entwined in the jacuzzi.
As I make my way across the sundeck to the bar for another round of drinks, I see Tesla lead singer Jeff Keith in shorts and flip flops carrying an enormous plate of hardboiled eggs back to his table. As he meanders through the crowd, people smile and pat him on the back, saying things like, "Dude, you fucking rock!" and "I want you to put a baby in me!" He is friendly and gracious, stopping to chat with everyone who crosses his path. And the fans are ecstatic. "I've never been backstage at a concert. I've never seen any rock stars, like, walking around eating eggs," says Myles, 39, from New Orleans. "But here, you might bump into Vince Neil in the buffet line, or see Tom Kiefer [Cinderella] at the bar."
And this is exactly why celebrity theme cruises are so popular today: fans want up-close and personal interactions with their music idols. It's about access and inclusiveness. Because at some point, we've all been on the wrong side of the velvet rope at a trendy nightclub, denied entry because we weren't cool enough, or pretty enough, or willing to grease some beefy doorman's steroid-engorged palm. An event like Shiprocked is your passport through the velvet rope to the VIP lounge on the other side. "Back in the day when I would go to concerts, I was usually in the nosebleed section because those were the only seats I could afford," says Nancy, 42, from Virginia Beach. "But now that I'm older and I have money, I can see these people up close. I can touch them. I can hang out with them." But the lure of these events goes beyond access: it's also about fantasy and wish fulfillment. "Before I even got my first kiss, I was making out with the rock star posters on my wall," says Angelina Leigh, an actress and fetish model who has appeared in Playboy, Hustler, and Juggs magazine. "And now I get to party with those guys. Last year on Shiprocked, I hung out with Skid Row. And I totally wanted to marry them when I was a kid, you know?"
***
It's ten o'clock and time to rock. More than a thousand rabid fans are packed into the Carlos Felice Theater waiting to be assaulted by the sonic donkey punch of Cinderella's delta blues metal. When the band takes the stage and kicks into "Somebody Save Me," the room becomes a raucous sea of split-fingered devil horns, a turbulent ocean of synchronized heads banging in unison like some futuristic heavy metal hive mind. As they launch into "Gypsy Road," the electricity from the stage jolts through my body, shooting sparks up my spinal chord to my brain stem, creating an aurora borealis of sound inside my frontal lobe. And that's what so great about ‘80s rock: it exists for the flesh, not the intellect; it is the soundtrack of the id. Songs like "Girls, Girls, Girls," "Talk Dirty to Me," "Slide it In," and "Cherry Pie" are testosterone-driven operettas about loose girls, fast cars, drinking whiskey, and raising hell. It's not supposed to make you think, it's supposed to make you feel. And if done properly, it'll make you feel like fighting or fucking.
"I don't wanna go to a concert and hear about how shitty things are. I want to have fun tonight," says Vince Neil of Mötley Crüe. "That's what the eighties music represented: Get drunk, get laid, have fun."
As Cinderella downshifts into the epic ballad "Don't Know What You've Got (Till It's Gone)," I start chatting with Karen and her husband who are sitting next to me. Karen is in her late 30's, sharp-dressed and stunning, with a hint of mischief lurking behind her green eyes. And she's completely hammered. "I'm a good girl, but when I drink tequila I get really bad. And then I start craving pussy," she tells me, causing me to snorf an entire Jäger Bomb out my nose. She leans in close like she's about to reveal a secret, her Jose Cuervo breath hot on my neck. "There's nothing like the taste of good pussy-it's way better than dick." At which point, she grabs the busty woman next to her and they start making out. Her husband looks over, disinterested. He shrugs his shoulders and continues watching the concert.
On the way back to my stateroom, I notice that my neighbors, two Jersey Shore wannabes with ripped abs and Oompa Loompa spray tans, have hung a sign on their cabin door that says "Teezin N Pleezin" in large block print, with the cryptic phrase "Squirters Welcome!!" scrawled beneath it. The poster is dotted with several red lipstick imprints, presumably belonging to Buffy, Stacy, and/or Lila, all who dutifully signed their names at the bottom like some kind of twisted Declaration of Independence:
We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all bros are created equal, that they are endowed like wildebeests with certain unalienable rights, that among these are a lifetime Gold's Gym membership and an unlimited Dave & Busters power card, the freedom to tap hot random ass, and the pursuit of mother fucking rock and roll.
Later, I'm awakened by a wretched cacophony of bleats and squeals echoing from the room next door. The passionate thumps and wails-best described as "barnyard-like"-reverberate through the wall and into my cabin. I'm not sure what kind of deranged sexual activity is going on over there, but I'm fairly certain it involves slaughtering a goat.
***
It's the last full day of the cruise. We're docked in the Bahaman port city of Nassau and I'm at Señor Frogs, drinking a 64-ounce frozen daiquiri served in a three-foot tall cup shaped like a saxophone. Some two hundred fellow Shiprockers are here, grooving their way through another round of heavy metal karaoke. The mysterious fat man in the turquoise Mexican wrestling mask has returned to the stage, this time grunting his way through Bon Jovi's "You Give Love a Bad Name." Better yet, he's wearing a half-shirt that says, "Where's the Queef?" Stay classy, Bahamas.
While I'm waiting in line to get another giant saxophone daiquiri, I meet two guys from Indiana, one of whom is wearing an actual cowbell around his neck. "We went to Rocklahoma to see Vince Neil and during "Live Wire," his drummer didn't have a cowbell. And that's a song that depends on the cowbell," he tells me. "So we went to see Vince again in Nashville, and we brought our own cowbell."
"So at the concert, you played along with the band using your own cowbell?" I reply.
"Fuck yeah, buddy. Now we bring it everywhere. Because if you want to rock the fuck out of a party, wear a cowbell. People love the cowbell."
Moments later, the lead singer of a Mötley Crüe tribute band takes the stage and launches into a blistering karaoke version of "Live Wire." The cowbell guy promptly removes a drumstick from his back pocket and begins playing along in perfect time, even doing Tommy Lee's signature stick twirl. And the crowd goes completely bananas. Maybe it's the liquor, maybe it's the sheer goofiness of a guy beating the hell out of a cowbell around his neck, but for the first time in ages I feel pure unadulterated joy. I feel connected to the people in this room, connected to something familiar from my past.
"This is the music we listened to when we were kids. And now we've got money to spend, and we can still throw down with the best of ‘em. We are ferocious rockers," says James, an investment banker from New York. "This music helps us get away from our humdrum corporate lives and makes us feel like we're nineteen again. It helps us get back to our roots." The waitress brings over a bucket of a beer. He hands me a frosty Corona, adding, "We have no responsibilities here. No schedules. No alarm clocks. No kids. Total freedom. And if I walk away from Shiprocked with anything less than a two-thousand dollar bar tab, I'm gonna be pissed."
There will always be people who think ‘80s rock is a joke. And the genre doesn't do itself any favors. After all, it can be hard to take a guy seriously who's wearing a steel codpiece and platform moon boots. And critics are quick to dismiss the ‘80s rock revival as an exercise in nostalgia. And you know what? They're right. Nostalgia-from the Greek nostos meaning "return home," and algos, meaning "longing"-is a longing for a home that no longer exists. "At first glance, nostalgia is a longing for place, but actually it is a yearning for a different time-the time of our youth, the slower rhythm of our dreams," writes Harvard Professor Svetlana Boym, in her book The Future of Nostalgia. "It is an affective yearning for a community with a collective memory, a longing for continuity in a fragmented world."
You bet your sweet ass it is.
As I disembark the MSC Poesia, I'm already thinking about next year's Shiprocked. Maybe they'll book a kick-ass band like Kix, whose 1989 hit Cold Blood is the best rock song of the last twenty years (yeah, I said it), or Steelheart, whose eponymous 1990 debut is my favorite overall rock record of the hair band era.
"It's just good music and that's the bottom line. The Beatles wrote songs that will live forever, so did Led Zeppelin and Aerosmith. And now people are realizing that Mötley Crüe and Guns ‘N Roses and Slaughter did too," says Tiffany, 41, of Tarpon Springs, Florida. "Maybe subconsciously we're regressing, but I honestly think it's the best music in the world. I'll be seventy-five years old and still listening to my Slaughter records. My grandchildren will be saying, "What are you listening to, grandma? Turn down that noise."
[Photo of the "naughty sailors" by Rodger Cambria - and please go here to see more of his images from the Shiprocked cruise. This story originally appeared in BLURT #10, on all fine newsstands now.]
***
The 2011 Shiprocked cruise boards November 14 in Ft. Lauderdale, with plans to feature Buckcherry, Hinder, Hellyeah, Sevendust, In This Moment, Lynam, Broken Teeth, Rival Sons and more... possibly even Charlie Sheen. But don't hold your breath. Go here for more details.
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