Full disclosure: I kind of liked that Buckcherry song “Crazy Bitch” when it briefly played on the radio in Los Angeles. Not sure if it played elsewhere or not. As I recall, Prodigy’s “Smack My Bitch Up” only got airplay in limited markets, so not sure if the word bitch impacts distro. Given that their label Eleven Seven Music is some sort of Warner subsidiary or other corporate term meaning a certain kind of backing, I guess they might not have had that much trouble with distro in 2006, but I didn’t note it at the time, so I don’t know. New factoid I learned today: Apparently, Nikki Sixx of Motley Crue is at least the nominal president of Buckcherry’s label Eleven Seven Music, which was founded by longtime music industry guy and master of marketing innovation Allen Kovac, a man who can probably think of the way to backdoor distro, even if a major label backer is gunshy. (Now I get why Motley Crue would tour with Buckcherry. That Nikki Sixx is smart. One of these days, I need to get with the program and start collecting royalties off of people who wish they were me.)

Although the “Crazy Bitch” song has some lyrics about enjoying an insane lover’s cat scratches, Joshua Todd has reiterated in various interviews that he does not actually like it when groupies come up to him and trying to put scratches all up and down his back. Seriously, people need to think about what they are doing before they start putting marks on someone with extensive body art. Yeah, they may be more likely to be into it, but they may also be stressed out about damaging their skin decorations. Additionally, even touring musicians, who look like they like to hang with the ladies, may not appreciate being sent home with marks of their guilt.

I have not watched the “Crazy Bitch” explicit version video carefully enough to pick out whether I know anyone in that one, but I remember when they were recruiting for it. Unlike their “Too Drunk to Fuck” song, Buckcherry actually shot an entire different video for the boobies version of “Crazy Bitch”. I am deeply not someone who normally thinks it is better to leave something to the imagination, but the nonnude version of “Crazy Bitch” is simply way way way hotter. It kind of fits better too because the nonnude version features the band being rounded up and dominated by naughty policewomen and the topless version features strippers dancing unenthusiastically in a strip club, while Buckcherry’s lead singer hangs out in the bathroom by the urinal.

When Forrest Black and I shoot naked people, we always try to stay way inside someone’s comfort zone. I like to stop short of what I think is the farthest someone would be comfortable and way short of the farthest they could be pushed to. Having thought about it for a day, I think that part of the problem is that Buckcherry’s management or record label or both are pushing them beyond their comfort zone. Joshua Todd looks almost charismatic when he is being dominated by a clothed policewoman, but he just looks scared and uncomfortable with naked breasts in the room with him. (Example linked after the jump in the comments, only for board members who have filled out the free signup and are of age.)

Then again, he did still participate in what I believe may be the absolute most pathetically awful example of a rock ballad ever performed. The only reason I say “may be” is that I can’t stand to listen past the first couple of notes, but it is the “OFFICIAL Sorry” video.

“Most of us are just living a lie
That’s why we get fucked up every night”
–Buckcherry, “Too Drunk To Fuck”

Please forgive me, but I like to fantasize that my dirty glam rockers are never too drunk to get it on. Well maybe occasionally, if it makes a really good story. But I can’t help wondering if Buckcherry don’t have some kind of problem with women. I don’t mean that I suspect they might not be thoughtful feminists. When, circa 600BC, I masturbated approximately 80,000 times to the “Welcome to the Jungle” video, I never once fantasized that Axl Rose would be perfect for a relationship. Or even an interesting dinner conversation.

The reason Motley Crue did an album like Girls, Girls, Girls is that the job of properly utilizing a pole while dancing is very similar to the job of being a dirty glam rocker. They felt an affinity. Whatever else one might think about the Crue, I don’t think anyone wondered whether they feared the vagina dentata, or worse yet, were frightened of the boobies. As a teenager, I saw Vince Neil ask the New Haven Coliseum (it could have been the Hartford Civic Center, but I think it was New Haven) who was the best piece of ass in the building. I was vaguely unsettled when the biker next to me appeared to be offering up his girlfriend and I went back to my dorm room and wrote an ethnomusicology term paper about how I wouldn’t fuck Vince Neil with someone else’s pussy, but, damn, that was some fine showmanship and entertaining rock and roll.

The thing is that good music should transport one and good musical showmanship should go even further towards that goal. I think the only Motley Crue video I ever masturbated to was “Looks That Kill” (and that was really more about the chicks than the band members), but, as a frontman, Vince Neil had more than a good rock and roll voice and a cute outfit. Vince Neil could rock a stadium because he could sell the fantasy. As alcohol is reportedly Vince Neil’s poison of choice and he has done time for drunk driving and all, I would guess he has had occasion to be too drunk to fuck. But he doesn’t sing about it. The dirty glam rock fantasy is one of a party which never ends, where the titans of rock are always down for one more round. I’m sure Vince Neil has also caught a cold before and been too feverish to get out from under his blankie. But he doesn’t fucking sing about it.

This is why, no matter how expensive Joshua Todd’s ink is and no matter how many sit-ups he does, he will never be as cool as Vince Neil. What kind of emo ridiculousness is it that the record labels are trying to sell Buckcherry as raunchy current hard rock and they turn around and try to foist this whiny nonsense on us? Do the record labels really understand that little about what rock fans look for in a band?

If you are wondering why I actually watched a Buckcherry video on purpose, I confess it is because I heard that Blue Blood hottie Bella Vendetta was topless in it. Don’t bother pushing play on the YouTube version, though, because apparently the part with the breasts is only on Playboy. I thought nudity in a video like this would be pushing the envelope, but I was just disappointed. The naked girls are actually never once in the room with the band and the dressed girls are frankly also pretty far away from the musicians. In fact, the house party Buckcherry are playing in for the vid appears to be quite the sausagefest. All put together, there are only maybe half a dozen females anywhere in the building. They try to get some alt-y MySpace cred by having a somewhat scene-looking girl as the viewpoint character in the video, but she shows up with a homely dude who passes out on her, and I assure you that that is no girl’s erotic rock and roll fantasy.

Apparently, the nude parts of the video were shot in a hotel room far away from the guys in Buckcherry. I know at least one person who has had sex with a member of Buckcherry and didn’t hate it. I’ve photographed this Buckcherry-boning individual naked, so I can affirm that she has girl parts. But what band avoids being present when the video babes are shooting? It is part of the job, when fronting a hard rock band of this stripe, to at least be able to fake like you enjoy the rock and roll party.

Director/pornstar Joanna Angel gamely offers up a press quote about the directors of the Buckcherry video being nice enough to let her shoot some of the breast footage. Now I don’t follow adult film closely, but I’m 100% positive that Joanna Angel has won AVN awards for either her porn direction or her porn performances or both. In my opinion, she is the one doing Buckcherry’s lame directors a favor by providing them with footage of boobies, including her own. Unfortunately, whoever edited the topless bits into the original cut of the “Too Drunk To Fuck” video, didn’t really include anyone’s faces. For example, I am familiar enough with Bella Vendetta’s body that I can assure you she is in the video, but her head is cut off in every shot. WTF? Who directed this this anti-rock, anti-woman, sex-negative video screed anyway?

I don’t generally mind it when dirty glam rockers dehumanize women. They are supposed to be about a certain sort of wild sex fantasy and not necessarily about progressive thinking. But, if they are both shallow and sexist and unable to keep the party going, what is the point?

I would like to say that I was aware of Tucker Max long before he was ever in print. On account of how I’m such a spectacularly plugged-in girl on the interwebs. The truth is that there are massively high traffic sites which somehow never have audiences intersect. In actuality, I was stuck in the Phoenix airport when visiting my family and, strangely enough, the Phoenix airport actually has a pretty good Borders. Which even more strangely contained a book with a sleek black cover featuring a gentleman with an antisocial smirk holding, I believe, a bottle and a bottle blonde with her visage replaced with a Your Face Here sign. The title was the clever I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell. I bought it along with a stack of noir novels.

Tucker Max’s I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell chronicles the author’s drunken and salacious exploits. He came of age as the offspring of a South Beach restauranteur. From his writing, I gather his taste thus unsurprisingly runs to big-titted blondes with fit but not skinny bodies. Mildly Southern demeanor potentially a plus. Too bad for him that his intelligence level is off-the-scale brilliant. Tucker Max has raised hitting on drunk human sluts to the art form, or perhaps sport, of a more advanced species.

He comes across to some reviewers as a misogynist. He does tend to refer to women as filthy whores and mention that they owe him a rib. The following excerpt from a tale of a horseracing tailgate party drinking contest is a pretty representative exchange from his book:

1:58: She raises the first shot and gives me a toast, “Give me chastity and give me continence – but not yet . . . St. Augustine!” All her little friends laugh and cheer. Amateurs.

Girl: That was really sexist.”
Tucker: No it wasn’t, it was a joke. If I had said that women are nothing but life support for pussy, now THAT would be sexist.”
Girl: “Excuse me?”
Tucker: “If I had called her a hot mouth, that would be sexist too. Or, if I said that the only thing going for her is that she’s 98.6 degrees and has two wet holes, that would be very sexist. But I didn’t say those things, did I?”
Girl: “WHAT?”
Tucker: “Uh oh! Did I piss you off? Are you going to write angsty poetry?!?”

Women in the stories Tucker recounts also tend to say things along the lines of, “I can’t believe how funny I think you are and I’m a girl.” It is my opinion that they are either (a) easily manipulated chicks or (b) missing the fucking point. I’m not delusional, so I’m well aware that some people look at my own work and aren’t aware of anything deeper than quality photos of punk genitalia and gothic boobies, although there is more to it. But I do understand that sometimes pervy sex is the common denominator for a reason. Sure, Tucker regularly points out how much pussy he has thrown at him 24/7 and how great he is at acquiring even difficult pussy. His writing career started when he first launched his site as a dating application. Some chicks will always be attracted to a guy they believe other chicks want. Some guys will be impressed by any dude who claims to have laid miles of pipe. Although I went through a phase in the late 80’s where I liked to tie up blonde boys from good families, that was a long time ago, so some people will undoubtedly be surprised that I am such a huge fan of Tucker Max’s writing that I told my panelmates at the recent SXSW confab that I’d be late getting to the green room for our panel because I was going to watch Tucker Max speak at his first. Then again, readers who really got BLT, the antisocial punk rock humor zine I did in DC, well, I think they will understand the Tucker Max appeal.

The point is not that Tucker Max is a hard-drinking vanilla guy who has frequent sex with varied partners. The point is that his writing is brilliant, articulate, painfully insightful, and totally fearless and he is able to find the humor in absolutely anything. John Hargrave of Zug.com, the moderator of Tucker’s one man SXSW panel From Blog to Book called the author “a promiscuous drunken Tolstoy.” To give you an idea of the Zug perspective, my horoscope on the site today suggests I “Call a hardware store and whisper “stucco” into the phone over and over. “Stucco stucco stucco stucco stucco.” If they hang up, simply call back.” I used to manage an adult boutique where callers sometimes attempted this sort of thing. They might as well have been saying “stucco” for all the impact it had on folks who sold lingerie and vibrators, although only the serious submissives called back to speak with the manager, once I got through with them. At the end of the From Blog to Book panel, John Hargrave was kind enough to pour healthy doses of something called Tucker Max Death Mix. The ingredients of which are apparently Everclear, Lemon-Lime Gatorade, and Red Bull. No wonder so many Tucker Max Drunk stories entail such copious amounts of vomit.

Tucker Max claims to have little formal idea how to write properly. This is debatable as he went to both U Chicago and Duke Law. Both good schools. But he assured his SXSW audience that he has no clue how to use commas, confuses forms of the word ‘too’, and doesn’t really consider himself a writer. He says he tries not to consider his audience when writing, to just concentrate on telling his story in his own authentic way. “I write in my authentic voice,” he says. Oh yeah, and then he works on trimming the fat from his work. But the authenticity is key.

According to Tucker Max’s business card, the name of his company is Rudius Media. According to the Rudius web site, “a rudius is a wooden sword, given by the Roman Emperor to a gladiator upon attainment of his freedom.” It may be happy coincidence that this is probably also a play on the word ‘rude’, but whatever. The best thing about Tucker Max’s writing is the sense of abandonment, the extreme freedom. He’ll tell you his ferocious opinion of some lesser person that himself and he’ll tell you his dick is average in size, although a bit large to put in a midget or a small girl’s colon. He may be coy about whether he has ever done cocaine in Vegas, but he’ll tell you how much hostile fun he is on absinthe. He’ll detail how he drove a mildly inconsiderate girl’s car through the storefront of a donut shop. He’ll pressure all the law firms in Silcon Valley into raising their salaries for summer interns by posting sock puppet conversations with himself on Infirmation.com. He’ll tell girls he is in a Christian rap band and coerce his friends into playing along. He’ll get accidentally pepper-sprayed during the sex act. He’ll bring friends in Special Ops to a politically left wing cocktail party. He’ll get thrown out of IHOP. He’ll get thrown out of Denny’s. He’ll get thrown out of Mickey D’s. And he’ll pretty shamelessly tell you – and everyone else – about it. Although his book has been out for more than a year now, he says it is still selling a remarkable 2,000 copies a week to people like me who are just discovering him. He says he designed the flawlessly appropriate book cover himself too. Tucker Max challenges the SXSW audience to check his numbers on Bookscan because everything he says is true and this is one outlandish tale which is verifiable.

And why, you may ask, was I at the airport, while visiting my family, buying noir novels and I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell? All happy families are alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.

Actually, I have a pretty happy family, as these things go, but that just seemed like such an elegant literate way to close that I almost couldn’t help myself. Of course, now I fucked it all up with the disclaimer.