Meeting The Devil In The Woods

To say, I grew up in a fairly Christian home, would be putting it mildly. As a youngster, growing up at 2523 Carter Avenue, in St. Joseph, Missouri, most things were prohibited. If it wasn’t pure, it did not belong in the Howard home. No sex, no drugs, no rock and roll. No fun of any kind. Along with these restrictions, came a great deal of censorship. Everything from television, magazines, and even movie rentals, were previewed, edited, and thoroughly cleansed before reaching the innocent eyes of the Howard children. It was comparable to living in a twenty-four hour Vacation Bible School.
For the longest time growing up my mother was a stay-at-home mom. My father worked nights at the Post Office so he was asleep when I left for school in the morning and leaving for work when I arrived back home at the end of the day. So, that left a lot of down time for good ol' fashion, made up entertainment. The bad thing was that my sister and I had a completely different view on what ‘entertainment’ was than my mother. She liked playing UNO, listening to the “The Fiddler On The Roof” soundtrack, and watching old Jimmy Stewart movies. My sister and I wanted our MTV. MTV? Heaven forbid…that was the Devil’s music.
In the Howard house, sex was taboo, alcohol was sinful, and rock music was dangerous. All thanks to Pat Robertson and The 700 Club, life on Planet Howard had become very dull.
My mother was on guard to save everyone. On the occasion my father brought home a twelve pack of Schlitz beer my mother would scotch tape, typed-written Bible versus to the cans, warning my father of the dangers of alcohol.
On a weekly basis the TV Guide was inspected and condensed of all images containing any sexuality or vulgarity. I was the only kid on the block with a G-Rated version of the TV Guide. Any, ‘Movie Of The Week’ ad portraying a young starlet, scantily clad in a bathrobe…out came the scissors and away she fell into the wastepaper basket where all things sinful should go.
My father’s vinyl records even made the ‘hit list’, especially after it became apparent that a young Howard (namely myself) had become quite infatuated with the tanned beauty on the cover of Herb Albert’s Tijuana Brass – WHIPPED CREAM AND OTHER DELIGHTS.
That being said, you can imagine the delight when a nine-year-old grade school boy was suddenly introduced to four disciples of the Devil, in the form of a fresh heavy metal band called, Mötley Crüe.
Up until this point, I had mainly been listening to ‘radio friendly’ bands like Duran Duran, Men At Work, and The Culture Club…bands that taught me a little about music, but nothing about rock and roll. However, everything changed that year when my good friend, Shawn Wylie opened his birthday presents and received the brand new cassette tape from Mötley Crüe – SHOUT AT THE DEVIL.
One fateful Saturday afternoon, Shawn and myself, armed with a boom box, batteries and flashlights, ventured down into some nearby woods to feast our eyes and ears on the evil sounds of heavy metal wickedness.
As we sat in the damp darkness of the woods, fallen leaves surrounding us, the rumble of this band began to literally shake our world. We had never heard music like this before. This music made us feel alive. It made us feel young and powerful. We were turned on.
Staring at the cassette sleeve jacket we became captivated by the Motley ‘look’. Their snarl captivated us while we were sucked in by the energy they portrayed. Our hearts burned with the desire to one day save up enough money, slap our names to a self-addressed stamp envelope and become members of the S.I.N. club. Perhaps then, we could finally locate the backwards messages we were warned about inside the jacket sleeve.
For the first time in our young lives a rock band actually kicked ass. This was the music we would remember the rest of our lives. This band had become our Beatles. This was the band that would soon take over our lives.
Months passed, and our longing for ‘everything Crüe’ deepened. At school our folders began to bare sketches of pentagrams (only on the inside…for fear of mother), while we both perfected the art of slicing the top of our Trapper Keeper’s open with an Exacto Knife, making it able to slide in our favorite photos of the worlds coolest new rock and roll band.
Collectively, Shawn and I saved our money and spent our allowances purchasing spiked wrist bands, hat pins, and fingerless gloves, branding the Velcro strap with the word “CRÜE”, pledging our allegiance to our new found gang.
I had discovered a style of music that meant more to me than anything on earth. A kind of music combined with a manner of showmanship that I would grow to call my own. One day I would discover the forefather’s of this genre and the circle would become complete.