Book Review: Sheriff McCoy: Outlaw Legend of Hanoi Rocks, by Andy McCoy

Text © Robert Barry Francos / FFanzeen, 2011
Book cover image and videos from the Internet



Sheriff McCoy: Outlaw Legend of Hanoi Rocks
By Andy McCoy
Bazillion Points Books (Brooklyn)
Original Finnish Printing, 2001; updated edition, 2009
English Translation (by Ike Vil); edited by Polly Watson
190 pages, hardcover; USD $22.95
ISBN: 978-0-9796163-0-3
bazillionpoints.com

Watching or reading biographical sources, be it book or DVD, is usually interesting to me, and I will tend go for it, even for artists or bands that I’m not exactly interested in because it’s still appealing to hear about the motivation of what makes an artist tick (though I just turned down a chance to review a career history of ELP; couldn’t care less). And then there’s all the dirt, some times involving musicians I do like.

This is especially true of autobiographies, and ones by the ‘80s hair metal bands seem to be full of excesses of sex, drug, and, of course, rock’n’roll. Well, a variation of r’n’r, anyway. I’ve read Slash’s (Guns ‘N Roses) and the oral history of Mötley Crüe, bands that never meant much to me, but the books were fun reads nonetheless, and had me going to search out the videos in curiosity. They didn’t change my opinions about the sound, but I feel like I know a bit more about the mentality that went behind it.

Another of the bands from this period that meant diddley to me was Hanoi Rocks. I bought the first LP at the time (unlike G’NR or Crüe) because I heard they were “glam” or “punk influenced,” but found instead that they didn’t reach my enjoyment button (though I kept the album). And yet, when the opportunity to read Sheriff McCoy, the autobio by Hanoi Rocks’ guitarist Andy McCoy, I welcomed the chance. The band’s drummer, Razzle, had been killed in a drunk driving incident where Crüe’s vocalist, Vince Neil, was behind the wheel, and I had read Crüe’s take on it, so now I wanted to hear it from a member of Razzle’s crew.

Antti Hulkko (aka Andy) grew up in Sweden and Finland, and had a stereotypical rock kid childhood of love of guitar-focused music, such as rock and blues, forming bands from a young age, at the expense of education. Sex and drugs becomes a staple, relationships suffer, insane band mates and girlfriends come and go, and then fame hits and money comes in the bucketsful, most spent on drugs, rehab, women, cars and toys, and travel. And yet, each story has its own fine points, and Andy makes his story sound intriguing.

His tale is semi-chronological, going though the main points in some order, jumping around a bit here and there, but never to the point of confusion. Some of the Scandi-hoovian names early on can get a bit intimidating and memory-busting, but not enough to make the reader lose interest. I mean, before reading this, I never heard of his first major band, Briard, though I since searched out some of their sounds.

Before I go further, I want to make it clear I enjoyed the book, even if I have any quibbles about it; please read with the sense of humor as I mean it.

The original printing came out in Finland in 2001, and this English translation (by Ike Vil) is from 2009, with updates and a new preface by McCoy. It is a small, quick read hardcover (with jacket), stacked with many black-and-white photos of different stages of McCoy’s life, even if they are not in any chronological order. Most are captioned, and a few are not. There is also a discography at the back, including is post-Hanoi bands like Cherry Bombz, the Suicide Twins (I have these two, too, amazingly enough; might even give them a second listen now), Shooting Gallery, and with Iggy Pop; also listed are comps, guest appearances, and the like. It opens, however, with a class essay he wrote about himself at age 15, and even then, you can see nascent Andy as we come to know him now.

Along with the main crux of the text, there are brief asides on the side of some pages that are more passing thoughts than connected to any one thing in his life story, such as thoughts on everything from spiritual beliefs to capital punishment and the “gift of life.” He also discusses how he sees music in various colors (also known as synesthesia; thank you Julia M for teaching me that factoid). These show a side of Andy that fills in some more foundation.

Having experienced another Scandinavian book translated recently (also on Bazillion Points), the syntax is a bit different and may sound a bit odd and stunted to the American ear; also, many musicians of this period were not proficient in school, so other than writing lyrics, there are some issues, such as the occasional use of double negatives, for example. Here is a paragraph about when Hanoi Rocks went to Asia, and were assaulted by the fervor of the fans there:

“It was just so sick, because they didn’t give two shits if they hurt somebody. They just wanted a piece of us and tried to tear away Mike’s and my hair as a souvenir. Well, they only managed to get one of my earrings; the other was ripped off elsewhere about a year later. I wonder if they sometimes forget that the artist is a human being, too, because these people didn’t seem to think about it at all. I’ve never had a problem giving an autograph if somebody wants it and asks for it, but hell, my body is my own property; it doesn’t belong to anybody else. I think it’s pretty offending when fans get so fanatic that they hurt you, or try to invade your private life however they can. There are a lot of these people around.” [66]

Just a couple of pages later, he goes to some length about the motivation that drove him as opposed to how he views the next musical age that followed (though you could have reprinted this about any generation and it would fit, as Aristotle’s famous quote about “the youth of today” proves:

“I wish that kids today wouldn’t be materialistic like my parents’ generation, like, you gotta have this kind of car, that kind of summer cottage, and blah blah blah. There are some of those idiots in my generation too, I’m sad to say. But at least in Hanoi Rocks we never did anything just for the money. There was so much more behind it. Mike [Monroe, lead singer of Hanoi Rocks] and I formed a band that we would’ve dug ourselves. Later we became rich, and that was something we never dreamed about in the beginning. Nowadays people ask me how much money we made. How much did we make? A fuckin’ lot, I tell you, but we were also very good at spending it, because the money wasn’t as important as it seems to be to some of these guys who save every penny they earn and wait for the interest to grow. What if Razzle had done that? What if he had saved all his money? What good would it do him now that he’s dead, I ask you?” [69]

There are a couple of things I feel I need to point out that stood out for me in a head-scratching way: first, in discussing how a friend was feeling suicidal, he states, “…she tried to crash her car off Mulholland Drive at a spot where there’s a 150-yard drop down a cliff. ... That’s where James Dean and a lot of other people were killed.” Any fact checker will tell you that Dean died on a highway between Los Angeles and San Francisco in San Luis Obispo County.

Another thing is his discussion on how Hanoi Rocks got their name. He states that when trying to come up with a band name with Mike Monroe, “Johnny Thunders’ LAMF, ‘Like a Mother Fucker,’ had just come out, and it had a song about heroin called ‘Chinese Rocks’.” Well, anyone who knows me is aware I’m a fan of Thunders, but it was not a “Johnny Thunders” album, but a Heartbreakers release, and Walter Lure, Billy Rath and Jerry Nolan deserve equal credit. And I could also go on about how “Chinese Rocks” was written by DeeDee Ramone…

There is an amusing, “blind” comment that is obviously about Guns ‘N Roses, where he mentions the unnamed singer “…went nuts because of the money.” Actually, from Slash’s book, it comes across as Axl having been suffering through mental problems for a long time, possibly onset by addictions as much as money, though it manifests itself mostly in control issues. After the looooong Chinese Democracy debacle, well, I’m siding with Slash on this one.

Phew, now that that’s out of my system, I will go on.

There’s actually some very nice props given to Thunders (and even the Dolls gets a nod, no pun intended); in fact, McCoy mentions that his wife of many years now, Angela McCoy-Nicoletti, is a cousin of Johnny Genzale Jr (better known as Johnny Thunders).

There are three constants that flow through the book, sometimes overlapping, sometimes in stand-alone projections, but they are the backbone of Andy’s tale.

1. Sheer debauchery. Lots of sex, drugs - including heroin addictions - and violence were part and parcel of Andy’s life throughout the Hanoi Rocks period, and he states this in both factual and bemused ways. It makes for some very entertaining stories.

2. Preachy. As with many who have gone through extended chemical highs, including alcohol, and have then come out the other side, Andy often goes on anti-drugs / booze rants. I’m not an imbiber in either, so I am not offended by any of this, and am not relating this in any kind of complaining way, just that it is present. Congrats on getting clean, Andy, and I mean that.

3. Spirituality. Andy posits that he believes in God, but it’s clear that not in Judeo-Christian formalized and dogmatized tracts. He often discusses the beauty and joy in life he finds now, and how that spirituality is the foundation of that experience.

There is one other major theme that flows throughout Sheriff McCoy, in some way almost as a second character, and that is Andy’s ego. He apparently is affirmed that Hanoi Rocks was one of the most important bands in the history of the 1980s, if not rock and roll entirely, and everyone either loves him or is jealous of him. Actually, there is no one I know that would list either him or Hanoi Rocks as being any kind of foundation of their taste, including a lot of musicians. I’m not saying they don’t have their place in rock history, especially with the hair band genre, but they have never matched either G’NR nor Crüe in popularity (though, again, none of them had any relevance in my life, or anyone I’m close to). For example, he states, “I’ve noticed so many times that wherever I go in the world, I’m recognized. I have no privacy.” You want to not be recognized? Take off the huge, round hat, the big bandana with the hair standing up above it, the mascara and eye shadow, and that ‘80s fashion that no one else wears anymore. As Christine Lavin may have said, he’s a prisoner of his style (just like the Ramones with the bowl cuts, black jackets over tee-shirts and ripped jeans).

As an aside, I did get a smile when Andy mentions the word “bazillion” at some point, indirectly naming the publishing company that put out this book.

On a further good note (as I said, I did like the book), Andy gives some good and helpful advice for bands starting out and about to sign to a major label, discussing percentages, publishing rights vs. recording deal, producing your own recordings, and the like. Good info that’s worth checking out.

In conclusion, despite my shrugs and shirks, this is a good read, and there are hints at the end that there may be a second volume, which I would be interested in reading. The most important thing Andy says, in my opinion, is in the preface, and its words to live by: “This book is only entertainment for entertainment’s sake, for lovers of rock’n’roll history and people who have a taste for the macabre. Anyway, I hope you have a good read and remember: this is my truth, you have your truth, and there is the universal truth. I try to balance between all of them.”
Bonus videos:










Extra Bonus videos:

Arthritic In Sports

Text and photos © Robert Barry Francos

Recently, a cousin said to me, “You know why you’re no good at sports? ‘Cause your father was a lazy fuck who wouldn’t take you to little league or some other organized kid’s sport.”

Maybe. As a young’n, I remember running a lot and playing tag kinds of things, though my favorite game was called Skelly, which was sort of marbles with bottle caps played on the sidewalk in a field drawn out of chalk. There was skill, but no real physicality other than being on your knees to shoot the caps.

Sure, I watched professional wrestling in my early teens, but I was never into organized sports, whether in a gym class or watching it on television. Sometimes I would be amazed at hearing kids talking about batting averages and the like, reeling off numbers. To me, it was like a foreign language.

By the time I got to high school, I had no coordination or sports acumen at all. I was bad at basketball, football, baseball and softball. In all the time I played on the (cement) baseball field in gym class, I hit the ball perhaps twice, and never made it to first base. All the other kids on whatever team I was on hated me for this, so eventually, when I was forced to play, the gym teachers created a position for me: I would stand outside the fence and retrieve any ball that went over. And I played the same position for both teams. Basically, I got to hang out and play “fetch.” My last year, the teachers gave up on even that, and they let me basically run around the track for three miles each class.

Meanwhile, though not a follower of sports, my dad would occasionally get tickets to hockey, basketball or baseball games through his work, and I would always enjoy going. It was the whole zeitgeist to the spectacle experience that would appeal to me; what was going on in the stands was always as intriguing as whatever was happening on the field, ice, or boards. Once I even took in a professional soccer game and saw Pele play with the Cosmos, but all I really remember is the literal pain in the ass from sitting on the cement seats on Randall’s Island, and that it went into triple-freakin’-overtime.
When I got to college and had to take PE credits, I went for karate (taekwondo). I had taken it once before as an early teen, in a community center (the JCH). The week after I bought the correct clothes, the instructor, who was twice my size and more than double my weight, said, “Throw a punch at me.” So I put my arm up and half-heartedly threw out my fist, figuring he was explain to me slowly what to do. Instead, he full force blocked my arm (I thought he had broke it in that instant), picked me up, and threw me over his shoulder and across the room, as I skid on my knees across the canvas mat. “Learn how to fall,” was all he said, and walked away. I looked down at my painful knees, and the friction had burned right though my expensive karate pants, and my knees were bleeding. “Fuck this,” I thought, and limped out. I had blisters for weeks.

But I decided to try again. At the end of the first year, I had attained a yellow belt (the one after the white; the teacher/instructor said to us, “Congratulations, you now know enough to get yourself killed” (meaning by overconfidence, believing we knew more than we actually did… I did not have that problem).
The second year of it (and the final athletics credits I needed), I was 19 years old). It was somewhere in this year, while we had to run around the gym backwards to build up our calves, that my ankles started to hurt. Then they began to really hurt. I didn’t know what the hell was going on, and the instructor, idiot that he was, had no sympathy. He yelled two inches from my face, “Little kids in Asia can do this, so don’t complain!”

I knew I most likely had flat feet, so I went to a podiatrist. He confirmed that condition, and gave me these Frankenstein’s monster-type shoes that weighed a ton and were ugly as anything (and very costly). Also added to it were these metal insoles that were unwieldy and kept me off balance.

Soon, they both hurt my feet more than without them, so I stopped using them. And yet, the pain was still there, and reached my knees. After a while, it started on my hips, and worked its way up over time to my neck. There it was particularly strong, and I couldn’t turn my head without extremely sharp agony. To get out of bed, on those days, I had to put my hand behind my head and lift it manually while my body rose. The muscles in my back began to spasm, especially when I would laugh. I just couldn’t breathe, and had to stand still until the spasm passed. My whole body was screaming.

At age 24, I went to a doctor who specialized in arthritis and finally nailed it down, and it had a name: ankylosing spondylitis (en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ankylosing_spondylitis). It was not a great thing to have, but just knowing what it was, was a relief. Still, I was not sure what to do about it. This doctor, who was a big macher on the Arthritis Board, gave me a prescription for Indocin, a non-steroidal anti-inflammatory drug commonly used to reduce fever, pain, stiffness, and swelling. It works by inhibiting the production of prostaglandins, molecules known to cause these symptoms. More potent than aspirin, it had some strong side effects, giving me severe stomach cramps. The doctor didn’t tell me it would eat away my stomach lining and could cause ulcers. After about a month of taking this crap, I didn’t renew my prescription. Over the years, I’ve relied on either ibuprofen or acetaminophen, when I needed it.

My family was supportive, and about a year after my diagnosis, I received a phone call from my brother’s friend, Pete Ceuter. I’d know Pete since my brother met him in college, and they had become good pals. Pete started out working in medical clinics, and now he was graduating as a chiropractor. He told me that he wanted to check me out. I didn’t pay much attention, figuring he was just trying to drum up new business.

The pain was there every day, in some form or another, and because it was a spinal thing, it could show up in any joint at any time, but the muscle spasms behind the lung were among the harshest. Over time, my back began to twist and curve, as is standard with this disease (hence my wonderful posture). After running into Pete again at one function or another, I finally agree to see him professionally.

Pete was a good guy. Very honest and very blunt, with a sharp sense of humor, and so I trusted him. After examining me at an intake, he told me point blank that he would never get me standing straight, as no one could, and if anyone told me otherwise, they’d be lying. He had researched the disease for a while since he heard about my condition. What he did say was that he would do what he could.
I started seeing him for three times a week in the ‘80s, as the treatments were partly covered by my work plan (only 60%, for a limited amount of visits per year, and the rest was to be paid in full by me). After a couple of years, it went down to twice a week, then once a week, then once very two weeks, where it stayed for years. By the time the ‘90s came around, I had less steady pain, more movement, and had gained a full inch on my height. He didn’t straighten out my spine, just as he claimed, but he made it straighter.

I continued to see Pete until his death a few years ago, of lung cancer. The man never smoked – anything – in his life, ate only healthy foods, and exercised regularly, but he grew up with two parents who were chain smokers, and he was second-hand smoked to death. I’ve seen a few other chiropractors over the years, but no one has had his touch, or has been as effective as Pete. Next week I start some sessions with a local chiropractor (thanks to insurance due to an auto accident) who is supposed to be one of the best in town. I’ll reserve my judgment.

This may sound like a digression, but hold on: in the company I used to work, they wisely had an area where people could put things they didn’t want, and anyone could just take them. One section was for books, which were mostly crappy romance novels or Mary Higgins Clark-type tripe, but every once in a while something semi-interesting would show up that I may not normally read, but since it was there and free, why not?
One of these books was the autobiography of Slash, and even though I never cared for Guns n’ Roses, I read that, and the tome was okay. Another was Motley Crue: The Dirt - Confessions of the World's Most Notorious Rock Band by Tommy Lee, Vince Neil, Mick Mars, and Nikki Sixx. Again, I’m not a fan of the band at all, but it was there and free, and it was about musicians, so what the hell. At some point, I’m reading a part written by guitarist Mick Mars, and he’s talking about some pain he has, and how it started. I’m thinking, wow, this sounds just like mine, even starting at age 19. And sure enough, yes, it is ankylosing spondylitis. His condition, though, is far worse and further progressed than mine, including hip replacements, losing three inches in height, a more fused spine, and constant pain.

That could have been me, if it weren’t for the due diligence of Pete working on me for all those years. Yes, I still have pain right now, even as I type this, and especially when the humidity level either rises or drops sharply, but I’m a lot better off than I may have been. It could be me that is as bad as Mars, and I’m grateful that I’m not disabled like him. I shovel snow (slowly and carefully), vacuum as necessary, and even packed up my old apartment and unpacked into our new house.

I’ll never be able to run long distances, and putting on my left sock is an ordeal (that side is particularly stiff, especially clipping that foot’s toenails – yikes, TMI). Walking up and down stairs a lot gets to me, but I’m moving, and I even climbed a 10-story pyramid in Mexico three years ago. The biggest effects that I find, other than the semi-regular flare-up of pain (which is not as bad as it used to be), is that my hip extension is not as wide as it was, so I take smaller steps (which means most people walk faster than I do with less energy output), and the other is my rib cage is tight, so it is harder to draw deep breathes, which means I get winded faster.

What I find amusing is the list of famous people that have this condition in Wikipedia. There’s Mick Mars and Ed Sullivan, but most of the others are athletes. How do they do it? I’ll never be an athlete, but I’m okay with that, because I probably wouldn’t be anyway, as my lack of interest in sports predates my AS.

But all things considered (see, I told you I read Slash’s book), I’m proud to say that in all these years, I’ve lost only one day of work to this thing, and that was in the late 1980s.