I’ve never really even done drugs, and Netflix’s The Dirt made me want to stop by rehab on the way to a monastery. On the other hand, I have zero nostalgic fondness for the hair-band era, the glorification of drugs, misogyny, and terrible fashion. “Kickstart My Heart” will never not be a propulsive, sh*t-kicking banger, “Home Sweet Home” still nags at my heartstrings, and “Smoking in the Boys Room” and “Girls Girls Girls” still hold up, if you can ignore everything that Vince Neil sings in them. I did, and honestly, a lot of those riffs still hold up. I’m not going to front and say that I didn’t love the music of Mötley Crüe. I still marvel at the cultural sea change wrought by one song in 1991, which essentially wiped out an entire genre of music practically overnight. Middle school was Bon Jovi, Def Leppard, and Mötley Crüe, and high school was Nirvana, Pearl Jam, and Soundgarden. My coming-of-age years straddled two eras.
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