The Finnish Prince Of Bel-Air - Michael Monroe

I’m not shocked anymore when people say that rock ‘n’ roll is dead. I’ve moved on to pinpointing the time of death: Did rock ‘n’ roll die when The Clash licensed "London Calling" for a Jaguar ad? Did it die with the extended, improbable, and increasingly sad life of Johnny Rotten? Did it die with the fall of Kurt Cobain or the rise of Fred Durst?

This past Wednesday, I saw a middle-aged man in leather pants play rock ‘n’ roll at a dinner party at the Finnish Consul General's mansion in Bel Air. Is that the final clarion call? Rock paired with finger foods and white wine? There was a heated pool, but no Rolls Royce floating near the bottom.

Although it’s not well known, the man, Michael Monroe, is Finnish (he was born Michael Fagerholm) and he’s still got that Arctic blonde hair. It’s the kind of hair that separates lead vocalists from bass players, the kind of hair for which hair metal was named. In fact, in the early 1980's, Monroe’s band Hanoi Rocks paved the way for bands like Mötley Crüe and Guns and Roses. Only the death of their drummer, Nicholas Dingley, in 1985 that prevented Hanoi Rocks from joining the superstars of Sunset Strip.

Twenty-five years later, Monroe still has fans in Los Angeles willing to put on their leather jackets and studs and drive to Bel Air for a night of glam metal revival. Their rock ‘n’ roll regalia gave the evening a bit of a mischievous air. Knee-high motorcycle boots circled the grand dining table, stopping briefly for their tattooed-and-pierced owners to nibble on chocolate-covered strawberries and sweet dates wrapped in blue cheese and bacon. Under the eye of Consul General Kirsti Westphalen, dressed smartly in a black pantsuit, the wolves had snuck into the henhouse. And nobody looked more pleased than the leader of the pack, Michael Monroe. After a brief introduction by the Consul General on the grand staircase, Monroe leapt to the front of the stage and did everything in his power to bring rock ‘n’ roll back to life. He kicked high and shouted, did a full split on the stage before whipping his microphone around his neck. Twice, Monroe jumped up to the top of the Consul General's (thankfully empty) mantel and belted out a few lines from on high. The crowd, which had pulled digital cameras out of those leather jacket pockets to capture Monroe's theatrics, went wild.

In the half-dozen new and classic songs I heard in Bel Air, Monroe did something that I haven't seen at a rock concert in what feels like years: He worked for, and earned, an encore. Talking with his manager after the show, I remarked what a young band they were (the Bel Air show was their first live performance). She thought I was making a joke on account of Monroe's age, but in truth they played harder and louder than any buzz band-of-the-week from Brooklyn.

Maybe the current incarnation of rock—indie’s bookish stars and their cool fans—has dealt rock its final fatal blow. Or maybe rock just needs a bit of that old '80s enthusiasm. Michael Monroe wouldn't be a bad teacher. Rock ‘n’ roll is dead, but rock ‘n’ roll is forever.

Originally in Los Angeles Magazine at: http://www.lamag.com/do/blog_post.aspx?id=24178&blogid=2160