Tattooed Millionaire [Dickinson 1990]
Hair metal will probably never die. Decades later, new young men and women (possibly with addiction to alcohol, fucking and karaoke) come to the songs of Poison, Motley Crue, Winger and oh so many more like new fish coming to an upstream lake.
Ever notice jokes and trivia get discovered like an unearthed ark of the convenient every ten years? The kids are on the move.
I accept this. I have certainly heard worse things to my ears. But, every drink needs the hair of the dog. Tattooed Millionaire clears the senses with greasy abandon.
Bruce Dickinson is both a hearty singer and a bit of complete juvenile. He’s not above the boys, he’s just in a different part of the pool party. He knows this.
But I giggle at operatic airings of the lines “you and all your entourage, to me are all the same; you and all your entourage are playing foolish games”.
I agree. At some point the boys singing the songs to score ladies, and the guys who sell them drugs to score ladies, do mesh together.
“Body guards, porn stars, gold credit cards; using each other, running for cover”.
What a hedonistic ecosystem these hair (mostly) guys set up. Entire yearly incomes and occupations are made around their fluid flush of cash.
It will, did, and will again, come coke crashing down. The tit runs dry. So many noshing on the milk. All things must pass.
Those lads were carefully upfront. Nothing but a good time. Bruce is a lifer though. He wants this from here to eternity. He had woman and drugs too, but that was the dessert. He wants the hearty dinner for all his days.
He sees the long game. He’s squirreling away his nuts. Some made more money faster and sooner. But he wants it for longer.
He doesn’t want to be a inked rich person. He wants, quite literally, to be a voice. Hearing him soar from start to finish in this song, you root for him. It’s good that he’s still around. He makes things better.
And the boys should know, the carnival winds down at points. Grab that tit and squeeze. Like it’s your last.
