By Jacob Katel
By Laurie Charles
By Nate "Igor" Smith
By Abel Folgar
By Kat Bein
By Jacob Katel
The reasons for this were numerous. For one thing, it was an easy song to play. The verse and the chorus were pretty much the same, there was only one simple little riff to remember, and if played correctly the thing always tended to sound like okay -- if generic -- Big Rock, a crowd-pleasing fusion of indeterminate ingredients. For another, if you had a good singer he could seriously go to town on "Runaway." There's this part at the end where you climb an octave -- just barely -- and belt out the last chorus in a careening, unintelligible falsetto guaranteed to charm just the sort of anguished suburban teenage girls the song is about. If, of course, the singer can pull it off.
The former Jon Bongiovi could pull it off -- just barely -- and the girls went wild, and by the end of that year he and his sort-of-eponymous band were enormous, gamboling over MTV every few minutes with all the requisite spandex and studs and moussed-up 'dos of mid-Eighties metal infamy. "You Give Love a Bad Name" went to number one, and we dropped "Runaway" from the set list for good. Bon Jovi was on their way to being one of the biggest acts of the late Eighties, but they looked ridiculous.
"Kids come up to us now with posters and stuff from the Eighties, and we go, like, 'What were we thinking back then?'" says Richie Sambora, Bon Jovi's guitarist and co-songwriter. It's a gratifying admission, but Sambora makes no excuses for the band's eyeliner years.
"It's like you're basically growing up in public," he points out. "We were a bunch of kids -- we didn't know what the fuck we were doing. But, you know, it worked. In a major-league way."
On that there is little argument. Especially since the band has somehow clawed its way out of the hair-band purgatory that just about all of its contemporaries have been consigned to in this decade. Bon Jovi is, unbelievably, enormous again. A new album, These Days, is selling at a good clip and drawing eerily respectful reviews. More impressively, Bon Jovi has maintained its roadworthiness. Poison and Warrant and other power balladeers of the era may be working 500-seat clubs in Scranton, Pennsylvania, but Bon Jovi is packin' 'em in, vintage stadium style. They shared stages with the Rolling Stones in Europe and helped headline the recent big Rock and Roll Hall of Fame shindig in Cleveland. A 42-country world tour that began in Bombay and charged through 50 sold-out soccer venues from Jakarta to Paris has arrived stateside and is coming soon to an enormodome near you (well, at least the Miami Arena). At the moment, the Bon Jovi express has paused in St. Louis, from where Sambora reports and pronounces success better the second time around.
"It's great," he says. "The last time we had this kind of success was the late Eighties. The first time, the fame and everything came so quickly, it was quite blinding. We didn't really see much of it. This time we're a little more grounded as people."
A few years ago it looked as if Bon Jovi might not be long for this world. Jon scored a solo hit in 1990 with Blaze of Glory, the film soundtrack to the brat-pack Western sequel Young Guns II, and Sambora recorded his own solo album debut. The band reconvened for 1992's Keep the Faith, but the album quickly sank. Sambora calls it "an evolutionary record."
Meanwhile bassist Alec John Such quit -- "He was the guy who wasn't keeping up with the trip," Sambora notes. Then the call came for the inevitable greatest-hits package, usually a sure sign of impending palookahood. Instead, Bon Jovi landed another hit -- the power ballad "Always" -- and made another album.
An older, wiser Bon Jovi might not be just what the world is looking for today, but that's what These Days gives us. They scowl uncertainly from promo photos now, unshaven and suspicious-looking. And where once they sang fist-waving metal minidramas of rebel youth, their new songs are anthems of ambivalence and vague hopelessness, in keeping with the tenor of the times. The opening "Hey God" has a "little man [who's] two paychecks away from livin' on the street" take on divine indifference, while "Something to Believe in," for all its Springsteenian thunder, offers some uncharacteristic nihilism: "Though I know that I won't win/I'll take this one on the chin/We'll raise a toast and I'll pretend/I got something to believe in."