Mötley Crüe

Younger generations have come to view the Jack Daniel's-guzzling, copious-drug-abusing, groupie-violating rock lifestyle as a myth, an impossibility in the age of political correctness, wuss-tastic indie rock, debilitating STDs, an overriding respect for human life, and common sense. But Mötley Crüe once embodied it, and now, incredibly, appears hell-bent on embodying it once again with a three-hour, full-on arena-rockin' hootenanny with a Cirque-du-Soleil-Goes-Porn theme, complete with midget clowns, flaming amps, and lithe acrobats in spray-on costumes doing mid-air stripper routines. Everyone needs a little excess, and nobody does excess quite like the Crüe. The show is designed for maximum populist pleasure. No overlong stretches of new material, no naked pleas for respect or dignity. The boys have freely allowed themselves to become public caricatures, from Tommy's epic tales of never-ending boyhood to Vince's Jon Lovitz-lookin', prostitute-slappin', "Hey, let's have MC Hammer emcee my wedding on reality television" hijinks. Sure, the band's spandex 'n' hairspray cock rock is dated, but the Crüe's entire hedonistic existence is a hilarious anachronism. Behold the Pet Rock of rock.