David Lee Roth is an interesting study in American rock. He was the poster-child for early 80s spandex and hair-god-ishness. He's had a battery of looks that rival Madonna, though perhaps without her exacting control over which images were released to the press. Nor with her savvy production and songwriting skills, alas. Still, he's been fascinating to consider. I respect his limitless loopy energy. He seems like fun.
In the first photo, Dave dons some sort of sheepskin chaps, no doubt on his way to a Dionysian festival of some sort. This may have been the birth of Uggs.
My my. At Waterloo Napoleon did surrender.
One great thing about DLR is that in spite of his full-tilt verve for the schlocky image he peddles at any given moment, he throws in a bit of jazzy doo-wop that is sorta like winking at the audience, letting them know he is actually only being ironic. Mostly. It mostly seems ironic. I hope it's ironic. ...though some of it seems... Well. You know.
This in my opinion was DLR at his best. The non-gaping for a change pie-hole may have some weight in creating this appeal. He does clean up rather nicely, here. Looking a bit distinguished, a little calmer, not smoked- and drunked-up to the gills.
The white shirt photo shows his big ole mouth, but not like the enormous cat-flap-that-ate-Manhattan mug we usually see him sporting, so even that is ok. I'll give him a pass on that. I'm thinking this is the look Jessica Simpson's surgeon was going for.
But this last one mystifies me. What have they done to him? Just look at him: broken, chained, manacled! We see here that Dave must have had about a mile of asscrack flapping in the wind back there. Whatever you do, David, don't JUMP! These pants are clearly too immodest to be worn in polite society, leading me to conclude he invented those vulgar pants ladies are wearing these days. You know the ones - pudenda-centric with a bit of spare tire spilling over the banks rather often. Thanks a lot, DLR. His frazzled mane is rushing to merge with the bristling field of chest-fur he's sporting. I wonder if someone was tempted to leave him tied up there? I can see a bag lady shuffling past him through the alley tsk-tsking "Just imagine--throwing away a perfectly good white boy like that!"
What does it mean? Why, David, why?