George Lynch was jacked. Having spent the better part of 1977 playing predominantly dives, his band, the Boyz, had finally graduated to the Starwood, Los Angeles' most prestigious heavy metal hotspot. The place was packed for the Boyz' Starwood debut. Lynch recognized many of the faces - his friends and fans, many of them longtime followers, all pumped and primed for action - but there were many more strangers this time, a sign of the band's fast-building reputation. There were record label execs, too, and even some celebrities, like Gene Simmons of Kiss. Simmons wanted to branch out into management and production, and he'd heard good things about the Boyz. There seemed to be a tacit understanding in the air that something was going to happen that night - something big. Lynch and his band mates partied in their dressing room, laughing and backslapping. Already the gig felt more like a coronation than a showcase. All the Boyz had to do was walk out onstage and soak up the spoils.
The opening act was a little-known outfit from nearby Pasadena. They called themselves Mammoth, though they were flirting with the idea of using the surnames of the Dutch-born brothers who played drums and guitar. "Van Haleran?" an amused Lynch said to himself backstage. "Van Quaglen? Somebody told me they were born in Holland, but nobody could pronounce their name. Hey, like it mattered, right? I mean, it was our gig. All I cared about was that they didn't suck and drive people away before our set."
Lynch learned a nightmare-inducing be-careful-what-you-wish-for lesson that night. Van Haleran, Van Quaglen - whatever the hell they called themselves - took to the stage and left nothing behind but scorched earth. Within momments the place went wild. Maybe it was the hedonistic flamboyance of larger-than-life singer David Lee Roth. Maybe it was the band's overall exuberance, honed by years of playing backyard blowouts and wet T-shirt contests. Maybe it was the tunes, an intoxicating blend of high-energy metal with serious pop hooks to spare.
But something else about the band held the crowd in its sway. It was the guitarist. Unlike most guitar players, who cultivated images of dark mystery, this guy couldn't stop smiling. Pogo-hopping and rocking about the stage, he seemed to be having the time of his life. What's more, his fingers danced across the fretboard with a breathtaking nimbleness, and notes poured out of him as if from an inexhaustible river. He kept his back to the audience during most of his solos (lest he become the purloined shredder), making it near impossible to glean his technique. Or was it his technique that was impossible? He seemed to inhabit his own world, sharing an almost symbiotic relationship with his guitar. He played with a passion and ferocity that teetered between bliss and demonic possession. In any event, he killed. Up there on the Starwood stage, he wasn't just any guitarist - he was Tony Montana and his little friend, decimating the crowd, not to mention the Boyz'chances of following such an outre display of pure unadulterated brilliance.
George Lynch watched from the wings, growing more dispirited and apoplectic with each song. "I was like, Shit, what am I gonna do now?" he recalls with a kind of self-effacing laugh that comes only from hindsight and (no doubt) years of therapy. "To see everything you thought you knew about guitar playing change right before your eyes, at your very own show. Talk about depressed." Even so, he admits to having an epiphany that night - "I knew I had to learn from this guy. He was doing something new, and I had to get with the program if I ever stood a chance at competing."
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