The lazy, hazy summer of 1990: Every day was warm and woozy. Or so it seems now. LA rocked, and so did London. Guns N’ Roses were number one, permanently; Mötley Crüe were number two; the rest were duking it out for position. Rock was out of the ghetto; even dudes like Run DMC and Public Enemy thought so. They were hooking up, connecting, remixing.
Wanton record companies had more money than sense. They signed anything with hair and a pulse. Hundreds of albums came out every week – great ones, okay ones, funny ones, disastrous ones, dirty and dumb ones. The scene fed on itself. Everything was hot, everything was sunny, everything was beautiful.
