take another look: A Loving Tribute to Hanoi Rocks: Beyond Glam, Beyond Punk, Unmistakably Brilliant

There’s a misconception floating in the ether of rock history—an easy, surface-level take that reduces Hanoi Rocks to a glam metal footnote, a band forever linked to eyeliner and tragedy. But for those who listen—really listen—Hanoi Rocks are something else entirely. They’re not 80s glam metal, though they dressed flashier than most. They’re not punk, but their roots are soaked in its urgency. What they are is a rare, electric burst of pure rock ‘n’ roll with the heart of The Dead Boys, the melodic soul of The Only Ones, and a swagger that somehow bridges Johnny Thunders and the Rolling Stones with something uniquely Hanoi.

Their sound was like overhearing a radio signal from a cooler alternate universe where punk never had to sell out and glam never got bloated. Records like Bangkok Shocks, Saigon Shakes, Hanoi Rocks and Oriental Beat sound like they were made in the alleyways of Amsterdam by ghosts in leather jackets—dangerous, heartbroken, and laughing all the while. There’s a European wildness, a streetwise poetry to it all. Every chord feels like it was struck on a cigarette-burnt guitar in the back of a tour van barreling through the night.

Michael Monroe didn’t sing so much as spit glitter into the mic—equal parts Iggy Pop and Little Richard, while Andy McCoy’s guitar work sliced through the mix like a broken bottle in a moonlit bar fight, equal parts beauty and menace. Together, they had chemistry that felt volatile and divine, like a divine accident the world was barely ready for.

To call them glam or punk is to undersell them. Hanoi Rocks were too stylish for punk, too dangerous for glam, too raw for pop, and too romantic for hardcore. They were everything and nothing, and that’s why they mattered. They didn’t just influence bands—they made them possible. Guns N’ Roses owe them more than a nod; the entire idea of sleaze rock as we know it comes with a Finnish passport and a bad attitude.

And they were fun—but never empty. There’s a loneliness in their hooks, a desperation in the melodies, a constant sense that the party might be over by dawn, so you’d better dance while you can. That’s the magic of Hanoi Rocks. They never asked permission, never cared for categories, and never played it safe.

They weren’t a genre—they were a feeling.

And once you’ve felt it, you never forget.