Mötley Crüe had always loved Vancouver. It wasn’t just the city’s world-class recording studios or its rock-loving fans—it was the wild nights, the neon-lit streets, and most of all, the strip bars. The Saints of Los Angeles had a second home in the city, a place where excess and debauchery felt right at home. And among the haunts they loved, one name stood above the rest: Brandy’s.
Brandy’s wasn’t just any strip club. It was where rockstars and outlaws rubbed shoulders, where the women were the best in the business, and where the drinks flowed like a never-ending encore. The East Van Saints, a notorious group of street legends with their own brand of outlaw charm, had long made Brandy’s their stomping ground. They were the kind of guys who didn’t bow to anyone, but when Mötley Crüe came through, there was a mutual respect. After all, the Crüe weren’t just rockstars—they were legends cut from the same cloth.
One night in the late ’80s, after tearing the roof off the Pacific Coliseum, Vince Neil, Nikki Sixx, Tommy Lee, and Mick Mars rolled into Brandy’s like conquering kings. The club erupted in cheers, dancers lined up to entertain, and the whiskey never stopped flowing. Among the regulars that night were the East Van Saints, watching from their usual corner, nodding in approval as the rock gods held court.
“They play hard, they live hard,” one of the Saints muttered, raising his glass to Nikki Sixx, who was already deep into another bottle of Jack.
“They ain’t just Saints of L.A. tonight,” another said with a grin. “They’re honorary Saints of East Van.”
The night turned into a blur of stories, laughter, and promises of mayhem. Tommy Lee hopped behind the club’s DJ booth, spinning tracks while Vince Neil led a singalong that had the entire club shaking. Mick Mars, quiet but grinning, leaned over to one of the East Van Saints and muttered, “This place reminds me of home.”
By dawn, as the city started waking up, Mötley Crüe and the East Van Saints staggered out into the early morning streets, bound by a night of excess that would go down in legend. Years later, when the Crüe released Saints of Los Angeles, those who knew whispered that it wasn’t just about L.A.—it was a nod to those wild nights in Vancouver, to the Saints of East Van who stood shoulder to shoulder with rock’s most notorious band.
Because some saints don’t pray. Some saints raise hell.