I hit play on Motley Crüe’s “Sex”, recently and something deep in my brain lit up. Not a memory exactly, more like a reflex. That riff. That strut. That familiar groove with its cigarette-stained swagger. It wasn’t deja vu, it was musical deja do.
The first name that came to mind.
Stevie Wright. “Evie Part 1”, to be exact. That iconic Australian rocker from the ’70s with the vulnerable verses and that creeping guitar line. It felt like Crüe had lifted the skeleton right out of it.
But the more I thought about it, the more I realized this wasn’t a rip-off. It wasn’t even a homage. It was something bigger: the continuation of a riff that’s been around. Like, around around. And the more I dug, the deeper the roots ran.
This is a riff that cannot be ripped off.
Here’s the truth no one wants to admit in the age of samples and lawsuits: some riffs belong to no one. They’re not theftable. They’re foundational.
The riff in “Sex” sounds like “Evie”, yeah, but it also sounds like “Mississippi Queen”. And “American Woman”. And “Chasing Ladies” by Dust. It’s part of a primal groove that’s been passed down like a sacred scroll through generations of rockers. A chunky, mid-tempo blues-based riff with a cocky lean and a swagger that says, “I know exactly how dirty this is.”
Take “American Woman” by The Guess Who, built on a slinky pentatonic run that carries itself like it owns the bar. “Mississippi Queen”?. Same DNA, but heavier, swampier, with cowbell and bad intentions. Go listen to “Chasing Ladies” by Dust and tell me it isn’t a prototype for Mountain’s thunder. These riffs don’t steal from each other, they echo each other. They’re the same attitude wearing slightly different boots.
Motley Crüe just joined the family reunion.
So no, the Crue, didn’t sit down with “Evie” and say, “Let’s take that.” They tapped into the same riff reservoir that’s been bubbling under rock since the late ’60s. That well of sleaze and stomp and bluesy tension that every great band draws from at some point.
“Sex” isn’t reinvention, it’s tradition.
This isn’t about influence. This is about inheritance. You don’t accuse blues players of ripping off each other for using the I-IV-V. Why? Because it’s the language. This riff? Same deal. It’s not a signature. It’s a dialect.
Let’s not get philosophical here. This is a song called “Sex”, released in 2008, just to get the band back on the road with some new music to play live.
It’s not trying to rewrite the “Book of Rock”. It’s trying to get your hips moving and your middle finger raised. That’s it. In a world drowning in overthought “vulnerability” and calculated streaming bait, there’s something refreshing about a song that just wants to grind in four-four and scream about screwing.
This is the kind of honesty we need more of, music that doesn’t pretend to be anything other than what it is. Motley Crüe are reminding you they’re still horny as hell.
And weirdly, that kind of shamelessness feels almost… sincere.
These riffs are more than just guitar parts. They’re cultural artifacts, repeating motifs that connect one generation’s restlessness to another’s rebellion. “Evie”was theatrical and vulnerable. “Mississippi Queen” was brutal and raw. “Sex” is loud and unapologetic.
But beneath it all? That same slither of attitude, that same guitar shape, that same feel. The riff is the connective tissue between these songs. It lives on, morphing slightly, picking up grit and sleaze with every new iteration.
It’s not just that these songs sound similar, it’s that they all speak the same language of swagger.
So no, Motley Crüe didn’t rip anyone off.
They didn’t steal. They participated. They plugged into a current that’s older than Spotify, older than MTV, older than you. They stepped into a tradition that started when blues went electric and white kids discovered distortion pedals.
And if you think “Sex” sounds like “Evie”, or “Mississippi Queen”, or “American Woman”, you’re right.
Because it’s supposed to.
Free Spirits Rising 