Musicians Who Got Worse Once They Got Rich

You know how it is — one week you're rocking local venues for 1,000 sweaty fans, the next you're getting called up to open for some big name on their latest farewell tour. A few months later, you're selling a few hundred thousand copies of your debut EP, and presto, you're on the fast track to a big ol' major label recording contract. Okay, maybe you don't know how that is, but we have it on good authority that this kind of thing happens to musicians all the time.

Just ask these musicians, who began as immensely buzzy new acts taking their chosen genres in important directions, before fate intervened and handed them huge golden platters stacked with bundles of Benjamins, as fate is wont to do. Basically, if you're a musician and you want to maintain your artistic integrity to any degree, you might do well to develop a severe allergy to money. You want proof? Here ya go.

Today, U2 is known as that band full of old guys who simply will not stop attempting to rock. But in 1993, they were riding a big ol' hot streak. With releases like 1984's The Unforgettable Fire and 1987's absolute monster smash The Joshua Tree, the band had sold an unreasonable 50 million records by the time label Polydor got around to rewarding them with an even more unreasonable $200 million, six-record deal. The future was so bright that Bono had to wear shades — which he never took off, despite the fact that said future dimmed considerably after their big payday.

Beginning with 1997's Pop, the band began to slide at roughly the same time that Bono was doing everything he could to cement his reputation as a pompous, punchable blowhard. 2004's How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb and 2009's No Line on the Horizon clocked in as critical low points, leading to a five-year hiatus at the end of which the band and Apple decided to just go ahead and download 2014's poorly received Songs of Innocence to your iPhone whether you wanted it or not. (You didn't.) Their follow-up Songs of Experience garnered slightly more favorable reviews, but so far, Bono's declaration that the aging rockers may still have their best work ahead of them has resolutely failed to pan out.

Run-D.M.C. is inarguably one of the most important acts in the history of rap music. Their ingeniously calculated collaboration with Aerosmith on "Walk This Way" from their third album Raising Hell was the springboard that launched a million signings of struggling rappers (and nearly as many ill-conceived rock-rap mashups). They were the first rap act to go gold, the first to appear on MTV and the cover of Rolling Stone, and the first to land a fat endorsement contract — from Adidas, of which they are famously fond, to the tune of $1 million. Their legacy would have been set in stone had they stopped making music completely after 1986 — and judging from their output, they maybe should have.

While 1988's Tougher Than Leather was seen as an acceptable followup to their masterpiece, the diminishing returns began to come fast and furious thereafter. 1991's Back From Hell was deservedly panned as an attempt to up the band's street-cred quotient while taking several steps backward creatively. 1993's Down With the King yielded one good song — the title track — while employing a gaggle of guest producers and vocalists to paper over the diminishing skills of D.M.C. in particular. After a long hiatus, the group released the universally reviled Crown Royal in 2000, a straight-up wack record which would, perhaps fortunately, be their last. They're in the Rock Hall of Fame, and they deserve to be — but even hardcore fans generally pretend their last three albums don't exist.

There was a brief time in the early '80s when Canadian "rocker" Bryan Adams (stay with us here) actually rocked. His catchy, swaggering 1983 single "Cuts Like a Knife" got him massive MTV airplay, and his 1984 album Reckless became a bonafide blockbuster, rocking fans' faces with singles "Run To You," "Summer of '69," and the insanely durable power ballad "Heaven." Reckless was Adams' ticket to the big time, but sleeping on all those piles of money must have really done something to take his edge off because he has in no way been the same artist since.

Despite their rebellious titles, subsequent efforts Into the Fire, Waking Up the Neighbours, and 18 Til I Die saw Adams adopting a decidedly more adult contemporary sound, which may have had something to do with the stunning success of his maudlin 1991 ballad "(Everything I Do) I Do It For You" (from the Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves soundtrack). Adams has kept releasing music ever since. Not that anyone has noticed — not one of his albums has come within shouting distance of the top ten for over 20 years. At least he still has his status as one of the top-selling artists of all time and that giant money bed to comfort him.

Once upon a time, the Black Eyed Peas were poised to be the second coming of A Tribe Called Quest, De La Soul, and their Native Tongues brethren. Their acclaimed 1998 debut Behind the Front made a big splash in a hip-hop world then dominated by shiny suits and getting jiggy, and their artistic cred was such that their sophomore effort Bridging the Gap was graced with guest appearances from the likes of Mos Def, Chali 2na of Jurassic 5, De La, and Wyclef Jean. But then, the band decided it was time to expand their lineup, bringing in singer Stacy Ferguson from little-known girl group Wild Orchid to supply backing vocals. Ferguson rebranded herself as Fergie, the Peas got to work on their third album Elephunk, and it all went screaming downhill from there.

Not to say that the Peas haven't had commercial success — for the rest of that decade, they dropped hit record after hit record, all of which sold in ridiculous volume despite the fact that they are objectively terrible. Fergie's addition simply prompted the band to drop any pretense at artistic integrity and go straight for the pop sweet spot, both of which they did with zero hesitation. Today, it's seldom remembered that the band had any early artistic promise. Instead, their legacy lies in their many ker-billion selling, eardrum-shreddingly awful singles like "My Humps" and "I Gotta Feeling." Their early efforts seem more like missives from an alternate universe, probably one in which rappers still recognizably rap.

It's tough to think of a band that pulled as dramatic a musical about-face as thrash kings Metallica. Their first four albums, released from 1983 to 1989, are unassailable classics of the genre. With fourth album ...And Justice For All, the band was threatening to break through to mainstream stardom without compromising the musicians' sound one iota; the dramatic video for "One" — one of the greatest metal songs ever recorded — even garnered airplay on MTV. The thrash kings were poised to become thrash gods — until producer Bob Rock came calling, lugging along suitcases full of cash behind him.

Their 1991 self-titled release — colloquially known as The Black Album — catapulted the band to untold heights of commercial success while watering down their sound to within an inch of its life. Being in a perpetual drug- and alcohol-induced haze, the band members just kind of rolled along with this development, and before anybody knew what was happening they were literally the biggest band in the world. They've relied on their thrash-lite sound to move just tons of records ever since, and even their attempt to rope old fans back in with a "return to their roots" record — 2008's Death Magnetic, produced by Rick Rubin — is remembered mostly for being the nadir of that decade's loudness wars. They still sell tons of records, but it certainly doesn't take artistry to do that — and their fans have never forgiven them for rocking way less hard than they're capable of.