Tales Of A RATT Read online

  The guy's like, "Happy birthday. Now, get the fuck off my stage.”

  He wasn't having it.

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah...keep walking.” He led me down the stairs at stage right. By the time we got to the bottom, I'd convinced him I wasn't just some guy who wandered up there, and I kinda belonged.

  So, he mellowed a bit. At least he didn't try to have me tossed from the place.

  From there, I figured the best place in the house to hear the show was going to be from the sound booth, since the guys mixing the damn thing were all sitting right there.

  So, I made my way through the crowd to the sound booth. Again, a place I shouldn't have been allowed.

  But, there I was. Standing there at the board, sharing a beer with Barbara Streisand.

  It was a great show. And for 20 minutes, I was on stage with the Stones. Very memorable for me. And Babs hardly backwashed at all.

  The night ended with just as much surprise as it began.

  It's two in the morning, and I'd just gotten back to the house. The show is still buzzing in my ears when the phone rings.

  It's Alan Niven.

  "Dude, get dressed. I'm taking you somewhere.”

  "Where?”

  "Just get dressed. I'm sending a car.”

  Sure enough, a big limo pulls up in front of my house a few minutes later. They won't tell me where we're going, but by three o'clock, I'm standing on the tarmac of a private airport next to a leer jet.

  Alan shows up, we board, and by sunrise we're on the East Coast, making plans to see Great White.

  I don't remember much after that.

  Thirty-two was a really good number!

  Stories like these don't happen with the same frequency anymore. These days, we just don't hang out much anymore. Everyone is off doing their own thing, having evolved beyond the 80s. So, it's more of a matter of just running into each other every once in a while.

  I still have all the same friends that I always have had, and for that, I'm thankful. I just don't see them much.

  I see them when I see them.

  Back in our early days, when we were rehearsing at Dennis O'Neil's mother's house. Our chemistry came pretty quick. I was a good drummer, and had a lot of experience. The others could sense that, I think. Plus, we were all influenced by the same bands. Aerosmith, in particular. We were all close to the same age, and had the same influences, and that became a launching pad. We were just like, "Well let's have at it. Let's do it.”

  Our mentality was not so much a family mentality as it was just a gang. It was us, out there to get "them.” "Them" could be anything from an individual to the world. But, we were out to plant our flag and take what's ours.

  Of all the guys in the band, I was probably tightest with Robbin. He was the most sensible. He was pretty well educated, and had an even, cool temperament. Juan and I were pretty tight, too, though. Because we were close while growing up. But, then Juan started having some serious ego issues, especially when we really started to get famous. It just got to the point where I really couldn't stand him. I didn't want to be around the guy, and he had been one of my closest bros.

  Warren and I were like brothers who, when you see them, it's great, but when you don't see them, you don't see them. It's no big deal.

  The Invasion tour finished off in the United States in San Diego; Stephen, Robbin and Warren's hometown. Then we finally got three or four weeks off. It didn't last long, though. A month later, it was off to Europe with Ozzy and the Monsters of Rock Tour. After that, we were off to Japan to wrap things up.

  We had been on the road nonstop for almost four years. The strain on the band was very evident, and for me, all I wanted was to get home and be normal for a while.

  The thing never seemed to end. Not that I wanted the BAND to end, mind you. I just wanted a chance to be a dad and a husband for a while. But, every time we would get home, it was immediately back into the studio, then right back out on the road.

  The Show Pony Express, that was us. Atlantic Records and our management were driving our asses, whip in hand. I wanted any chance to see my family, and when they came, I jumped on them.

  I was the first one in the band to buy a house. Paid $248,000 for it. It was right on Torrance beach, in a neighborhood called the Hollywood Riviera, right at the beach. And, in the tradition of the booming 80s, my interest rate on the loan was, brace yourself, 13%. Fucking Reagan Era, baby! Yuppies ruled the Earth, and greed was still good!

  I put $50,000 down on a $248,000 house and my payments were still $2300 a month. At the time, I was getting rich, so I didn't give a shit, but, Jesus! Today, you get that house at 5%. It's nothing.

  When we got back, they tried to shove us right back into the studio to record "Dancing Undercover.” But we weren't anywhere close to ready for it. Our manager was giving us shit because there was a deposit on the studio, and we were going to lose it if we didn't get in there. So, there was a lot of pressure.

  That album was winged together so quick. Pearcy was at his worst. The guy wasn't at a single rehearsal. There was really a lot of dissension in the band by that point. Lots of bad vibes. I got to say that most of that blame falls right at the feet of the label and management. They worked us right into the ground for three straight years, and now they were "back for more," to not put too fine a point on it.

  There's some good stuff on it, too, but by and large, it wasn’t my favorite. Especially side B. There are songs on there that are musically cool, but the lyrics are a waste and it blows it for me.

  One night, somewhere around 1988, Jon Bon Jovi calls me up. He was in town, and he goes, "Hey, Blotz. You wanna go to this Keith Richards listening party for his 'Cheap Winos' record down at the Whisky. You want to go?”

  "Yeah, bro. That sounds pretty hot.”

  So, Jeni and I pick Jon and his wife, Dorothea up at their hotel. I was really surprised when I saw where they were staying, too. I was giving him shit about it. I'm like, "Jon, you've sold 20 million records with that last album, and you're staying in this place?!?”

  He was staying in a Ramada Inn. It was in the Wilshire area, but a really old, kinda dumpy Ramada. It was WAY below what he was used to.

  We get to the Whisky, and they're playing the record over and over. We see Keith come in, surrounded by bodyguards and make his way to the VIP area.

  We were all in the balcony area, sitting at a table. Keith walks right past us on his way upstairs.

  "Well, there he is! Keith Richards!” I figured that was the only time we would get to see him. He looked well guarded and unapproachable.

  A few minutes later, a guy comes up and says, "Jon, Keith would like to meet you and take some pictures.”

  I was like, "Shit.” I really wanted to go up, too, but I didn't want to intrude, you know.

  So, I sat there with Jeni and Dorothea, just shooting the shit for about a half hour. Jon comes back, and I was asking him all these questions. He was a little star-struck by the whole thing, and I can't say I blame him. It's fucking Keith Richards!

  A few minutes later, Keith came back down, being escorted out. So, it was over. He had made his appearance and the evening was done.

  At some point, Jon decides he want to go, so he's like, "Man, if you want to stay, that's cool. I'll just jump a taxi.” So, he and Dorothea were off. So, Jeni and I, along with my buddy, Krell-Gar, Phil Soussan, the bass player for Ozzy, and this chick that used to be with Mick Brown, the drummer for Dokken are all sitting on the back stairs at the Whisky, just inside the back door. We're just talking and having a good time.

  All of a sudden, the back door opens, and in steps Keith Richards without a bodyguard in sight. I look at him, and I'm like, "Holy fuck. Keith, what are you doing, man?”

  He's like, "How you doing?” In his raspy, vice-addled voice. He looks around, and goes, "Ah, shit. I thought I gave this place up in 1963!”

  I go, "I'm glad you're still here.” I introduce everyone around, and he's hanging out, talking to us.
I was telling him what a Stones fanatic I was, since I was old enough to walk. He's being real polite, but has to get upstairs.

  He stops on his way by and looks at me. "You want to have a drink?”

  I'm like, "Hell, yes!” It was clear he was talking to me, but Phil Soussan latched on to our belt loops and joins us.

  We get upstairs, and Keith pulls out a bottle of Jack Daniels. He pops the cap, and we're passing this thing around for a while, just taking a pull and handing it on. I was completely tripping out. I'm thinking, "This is never going to happen again, so definitely enjoy it. Milk it for all it's worth.”

  I'm asking him questions about old Stones songs and records. I told him that "Exile on Main St." was my favorite Stones album of all time. A double album, and every single song was fantastic.

  He's like, "That was a good one, that was a good one.”

  I go, "How's Charlie doing these days?”

  He takes a long drag off of his cigarette, sucking the most he can get out of that thing, like he's the masculine version of Bette Davis; blowing a long cloud of smoke out like it's never going to hurt him.

  He looks at me, and goes, "Ah, Charlie's great. That Charlie loves to buy cars. He's got a whole stable of them, there in his garage.” With his English accent, garage came out as "gay-rodge". Pretty funny. "He never drives them. He just starts them up and stares at the dash. He loves to play with them.”

  Jon was tripping when I told him about it.

  Another instance with Jon, the day before they got their American Music Award for "Slippery When Wet", we were over at Doc Mahgee's house for a bar-be-que party.

  Some of the guys from Mötley were there, and the guys from Bon Jovi. I was the only one from RATT who was there, but a bunch of people who worked for Doc were hanging around. It was a pretty big party.

  We stayed well into the evening, long after people started to fade away and leave. Jon and I were shooting pool, and doing shots of tequila; just shooting the shit. It got to where it was just the two of us.

  I had sent Jeni home with the car, because I wanted to stay and hang out. Doc told me, "You want to stay, hang out. I have a limo outside. I'll have it take you home.”

  So, me and Jon were getting completely crapulous on tequila. That was Jon's drink back then. Tequila, the bitch whore of all hard liquor. So, we're polluted pretty bad, and I go, "Jon, I'd never ask anyone this normally, but I've had enough to drink, so I'm going to. What was your take on that last tour and record?”

  He goes, "You mean as a whole, or what I pulled myself on that?”

  "What was your take?”

  He thinks for a second, then says, "I don't usually tell people stuff like that, but since I'm as shitfaced as you are, I might as well. Right now, it's sitting at about eighteen.”

  I grin, and all tongue-in-cheek, I go, "Eighteen hundred bucks? Odd, I would've thought you would have made more than that!”

  He starts laughing, and goes, "Yeah, eighteen hundred bucks.” I’m thinking to myself that this guy who opened for me last year made $18 million.

  I go to leave, and the limo is gone. Doc comes outside and goes, "What are you still doing here?” I told him about the limo, and he calls them back to take me home. The guy picked up the bill on it, and everything. Doc's a great guy. I just crashed out in the back of the limo.

  The next day, I was SO hung over. I was hurting all day long, and kind of laughing to myself, because I knew Jon had to be hurting too, but he had to get up in front of a huge audience at the award show and look good!

  Sucks to be him, right? Mister "I made Eighteen!”

  So, I watched it on TV, and they kept showing him on the camera all night. He looked all right, but I know different. No way was he was in good shape. No way!

  Two nights later, there was an Aerosmith show at the Forum. I was at the sound board with the laminate pass, and I feel this tap on my shoulder. It was Jon. We immediately started pointing at each other, laughing. I knew exactly what he was going to say.

  The first thing he does is hand me my wallet. I'm like, "What the fuck are you doing with my wallet?”

  He goes, "You left it at Doc's the other night.”

  "And YOU have it? Alright, whatever.”

  He goes, "I am never drinking with you again!”

  "Yeah! I'm the bad influence in this. You're the one who drinks tequila, bro. I was drinking tequila with YOU! That shit was YOUR fault.”

  So, we had a big laugh about that. Then, all matter-of-factly, he goes, "Hey, I'll be right back. I've got to go up there and jam with these guys.”

  The bastard! Go ahead and rub my face in it!

  About ten minutes later, Steven Tyler is bringing him out on stage to jam.

  These are the ways and days that we lived at that time. Life was a fairy tale, written by the Brothers Grimm!

  There's really not much to talk about on the Dancing Undercover tour. It was just another tour. We had a good time, with Cheap Trick and Poison opening for us. There's some good friendships from that tour, but while it was well attended, it was becoming mundane. It was our life; almost our entire life. We set them up with a huge stage, a giant lighting truss and all the bells and whistles, but, we had been crushed under touring and recording.

  We were numb.

  After Dancing Undercover, we made a point with management. DO NOT BOOK A THING! NOTHING! WE WILL TELL YOU WHEN WE ARE READY! After the deposit fiasco at the studio for the Dancing Undercover record, we weren't going to deal with that again. That's why that album was so forced. That's why it doesn't really fit with the rest of RATT's catalogue. We had to throw it together overnight because our dumb-ass manager dropped a giant deposit on a studio. We were nowhere near being ready.

  This band is not a band that writes well on a tour. I don't know why that is, but it is. Warren has to sleep during the day, because he stays up all night on the bus. On the road, it's always, "Oh, my head's not in the right place to write.” That makes no sense to me. Get your head on straight. Let's get on it, and make shit happen. We could bring a studio on the road. We could be totally self-contained. Again, artist VS. businessman. It's a volatile combination. I don't understand why it can't happen, but it doesn't with these guys. I don't push it.

  The next album was "Reach for the Sky," and it was the same old same. RATT was slowly spiraling down. We went to a new producer, thinking that would cure our woes. Mike Stone had worked with Queen and Journey, and a bunch of others. He, unfortunately, had a pretty bad alcohol problem, but he was still getting really good sounds in the studio. But, Stephen did the same thing again. He took these songs and wrote some really weak lyrics.

  When we finally heard what he did, we were in shock! We were in trouble. The situation was bad enough that Atlantic made us go back and rewrite it all, with Beau Hill taking over the production helm. Stephen had no choice. For once, it wasn't the band criticizing him. I'm sure he felt like the whole world was ganging up on him, and it was, to a sense. But when Doug Morris, the president of Atlantic tells you that your work isn't good, so do something, you do it, or you likely won't get a chance to do it again.

  Around 1989, I built a studio in my house, and started working up my own material to bring in for the "Reach For The Sky" record. There were a handful of ideas I brought in. But, it's hard when you have those four guys writing songs. First off, there's a greed factor involved.

  Originally, the band split everything five ways. That's the way it stayed until 1984, when the other four guys got together and voted my split of the writers share out. From that point on, we split all publishing five ways, but publishing would only account for 50%. The remaining 50% was the "writer's share".

  I'd do a ton of arranging on the songs. I've got a gift for arrangement. We'd all contribute to that, but there was never any writing credit for working up the music.

  Warren would be against it from the start. "That's an arrangement. Not writing.” But, when you write the song out on a chart and compare it to what it
was before the "arranging", clearly my parts are in there, contributing to the writing of the song.

  It's a sore spot, especially for me.

  They didn't consider me a writer, and I had no say in the matter. That's the bitch about a democracy. You can get ganged up on. They didn't want to split up that song writing pie, and from that point on, I made half of what everyone else in the band made.

  For my part, I just wanted to make records I could be proud of. I'm not saying our stuff was getting bad. It wasn't, but when you've got to look for reasons to like something, it usually means it's not good enough. In 1989, I had to look for reasons to like what RATT was doing.

  We did what we were told, and "Reach For The Sky" was completed. The only problem was, we still didn't have a good single on it. Nothing that was radio friendly, with a great hook.

  At the last minute, "Way Cool Jr." was brought in and worked up off a riff that Warren had been fooling around with. It was a song we had worked on before, but it hadn't gone on the record. Beau heard the riff and got onboard with Stephen and Robbin writing the lyrics. We had our single.

  The "Reach For the Sky" tour consisted of us, Kix and Brittney Fox. When that tour wrapped, we got into working with Desmond Child on writing. During the writing sessions, he quickly saw the dysfunction in this band. Helen Keller could have picked up on that! It was really a hard time, creatively. Stephen can be hard to work with, especially when he isn't happy. And, Stephen hadn't been happy in a long time.

  It became impossible to get things done. Add to it the fact that the rest of us were developing some serious burn out issues, and our personalities were starting to reflect that. You can do the math. RATT was on life support.

  Once we got famous, Stephen had his own dressing room on tour, while we were all in another dressing room. It turned into an "us against him" sort of thing. Lead singers, man. They call it "L.S.D.” "Lead Singer Disease.” They are a breed, almost without exception. Singers are not normal people. And, in truth, they can't be. It takes something beyond the normal thought process to stand in front of a crowd of people and perform with only your voice.