Tales Of A RATT Read online

  ...and I preferred to self-medicate, anyway.

  In the end, our only true crime was the music we listened to. Something happened in the adults of the seventies. I truly think they forgot what it was like to be young and eager to discover.

  So, fuck em.

  I told you that two things happened of great significance during this time.

  The first was Pete giving me my guitar, which led to my first drum set.

  The second thing was something that happens to every horny young guy. I met a girl.

  Her name was Jeni Malara, and she was Carol's best friend.

  Jeni used to come by all the time, hanging out, staying over, listening to music with Carol, doing all those Seventies teen girl things. Let's face it, I was always horned out. If it was female, I was going to give a once over, and my standards usually weren't that complicated.

  She lived on 226th in Torrance, just up the street. There was something about Jeni and the way she was around me. I think she really dug me, but I was younger than her by a year or so, and getting into her pants (as hard as I tried) wasn't in the immediate future.

  It's not like I thought she was "the one," but she had a quality other chicks didn't. Besides, Drew's super hot sister wasn't really working out for me, right?

  My future with Jeni was set. It was only a couple of years later that we were living together...

  ...then getting married...

  ...and having a son...

  ...and stomping down the rugged road of life for another 24 years.

  Stay tuned for more on THAT.

  RATT in Pasadena 1982, Metallica opened for us on this show.

  3

  The High Spirits Of Misadventure

  “You don't need anybody to tell you who you are or what you are. You are what you are!” - John Lennon

  My entire life is bound, wrapped and colored by music; both the music I listen to and absorb, and the music I've helped create.

  There's something that happens when you're around music. Yours or someone else's. Something inside you kicks on, or turns off accordingly. Whether you're into whatever is playing, or not, your soul responds. And it's a different response for everyone. There are dudes in this world who worship the accordion. I don't know those guys, mind you. My guess is that most of them are middle-aged, virginal, and still living with their mothers. But, at least they have the accordion. Bless them for that, right?

  I have been blessed in my own ways. One of the best is my memory. It's served me very well my entire life. I remember dates, events, experiences, almost at will. And, with really great clarity. I can remember most every concert or show I've ever seen. Even the shows where I'd abused myself in some fashion or form (chemically speaking, of course), I can pull up with near total recall. It's a gift that I cherish. It's also a gift that has saved my career, as you will discover a little later.

  Once I'd been bitten by the creative process, I couldn't get enough live music.

  I'd spent my childhood huddled around beat up record players listening to everything. I had my favorites, true, but I'd give a listen to most anything. Music even determined most of the relationships in my life. If you weren't into music, I wasn't into you.

  But, when I started playing, and playing well, I tried to go to every concert that came through the LA area. The guys who manned the gate at the Long Beach Arena knew me on sight. I saw everything.

  It was like music school, on the cheap. One weekend, I might catch Humble Pie, Spooky Tooth and Uriah Heap on the card at the arena, then catch a couple of local shows over in Hollywood the next night.

  I was a machine, and each show I went to was a learning experience in some fashion. It wasn't about fame and fortune. It was about life. My life. And there wasn't anything else I was going to be able to do with it. I HAD to be a musician.

  One night in July of 1975, I had one of my best moments at a show. It was the night that Aerosmith headlined a show at the Long Beach Arena with Mahogany Rush and Status Quo opening.

  Actually, I had several "moments" that show. The whole night was just a little off center. It was one of those nights that could have ended in disaster at any given second, but whatever rock gods were watching over me, they chose to show me favor. I got away with some pretty cool shit that night.

  To start with, I was hanging out with this chick named Debbie Daw. She was fun times, but neither of us had a car and both of us wanted to catch the show.

  So, we hitchhiked.

  We were picked up by a van on the corner of Artesia Blvd. and the 405. Turns out that the guy and girl in the van were also heading to the Aerosmith show, so the night was starting off well.

  At this time, I was playing in my first real band; a group called Slicker. I was loving playing live and the whole vibe it created as a club act, starving for gigs was getting a bit old. And, Slicker wasn't really pushing to be anything beyond what it was.

  So, I was looking for greener pastures.

  A few days before, I had heard that the hottest band in the South Bay area at the time was looking for a new drummer. It was a group called Spike, and they were huge, so I had set my sights on getting that gig.

  I felt really good about it. Everything was looking like the gig was going to be mine. Turns out that the bassist was a guy I knew from school; Juan Croucier, who would later play with me in RATT. Life was great.

  Debbie and I hit it off pretty well with the guy and girl in the van. We were all really into music, and struck up quick conversations about bands, the scene, who was hot and who was not.

  Somewhere in the midst of this conversation, I mentioned that I played in Slicker there in Redondo Beach. It was all right, but it looked like I was going to be joining this band Spike. They were looking for a new drummer, and I was the guy.

  The conversation continues for a while. More music, bands, generic talky shit. Then this guy mentions, "Yeah, I'm in a band, too. Here in Hermosa.”

  "No shit?", says I. "Which one?”

  "Spike.”

  Awkward. Just a little bit.

  So, I sat there in my hip-hugger bell-bottoms, platforms, and Mick Jagger haircut with glitter around my eyes, and laughed it off.

  In seconds, all four of us were laughing and having a good time over it.

  You'd think that would be the most interesting part of the evening, but no. Not even close.

  The show was great, and Aerosmith blew the roof off the place. The arena was emptying out, but Debbie and I weren't ready for the night to end. So, I get this idea...

  Why not go backstage and see the bands?

  Sure, I was just some random teenager. But, where's the harm in trying, right? So what, if they throw us out? The show's already over.

  So, we did.

  We snuck backstage and knocked on Status Quo's dressing room door. When it opened, we weren't fooling anyone. They knew we were just a couple of kids who talked their way past the security.

  But they were really cool about it. They let us inside, and we got to hang out for a little while. It was my first real experience with "what happens backstage at a big concert," so I was completely soaking it up.

  In situations like this, balls beget balls. I decided to check out the other dressing rooms.

  I knocked on the door to Mahogany Rush's room. In a second or two, the door opens and there's Jimmy Ayoub, the drummer for the band.

  "What the fuck do you want?”

  Clearly, this wasn't starting as well. So, what the hell?

  "Just thought I'd come by and say, hello.”

  "Go into fucking Aerosmith's dressing room and say hello.”

  BOOM! The door slams shut in my face.

  He was an abrupt guy, that Jimmy Ayoub, but he didn't have a bad idea. I decided to give it a try.

  But, as I rounded the corner to Aerosmith's door, I saw a couple of the biggest black dudes I've ever seen in my life. At this point, common sense came screaming to the front of my mind.

  These dudes are paid to EA
T kids like me. Maybe I better think this through.

  I turned around and went back to Status Quo's room.

  But, that was me, you know? I've had a lifetime of being in places I was not supposed to be, at times I wasn't expected to be there, and getting there in a fashion that I never should have been able to.

  Nevertheless, there I would be.

  For instance, I tended to ditch school a lot, and was always wandering around. Even at an incredibly young age. I'm not sure if it was just the fact that my parents didn't give a shit, and didn't care what I did, or if it was just the time and era. But, back in Pittsburgh, I was literally six or seven years old, riding my bike all over town, miles from our house!

  One time, I went to my grandfather's work. He worked in an auto repair shop, and I just showed up in the garage. My granddad freaked out and called Mum.

  "What the hell? Bobby just showed up on his bike! How did he get over here?” My Mum, pissed to the gills, rushed over and picked me up. I was a nomad from birth. A very independent nomad.

  That's probably why I loved dirt bike riding so much. It was a kind of independent freedom where anyone in authority had difficulty keeping a thumb on me. Pete got me a dirt bike for Christmas, but as luck would have it, the sky dumped rain on us for a solid week! I wasn't allowed to ride it in the rain, so I rode that fucker in circles in the garage.

  When it finally cleared up, I took the bike over to a big field by the school and rode there. I was busted by Pete while riding in the street, which was another big no-no. I saw Pete coming around the corner in the car, hit the kill switch, and tried to make it look like I was pushing the bike along with my foot, which was total bullshit. Pete had been following me for four blocks, and he took the bike away for a couple of months!

  I'll say that Pete and Mum had their hands full with me.

  The South Bay hangouts at the time were the bowling alley, and a place called the Smokestack. Van Halen played the Smokestack early on. Come to think of it, so did I; in Airborn with Don Dokken.

  The other hotspot was the local mall.

  We hung out at the arcade a lot; complete mall rats. Drunk, stoned, hanging out and trying to get chicks to do stuff with in the various nooks and crannies of the mall were the cheapest forms of entertainment at the time. That, and house parties...A lot of house parties. Life was about getting laid and having fun.

  People who know me, know that my voice is a bit gravelly. It gets a lot worse, the more I talk. I've got a theory as to why.

  One day, we were hanging out at the mall, and some wise-ass calls in a bomb threat to the arcade. So, they emptied out that whole area. We had all been drinking, and that probably had a little something to do with what happened next. As soon as the cops gave the clear, we rushed back in to get all the free, unfinished games on the pinball machines. Some of the security guards were yelling at us, but, fuck them. We completely disregarded rent-a-cops.

  They chased us down and literally started beating the shit out of us! This guy was choking me on the mall floor, banging my head into the tile. It was crazy.

  I couldn't breathe, thought I was going to die, and ended up going to jail. What for, I'm not quite sure. Being drunk and a teenager, I guess. My neck was scratched and raked up, and I think my windpipe was fucked up, because my voice has been like this since.

  I'd like to say that was my first scrape with the law. I'd like to say that.

  I had skipped school one day, and was busted stealing an 8 track tape of the Allman Bros. Band - Live at the Fillmore East.

  Of course, they called Pete to come get me, which got me into a new world of trouble. He put me on restriction, and whacked me upside the head. He didn't rough me up too bad. But, it didn't matter. There was no way I was going to stay cooped up in the house when there were other things I could be doing. I always had a plan.

  Whenever they put me on restriction, I would just make it so unbearable for them, they'd let me go. I'd be banging around, wherever they were, tapping on stuff, hovering, fidgeting. Total annoyance. They'd have to cut me loose and let me go.

  Pete might bellow, "You're on restriction for two months, Bobby!” And, in the back of my mind, I'm thinking, "Fine. I'll be out by Thursday.”

  Another scrape with the law wasn't my fault. Carol was supposed to watch Michael one afternoon, and she wanted to go out with one of her friends instead. She told me that if I stayed with Michael until Mum got home, her friend would give me the key to her mother's car and I could use it. So, I agreed. When Mum got home, I immediately split and thumbed down to Redondo where the car was. But, I couldn't get the goddamned door open.

  A friend of mine and I tried to break into the thing, which we did. But, the key we were given was a house key. What the hell did I know about keys? I was thirteen. So, my buddy and me were walking back to Sepulveda Blvd., looking to thumb back home when the police whipped in and got us. They took us to jail because they thought we were stealing the car.

  The coup-de-gras was in 1976. I was 17 years old and a friend of mine and I had been at a party with a couple of chicks. The party ended, and we wanted to keep going, but there was the problem of booze. The two of us dropped by this store and went inside. What the fuck we were thinking, I have no idea. It's funny how when your dick gets involved, dudes will do some stupid shit. I know what I'm talking about, too, because, I'm the original horn-dog.

  My buddy and I decided to do a smash and grab. Each of us grabbed a six pack of beer and bolted. We were laughing it up, driving off, thinking we had gotten away clean. Alas, it wasn't to be.

  A few blocks from the place, the red and blues start flashing behind us. We were stone cold busted. The cops got us and took us in. The fine was $125, which I didn't have, so I got an extension. When I went back, and the fine was still $125, and I still didn't have it.

  The thing was, I was only 17, but my license said I was 18. In those days, you could get your license three different ways: through school, take the test, or provide proof of age. I had my baptism certificate that mis-listed my age as a year older, so I used it to get my license. And, I was afraid that if I told the cops I lied about my age, they would take it away.

  What I didn't quite comprehend was that adults went to county jail, and at eighteen, I was an adult. At least, according to the state. Going to county was enough to break me from every wanting on the wrong side of the cops again. There are people in LA county jail that are barely fucking human. Pot and drinking aside, I would never do anything to put me back in there. You get a quick idea of what humanity is capable of in a place like that. It's very scary.

  But, other than that, most of my existence was chasing chicks, getting loaded, and not giving a shit.

  At fifteen years old, my life was going pretty good on one level, but was sucking balls on another.

  I was working my ass off, trying to put together the beginnings of a career in music. School had pretty much become a non-event, and whether Pete and my Mum just didn't care, or it was a sign of the times, I got away with it with little or no grief.

  Pete and Mum were struggling. I remember some horrendous fights. Just hideous battles, with shit breaking, glass flying, and anyone or thing caught in the middle taking damage.

  It was only a matter of time, but when it actually happened, it came as a surprise to all of us.

  One night, Mum simply didn't come home.

  The majority of their fights boiled down to jealousy. Pete was really jealous of a guy they had both been hanging out with. A big cowboy named John Ray.

  They had met him at a bar called the Tiki Hut, where Mum tended bar. Every weekend, they would hang out, and apparently, Mum was enjoying the time together a little too much. Because they would come home afterward and the battle lines would be drawn.

  The fights seemed to last forever, and the whole house became like a mine field. You never knew which step you took was going to set off an explosion of some type.

  Pete was never the easiest guy to get on with, so lo
oking back at it, I guess he pushed her away. It wasn't exactly a loving atmosphere toward the end, and John Ray was probably just the first safe haven to come along.

  Finally, push had come to shove, and Mum simply didn’t come back to the house. We didn’t know where she was, or if we would even see her again. That’s how bad it had gotten.

  Pete looked all over for her, but she was nowhere to be found. Two days passed before he found out she was gone for good. She sent a friend to the house to pick up all her shit.

  Pete flipped out. He worked hard, and begged her to come back, but Mum refused.

  Michael was the only one of us four kids that was Pete's. And, in a rage, he decided that he was going to take Michael and move back to Pittsburgh. Fuck my Mum, and fuck Carol and I too, right?

  The next thing we knew, he was gone.

  Mum had her new guy, who didn't really seem to be interested in kids, and Pete was completely over us.

  Carol and I were on our own. She was eighteen, and I was sixteen. Just as well, I guess. I'd already been looking for a way out for a while, so this simply was the shove that I needed.

  Carol was always my closest sibling. We were kindred spirits, especially when it came to music. We were tight, and still are. When Pete and Mum split, it was Carol and I who gravitated to one another for protection. We just moved out into a tiny little house in Torrance where we had a “Loco Lobo” Mexican neighbor who would terrorize us nightly.

  He was this crazy-assed, drunk who would get loaded up on Tequila and just plague us. We were scared shitless of the guy. Those few months we lived in that house were some of the weirdest of my life. We didn't know what we were doing. We were so young. Just sixteen years old.

  When Pete moved back to Pittsburgh, he had taken Michael with him, and the scene quickly got to be too much for Carol. She wound up following them.