“Fuck me,” I whispered to myself. “I think I’m walking.”
That acoustic guitar wasn’t getting a bad workout, either. Utilizing my own self-taught technique, I would throw a needle on a Jimi Hendrix record, turn the volume up full blast, then try to riff my way along with him.
My sister was dating a musical kind of dude, a long-haired Bay Park hippie named Pat Tamasky, and one day he started showing up after school to show me his guitar tricks. “Holy shit, dude, you can play,” I told him. He was really exceptional. It was like being next to Duane Allman.
“Oh, it’s not all that complicated,” said Pat modestly. “See? You just put your fingers here. Then you grip the strings real tight with the pads of your fingers—like this, right?”
I watched him, attempting to memorize his quick, dexterous moves. Pressing my fingertips painfully hard into the strings, I gave a pluck. A heartrending twang emanated from my instrument.
“You’ll get there, man,” Pat said. “Stick with it.”
I kept up the twanging. I loved the feel of the guitar in my arms and held it on my lap all the time, like a pet. Eventually, the sounds that came out of my guitar became a little easier to listen to. I didn’t suck so completely.
“How are those legs doing, man?” Pat asked, the next time he showed up.
“I’m getting stronger,” I said, flexing my left knee. “See?”
“Cool.” He pointed to my guitar. “You getting any good at that thing yet?”
I shrugged. “I’m all right. I don’t sound like you, that’s for sure.”
Pat grinned. “So what’s the deal? You housebound, man? Or do you want to come around and play music with me? Me and a couple of other guys, we want to do some ZZ Top and Allman Brothers tunes.”
I took a moment to think it over. “It would probably do me good to get out of the house once in a while.”
“Great!” said Pat. He hooked his arm casually around my sister’s waist. “None of us can sing. What about you, man. Do you sing?”
My sister laughed. “Stephen does not sing.”
Pat smiled. “Well, I know you’re in love with that guitar right there,” he said. “But if you ever get the notion to shout some tunes, you should join us. You kind of look like a singer.”
With that seal of approval, I found myself a part of my first-ever band: Firedome. With Pat and his buddies taking care of bass, percussion, and guitar, I was free to function as head crooner. We belted out half-faithful covers of “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed,” “La Grange,” and “Gotta Get to Know You,” making the scene at a few memorable beach parties, dominating a kegger or two, and totally rocking the shit out of a handful of birthday parties. It was surprisingly fun. I’d never really wanted to get up in front of people in that way before, but with a crutch lodged underneath one arm, the other hand holding tight to the microphone stand, I felt weirdly content.
Three weeks later, on a warm Saturday evening, my mom dropped me off by myself in the parking lot of the San Diego Sports Arena. In various pockets, I’d stuffed a three-dollar general admission ticket to see Led Zeppelin, two hits of LSD, a big bag of good weed, and a pack of rolling papers. When she drove off, I took a deep breath, gobbled the acid, then made my way inside.
I found a place to stand by myself in the back, where I began rolling joints like a machine, the atmosphere so incredibly electric and tense the hairs on my forearms were standing straight up, stiff.
“I’m ready,” I announced to no one, lighting up my first joint. But Zeppelin didn’t come on for hours. There was no opening band, no seats on the floor: Our sole form of entertainment was a ten-foot balloon with ZEPPELIN WORLD TOUR scrawled across it that all the idiots around me kept punching and kicking, pushing it back up into the air, again and again . . .
The LSD began to turn my legs into a dangerously jellylike substance, and my mouth went cotton-dry. But then the thunder started. Lights flashed. The mighty Zeppelin stormed the stage, and all hell broke loose. Page! Plant! I watched them, shocked, thinking absurd thoughts with my mouth hanging open. Does that guitar have two necks, or am I tripping? Yes and yes. And hey: Is the San Diego Sports Arena beginning to levitate?
It was madness, absolute madness. When “Stairway” started, all the chicks in the audience went into heat and stripped off their underwear and tossed it onstage. Bonham beat the living shit out of his skins, smashing his way through a forty-minute drum solo for “Moby Dick.” The crowd fell into full frenzy mode, pushing and clinging, mixing and whirling in a sea of bodies. I didn’t panic. Instead, I felt exhilarated and took two steps forward, as if experiencing a faith healing. Warm flesh pressed up against me from all sides, and I let the bodies take me with them. Like tides, we slowly moved forward, then back, all of our eyes glued to the primordial force up onstage, knowing we were part of it, that we’d created this vibe and moment and night together.
I was changed. I cannot describe it any better than that.
After the show ended, they put the lights on, and I looked around, noticing a brown-haired girl with a gorgeous smile.
“Wasn’t that the greatest thing you’ve ever seen?”
She giggled. “It was amazing. Have a good night.”
“Hey, hold on a second,” I said. “Don’t go. Let me get your number. Let’s hang out sometime.”
She looked like she wanted to be convinced. That’s when I hit her with the big guns.
“You know,” I said casually, “I’m in a band.”
The girl just laughed. “You’re very cute, but we just saw a real band. You’re not in a real band.”
She gave me a wave, and I watched her fine little ass as she flounced away.
Someday, I thought to myself. Someday.
LAY IT DOWN
WHEN RATT WAS FIRST getting huge—when the label had begun milking its finest glam cow for all it was worth, squeezing until the udders were nearly dry and we could only pass glitter; when we were doing runs that would start in Lubbock, Texas, and wouldn’t end until Ames, Iowa, seventy-five shows in the span of ninety days, bringing rock to rednecks, jamming hard in Norman, Oklahoma, headbanging from Wichita, Kansas, to Dothan, Alabama, slogging our way through the most relentless, bus-driven, sludge-infested tours you ever heard of, with no true days to rest in between, just metal, metal, metal, and a Red Lion Inn at the end of every rainbow, if you were lucky—I always managed to figure out a way, each day, to steal some time to myself.
This story reminds me why.
It was Valentine’s Day 1987, and Ratt was in Kansas City, out on tour to promote the new album, Dancing Undercover. Backstage after the show was bedlam as usual: Our carpenter was screaming at the pyrotechnics guy, while our tour manager pounded his fist on a trash can lid. I was completely exhausted, but in that clean, honest way, from having howled my heart out for two and a half hours.
I was drinking a cold beer and I’d begun rolling the first joint of many when I was introduced to a cocktail waitress in her early forties with wrinkles on her forehead, dirty hair, big boobs, and the good-natured disposition native to women across Middle America.
“Oh my God! It’s finally you!” she cried. “Stephen Pearcy! I get to meet my favorite singer!”
“Hi there, what’s your name?”
She hugged herself to my chest. “Oh, man!!”
Laughing, returning her hug, I attempted to untangle myself from her. Very reluctantly, she released me. “I’m so sorry.” She giggled, “My name is June. I’m just excited to finally meet you. Every year, when you guys play Municipal Auditorium, I’m here, you can believe it! I love Ratt. And I just adore you.”
Clutched in June’s mitts was a backstage laminate, adorned with a pair of lips. That should have been my first warning sign, as lips passes denoted the unfortunate fact that the bearer might have had to, well, earn her way backstage.
“Well,” June said, “I got someone with me, who I want you to meet.”
“Who?”
“
Cinnamon!” she snapped. “Cinnamon, get over here!”
A gorgeous young blond thing appeared out of nowhere and sidled up next to June, wearing the teeniest jean shorts I’d ever seen. Thighs so toned and buttery they looked like food. She wore a black Ratt T-shirt, ’86 spring tour, all sliced and diced, offering plenty of ventilation.
“This is Cinnamon,” June said. “My daughter.”
My mind reeled.
“Hey,” said Cinnamon.
“Let me run something by you, Stephen,” said June, shouldering me a few feet to the side, so we could speak more privately. “If it’s not too strange,” she said calmly, “I would like you to have a relationship with my daughter.”
“What . . . are you talking about?” I asked as pleasantly as I could.
“I would like Cinnamon and you to be together,” she said, her tone reasoned and gentle. “I’m not saying marriage, necessarily. Unless that happened to develop in a natural way. I just think the two of you would get along very well.”
Fifteen feet away, young Cinnamon watched the discussion. I waved weakly. Cinnamon waved back. “I don’t quite know what to say to that,” I said.
“Well, how about this,” suggested June. “How about I just let you two young folks alone for an hour or so? You could take Cinnamon into your dressing room. Get to know her for a little bit. Who knows? You just may end up liking her.”
What possible universe could this exist in? Hmm, the Metal Universe, a privileged one for its inhabitants, apparently. And I admit, my resolve was quickly weakening: Cinnamon was so golden, so perfectly formed . . . and I was so trashed from the road. Not to mention, I hadn’t had sex all day. Now, assuming she was even of age—how, I wondered, might I fuck this little treasure without hating myself in the morning?
“Yes,” continued June, “I’ll just sit out here and have a few beers with the Ratt gang. Meanwhile . . . Cinnamon? CINNAMON!” she snapped. Her daughter flew to attention. “Honey, Stephen would just love to get to know you.” She whispered in her daughter’s ear, gave her a few meaningful jabs, then she pushed her into my arms.
“Hold on,” I said, pushing Cinnamon back toward her mother. She looked confused. “I need to talk to you.” We walked into my dressing room and closed the door behind us.
“What’s up, Stephen?” June said pleasantly.
“First of all, is she even eighteen?” I demanded.
“Of course she is!” she laughed. “Gosh!”
“And what’s her deal? She looks super innocent.”
“She is innocent,” said June proudly. “She’s a virgin.”
“And you want to give her to me?” I yelled. “Are you crazy, lady?”
“Oh, I’m crazy now?” said June, her own voice rising dangerously. “I’m offering you my freaking daughter’s virginity, and all of a sudden, I’m crazy?”
“Just tell me one thing, okay?” I said. “When Mötley came through here last month, did you bring your daughter?”
She stared at me hatefully for a moment; then she spoke. “We couldn’t get backstage.”
NOT TOO LONG AFTER THE EARTH-SHATTERING Zeppelin experience, Firedome broke up, and I fell into a funk. I’d been sure we’d been destined to go multiplat. But I rebounded quickly: There were other bands out there.
Exciting things were happening, anyway. I was beginning to walk again. One of my favorite destinations for practice was the boardwalk down by Pacific Beach: I’d hitch a ride down there, and then, without a single crutch in sight, I’d start my pacing. I’d shuffle, old-man style, past chicks tanning themselves, and finally find myself trolling though Licorice Pizza, the best record store in town. I was taking one of these tentative strolls through Pizza’s rock section one afternoon when Tommy Asakawa, a cool Japanese dude, approached me.
“Yo, bro,” he said. “Haven’t I seen you singing around town?”
“Possibly.”
“Well, you sound pretty good! Me and my buddy Chris, we’re trying to get a band together. How about you come try out for us?”
“I don’t know,” I said. I took another tentative step, holding on to the edge of a record bin, and pushed past Tommy. “I’m actually more interested in playing guitar these days.”
“We got the guitars covered. Trust me. Just come on down and belt out a tune or two for us,” Tommy insisted. “We really need a guy with pipes.”
I had nothing better to do, so the next day, I hitched a ride over to Tommy’s garage and sang a couple of tunes for the guys.
“Dude, what did I tell you?” Tommy said to his friend. “He can sing, right?”
“I guess so,” said Chris Hager. He looked like a cross between Buck Dharma and Michael Schenker. “You’re not bad, dude.”
“Seriously,” I repeated. “I want to focus on guitar.”
By this point, I’d gotten good enough at my instrument that I’d begun to sort of enjoy how I sounded. I couldn’t throw down any crazy solos, but at least it didn’t sound like a kitten was being butchered every time I plucked a string.
“No,” said Chris, rather kindly.
“See, we’re actually good at playing the guitar,” Tommy explained.
I took the hint. I would sing. But I decided that if I was going to do these guys the favor of being their vocalist, I should also be the one to name the band. My suggestion was to call ourselves Crystal Pystal.
“Crystal Pystal?” Chris said. “What the fuck does that even mean?”
“Who cares? It’s got a classy, decadent feel to it,” I said. “Kind of rocking, too, don’t you think?”
“Sure, Stephen,” said Chris.
Chris and Tommy laughed at me, but I got my way, and we started rocking, right off the bat. The new band was a significant step up from Firedome, even though we played a similar brand of gigs: clambakes, church parties, three-keggers. I was stoked about us, I really was—I enjoyed singing, and I was pulling chicks from these parties as good as or better than the pretty girl who’d snubbed me at the Zep show. Man, it wasn’t hard at all. You just got out there onstage, sang a couple of tunes, and soon they were ripping the clothes right off your body. I couldn’t believe it had taken me this long to figure it out. I was seventeen years old, and life was starting to feel golden.
One of the biggest benefits of being in the new band was the friendship that formed between me and Chris. And before I put any more words in his mouth, I’ll let you hear what he first thought of me, in his own words.
CHRIS HAGER, GUITARIST, CRYSTAL PYSTAL, AND MICKEY RATT:
There were definitely better singers.
It took Stephen a while to develop his voice. But he had this mystique and this aura about him. He was always kind of a compelling guy. When he tried out for us, we started playing, and Stephen’s sort of back in the corner. You could hardly even hear what he was saying, but he looked cool. Afterward, he asked me for a ride home. On the way back, I’ll never forget this, he said, “We could MAKE it!” Like, in the music industry. I remember him saying, “It could be DONE!” I was like, What is this guy talking about?
He was kind of a trippy guy. He was very excited. And sort of vehement about, it could be DONE! I’m thinking, God, I’ve hardly even heard you sing.
He had this long hair, halfway down his back. He was sort of introverted in a way, but he and I hit it off. He was really into bootleg Led Zeppelin albums. He had all this cool stuff I’d never even heard of. He had stuff coming out of L.A., new stuff that he knew about. He was sort of hip from the beginning.
The songs we wrote, when I listen to them now—they were okay. They weren’t great songs or anything. But we had this look, and this different thing going on. People wanted to see us. Eventually we developed a pretty good following down here in San Diego.
I remember we used to talk about “making it big.” And we would talk about putting cocaine in our cereal, for sugar. That was one of Stephen’s favorites. “You watch, man. We’ll be putting that shit in our cereal, just like fucking sugar.”
It was our running joke.
I figured Pystal was destined for greatness, for sure. But after a few months, Tommy decided he wanted to go out on his own.
“No offense, man,” he said, politely. “I’m looking for a different kind of sound.”
Chris and I immediately met back at my house to talk strategy.
“What the hell are we going to do?” Chris said, worried. “Tommy was the backbone of the group.”
“We form our own band,” I said. “Now that we know the ropes.”
“But who’ll play rhythm guitar?”
“Me,” I said.
“Be serious.”
“I was being serious,” I said, annoyed.
“Okay, fine,” said Chris, putting up his hands. “You’ll play rhythm, I’ll play lead. We’ll find a bass player and a drummer. But what’ll we call ourselves? That Crystal Pystal business can’t happen again.”
“Been thinking about names all day,” I said casually. “See, there’s this comic book rat I’ve been reading about, all right? He’s rude. He’s constantly drunk, always talking shit, and basically acts hilarious. Like, a total asshole. Basically, he just fights and fucks a lot.”
“Go on.”
“His name is Mickey,” I continued. “Mickey Rat. He doesn’t take shit from anybody. He just—”
“Fights and fucks a lot?”
“So? What do you think?”
Chris considered. “If I’m hearing you correctly, you’re suggesting that we name our new band after an X-rated comic book rodent?”
“But we’ll spell it R-a-t-t. That way, once we hit the big time, we’ll never get sued.”
Chris shrugged. “It’s not quite as bad as Crystal Pystal,” he said, finally.
None of us really gave too much of a shit about what we were called. We just wanted to play loud music, and hopefully get laid and high as we did it. Within a couple of weeks, we found a bass player, Tim Garcia, and a drummer, Bob Eisenberg. Mickey Ratt was born, and San Diego had a new favorite son.
Sex, Drugs, Ratt & Roll: My Life in Rock Page 4