I plopped down in an easy chair in the living room, turning on the TV. “See you guys in a while,” I said, figuring that they’d head for the bedroom.
“Nah,” said Bob. “I’ll just fuck her right here. Go ahead and get undressed, sweetie.”
Susie stripped obediently. I watched as her small breasts, relieved of their bra, popped into view. Bob rolled his cotton shorts down around his ankles and waddled over to Susie, guiding her to the couch. She peeled down her underwear and he mounted her from behind. As he began porking her, I watched, unable to peel my eyes from the train wreck unfolding before me.
“So . . . the practice space . . . is in . . . Burbank . . . in the mall,” grunted Bob, as he rocked his wide hips into Susie’s backside. She gasped. “It’s . . . an old buddy of mine . . . so I’m thinking . . . he’ll be cheap.”
“Sounds great,” I whispered, sinking into the easy chair.
“You think . . . we can afford . . . thirty bucks . . . an hour?” grunted Blotzer.
I began to answer, but suddenly, Blotzer squeezed his butt cheeks together and bucked to a comical orgasm. He withdrew and patted his gal pal on the butt. “Thanks, Susie. I’ll call ya, okay?”
“When?” she asked, but Blotzer just pulled his shorts up, nodded at me, and we made for the door.
Bobby’s connection had a great rehearsal space: spacious, soundproofed, and located not too deep into the Valley. We could grow as a band there, learning one another’s style and idiosyncrasies. Hopefully at some point, we could create a trademark sound. But our problem was the same one we’d been dealing with for months: We had no cash on hand to pay for the space.
“How about you let us jam for a couple of weeks,” Bob asked, “and then we get it back to you?”
His buddy wasn’t stupid: He’d dealt with bands before. “How about you pay up front?” he replied.
I was beyond frustrated. We’d made it into the Troubadour on pure persistence, but the gravy train had stopped there. To get into the Whisky, you couldn’t just be good: You had to be great. Tight as a drum. Ratt needed practice hours, period. I racked my head. Who could front us money? My mom? Impossible. She was sending me a hundred bucks a month already, and that went straight to rent at Ratt Mansion West. I was ashamed to ask for more. Well, how about robbing a bank? No, they would recognize my trademark fingerless gloves and ivory tusk necklace.
Our answer came unexpectedly in the form of Wendy Dio, the wife of rocker Ronnie, to whose silver mountain Jake E. Lee, our guitarist, had fled.
“I’d love the chance to manage you boys,” she told me, cornering me after a Troubadour gig. She pressed her still-attractive forty-year-old body uncomfortably close to my chest. “You have great talent.”
“I don’t know,” I said, retreating back against the bar in an attempt to create a few inches of space between us. “Don’t you manage your husband’s band, too?”
“Ronnie doesn’t mind,” she insisted. “He knows I have my . . . ambitions.”
“I can’t just appoint a manager. The whole band needs to be in on it.”
Wendy raised an elegant hand. “Bartender,” she called, without once taking her eyes off me, “five Jack and Cokes, for my handsome young friends here.”
“Wendy,” I said, “what do you know about practice spaces?”
“You’d be surprised,” Wendy said.
She fronted us two hundred bucks, more than enough for a week’s worth of practice time at Bobby’s buddy’s spot in the Valley, and in return, she only asked to be considered as our manager. But there were strings attached.
“Ste-phen,” Wendy sang. “I’ve got a pair of tickets to a play tonight in Hollywood. Would you mind doing me an enormous favor and accompanying me?”
“A play?” I said, confused. “Why would you want to go to one of those?”
“I’m very boring, I’m suppose.” She laughed. “Dress nicely, darling. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
Mystified, I stood in my underwear in front of the full-length mirror at Ratt Mansion West, trying to figure out what rocker clothes I owned that would also be appropriate for the world of high-class theater. I came up with something fairly off, but acceptable. When Wendy picked me up in her sports car and eyed me up and down, I realized, Huh, I’m arm candy. We entered the dark theater, Wendy squeezing on my arm. She’s married to Dio, dude. No touching.
The situation was awkward, but I was in no position to alienate Wendy Dio or her deep pockets. She wanted to take Ratt all the way up the ladder. With her enthusiasm mounting every passing day, she soon began to stop by Ratt Mansion West unannounced.
“Ste-phen!” she called. “Darling, are you hungry? Put some clothes on and let’s go to the Rainbow, to see and be seen.”
She was hitting me at all my weak spots: Money. Ambition. Pizza. I threw on some leathers and allowed myself to be escorted to the Strip. We ambled into the Rainbow, requesting a table in the kitchen.
“Shall we discuss the future of the band?” Wendy said, bright-eyed, when we were seated, running her fingernails lightly over the back of my hand.
“Absolutely,” I said. “But first, let me take a piss.” I snuck out to the pay phone to make a call.
“Hello?”
“King,” I whispered, “it’s Stephen. I’m over at the Rainbow with Wendy. She’s about to feed me. Quick, call the rest of the boys, come on over!”
“Perfect,” Robbin said. “Stall her and we’ll all be there as soon as we can.”
The scenario repeated itself many times over. In this manner, a band was fed. But the bills for the rehearsal space kept piling up, and I, of course, was always in need of a few new outfits. Soon we’d racked up a sizable debt with Dio.
“You’re good for it, darling, don’t worry,” purred Wendy, one afternoon at Ratt Mansion West, when she’d come over to check up on me. “I trust you.”
A few friends of ours were hanging out on our couch, smoking weed and talking music. One of them took out a crumpled piece of newspaper, from within which he produced a gram of blow. “Anybody want to do a line?”
“Oh, Stephen and I would like to,” said Wendy happily. “We’ll just step into the bathroom together, won’t we?”
“No,” I said flatly—enough was enough. “We won’t.”
Wendy’s face darkened. “Not interested?” she asked.
“Nope,” I admitted. “Not at all. Hey, look, I’m sorry, but I’m not going there.”
Wendy nodded. She waited for quite some time before speaking, and when she did, she didn’t mince words.
“I believe this association is over,” she said. “Clearly, you’re no longer in need of my help.”
“Fine with me.”
“So, I’ll need to get the money I’ve loaned you,” she said.
“I don’t have any cash right now, Wendy,” I said. “Come on. Seriously.”
“Fuck off. I want my money.”
“You fuck off,” I snapped. “I’ll get you your money when I get it to you. I’m sorry it didn’t work out, okay? Now split.”
Wendy gathered her purse coolly. “We’ll be seeing one another soon,” she said, leaving.
I sank into the couch.
“Older chicks, man,” one of my friends said, chuckling. “They get past a certain age, and they need dick so bad it clouds their whole mind. They stay crazy all the way up to menopause.”
The constant rehearsing had an effect on us. We were tighter, more unified, perfectly in step. We scheduled a two-night run at the Troubadour, selling out both shows. Blotzer paced us effortlessly, driving out a heavy beat that stopped only as long as it took him to guzzle a Budweiser in between songs. Juan’s thick bass riffs were the perfect counter to Warren’s improvisational noodling.
“These new guys sound great,” I whispered to Robbin, when we were packing up our gear. “I can’t believe how lucky we got.”
“Stephen,” he interrupted. “I think someone wants to talk to you.”
I
whirled around, brandishing my unplugged microphone in my hand. It was Wendy. A heavily muscled rocker dude stood behind her, wearing a menacing scowl.
“I want my money,” Wendy announced. “And I want it now.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I snapped. “We don’t have any money, Wendy. I told you that already. I’ll pay you—just give me a few weeks.”
“You’ve just played two sold-out shows!” Wendy yelled. “You’re due to be paid now, aren’t you? You owe me six hundred dollars, Stephen. So pay up.”
“She wants her cash, man,” her dude added, throwing in a threatening knuckle crack, and taking a step toward me.
“Hold it,” Robbin said, stepping in front of me. “Who are you with, clown?”
“Yeah!” cried Blotzer, noticing the confrontation and jumping into the fray. “Are you trying to fuck with my band?”
“No one’s trying to fuck with anyone,” said the muscleman, a bit more carefully.
“You sure?” asked Warren, squaring up to the dude, his face barely reaching the guy’s neck. “Because from where I’m standing, it sounds like you’re trying to put the squeeze on us.”
“Yeah!” called out Juan, getting into the spirit of things. “No one steps up to Ratt and lives to tell about it, buddy.”
The five of us stood shoulder to shoulder, staring down Wendy and her bouncer.
“I just want the money I’m owed,” Wendy repeated, waning.
“Ah, get lost,” Blotzer sneered. He tapped one of his drumsticks into the front of the muscleman’s shirt.
They retreated, mumbling angrily. The five of us watched them slink out the door, then took a look at one another.
“Goddammit,” I said. “That’s a band.”
NEEDLESS TO SAY, AT THE END of all that, Wendy got her money. To this day, we’re still friends. And Ronnie, you can rest in peace, I would never go there.
As for the band, we were brothers now. Every day was spent writing, recording, experimenting with riffs and lyrics, smoking joints and drinking beers, learning our craft. We had focus and all the drive in the world. In our tiny Ratt Mansion, a clock radio alarm would go off, and Warren DeMartini would roll out from beneath his covers. Lighting a cigarette, he would begin to practice his scales, fingers flying up and down the neck of his guitar. We were headed for greatness.
“I want to write a song about being a gang,” I told Robbin. “That’s what we are now: a gang.”
“Go,” he said.
I hunched over a brand-new legal pad, tapping the end of my pen.
Out on the streets, that’s where we’ll meet, I scrawled. Get in our way, we’ll put you on your shelf.
Round and round . . . What goes around, comes around. . . .
It was time. We were ready for the Whisky. I was going to get us in there or die trying. I grabbed a phone book and called the club.
“Whisky.”
“I need to speak to your booking agent.”
“Hold on a sec, let me see if she’s here.” There was a long pause, and then, finally, a female voice came on the line. “Hi, this is Dee Dee. What can I do for you?”
“My band wants to play your club,” I said.
“Yeah, you and everyone else.” She laughed. “Who is this?”
“Stephen Pearcy,” I said, “of Ratt. Maybe you’ve heard of us?”
“Uh . . .”
“We were the house band at Gazzarri’s for a long time,” I said. “Now we mostly play the Troubadour.”
“Look, Stephen,” she said, “we’re kind of busy right now. Why don’t you call back next month—”
“Let me come down and bring you a tape,” I blurted. “Please. If you’ll just listen to us, I know you’ll want us to play.”
She paused for a long time. “Can you be here in an hour?”
“I’m leaving right now.”
I snatched a demo cassette off our kitchen table and sprinted down the steps. I jumped into my B-210, gunned the engine, and shot off toward the Strip. Twenty minutes later, I peeled off onto Clark Street, sliding into the exact same parking space I’d used the day I’d offered a poorly rolled joint to David Lee Roth in 1978.
I will make this happen, today, I promised myself, clutching the demo in my sweaty hand. This is my time. I will not be denied. . . .
The booking agent was there to greet me at the door.
“You made it in no time at all,” she said, extending her hand warmly. “I’m Dee Dee.”
She was an okay-looking chick in her early thirties, with dirty-lond hair and a few freckles on her nose.
“Let’s see what you’ve got,” she said, motioning for me to come inside. “Come on in. My office is upstairs.”
As we walked up the stairs, I looked around the empty club hungrily, savoring the late afternoon light. This is where we’ll be playing soon, I told myself.
We stepped into her office. Dee Dee closed the door behind us. She popped the cassette into a deck, pressed play, and slid behind her desk, a thoughtful expression playing on her face.
I knew right from the beginning . . . that you would end up winnin’. . . .
Round and round . . . What comes around, goes around. . . .
“Yeah, sounds great,” she said, when the tape came to a close. “Honestly, you guys aren’t half bad.”
“So you’ll have us!” I said excitedly. “Oh, wow, Dee Dee, this means the world to me!”
“Whoa, there. Not so fast,” she said. “This is the hottest spot in town. I got ten bands who are lining up to play here. This town works on grease. Know what I mean?”
“Sorry?” I said. “Grease?”
Dee Dee laughed. “I mean, what can you do for me?”
“I . . . don’t know,” I admitted. “What do you want?”
She pointed at my crotch, a hopeful expression on her face.
“What are you working with there?”
I stared at her, dumbfounded. “Working with?”
Dee Dee smiled and slid out from behind her desk. “You are really cute, Stephen,” she said, running her fingers along my chest. “Tell you what. How about you let me see what’s going on there?”
For a long moment, I didn’t know what to say. Then, slowly, I unzipped my jeans and pushed them down to my ankles.
“You’re not wearing any underwear,” chided Dee Dee. “Naughty, naughty.”
“It’s laundry day,” I managed, before she sucked me up into her mouth and cut off all rational thought.
I left the Whisky fifteen minutes later, drained and confused, bearing the promise of our first show. Tit for tat—we were in, as long as I kept coming around. According to Dee Dee, we were on the right track. Now, to keep working toward our goal.
We played our show and rocked pretty hard, as I remember. But at five o’clock the very next week, there I was: right back on the Strip.
“Dee Dee’s upstairs,” said the guy at the box office, nodding to me. “Go right on up.”
I knocked on the door of her office. “Uh, Dee Dee?”
She swept it open with a dramatic flourish. “Come in, come in.”
I entered and closed the door behind me. “I brought you some more songs.”
“Wonderful,” she said, reaching for my belt buckle. “We’ll get to those shortly.”
We developed a pattern. Once or twice a week, I would head to the Whisky a Go Go, the world’s most famous training ground for up-and-coming rockers, and the doorman would nod at me, then point me up the stairs to Dee Dee. She would compliment us on the last Whisky gig we played, and then she’d service me. Every now and then I’d rifle through the files and see which bands had played there previously—Zeppelin, Priest, and Van Halen—and how much they got. When I saw the tiny paychecks the Whisky was giving out to the mega-bands, I didn’t feel so bad.
“How’s the Whisky going, man?” Robbin asked me. “Seems like you’re putting in the effort. Way to go, dude.”
“You have no idea,” I groaned.
D
ee Dee’s casting couch was uncomfortable, and excruciatingly long. She just couldn’t get enough. Finally, I’d had it.
“Dee Dee,” I said. “Stop.”
She looked up, an innocent expression on her face.
“Why?”
“This is insane,” I said. “We’ve been doing this all month. Now, come on. Are you going to let Ratt play here on its own merit, or what?”
“You’ll have to earn your time,” she said, and lowered her head, going back to work.
“Hey!” I said. “No more. No more dick for you. Look at me. We’re a good band. I’d put us against anyone. Seriously. We got the power. We got the moves. We got the look.”
Dee Dee eyed me crossly. “Gimme.”
“No way,” I said, holding my crotch possessively. “Not until you give us a good gig, on a big night.”
“And then you’ll give it back to me?” Dee Dee asked. “You promise?”
“Yes,” I agreed.
She paused for a very long moment. “Oh, fine. Let me look at my calendar.” She scanned the dates for a minute or so. “Two weeks from now, Saxon’s playing. You think you’re up to opening for them?”
“Are you serious?” I said. “Please tell me you’re serious.”
“I suppose so,” Dee Dee answered. “But you guys better be good, or that’s the last time you’ll ever play here.”
“Oh, thank you!” I cried jubilantly. “Thank you, thank you, thank you! Man, I can’t wait to tell the guys!”
She cleared her throat.
“Oh, sorry,” I said. “Here you go. Knock yourself out.”
ALL FOR ONE AND ONE FOR ALL
WE WERE IN. IT was August of ’82 . . . and we were opening for Saxon at the Whisky. L.A. was our world, and the Strip our capital. No longer were we just pissing on the front lawn: Against all odds, we’d been invited inside.
“You nervous?” Robbin asked me backstage.
“Shit,” I said, gulping down a stiff drink. “I might be. How about you?”
“I’ve puked once already, man,” Robbin confessed. “I got nerves, bad.”
But our fear dissolved when the lights came on. The Saxon gig was like none other we’d ever played. The packed Whisky audience surged violently, trying their raucous best to touch us, punch us, girls grabbing our dicks, crying out with pure rock frustration. We slammed back into them, forcing driving beats down onto their heads, belting lyrics furiously, dousing them over and over in senseless rock abandon. We watched, unbelievingly, as something tighter, meaner, and more powerful than ourselves surged like wildfire out of our instruments. It was larger than us. We just carried it.
Sex, Drugs, Ratt & Roll: My Life in Rock Page 12