The buzz we generated was intensely gratifying. Lines formed around the block to see us, chicks in heels and miniskirts and boys who looked like girls. We opened a few more times, but soon it became obvious that the crowds were coming there for us.
“I’m thinking of booking Ratt as a headlining act, Stephen,” said Dee Dee, in one of our midday back-office sessions, which had yet to taper off. “What do you say to that?”
“Works for us,” I declared, unzipping.
We packed the house every time we played. Crushes of adoring females crowded around us after shows, demanding to be a part of our inner circle, sweet girls who wore chains and mesh and color-change lipstick, peacock belts, gold pleather miniskirts with high-heeled boots. I recruited the most beautiful ones into the upstairs dressing room, where we discussed the high price of love. The others I set to making clothes for the band.
Custom tights were my new obsession, and the girls ran diligently to their sewing machines. I took their offerings, laid them over two carefully arranged chairs at Ratt Mansion West, and splattered them with fabric paint.
Robbin and I set about creating a “look” for Warren, as if we were two junior high school girls and he was our little doll.
“I’m not sure how I feel about all this makeup,” Warren pleaded, as we hovered over him before a party at Neil Zlozower’s house. The charismatic Zlozower, whose voice sounded like he’d just eaten a pound of gravel, was the most famous rock photographer in Los Angeles. He’d worked with Aerosmith, Tom Waits, Van Halen, Quiet Riot, and more. Zlozower fucked more rock sluts than the bands did, and didn’t make any secret about it. If he liked you, it mattered.
“Quiet,” said Robbin. “This eyeliner I’ve got going for you is going to look great. Now please, shut the fuck up.”
I hair-sprayed our lead guitarist, then shoved him into a knee-length red jacket with immense shoulder pads.
“I don’t know, guys . . .”
“Don’t worry. You’re going to kill,” I assured him, patting him on the back.
And indeed, Warren did well for himself that night. Half an hour into the party, a good-looking chick named Kathy, intrigued by the perfect little rock doll, pounced on him. They talked all evening and apparently had quite a lot in common, because they left together. Some weeks later, they shacked up, and he was out of Ratt Mansion West. But it was all right; we had already written several songs that would later become hits.
One night, after playing at the Whisky, I got approached by an older Jewish guy with curly hair, wearing a big smile.
“You guys are terrific,” he said. “Tell me—you got a manager?”
“No,” I said. “Although a few people have tried.”
“Listen,” he said. “I’m Marshall Berle. You know who my uncle is? Milton Berle. Mr. Television? I got twenty years of music biz experience up here on the Strip. I know bands backward and forward.”
“Oh yeah? Like who?”
“Where do I begin? I was at the William Morris agency when the Beach Boys came through. I was their very first agent,” said Berle. “Credence Clearwater Revival, Ike and Tina Turner, Canned Heat—I did ’em all.”
“Cool,” I said. “Did you ever help out anyone born after 1950?”
“Funny,” he said. “Great. I like that. Funny’s good. Listen, Stephen, I think I can make things happen for you guys. Wouldn’t you like that?”
“Things are already happening,” I said, pointing to the crowd, still milling about.
“You got a record deal?” Berle said.
“No,” I admitted.
“Have you guys ever even stepped inside a studio?”
We had previously recorded “Tell the World” with another bass player and the Rod Stewart lookalike drummer for Brian Slagel’s “Metal Massacre”—the first metal compilation release, featuring Metallica, Black ’N Blue, Cirith Ungol, Bitch, Ratt, and many other up-and-coming bands.
Also, when we had moved to L.A. in 1980, Victor Mamanna had helped me finance a two-side single, recorded at Lucky Dog Studios in Venice. I would throw them out at shows. They were labeled M. RATT with the Ratt logo on the record itself. They’re actually quite a collector’s item these days.
“We’ve recorded,” I said. “But a full-length record, that’s in our near future.”
He shrugged. “Look, do what you want. But I’m not just some schmuck off the street, okay? I helped Van Halen get their start.”
That stopped me dead in my tracks. “Excuse me?” I said.
“Van Halen. I was their first manager. Ask around.” He smiled, satisfied, and slipped me his card. “Stephen, I’m always around. Give me a call.”
I called an emergency band meeting that evening.
“The guy who managed Van Halen wants to manage us,” I said breathlessly.
Bobby, Juan, and Robbin exchanged high fives. News like this was especially important for Juan, who was still flirting with Dokken and occasionally gigging with them, too. If they broke big before Ratt did, we’d lose him for sure.
“What are the terms?” Warren asked suspiciously.
“How should I know?” I said. “Dude, he wants to manage us. This is great news.”
“I’m not signing my life away to anyone,” Warren insisted.
We met with Berle, who revealed the details of his strategy: Instead of being a traditional manager for our band, he would operate more like a record company executive.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, I’ll still run your fan club and help you book gigs, do all that manager type of bullshit. But more importantly, I’m starting a label, Time Coast Records. If you want, when the time comes, I’ll help finance an EP for you guys.”
“I don’t know,” said Warren.
“What don’t you know?” Berle asked. “I’ll pay for you to get in the studio. I’ll distribute your record. I’ll get your songs on the fucking radio. And then I’ll get you signed to Warner Brothers.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I exclaimed. Me and Robbin high-fived. We had been waiting for this moment for a long time.
Bobby and Juan were on board to sign Marshall’s contract, too, but Warren, ever cautious, insisted we take it to a lawyer. A few of the terms were fiddled with to his satisfaction, and then we took it back to Marshall. He donned his eyeglasses and peered at it carefully.
“DeMartini,” he said thoughtfully. “Doesn’t sound Jewish.”
“He’s a cautious little fella,” I explained.
“Ah, what the hell,” laughed Berle. He put the contract down. “You guys win, okay? Let’s move forward. I want to get you in the studio as soon as possible.”
Even with the concessions Warren forced, the terms of the contract were still highly favorable to Time Coast Records. They would own most of the profits if the EP ever did any real business. We were either unable to see that far into the future or, more likely, we just didn’t give a shit. We were still drinking Budweiser for dinner. We had nothing to lose.
Berle rounded up three thousand dollars quickly and then came knocking at my door. “You got five days in the studio, fellas. We need six songs for an album. Can you make that happen?”
I’d been biding my time for such an opportunity.
“Absolutely,” I told him. “It’ll be a snap.”
We hadn’t been together for long enough to have much new material, so I decided we’d go mostly with Mickey Ratt songs: “Sweet Cheater,” “Tell the World,” “Back for More.” We included “Walkin’ the Dog,” too, an old blues standard, mostly because Aerosmith and the Rolling Stones had done so, too, on their early albums.
Robbin and I also threw in a new song, “You Think You’re Tough,” and it really cooked.
“This is our single, man,” I said. “I’m sure of it.”
“You think so?” asked Robbin.
“King,” I said, “this is the one.”
Robbin is all over that record. His raw metal-blues solos are featured more prominently than Warren’
s catchy, complex tinkering. His style meshes with the overall feel of the EP, which, produced over the course of five consecutive all-day, all-night recording sessions, emerged as a harsh, brash, ballsy creation.
“I don’t know if the average fucker will like it,” Bobby said, popping open a final beer as we dragged our crusty bodies out of the studios and into the parking lot at dawn on Thanksgiving morning, finally finished. “But we kicked some major ass in there.”
He was right. The album was mean. And now we needed an image to go with it.
“I know just who to call,” said Robbin. “Zloz.”
NEIL ZLOZOWER, ROCK PHOTOGRAPHER:
Part of being a photographer in the music industry is picking up on great bands before anybody else does. I picked up Aerosmith and Ted Nugent before anybody else. Same thing with Mötley, Quiet Riot, Ratt, Poison, Guns N’ Roses. You want to start working with these bands when they’re nothing. You have to have the talent to know who’s gonna be big. When I heard “Eruption” by Van Halen, I said, These guys are sick. I want to work with them. I got in on the ground floor. When they grew big, I grew big. I had the ear.
When I first met Robbin, I’d always run into him at Van Halen shows, and Robbin would go “Hey, Zloz, I’m in a band. Here’s our tape, check it out,” in his big, deep, slow voice. I’m all, “Yeah, yeah, dude, give me the tape, let me fucking listen to it.” Of course I never listened to it. And the same scenario went on quite a few times. “Yeah, dude, sorry. I didn’t listen to it. Give me another and I’ll check it out.”
After about ten times of Robbin coming at me, I finally listened to his tape. Like, “Okay, you’ve been persistent.” I took it home, put it on. It started with “Sweet Cheater,” “You Think You’re Tough,” “Walkin’ the Dog,” “Back for More” . . . I was like, Oh my God, I love this. Why didn’t I listen to this the first time? So I called him up, and said, “Dude, your band smokes. I want to work with you.”
So honestly, when Ratt started taking off, no, I wasn’t surprised. I believed in them.
“He’s in,” Robbin told me, arriving at Ratt Mansion West with a roasted chicken under one arm, a tall pack of Bud, and a sack of paper napkins. “Zloz is on board.”
“Bullshit,” I said.
Robbin set the beers down, broke one off, and took a big swallow. “He called me this morning, said, ‘Your tape smokes.’ ”
“Those were his exact words?”
“Yep, and Tawny says she’ll model for us,” Robbin offered. “You know, if we want her to.”
I stared at him for a moment, unable to believe our luck. Tawny Kitaen had made the move up to Los Angeles with Robbin, and the on-again, off-again rock power couple had fucked, fought, and screamed until they could take no more and had to separate. They no longer operated as a team as they had in their glory days, but there was still love and mutual respect there. Tawny was one of L.A.’s hottest up-and-coming sex kittens. She’d just appeared in Bachelor Party. Now she would be on the cover of our first album.
“Yes,” I said. “We want her.”
Robbin and I dressed everybody for the shoot. My chick at Parachute supplied us with shoulder pads galore, as well as trench coats, studded nonsense, ripped seams, puffy pants, wide belts, black bangles, obscene rings, wacky spats, gold ear cuffs, and colorful scarves. Our Cement Pirate look was up and running, stronger than dog breath.
Tawny showed up at Zlozower’s on time, looking so obscenely hot I was ready to go off into the bathroom and start yanking it like a twelve-year-old. Neil tossed her a pair of fishnets casually. “Put these on, babe, please,” he growled.
Tawny flounced off to the dressing room, and Neil waited until she was out of earshot to speak.
“I want to throw some live rats at her,” he said.
“Perfect,” I said, hunched over a small pile of pungent marijuana, crushing the buds carefully with my forefinger, so as to prepare the first joint of the day.
Neil continued to explain his vision. “We see Tawny’s legs in the fishnets. And then we notice there’s live rats clinging to ’em. It’s real futuristic. Real dark and sexy.”
“Where will the band be?”
“The band won’t be.” Zlozower laughed. “Anybody want a beer?”
“Neil, with all due respect, don’t you think—”
“Back cover,” Zlozower interrupted. “That’s where you want the band. You guys ain’t famous enough to sell records with your pretty faces.”
“He’s right,” I said. You never saw a picture of Led Zeppelin on their covers. Just blimps and lagoons and symbols and weird shit like that. You never even got a lyric sheet out of Zeppelin. Just had to listen to their albums three thousand times in a row, stoned off your ass, if you wanted to get a handle on what they were saying.
“I’m with you,” Robbin agreed.
“Good,” Zlozower continued. “I know a company that’s got rats. I’ll call ’em, if you guys think it’s right.”
“Go,” I said. “Call. Amazing vision.”
We drank for an hour, smoking weed and listening to Black Sabbath, until a man in a dented Toyota van bearing the inscription RENT-A-RAT arrived. Neil took five white rats off his hands: one to represent every member of the band. Tawny emerged in fishnet stockings; I began to have trouble swallowing.
Neil took up his post a few feet away from her.
“Stephen, when I say go,” Zlozower said, “I want you and Robbin to throw the fuckin’ rats at Tawny.” He laughed hard. Neil was one of those people who could get anyone to do anything, and he knew it.
“You cool with this?” I asked Tawny.
She shrugged. Tawny was a true rock chick.
“NOW.”
For one amazing hour, Robbin and I tossed rats at the hottest chick in Los Angeles. They clung to her perfect legs, skittering up her thighs. Even the rats were dying for a taste.
With seemingly no effort, with an offhand kind of pleasure, Zlozower got his shots.
“Good work, Tawn,” he croaked, lighting up a cigarette. “You’re done, babe. Thanks.”
Carefully, Robbin plucked the rats from her stockings, tossing one after the other into the wire cage that Rent-a-Rat had supplied. Tawny retreated to the dressing room, smiling proudly.
“I’d gouge my left eye out to fuck that woman.” Zlozower lit up a butt. “No offense, King.”
Robbin just stared down at the cage, absorbed in whatever was going on down there.
“I thought we rented five rats,” he said finally.
“We did.”
“There’s six here,” said Robbin. “I peeled six off Tawny.”
We peered into the cage. It was true. Five white rats scuttled about, nipping at one another, but nestled among them was a smaller, filthier black rat.
Zlozower frowned; then he opened up a fresh can of beer. “I guess he lives here.”
MARSHALL BERLE WAS A HUSTLER. OUR self-titled Ratt EP was immediately pressed onto vinyl and dubbed to cassette. Soon, it was in music stores across the country, selling copies at a respectable clip. To celebrate, Robbin started banging Don Dokken’s ex-girlfriend. In a matter of weeks, they were a thing, and he was never at Ratt Mansion West anymore. I’d lost both my roommates. I was a lonely soldier again.
The Whisky gigs continued. With a record out, we began to solidify a real reputation for ourselves. We played several times a month, not enough to oversaturate the market, but enough to certify us as their “house band.” Phil Schwartz began to come to every show, and so did Beth and Mellette, trucking equipment, assisting me in setup and breakdown, and usually driving me to the after-parties. When we began doing an early version of our song “Wanted Man,” Phil found me a prop gun to brandish, as well as a cowboy hat and spurs.
PHIL SCHWARTZ, CONCIERGE AND SECURITY, RATT:
I kind of fell into working for Stephen. I was this geeky Jewish kid from Mar Vista. I was in that preppy stage of my life—always wearing an argyle sweater. The people that I hung with
at the time, that’s the way they dressed, so I figured I had to also. I didn’t know what the hell I wanted to do in life.
Then I started hanging around with Stephen, and my mom and dad were always, “What do you do with these guys? They just do drugs.” I was like, No, I’m not, Mom. I was always kind of the straight guy. And Stephen was the rock star. It’s like, we’re going to this gig: I’ll drive. It’s no problem. I didn’t need to drink. I was never a big drinker anyway. Not my thing. It was like, he’s my friend; I’ll take care of him.
And that kind of evolved to the point where it became my job.
One night after a show, Phil helped me break down the gear, and then we headed over to the Mötley House to party. I looked around for chicks. My eyes fell, unfortunately, on Dee Dee.
“Stephen,” she said. “I haven’t seen you around much lately.”
“I’ve been real busy,” I said.
“I thought we might have another meeting soon,” she began, “talk about the band’s future at the Whisky.”
I sidestepped her, slipping into the churning mass of people. Four cups of keg beer later, Phil appeared by my side.
“Your friend Dee Dee wants to take us to another party,” he said.
“The best party in the world is right here. Tell her that.”
“Okay,” said Phil. Two minutes later, he was back. “She says we have to come with her, or no more Whisky. She said you’d know what she was talking about.”
We didn’t need the Whisky shows as badly anymore—we were going to headline the Santa Monica Civic soon, thanks to Marshall and the EP breaking. But still, I couldn’t bring myself to just throw away prime gigs.
“Jesus. All right. Let’s go. Looks like we have no choice.”
Sex, Drugs, Ratt & Roll: My Life in Rock Page 13