Tales Of A RATT

by Bobby Blotzer

  Matthias was playing at the LA Coliseum the next day and, I was going to go see them. So, we get back to may place, and we're just completely jazzed from the trip. We played guitars, drums and jammed all night. I had my friend Brit come over with some blow. Needless to say, we were wired! Before we knew it, it was getting blue outside. The sun was coming up.

  I'm like "Matthias, bro, you've got a gig in a few hours.” They were playing Monsters of Rock and it was a day gig, at that. Those festival shows can get you going pretty early. One o'clock most of the time. So, I got him out of there. We're still drunk and krelled out, and he gets in his car, and is off to his hotel.

  I got out on the street, and it's alive with birds chirping with a perfect morning about to happen. I've never had such a "Oh, fuck, It's morning" moment in my life. I'm blazing on coke. There's no way ... no way I'm getting to sleep! And, I'm supposed to go to the show.

  It wasn’t happening. I crashed around 1:00 or 2:00, and I couldn't get up. I had planned to be there when it started, because I wanted to catch all the bands and shit. Matthias gave me four tickets and passes, and I was going to go. It was terrible. I no-showed my bro.

  I talked to him later, and he was like "Bobby, you should have fucking made it, man. It was great. It was tough as fuck at first, but then it was huge!” He was all up and jazzing on the day.

  I'm all, "Matthias, I couldn't move. I couldn't sleep.”

  He's like, "Yeah, me neither.” But he was in tour mode, and you can do that sort of shit in tour mode. You have an extra battery, or something. I was in home mode, and I just couldn't make myself move. That was that.

  Enter, Jack Russell!

  Jack Russell is the singer for Great White had been on Ramboat a ton, and completely loved it. He really wanted one. I brokered a deal between a guy named Wolfgang, who owned a boat down at the Marina and wanted to sell it, and Jack.

  I had talked to Jack, and said, "I know a guy who's selling his boat, out at the marina. It's expensive, but what are you wanting?”

  "I want the whole fucking deal!” He wanted something bigger than mine. Fishing, the whole thing.

  Mine was big, but not like his. With mine, you walked down into the cabin through some L-shaped stairs, and there was a kitchen, bathroom, and a couple of bedrooms. That kind of thing. Jack's boat, you walked through sliding glass doors into a huge living room, and then you walked down into the cabin from there. It was quite a bit bigger.

  Jack was a certified nut on his boat. He'd be up for days at a time, drunk, on coke and fishing. Days at a time. I remember he called me up one time, and went, "Dude, I'm going fishing. You gotta come out. I'm on compass heading 160 going southwest, just go about 10 miles out from the Palos Verdes point and call me.”

  Barry Edison, a friend of mine from Phoenix, came in to visit. When I met Barry, he was a security guy at one of our gigs. We're still friends to this day. I look at Barry, and say, "We're going out on the boat. We're gonna go meet Jack. Get your shit.”

  We took the boat out there at night. We had the radio, and we'd talked about what channel to look for each other on. Channel 11 was the Coast Guard, so we always went 1 channel up. Channel 12. I called him. "Jack! We're on our way. Be looking for us.”

  It took us a little time to get there, what with it being 10 miles out from the point and all. It wasn't foggy, or anything, I just couldn't spot his lights. Finally, we see them, and it's absolutely crazy. He's out there partying with all these guys.

  They're "fishing.”

  They've got shotguns out and are shooting sharks with them! That's right. The crazy bastards were fishing for sharks with shotguns. Jack is a fucking freak!

  He's the kind of guy who would take the bait and just chew into it to get a reaction out of somebody. He'd pick up a piece of squid and stick it in his mouth. Then just laugh the funniest fucking laugh in the world.

  That night, the swells were rocking the boats a bit. Too much to tie the boats together without damaging them. So, I dropped the anchor and tied a long line off to Jack's boat. It was far enough away that my boat wouldn't bang into his, but we could pull it in if we needed to.

  And Barry, God bless him. We had been drinking all day, and he was hurting. I'm like "Barry, you gonna go on Jack's boat?”

  He's all, "Not right now, buddy. I think I'm just gonna hang here for a bit. I'm really buzzing.”

  "You sure? Alright. I'm gonna go over. Give me a yell if you need anything.”

  Jack was a complete train wreck that night! He was blasting away with this hand-howitzer of his.

  Finally, I'm like, "Bro, put the fucking shotgun away. Do it, or I'm splitting.” I could tell he had been up for God knows, and he wasn't quite all there. I've partied with the guy for years. I know the guy. This wasn't the time to have the shotgun out!

  He's just laughing his goofy laugh, and puts it away.

  After that, we were cool, and the party continued. Barry is still sitting on my boat. He's sitting at the helm, with his back to us, and he's kind of slumped over.

  Jack's like, "Dude, Bobby, what's up with your boy? Is he coming over, or what?” Then he yells out to Barry, "Hey, dude! Fucking get over here and party! You're missing it!”

  It was weird. He wouldn't look at us. Finally, I'm like "Barry! What's up? You okay?”

  All he would do is just wave his hand in the air. But he wouldn't turn around. What the hell is he doing? Then I noticed him slumped, so I went down and started pulling my boat in to check on him.

  I get him in, and I could tell he was in trouble. I'm like, "Barry? You're turning green, dude.”

  He goes "I'm sea-sick, dude. Bad.” Then it hits me. This guy lives in the damned desert. This has to be a new experience, or at least an uncommon one. And now, he's going to puke all over my boat.

  I'm like, "Oh, shit. Okay, man. Hang in there.”

  He was a ghost; as pasty white as I've ever seen another person be. So I looked at Jack and said, "I gotta get him back, dude. I gotta go.”

  So, we split. Barry didn't get sick on the 10 mile ride back to the mainland, but when we got in, he let go all over the place. He said he was still sick a week later! He could still feel the rocking of the ocean a month later, he told me.

  I knew what he was talking about. I would go out on the boat for four or five days at a time. You'd sleep with that rocking motion, or cook dinner, or fish. Whatever you did, you'd be rocking back and forth. So, when you got home, or were up in Catalina playing golf at Avalon, you'd still feel yourself rocking back and forth. It's a trip.

  My boat was certainly one of the "blessings" from RATT. I loved that thing. Every time I went out on it, there was a new memory, a new story to tell. It was great.

  I couldn't help but to flash on the possibility, though. Particularly some of the grim possibilities, of what would happen is something had gone wrong on one of those Catalina trips.

  Take, for instance, the trip with Tommy, Steve and Phil. I mean, the three bands with members on that boat, at that time represented probably 70% of the hard rock music industry profits.

  I couldn't help but ponder, "If we go down, how much publicity would that bring to the bands?” Not that anyone would have died, or anything. But, what kind of story would that have been? If something HAD happened, and we went down, it would have been Buddy Holly, Richie Valenz, Big Bopper kind of shit.

  You're talking three of the top five bands at the time! It was huge.

  There was a clique within the docks down at Redondo, composed of people who lived on their boats down there. They felt that even though we all paid the same amount of money in slip rental, that they had some kind of superiority to the rest of us because they live down there. Not all of them, but it's definitely there.

  One day, I had some friends down. We were out all day, having a great, great time. We get back and there's a bar at the marina. So, we go in and have a few drinks, put the boat away, just winding down a good day.

  As we're in the bar, we look ou
t. The sun is sliding toward the horizon, and it's just unbelievable, too good to not get back on the boat and just drive right into the mouth of it.

  We get in the boat and go back out. When we were in the bar, people knew who I was. They knew I was in a big band, and the RATT thing was buzzing around all over the bar. This is where being famous as a rocker doesn't help. You could call it one of the "curse" moments.

  Someone in the bar called the harbor patrol on us, and told them we were all in the bar drinking. We were all drunk, and we just went back out on the boat. So, after the sunset, we were pulling back into the slip, and the Redondo cops were standing there waiting on us. They were waving us back in.

  I stop the boat, and I'm like, "What's up?”

  They're going, "Bring the boat in. Bring it in right now!”

  "I'm not saying I won't do it, but I'm just curious as to why?” The whole thing was confusing to me.

  "Get the boat in here, right now!” It was obvious that they weren't interested in a Q&A period.

  As soon as I went in, they gave me the sobriety test, which I failed. I got popped and had to go down with them. I had to go to jail. It wasn't a DUI, on the water, like it is now, but, it was similar to that. I forget what the thing was called. I told the cops, "I'm getting out of this,” and, I did. I got a lawyer and it cost me a chunk, but I walked without so much as a slap on the wrist.

  They didn't go on my boat, thank God! Because, when I went down the next day to pick it up, one of my friends had spread out weed all over the table. I was like, "Oh, my God! If they searched this thing? Fuck!”

  I can't believe they didn't go down in the cabin, and at that point, they knew who I was. They were talking about RATT, and about Vince Neil and the wreck, he had down there on the Esplanade in Redondo where Razzle from Hanoi Rocks died. So, to them, I was a scumbag rockstar who thought he was better than the world. So, fuck me, right? I still can't believe they didn't search the boat!

  ...of course, I kept the weed...

  20

  Golf Course Or Intercourse

  "Golf...my bitch mistress." - Blotzer

  If I've ever had an addiction to anything, it's to this crazy, frustrating, humbling game called golf.

  I've been playing golf since that day in Maui when Marshall Berle introduced me to it at Kapalua.

  My opinion of golf as "baseball for fags" completely changed that afternoon. I love it. I don't play as much as I used to, unfortunately. I mean, I used to play three times a week. Now days, I might play once a week, or even once every two weeks.

  I've discovered that the amount of time I spend playing golf is directly proportional with my urge to whack the shit out of some asshole with a stick!

  When I'm on tour, I love it when there are a couple of guys in the other acts with us on tour who play golf. If there are, one of the first priorities in a new city is to find a course and shoot a round.

  That's why I loved touring with Warrant. Those guys all play, so we'd be on a different course every day. We'd play the best country clubs in the world for free, and it makes the day pass that much quicker!

  As soon as I got home from Hawaii, I started golfing all the time. At first, I sucked, but I refused to take lessons, either. Call me stubborn, or whatever, but I was self taught, much like in my music.

  This is not, by the way, how I would recommend a novice golfer to go about learning. Once you develop bad habits with your swing, learning to do it correctly is like learning how to fuck without losing your cherry. It's pretty much not going to happen.

  I started out playing Los Verdes Golf Course at the Palos Verdes Country Club. That became my home course for years. I'd play with an array of people; Jimmy Bane from Dio, Rod Smallwood, the manager of Iron Maiden, Vince Neil and Tommy, plus a ton of friends who weren't famous.

  It was amazing to me how many of my bros actually played the game. You don't usually think of rock stars when you think of the golf course. Most people picture a bunch of stiff, white guys with bodies like biscuit dough and asses shaped like an office chair.

  On the rare occasion that I hear people talk trash about golf, I just shake my head, because they don't get it. When you hit a driver 275 yards, which is three times as far as a baseball player can hit a baseball; when you drop a birdie from 40 feet away; when you take a 6 iron and punch it in on a par three, two inches from the hole; until you have done those things, don't talk to me about golf.

  Golf is a sport that has changed the mentalities of our world. Let me explain. Go back a hundred years, before Americans really embraced golf. Back then, if you saw a bunch of white guys chasing a black dude, it's because they were fucking with him. Today, if you see a bunch of white guys chasing a black dude, chances are they're playing in a PGA tournament, and they've got a Tiger by the tail.

  That's the beauty of it. It transcends all walks of life. Golf is the only sport where you can smoke weed like Tommy Chong (we call that "swing doctoring"), cigarettes like Keith Richards and drink booze like Dean Martin and still be brilliant at the game. It's an "everyman" sport.

  On some of these courses, you're on a billion dollar playground! Some of the places sit on real estate in areas that sell for $3 million a quarter acre, and these courses are 18 holes, seven thousand three hundred yards, or whatever. But, think about it. You're playing in eighteen different parks, and for fifteen or twenty minutes each hole, that park is yours and yours alone.

  There are so many gorgeous sights to be seen, and smelled, and just absorbed. I'm so happy that I got the chance to learn to play golf. It's a beautiful release, let me tell you.

  I've played with Alice Cooper a few times, and that dude is the standard for all rock star golfers. He's good enough, he could survive in the PGA tour...well, maybe the Senior Tour. I'm not quite at Alice's level, yet. He shoots around a three handicap. Right now, I'm playing at about a seven. The lowest I've ever gotten is a five. Which means I've got to shoot a 75 or a 77 every round.

  That's hard to maintain.

  I could be having a great game for fifteen holes, and be three over; then double bogey the last three holes and kill my score. That will make you want to take some hostages!

  Golf is a total mind game. You never know when you're game is going to go "hubcaps & lugnuts" and the wheels come flying off.

  We had a group of golf guys called "The Braemar Cartel". This was around 1999 through 2003. That group included Tommy Thayer from KISS and Black and Blue; Ricky Phillips of Styx; Eric Turner, Jerry Dixon and Jani Lane from Warrant; my good friend, Glen Granat; Gary Ruddell and Robbie Crane, Pat "Gay-Day" Gaday, Barkley Martin; there were about fourteen of us, all total. That was great, because we literally had a game three or four times a week. I loved it.

  After a while, everyone kind of pulled away and moved off, but we had a web site for a while where everyone would enter their scores, and get their handicaps. It was a lot of fun.

  We came up with the name "Braemar Cartel" because that's where we played. When I was living in Encino, we played over at Braemar Country Club in Tarzana. For anyone that watches that Scott Baio reality show, "Scott Baio is 46, and Pregnant", he lives on that golf course. When you see him golfing, that's at the Braemar Country Club.

  On May 27, 1994, down at Los Verdes Golf Course, I got every golfers wet dream. A hole-in-one!

  I had just come off having the best round that I've ever shot. I shot a 75. We decided that we wanted to shoot one more round, and I was on my way to the second best round I've ever had. I don't know what got into me, but I was shooting lights out that day.

  It was getting dark, and we were on the 17th hole. I drilled my shot, watched the ball sail in a perfect line, and drop a hole-in-one. I got the certification and everything. Absolutely amazing.

  Of course, I've never done it again...YET!

  Robinson Ranch, my main track out in Canyon Country, is one of my favorite places to play. My buddies Rick Smith, and Larry Atlas were big RATT fans. I met them about five years ago, and th
ey both run the place. I enjoy playing so much, that I was ready to join the country club.

  Rick goes, "Why would you join? If you want to play, just give me a call and I'll get you in.”

  I go, "Yeah, but what if I want to play a LOT!”

  "Just call me, Blotz. If I can get you on, I'll get you on.”

  You gotta love having bros with connections!

  There's a course in Pittsburgh called Diamond Run. I play there with my buddy "Big Joe" and this guy named Mickey gets us out there. It's an absolutely beautiful track. Very private and exclusive. Presidents play this course, and it's one of my favorite places. I go out there with my brother, Michael, my cousin Chuck, or Big Joe. It's good times all the way around.

  I used to play a lot with Doc McGhee, who was Bon Jovi and Mötley Crüe's manager. I remember one time, I was playing with Doc, his dad, Frank, and Vince Neil.

  We were playing down in Newport, at Bear Creek, where Doc was a member. Vince wasn't a very good golfer back then. I don't know what he shoots now, but then it was pretty bad.

  Vince was getting so pissed!

  He kept worm-burning everything. For people who don't know what that is, it's when you hit the ball and it doesn't get into the air. It just shoots across the grass. We call that a worm-burner.

  He lost his mind at one point.

  We were hitting over water to get to the green, and it was going to be the third shot. Everyone had laid up in front of the water, then took another shot to get on the green. I'm not sure where everyone's ball was. I think mine was a little off. Doc's was on, I think. I don't remember.

  But, Vince still has to get over the water.

  When Vince sets up to take his shot, he fires the ball straight into the lake! It hit so hard, it practically left a rooster tail behind it.

  He screams, "Fuck it!” Then, staring at the water, he starts wailing on the ground with his club.

  Doc goes, "That's alright, Vince. Just drop another one.”