If he had any free time, he’d be drawing, doing logos. The Ratt, with the t’s blending, that was his design. And he was very into clothes. He knew people who designed and made leather jackets. Everything was leather. Sun’s shining, but you gotta wear leather. . . .
He knew a designer with a shop, and we went down there a couple of times, looking at boots, shoes. He would save every ounce of money that he had so he could buy the look. He didn’t want to look like a wannabe. He wanted to look like he was there already. And Stephen was so charismatic, he could engage people into doing anything for him. What do you want? A cheeseburger? An outfit? I really should be doing that for you . . . after all, you’re you!
There was a great, expensive clothing store in Hollywood called Parachute. The girl who worked behind the counter seemed to have a little thing for me.
“How’s the music, Stephen?”
“Pretty cool, Tracy. You should come see us sometime. How’s the fashion business? Got any, like, movie stars coming in here?”
“No,” she said, gazing at me. “No one interesting ever comes in here. Except for you. . . .”
I hung out with her a little bit, took her to a show or two, and in return, she slipped me some of the latest fashions. Nothing too outrageous or imaginative, not yet: Mostly I wore leather, like Beth said. We weren’t really “metal,” when it came to how we dressed. In fact, I’d started to think of us as something different altogether. We were Fashion Rock.
“Or maybe our style should be called ‘Stun Rock,’ ” I said to Chris. “What do you think of that?”
Chris didn’t care. He was loving life. It was 1981, and he was the lead guitar player of an up-and-coming rock band in L.A. Everyone we encountered seemed to want to be on our team. One guy, who we’d originally encountered in San Diego, made his living breaking into pharmacies. He became one of our best fans. Before shows, we’d meet and shake hands, and he would palm us handfuls of quaaludes and Placidyls. There was a gel inside the pills, and we’d pop a hole in them, then drop them in our beers.
Los Angeles was a town that ran on dreams. For a very long period of time, nearly everyone I met was an up-and-comer, convinced beyond doubt that they were destined to “make it,” whether it be as a movie star, an athlete, a dancer, a professional slut, a costume designer, a line producer, a terrible stand-up comic, or a modern artist. As long as there was fame and fortune at the end of the rainbow—or at the Rainbow on Sunset—young Angelenos would do anything short of murder to get there. It wasn’t nearly enough to have talent or physical beauty. Everyone had those. You had to be ruthless.
For months, we gave our all at frustratingly small shows at tiny cafés and clubs. Finally I got fed up and vowed to stop dealing, once and for all, with the small potatoes.
“It’s just not worth it,” I complained to Beth. “Nobody gives a shit if we played the Bla Bla Café. Why should they? I hardly care myself. We need to get some attention, and to start building a real fan base.”
“What did you have in mind?” she said.
“The Whisky,” I said simply. “When a band plays the Whisky, that’s when you know they’ve made it. That’s where I saw Van Halen play, right before they got signed.”
“You may not be quite ready to get the Whisky gig just yet,” Beth said.
“Well, fine,” I said. “You’re right. We’re not quite there. But here’s the thing: There’s a system to the Strip. You go up the ladder, one club at a time.”
“Makes sense to me,” Beth said. “So—what’s just below the Whisky?”
“The Troubadour,” I said. “But we probably can’t get in there, either.”
“Who’s below the Troubadour?”
“Maybe the Roxy,” I said, thinking. There was a long silence. “And I don’t think we can get in there, either.”
Beth clucked. “Poor Stephen. Is there any place that’s, well . . . entry-level?”
I thought for a moment, then broke out in a huge smile. I had it. “Gazzarri’s.”
Gazzarri’s was a key part of the Sunset Strip. Located only a block or so down the street from the Whisky, just past Doheny on Sunset, it had a cheap cover, a dedicated crowd, and about eight different stages. A different band would play every hour, every evening of the week. Best of all, it was where Van Halen had got their start before graduating to the Whisky. And as always, if it was good enough for Dave and Eddie, it was good enough for me.
The proprietor of the club was Bill Gazzarri, an old mobster-looking guy with white hair and a fedora pushed back on his head. He spoke in a hoarse voice.
“What the hell do ya want, kid?”
“Just to play your club,” I said, laughing. “You got the best place on the Strip, Bill. You know that, right?”
“Sure, I know that! It’s my damn club. Now, what’s the name of your band? Mickey what? Mickey fucking Mouse?”
“Mickey Ratt.”
“Mickey fucking Ratt?” he choked. “Really great. Sounds huge. Yeah, I don’t know, kid. We’re full up this week. Maybe you should come talk to me next week.”
“Okay, I’ll do that, Bill.”
“Nice fucking outfit, by the way. You’re sweating your balls off, right? But the little chickies go for it, so it’s worth it? I get it.”
I was relentless in pursuing Bill Gazzarri—he was the deer in my crosshairs. Every afternoon, when I knew he was counting his money or sniffing up the skirts of the young girls who worked in his front office, I’d come by to pester him. Eventually, I began to wear down his resistance.
“Fuck, Stephen, you’re not going to go away, are you?”
“No,” I said. “Bill, just give us a chance, and we will pack this club.”
He looked at me for a long time. Then he spoke.
“You’ll pack it on a fucking Tuesday night, that’s when you’ll pack it.”
“Are you serious?” I cried, unable to believe my ears. “You’re going to let us play?”
“Yeah, why not. Stage eight. Seven o’clock. Go talk to Cathy. She’ll book ya.”
“Holy shit,” I said. “This is . . . amazing.”
“Don’t get that fucking excited, kid. We ain’t paying you.” He laughed a hoarse guffaw. “See ya Tuesday.”
So we were in. We’d made it onto the Strip, on the bottom rung of the ladder. But it was a pretty fantastic rung. Gazzarri’s had history, and not just with Van Halen: The Doors had gotten their start there. Tina Turner had played their main stage. So had Sonny and Cher. We were in the big time now, clad in leather pants and custom-made shoes, dragging mountains of amps and homemade risers and idiotic hand-painted barricades. Never mind that we were still too broke to buy our own drinks when we performed. Some admirer would rise to the occasion. Or we could take matters into our own hands and smuggle in a few warm six-packs inside an empty guitar case.
I’m not sure how it always seemed to work out that we had the money to pay for supple Italian leather pants and nickel-plated microphone stands, and yet still not have the cash to buy a beer at full bar price. But that’s how it went. I enjoyed trying to get drunk for free. I played that game every day. Same with eats. Victor Mamanna was still working at his dad’s meat market. He could always be depended on to slide me the odd hunk of pastrami.
I accepted the sandwiches graciously. “Vic. Thank you.”
“Not a problem. We were going to give it to the dog, but I’d rather feed a rock star.”
Something was happening. I could sense it. We were manufacturing our mystique, and even if they didn’t consciously know it, the people around us could sense we were going places. Right next door to Mamanna’s market stood a small grocery store. I peered into the window: A young, dark-haired guy was working alone. I stepped in through the door, ready to push my luck.
“What’s up, man?” I said.
“Hell, not much,” he answered. “What are you up to?”
“Getting a free case of beer from you,” I said, deadpan. “And maybe a bag of ice.”<
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The young guy broke into laughter. “Are you out of your fucking mind?”
“No,” I said earnestly. “I’m in a band.”
“Fuck, I must be crazy,” said the kid, “but yeah, why not? Listen, go around back. I’ll toss some shit out the back door to you. I want to get into one of your shows—can you do that for me?”
“Gazzarri’s,” I said, smiling. “Tonight.”
The kid’s name was Joe Anthony. He was from Tulsa, Oklahoma, and was a black belt in tae kwon do. That night, at the show, he revealed his deepest secret to me.
“I’m not working at a fucking grocery for the rest of my life.” He picked up someone else’s cocktail and drained it. “I’m in training to be a stuntman.”
“A stuntman?” My mind refused to hear a tidbit like that and not try to figure out how I could turn it to my own advantage. “Forget that. You should be a bodyguard. I’m glad we met. Now, when I need security, I’ll know who to call.”
“Security?” Joe laughed. “Hey, how’s that pay?”
Momentum, the most magical elixir in the entire universe, was upon us. We had it, and the other fuckers didn’t, and that was that. Mickey Ratt was still an underground phenomenon, but in my mind, it was just a matter of time before we got huge. Los Angeles in the summer of ’81 was all abuzz with Dodger fever; lost in a cloud of self-involved musical obsession, I wouldn’t have gone to a game if you paid me. The entire east side was a mystery to me. My world was the Strip. And like a gambler beginning the hottest of streaks, I was just starting my run.
We played Gazzarri’s every night. Soon we graduated to stage seven, and then to stage six. On a Thursday evening, we might pull fifty people into the club for a show, but that was just the beginning of the party. The Strip was like Woodstock for people who hated hippies. Armies of pretty girls wobbled drunkenly in their fuck-me high heels and black microminiskirts. Tit-hugging spandex tops showcased their perky little boobs, their glitter-covered skin moist with sweat and excitement and sex. Once you got the girls inside the club, all they wanted to do was snort something and fuck, in that order.
“Stephen,” Bill Gazzarri shouted, “I’m having a big dance contest tonight. I want you to be one of the judges. How about that? You got time for that?”
“Sure,” I said. “What do I have to do?”
“You watch a bunch of chicks take off most of their clothes and dance to some music. Then decide who has the best tits. What the fuck did you think it was?”
It was a very good time to be young and in heat. I judged the Miss Gazzarri contests as honestly as I knew how, and even though a few bribes may have been accepted here and there, I also tried to make myself available after the show to explain my ruling to the women who were not selected.
“Your moves are stunning,” I told one fourth-place finisher. “I would just say, work on your expressions.”
“Thanks,” she said. “Want to go into the bathroom with me and talk about it more?”
Hollywood in 1981 was a pre-AIDS trimfest. Period. You didn’t have to be slick, you didn’t have to be good-looking. You just had to be there. I saw so many people fuck on the lawns behind Gazzarri’s that I actually got bored of watching and started to throw empty beer cans at them. Michael Sweet, the lead singer of Roxx Regime, a band that often played Gazzarri’s on the same evenings we did, chided me.
“They’re having their fun,” he said. “Leave ’em alone.”
“But I’m drunk,” I explained. “That means I can do what I want.”
Sweet was right, but I refused to take advice on how to behave myself from a dude whose main fashion innovation to date was dressing his band in black and yellow. They looked like glammed-out bumblebees onstage. The Pittsburgh Steelers of rock.
Later, the Regime’s emphasis would shift, and their lyrics would transubstantiate. They would become the famous Christian rock band Stryper. But for the moment, they were as fucked-up as the rest of us and absolutely loving every minute of it. Michael Sweet was no stranger to drama. He was always engaged in enormous fights with his sensationally sexy blond girlfriend, who had a weird shtick of constantly wearing a teddy bear attached to her belt. One night, after yet another explosive confrontation, he approached the microphone to begin his first song. A hush fell over the crowd when silently, in a gesture of pure and total penitence, his girlfriend walked onstage and laid the teddy bear at the base of his mic stand.
The pungent smell of marijuana was on every street corner. On Friday and Saturday nights, you might not play until ten, but if you were smart, you’d get to the Strip at four and start handing out flyers, to start getting the name “Mickey Ratt” moving on everyone’s lips. Great White was getting popular, too, though in those days, they called themselves Dante Fox. And of course, W.A.S.P. and Mötley Crüe. Mötley was always about two steps ahead of us. One day we were destined to meet.
Gil Turner’s Liquor Store was the place to get your booze, and if you wanted to chow down, the Rainbow was the only place to go. It was the spot where you had the best chance of running into other up-and-coming musicians, some of them legitimately famous.
“Let’s do the Strip tonight, Beth,” I said. “Come on. Are you with me?”
“It’s Monday, Stephen,” Beth groaned. “No one will be up there. What’s the point?”
“Beth, Beth. Come on, don’t be lazy. I’ll meet you at the Rainbow. I’m buying, so bring your appetite.”
We met outside the Rainbow at eight o’clock.
“Do you have a table in the kitchen?” I asked hopefully. The true rocker tables were in the kitchen. Everyone knew that.
We were seated, and not five minutes later David Lee Roth walked in with Ozzy Osbourne.
“Watch this,” I said to Beth, rising from my seat.
“Stephen,” she whispered. “Don’t.”
“Dave!” I called out, confidently. “What’s going on, my man?”
I had no fear that he wouldn’t remember me, or wouldn’t want to talk to me. I had all the momentum in the world behind me. Everything was in a flow.
“Stephen,” he said after a second, laughing. “My man. Mickey Ratt. Love that freaking name.”
“Thanks, bro,” I said. I extended a hand to the legend who accompanied him. “Hi. I’m Stephen. This is Beth.”
“Hello,” said Ozzy, his eyes goggling.
“Would you two care to join us?” Beth suggested.
“Why not?” said Dave. We scooted over and made room for them. It was Monday night, family night. It felt real cozy in the booth. When the waiter came, we all ordered chicken soup.
“Best chicken soup I’ve ever had,” Ozzy commented.
There was no vodka swilling that night, nobody getting laid, nobody sniffing blow off the countertops or heading off to the bathroom in groups of eight to do God knows what. The hot topic of the night, instead, was aerobics classes.
“I love ’em!” announced Dave. “You think it comes natural? Me jumping around the stage like that? Hell no! I owe it all to my classes. I’m even getting this dude to come with me tomorrow.”
“I’m despising the decision already,” said Ozzy. He blew gently on his soup. “I’m awfully fat, you see.”
Beth and I drank it all in. Every so often, we’d shoot unbelieving glances at one another, as if to make sure the other one understood just how stupendous this moment was. Okay, deep breath. We’re sharing a table at the Rainbow with Ozzy Osbourne. Let’s make sure we appreciate this exact moment. Because everything we ever dreamed about is starting to come true.
I was getting more and more confident every day, to the point of approaching cocky. One morning, I dressed myself in my sharpest rocker outfit, leathers from head to toe, and knocked on the Schwartzes’ front door. Phil’s mother answered, clad in a blue bathrobe.
“Yes? What is it?”
“I need to speak to Phil,” I demanded. “Your son.”
A minute later, the young Schwartz came bobbing out. “Stephen, how
’s it going?”
“Phil, you said you were going to be our official band photographer. You promised.”
“What?” he said, confused. “I know, but, I never heard anything else from you. . . .”
“Phil, don’t make excuses, it’ll just make it worse. Now, we’ve got a gig tonight, and I’d really like you to be there to document it. Can I count on you?”
“Of course, I mean, all you had to do was ask—”
“Oh, you want money? Well, we don’t have any. We’ll pay you in beer. And tell you what, if I find some little groupie who’s in need of some loving, I’ll make sure to send her your way. How’s that sound to you?”
“Well, yeah,” Phil said, his neck growing scarlet. “It sounds good, if you really think she’d even want to talk to me. . . .”
Phil came to the gig that night. He snapped off ten rolls of pictures and even got in a few ass squeezes. We got the shots back a week later. The kid had world-class talent. It was uncanny. We could simply do no wrong.
Then my luck came to a screeching halt. Several months before, Tina, my first love, had moved to New York to pursue her modeling dreams. We’d managed to keep up a fairly regular stream of phone conversations, until one day, I noticed that she had somehow stopped calling me back.
Was she dumping me? The thought hit me like a punch to the stomach. I had to talk to her, had to tell her that I loved her. Granted, I hadn’t always been faithful to her, but in my heart of hearts, I’d cared deeply about her—I’d always just assumed she knew. I called her house in San Diego, the tears beginning to flow.
“Can you tell Tina to call me?” I pleaded. “This is Stephen. It’s an emergency.”
“You have her number,” her father said. “And she’s got yours.”
I hung up the phone and immediately fell into a full-blown panic. How could I have been such a selfish idiot? I was losing the only woman I’d ever cared about. I had to get to New York. But how? I wondered. I had fourteen greasy dollars to my name.
Sex, Drugs, Ratt & Roll: My Life in Rock Page 9
