When we first opened, the Cat Club was almost swanky. It had been a little restaurant and a computer store in the last two leases and needed a spruce-up. We managed to get a liquor license attached to the address; that in itself was a big accomplishment. I just made the place into what I thought the perfect dressing room should be: simply elegant but functional was the plan for the Cat Club. The place was the perfect size for a great party; the legal capacity was eighty-seven people. Black velvet couches and leopard-skin carpet was the theme. The industrial leopard-skin carpet handled at least ten years of dirty boots and spilled booze and still looked good in the dark. I made a deal with some local rock photographers I had worked with over the years to hang their framed works on the walls, and I played music from my own record collection. I borrowed a few ideas from some places I’d been in over the years, but I strongly believe that the Cat Club became the template for a certain type of rock-and-roll bar that has been copied many times since we first opened it. My personal favorite part of the whole place was the black-and-white awning in front that read in a classy, cursive font “The Cat Club 8911 On The Strip.” It was a landmark on Sunset for years and made it easy to give directions. We were forced to take it down in another example of corporate small-mindedness. The landlord wanted the whole strip of businesses in his building to be painted the same to make it easier for a big refinance he was doing on all his properties. He felt the sign and leopard-skin door made it too hodgepodge for his report to his bank. It was the turning point of my disillusionment. It broke my heart a little.
We almost accidently once had the whole concept franchised, and dozens of producers approached me about reality shows. For a few months, the whole place was wired for sound and live on camera over the Internet like a TV channel, and it was used for location filming many times. With a few of these ideas, we were ahead of the curve. I could have little charity events and use the place for showcases and record releases for any bands we liked or were friendly with. I never had that much juice in LA, but we could help out with the use of the place. The Cat Club was there for bands to play too loud and for bartenders to sling drinks, for another generation to live the dream, trying to make it in LA while trying to get laid along the way. I was the celebrity babysitter and punk rock patron for another watering hole, serving the would-be rock and rollers of a certain time period. I understood this. I just wanted to pay the rent and keep our little joint open as long as I could. This was my lot in club life, and I accepted it.
We were open for six months and struggling to keep it all going. At that point in time, the western end of Sunset Strip was the rock-and-roll side. The fancier, high-end nightclubs and hotels were farther east. One night we made a fateful decision to make a change and turn the place into a live-music venue. Over the past few weeks, I had been inviting true pals Bernard Fowler, Stevie Salas, and Carmine Rojas to sit in with me and do a bunch of cover songs for a bar tab and some fun. We just moved the couches out of the way, set the gear up right on the floor, invited friends to jam, and did live music once a week. All our friends turned up, and word of mouth spread; it turned into a successful night. Again, it wasn’t the first all-star-type rock jam night ever, but come hell or high water, every Thursday night for the next fourteen years, there was a band with a couple of guys everybody knew on that homemade stage at midnight, slaughtering the FM classics. Since then, a lot of clubs have tried to capture that scene and that vibe. I know of a couple of places that had brief successful runs with a jam night, but the one at the Cat Club was special, maybe in the fact that I was playing myself in attempt to keep the business open. There was a certain honesty and necessary practicality to the whole thing.
After the first few times, the writing was on the wall about what to do with the club. It wasn’t going to make it as a chic, snazzy rock-and-roll cocktail lounge like I had hoped. This is when, in the lingo of club land, the club tells you what to do with it. Steve and I went to Home Depot, bought plywood and nails, and along with longtime faithful bartender Kenny Merrill, we built a six-inch-high stage down one side of the room. We stapled the remnants of the leopard-skin carpet to the frame, and the infamous Cat Club stage was born. I brought a drum kit in and cobbled together a little PA from some small stage monitors we bought cheap with the sweetheart deal from Guitar Center, a few microphones I had in storage, and a couple of borrowed amps.
We slowly made the change to a live-music venue and hired band bookers with varying levels of success. We could only do door deals, but the bands that could draw some fans always made money. Any club owner will tell you that he or she will happily give the bands the door money if they bring the bodies. Bars want to sell booze; that’s how you earn in this business, and you will do what it takes to get the people inside.
I kept the Thursday-night jam going when the other guys went on the road or just got burned out on it. I had more at stake and thus more inspiration to keep it going. We hit a stride and started to get a buzz around town when Gilby Clarke, of Guns N’ Roses fame, Tracii Guns from LA Guns, and Swedish bass man Johnny Griparic—who played with Slash—started doing it. Teddy “Zig Zag” Andreadis was a staple on keys. I’ve always said Teddy has more soul than any of us by a mile. Everyone is somehow connected, one degree of separation, two at the most. Tracii came up with the name the Starfuckers, which stuck and became the de facto name for the whole night. The whole thing changed one week when the reclusive Axl Rose came in and did a few numbers with Gilby and me; Jimmy Ashhurst was sitting in that night on bass.
It wasn’t even that busy on that particular night and has become the type of legend where more people recall being there than actually were. By the time I came into the office the next day, the word was out, for apparently Axl hadn’t been seen at all in public much lately, let alone been seen jamming onstage at a bar on Sunset. I had a bunch of messages on the answering machine, including one from Rolling Stone magazine, asking for a comment on why the normally camera-shy Axl chose to jump onstage that exact night and so willingly launch into a few numbers with the house band. I still don’t know the answer, and the why is not important. The secret to anything organic is that there is no secret. That’s what makes these things impossible to create, let alone duplicate. You can’t force it; it’s gotta just happen. I’m eternally grateful to Axl for choosing to turn up that night. I’ve only met him a few times, and he’s always been cool with me. His appearance that night definitely upped the ante at the Cat Club. Thanks, buddy!
The next few weeks were crowded, as everyone hoped that they would catch another appearance by a famous rock star cat. Rolling Stone magazine had run a picture that a customer had taken that night. The caption mentions the scarcity of the sighting, my name, and the name of the club. The snapshot shows Gilby, Jimmy, and Axl on the little stage. After that, the Thursday-night jam became internationally infamous, and rock-and-roll tourists, who visit the Sunset Strip from all over the world, started turning up to maybe catch a glimpse of someone they recognized. Axl never came up onstage again, but a lot of others did. For a brief moment, it became trendy, and some Hollywood types would turn up. But this never lasts, and eventually only the real fans and tourists remain. True pal and former record executive Michael Lustig signed Gilby and me to a record deal on the V2 label based on the Thursday-night scene and sound we were getting on that little stage. Teddy and Thursday-night regular Muddy Stardust joined on that album, recorded under the band name Colonel Parker. Over the years, there was a cavalcade of rock stars who had a blast just turning up, plugging in, and cranking out some classic rock and blues tunes, including Brian May from Queen, Bruce Dickinson from Iron Maiden, Rudolf Schenker from the Scorpions, Slash, and CC DeVille from Poison to name a few. Rod Stewart and Jimmy Page both turned up on different nights, and Ike Turner made an appearance and danced with a couple of his background singers. Lemmy came on multiple occasions, and he, Danny Harvey, and I cut a live record there one New Year’s Eve.
One of the local steady customers w
orked as a producer on the TV show Monster House and pitched us for the show. Monster House was a reality show where a team of workers would do major improvements to a house and surprise the owners. In the episode before ours, they fully handicap equipped a house for a war veteran coming home from Iraq. About ten years into our being open, the network came and remodeled the whole club. There were some much-needed physical repairs that we got included into the remodel. Rikki Rockett, the drummer from Poison and a good all-around dude, is also a master craftsman and was hired by the network to do the work. He did a great job. We unveiled it on TV, and it boosted the business again. Then we slowly replaced all their interior design ideas back to how we wanted it.
Dee Dee Ramone did a Saturday-night residency after sitting in on a Thursday night. True pal and bass man Stefan Adika was a longtime member of the house band and played with Dee Dee right up until the end. Stefan and I both played on Dee Dee’s last gig in LA. Although offered, Dee Dee didn’t want to sit in the office between sets and insisted on standing in the little-used kitchen at the back of the club. One night he put his coat down on top of the stove, and it caught fire from the pilot light. There was always a funny side adventure going on at the Cat Club. In the moment, I was just trying to get through the night.
The lineup of the Starfuckers changed a few times over the years, but there was always a major-league team up there. One of the best and longest-running lineups featured talented buddy Eric Dover from Alice Cooper and Jellyfish, Ryan Roxie from Alice Cooper, and Dizzy Reed from Guns N’ Roses. There was an especially good feeling to the place for quite a while with this lineup, and we packed the place out most weeks. There were a lot of characters who came around, including a few infamous homeless hoboes who lived up and around Sunset Boulevard. When it was cold out and the place was rocking, I didn’t mind admitting them and letting them dance. It added to the whole crazy scene.
We used to take this outfit on the road once in a while, too. The drum chair seemed especially desirable. When I was out of town, Eric Singer from Kiss, Clem Burke from Blondie, Tommy Clufetos from Ozzy and Sabbath, and Brian Tichy all subbed for me over the years. On a great night for drummers, Carmine Appice, Simon Phillips, and Narada Michael Walden all played on the house kit. Truth be told, most Thursday nights during the fourteen-year run were just solid gigs by a crackerjack house band who were there for $100 a man and a good time, but the fact that over the years so many rock stars dropped in and jammed unexpectedly kept the fans coming in. Everyone was afraid they would miss something if they didn’t turn up. In the meantime, the Thursday jam night put the club on the map as a live venue, and we were booked every night with every different type of music.
We had a good run with the Cat Club and were in business longer than 99 percent of the clubs, bars, and restaurants that open in this town. The end was a boring, long, slow boil. At a small place like this, the only way to make it is with consistency. It’s not enough to do one giant night and make the whole month’s nut. There is a certain skill to balancing the rent, the bills, the inventory, and the staff. Steve was very good at this, and his ability to do this kept it open for a long time. I couldn’t be around as much as I could in the beginning, but I spent as much time there as possible and always managed to organize a band for Thursdays from wherever I was in the world. We had been there close to fifteen years; the rent and the cost of running the place had gone up by 20 percent, but the business had not, yet we were hanging on. I saw it as a punk rock public service. I had been part of the inaugural organization committee for the Sunset Strip Music Festival, and we were part of the landscape.
The long and short of it was that a petty lawsuit filed by a one-time-only customer, who was backed up by a bloodsucking, ambulance-chasing lawyer, led to the ultimate demise of an LA institution. The insurance company had to settle a $250,000 judgment against us and dropped us as clients. There was nothing we could do about it. We had to scramble to find a new company that would cover us, and it raised the rates to an unaffordable monthly payment. You need to have insurance to keep a bar open. The personal risk is too great without it. So some awful woman who allegedly claimed she was allegedly injured and sprained her ankle on the actual back steps and allegedly had a major injury definitely made more money out of the club than any of the owners ever had.
My own feeling is that this unfortunate incident just hastened the inevitable end. The Cat Club suffered the same fate that most mom-and-pop businesses do in America these days: whether it’s the hardware store, the corner candy store, the drugstore, the ice cream parlor, or the gin mill with rock bands, it needs the support of the neighborhood locals. Everybody wants to say and think they support small businesses, but few actually do. In our case, if you want the experience of live music, you have to support it on a regular basis. I grew weary of the yuppie guy who would turn up once every six months with an out-of-town friend or family member in tow. He’d want to find a parking spot on the street, be recognized at the door, get in free, watch a few bands, get his round of drinks on the house, and show off to his hick buddy from back home how he knew everybody in this cool bar on the Sunset Strip. It made me crazy, and by the end it became harder and harder to hide my contempt for this type of customer. I’d be playing the drums and notice this type hanging around, taking up space, and not spending a dime. I’d get on the mic and try to embarrass them. Cheapskates who think they’re rock and rollers may be the worst kind. The truth is that if all these fair-weather fans just turned up once a week, paid for parking, paid for their drinks, watched the band, and tipped the bartender, we’d still be there today. It’s easy to complain about the death of local live music, but it’s got to be supported by the people.
This goes for the bands, too. They’re not the innocent victims; most were lazy. You’d be shocked at how many bands can’t draw ten of their friends to come and see them play. I feel a little bad for the bands that did work hard and promote. It’s tough to find a small place to play. Why bother rehearsing and calling yourself a band when you’re incapable of bringing anyone to your gig? I told the same thing to the Los Angeles Times and the LA Weekly when they wanted to talk about the closing of the club. Where were you all when I needed you?
There’s no denying that I miss the place, and I don’t want to convey the message that my time there was a bummer in any way. It was a unique time and place that I don’t think will happen again. The place was sold to out-of-town restaurant operators who have changed the whole look and format and made a go of it so far. They’re good guys; I like them and wish them well. I kept a few shares, but it’s not the same. I go in there once in a while, and the place is packed, but I don’t know one single customer. I didn’t think that it would ever happen that I’d go into any bar on Sunset and not know one out of a hundred people.
I don’t kid myself that the street won’t continue without me; I’m sure the old-timers who were there before I was thought exactly the same thing. It was a major part of my life and of TJ’s childhood. There are thousands of good memories associated with the place. I see a lot of rock bars around the world and a few in LA that have definitely taken their inspiration from us. I don’t miss the panic and nervousness on the thirty-first of the month when I knew we didn’t have the rent. I don’t miss the phony-baloney customers, the landlords, or the idiot bands. I do miss having a bar at my disposal for charity events, parties, or just a place to go in the daytime and read the paper. I do miss the clubhouse feeling and having those extra few keys on my key ring. I do miss the camaraderie of the staff and the whole gang up on the Strip, although a lot of things have changed up there since then. Maybe the Cat Club was ahead of the curve again.
16
The Candy Man
On Tuesdays in the late 1980s, there was a jam night at the Central, a bar on Sunset, where the Viper Room now sits. I’d start out at the Rainbow for a few drinks and walk up the street, maybe stop along the way if there was a show at the Whisky or go into Gill Montie’s Sunset Strip
Tattoo Shop for friendly conversation. There was usually someone in there I knew getting inked. Gill is one of the original biker tattooists and was a character up on the Strip in the 1980s. I’d leave my car behind the Roxy with the key under the floor mat; I knew the valet guys there, so if I didn’t make it back by 2:00 A.M. to pick up the car, they’d just leave it, and I’d just pay them next time. We lived at the top of Doheny Drive, so even after a little partying, I could sneak back up the hill, driving very slowly, only having to go one short block along Sunset. For the true enthusiast, there is a route that will take you all the way from Bel-Air to Laurel Canyon where you only have to drive on Sunset twice for a total of three blocks. It takes a long time and is very winding and easy to get lost on, but it can be done, depending on how much you’ve been drinking and how well you know the turf. At this point in life, I recommend a cab.
The Central looked pretty much the same as the Viper Room does now. The stage, bar, and tables are in the same places. There’s only so much that can be done with a bar. Over the years, different owners or promoters may come and go and change the name and décor, but these places along Sunset were carved out long ago. These spaces can’t change too much, and besides a coat of paint once in a while, most clubs are the same as they ever were.
A Stray Cat Struts Page 16
