Metal, Madness & Mayhem - An Insiders Journey Through The Hollywood 80s

by Michael J. Flaherty

  Reliantly, Bob descended the ladder, his staple gun still in hand.

  “Drop your weapon!” I though to myself ‘shit, we’re gonna get shot dead by the cops over a damn stapler in the middle of the Strip.’

  “Any knives or weapons I should know about? Any drugs or needles?” we were asked as they searched through our pockets before we felt the cold steel of handcuffs around our wrists.

  We were placed in the back of the patrol car and while in route to jail received a long and detailed lecture about how telephone pole posters harm and degrade the community not unlike graffiti. Wanting to ask the clichéd ‘Don’t you assholes have any better fucking thing to do?’ I resisted as it didn’t seem like a very good idea at the time.

  Fingerprinted and booked we were led to a rather smelly cell that was already occupied by several large and sinister looking inmates that appeared to be in various stages of mental illness. I held my breath hoping none would ask us what we were in for as ‘tacking a concert poster on a telephone pole’ somehow didn’t seem like the prison-style macho answer that would prevent us from becoming their ‘bitches’ at any minute had they chose to take a liking to one of us.

  “This is great Bob, I’ve been in the music business for less than a Month and here I am sitting in a Goddamn jail cell already, this must be a new record.”

  “Don’t sweat it, man, I’ve been in this one lot’s of times before; it’s really not all that bad.”

  “Thanks, that makes me feel a whole lot better,” I said sarcastically. “I guess room service is out of the question, huh? I sure as hell could use a drink.”

  Apparently I had said that too loud, as one of our new room-mates, a huge muscular tattooed fellow with no teeth and a lot of facial scars approached me.

  “Need a little something to take the edge off Honey? I got lots of good stuff in here” he said as he reached into his filthy sock and produced a joint.

  “Oh thanks, but no thanks, I’m fine, really.”

  Jesus Christ…

  Although we were only in there for a couple of hours, it of course seemed like days before we were instructed by the guards to step out into the lobby and informed that no formal charges would be placed if we agreed to spend the following Saturday cleaning off all the various rock posters on the poles of West Hollywood. It was my understanding that slave labor had long since been outlawed, but I was in no position to argue and readily agreed to their terms. I was a free man at last.

  “Well, that sure was fun Bob,” I said as we began the long hike in the fresh air back to the truck.

  “Just laugh it off, man,” Bob replied. “It’ll give you something to tell your Grand children about.”

  “Bob, I don’t think I would be able to have any Grand children if that fucking beast in there with the drugs in his dirty socks had had his way with me.”

  The next morning, looking back at the previous evening’s experience as just a ‘bump in the road,’ I cancelled whatever plans were in place for the following Saturday. That day would have to be spent climbing telephone poles. Although I wasn’t to know it at the time, learning the exact location of the West Hollywood Sheriff’s jailhouse would come in real handy on repeated occasions within a very few months.

  Things began to actually start looking promising for the show. The band was fine-tuning their set in the studio almost every night and our ‘street-team’ of Junior and his crew were doing a great job of getting the word out via the flyers. Everyone was excited.

  The Friday morning prior to Sunday night’s date I received an urgent phone call from Bobby Dean, the head booker at the Troubadour, whom I had initially approached trying to book the band into his club.

  He was desperate. A band that had been scheduled for the following Sunday night had cancelled at the last minute and he offered Images that slot.

  “I don’t expect you to bring a crowd at this late hour, just come in and play. If you can do me this favor, I’ll get you a better night in the near future, I promise.”

  I thought ‘shit, this is great. I’ve been begging for bookings for a month now with virtually no success and all of a sudden we get two of them on one night.

  “What time would you need us to go on, Bobby?”

  “Midnight and I know that sucks but you can get some free exposure for your band as the two other acts have been drawing fairly well lately, it should be a decent crowd.”

  “Are they metal? Who are they?” I asked.

  “They are metal and from what I heard on your demo tape Images will fit right in with them. One’s called Bitch and the other’s Dante Fox.”

  Knowing that Bobby’s club was only about a ten minute drive down the hill from Gazzari’s and we could probably break down and re-stage the equipment in time, I was ready to accept his offer, but thought quickly.

  At the time the Troubadour had a tiered ticketing system wherein there was a full price admission, meaning someone simply walks up to the box office and buys a ticket, a discount ticket with the bands name stamped on it that the bands themselves were to distribute and in return receive 50% of the sales, and a free ticket that the bands could also distribute and receive no money from the gate, yet draw a crowd. The club owners didn’t really care as more bodies in the showroom equaled more drink sales.

  I asked Bobby if he would be willing to give us three hundred discount tickets.

  “What? How the hell can you distribute 300 tickets in 48 hours? You guys don’t even have a following, man.”

  I saw no need to mention the Gazzarri’s show that was scheduled for earlier the same night.

  “We probably can’t Bobby, but we can try. Give us the tickets and we’ll be there Sunday.”

  “Come on down and pick’em up. And thanks Mike, you’re really saving my ass by filling in, I’ll make it up to you in the future.”

  He soon did.

  I told the guys at rehearsal that night what had happened. After months of playing to no one except themselves and their girl friends in the studio, they were understandably excited at the prospect of playing two houses in a single night.

  We had a strategy meeting with the roadies to formulate our rapid stage break-down, transport and re-set plan. I was confident that it would work.

  “There’s one more important thing guys, and old Bill (Gazzarri) is not going to like it, but I want a stack of Troubadour discount tickets discreetly placed on every table in that club. I want everybody in the fucking showroom to know that we’re playing two hours later down the street and to get their asses down there.”

  “I’ll announce it from stage Mike,” Bob volunteered.

  “Good, but please wait until the very last song so we don’t get thrown out before we can finish the set. I know that basically stealing Gazzari’s audience is not all that cool but given the circumstances I’d rather piss them off and impress the Troubadour management since we have that option. We can probably get some of this Mickey Ratt band’s people there too. They shouldn’t care as they’ll have already finished their set.”

  Standing outside the box office, I knew this was going to be more than an average, slow Sunday night on the Strip. People were arriving early and more than a few were holding our flyers in their hands. Junior and his crew had done a great job and the young East L.A. head-bangers were turning out en masse to see a band that finally cared enough about them to announce and promote their show dates to them.

  As there were no dressing rooms at Gazzarri’s, one of the equipment vans was utilized. Passing around a bottle of Jack inside the makeshift facility, we wished each other good luck and I then went inside to check out Mickey Ratt who had just taken the stage.

  Indeed, the crowd had grown, surely the busiest Sunday night I’d ever seen at the venue. Mickey Ratt proved to be surprisingly entertaining. Their songs were not bad and for a young band and the musicianship was tight and slick. I was particularly impressed with the lead guitarist whose name I later learned was Jake E. Lee. He wasn’t a heavy shredder
like Bob, but had more of a melodic style not unlike Eddie Van Halen’s.

  Once Bob, Gene and Karl staged it took only a couple of songs for me to see that they had gotten over their first show jitters and were playing with confidence. There were flaws here and there and with notebook in hand I scratched down notes throughout the entire performance for the next day’s post-show critique meeting I had planned. The packed house was responsive and very much into the show. Overall for the first time out, I was pleased.

  As planned, Bob made the announcement.

  “It ain’t over yet you fuckers!” “Second show in two hours at the Troubadour, grab the tickets off your table and we’ll see you there!”

  There was a mass exodus from the showroom. I told the band and crew to hustle ass and get down the street fast. “I’m going on down there and make sure everything’s covered” I told the guys.

  Not bad, one show down and one to go all within a few hours. Even more impressive was the line I saw growing outside the Troubadour box office as I arrived. I knew that it had to be our crowd that had made its way down from Gazzarri’s. The plan was working even better that I had hoped.

  As our equipment was starting to arrive at the rear loading dock, the Marshall amps still warm from the previous show and being prepared to rapidly stage, I took a few minutes to check out the band that was performing before us, Bitch.

  During their set there was a constant stream of bodies entering the showroom. It was our people and wasn’t long before the house was packed.

  Bobby found me in the crowd. “These are your people Mike?”

  “I would say so.”

  “How the hell did you do all this in just 48 hours?” “The bar’s running out of fucking beer man, we didn’t expect this many people tonight!”

  I winked. “It’s my secret, Bobby.”

  The Gazarri’s show two hours previous had proven to be only a warm up for both the band and the crowd for this set. The guys were in top form, confident in their performance and the audience, who was by this time, very well lubricated were banging their heads to Images Hollywood opening night debut, part two.

  It had been a great start and we chose to celebrate it later that night over several large pizzas and pitchers of beer at the Rainbow.

  I was under the mistaken impression that people who worked in the music and nightclub businesses slept late. Either I was very wrong or the fact was they simply stayed up all night. The later eventually proved to be the case. Bobby phoned far too early for my liking the next morning, still curious as to how we managed to pull that many people in (the final count was over four-hundred) at Midnight on a Sunday with only 48 hours to promote the show. He offered us several new dates within the next six weeks, all of which were Fridays and Saturdays. Without hesitation, I agreed.

  “I’m going to do something else for you Mike.” He asked me if I had heard of BAM and Music Connection magazines, the two most prominent Southern California music trade publications.

  “Sure, why?”

  “They call me every week to find out who’s pulling the biggest crowds for their live charts. I’m telling them about last night, I’ll hype you guys up to them.”

  That proved to be one hell of a shot in the arm for Images local credibility among bookers.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I really didn't want to be there, but my then and soon to be former employer had just purchased the hotel and wanted all his employees to attend the grand opening party.

  At the bottom of the invitation in fine print it read, ‘Attendance Mandatory’ making it clear we all were to be there. I thought “What the fuck, I'll go and keep everybody happy....”

  Bored as I was with the crowd once again wishing instead I was back at the Rainbow or Troubadour. I became engaged in a deep conversation about music and the current state of the industry with the mobile D.J., who was spinning records for the large crowd in attendance. Seems his family ran a record distribution Company in New York and he knew a lot about the business. The guy had a great equipment set-up, not only a state-of-the art sound system, but overhead lighting trusses, strobes, fog machines and pyrotechnic ‘flash pots’ that rivaled on a much smaller scale, anything I had seen at a recent KISS concert at the Inglewood Forum arena.

  Thinking this would really enhance Images stage show, I asked where he bought his gear.

  “A guy in Hollywood has a small operation making pyro devices in his home. He does pretty well with it too, and it’s good stuff.”

  He didn't have the phone number with him at the party, but he gave me his D.J. card and said if I called him the next day he would turn me on to the guy, which I did the next morning.

  “His name is Steve Duran, here’s his number.” I immediately phoned Mr. Duran as Images was scheduled to play the Whiskey the next weekend and there were expected to be a number of record people there, I wanted a full stage show for that night, flash pots, smoke machines and all.

  Guzman said he could have a set ready by Saturday if I'd drop by his house and leave a deposit.

  A couple of days later, I drove to his apartment, a two story older building on Las Palmas Avenue in a rather seedy part of Hollywood. The first thing I found odd were the four or five classic Jaguar XKEs parked in front of the building in various stages of restoration. They didn't seem to fit with the neighborhood.

  The lair. Las Palmas Avenue Just South Of Franklin Avenue.

  I walked into the small courtyard and was greeted by this giant of a man, probably at least 6’6” with extremely long blue-black hair and visibly somewhat overweight. My first impression was that he was an American Indian. (Later I learned he was indeed one-half Cherokee)

  “Steve?”

  “Yep, I'm Steve, you're Mike?”

  We shook hands, spoke for a few minutes and then he proceeded to demonstrate his basic pyrotechnic system right there in the building courtyard. I was pleasantly surprised when a few minutes later there were no fire trucks in front. I guessed the neighbors were accustomed to his explosive sales demonstrations.

  “Cool rig, Steve, this is what we need. I’ll take a basic system.” I was curious. “Interesting business, how did you get into it?”

  “I’m a pyrotech, do a lot of work for TV. You ever watch ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep?”

  “Matter of fact, I do.”

  “Those explosions are mine” he said gleaming with pride.

  We went into his apartment where I was invited to have a seat. The apartment, although small, was furnished with heavy wooden medieval type furniture, including what appeared to be a mix between a throne and a prison electric chair, complete with wrist and ankle straps where Steve sat down and proceeded to ask me questions about Images as well as my thoughts on metal and my business management philosophy.

  During our conversation I heard a rustle near the ceiling and glancing up I see a drop-dead gorgeous ‘Playmate’ quality blond wearing nothing but panties and a bra, looking a little hung-over with smeared mascara, coming down a ladder that led to a small second-story loft.

  She went over, bent down and kissed Steve in an almost God-like way. Steve asked her to bring us some coffee. A few minutes later, an equally beautiful as well as equally almost naked brunette comes out of the kitchen with a silver coffee serving tray.

  Kissing him also, she proceeds to serve us.

  The music business conversation continued but frankly I was very distracted not only by the

  girls, but wondering in my mind how this guy manages to get these ‘perfect 10’s’ and has what appears to be a miniature Hefner-like harem, Hollywood style. I'd find out real soon.

  I gave him a cash deposit for the equipment and we walked out to the sidewalk together. I commented on the Jaguars and he said they were his, he collects and restores them.

  Driving home, I kept thinking about this guy. Something about him was special, a commanding presence. Just who the hell is he?

  The question bothered me for a few days until....

 
It was a rainy Wednesday night when my buddy Jan paged me and asked if I wanted to meet him at the Troubadour for a drink. I was at an Images rehearsal that was just wrapping up at Falcon Studios so I agreed to meet him on my way home.

  It was a very slow night at the Troubadour, with only a handful of people at the bar sipping Long Island Iced Teas, Coronas with lime, shots of J.D. and chatting.

  Walking in with Jan, he says “God, there's Blackie!”

  “Blackie who?”

  “Blackie Lawless, right there.”

  I immediately recognized him as ‘the flash pot guy’ and told Jan, “His name's not Blackie, its Steve, Steve Duran, I met him a few days ago at his apartment.”

  “No, no, It’s Blackie! He gets the hottest pussy in Hollywood, by the bus load, dude. He's a pussy God.”

  Upon thinking about that last statement and remembering my first encounter with him at the apartment and seeing his in-house his ladies, I was starting to believe Jan.

  Curious as well as wanting to check on the progress of the pyro gear, I pulled up a stool next to Steve at the bar and said hello. He immediately offered to buy me a drink and said the equipment was ready, I could pick it up anytime and “Oh, by the way, I wanted to give you this, it wasn't back from the printer when you were at my place the other day.”

  He handed me a rather large flyer advertising an upcoming Troubadour show: W.A.S.P. Saturday Night! Subtitled: ‘The Torture Never Stops’ and ‘On Your Knees.’

  Very professional looking flyer I thought, not like the hand scribbled crap that was often handed out in the Rainbow parking lot at 2am by hungry musicians trying to get a crowd to their shows. Each member of W.A.S.P. was individually pictured. Chris Holmes looking like a mad-man commando with hand grenades on his belt, Steve (Blackie) with a buzz saw cod piece, and Tony Richards and Randy Piper looking equally sinister. I remember thinking ‘these guys are serious, whatever the hell they're doing.’