Tales Of A RATT (6 page)

I never made it to my room, and passed out on the couch.

When Mum came downstairs to find me on the couch, halfway to Heavington, she tried to wake me up and get me upstairs before Pete saw me. Noble, though her cause was, I didn't react well to being woke up.

"Get the fuck out of here! I'm sleeping.” In hindsight, probably not a wise idea. She didn't take it well, and went to get Pete.

About the time I got to my bed and laid down, Pete hit the door, all piss and molten metal. He grabbed me up by the hair and punched me square in the face. All in all, pretty intense. Thankfully, I was still drunk-numb, so the full effect of it didn't hit until I woke up, later.

My face and lip were so swollen I could barely talk. My own damn fault, though. I got drunk and mouthed off to my Mum. Pretty much, I got my just deserts, so it wasn't really a big deal to me.

When Pete saw it, though, it was a different story. The guy felt like shit over it. My face was so bad that Pete gave me the keys to the car and let me take it for the day. Mind you, I was only 15 at the time, and nowhere near having my license. But, I'd been taking the car since I was 11. Pete knew it, and felt this was the least he could do.

The guy wasn't without his post-drunk remorse; not all bad, when you gave him a chance. But, we really weren't ever going to be best friends. He wasn't my buddy; and I wasn't his pride and joy. For the most part, we just tried to stay out of each other’s way.

So imagine my surprise when Pete did the one thing that sent me on a speeding rail toward realizing my dreams.

He gave me a guitar and amp.

While music had always been a big part of who I was, it wasn't until Pete gave me the guitar that my path became clear.

It was a weird night. Pete comes into the house, about half lit. He was working at a bar at the time. In his hands, he's carrying a guitar and a small amp. I never knew where he got it. It could be that some guy at the bar owed him money, or he might have bought it on the cheap. Shit, he might have copped it. Who knows?

But, he walks in with it, looks at me and says, "You're into all this music and shit, so here you go.”

Like I said, the guy wasn't without his moments.

My tastes in music had never changed, but new bands were popping up that I was really enjoying. Granted, most of them were still British bands.

Among them was Queen, David Bowie, The Sweet, Deep Purple, Humble Pie, etc. They were trash glam at its glammest. No question. They had the best make-up, the best bouffant ridiculous hair, and they wore pants so tight, we discovered Camel-Toe had an ugly little brother named Moose-Knuckle. Thankfully, The Sweet also had the best tunes.

Ironically, when they fell apart, they did it in a monstrous way. The whole thing ended in bitter acrimony, alcohol, arguments and early death. It never occurred to us that RATT would follow almost the exact same path until it was too late.

It's the wise man that learns from his mistakes, but it's that smart fucker who learns from someone else's. These days, I endeavor to be that smart fucker.

I digress.

Still, it was a time where clothes were ripped, make-up was caked on eyes with a putty knife, cheeks were pierced with safety pins, and nobody smiled anymore. The simple pleasures of glitter and gloss were easy to forget.

But there was that new music movement. Call it heavy metal, hard rock, arena rock, I don't give a shit. It was that hedonistic sound and balls out attitude, preaching sex, drugs and rock. And, it cut right to my guts. Right to that place that made me exist.

When I looked at that guitar, I saw that for myself. My possibilities wrapped up in six strings.

I sat and jacked around with this thing, trying to make sense of it the best I could, but I wasn't really getting very far.

I heard about a guy who lived in the same apartment building as me, named Harold Hawthorne. Harold was a guitarist, and I needed to learn how to be a guitarist.

I dropped by the guy’s house and knocked on the door. His Mom answered, and I talked my way inside, and then went straight up to Harold's room where he was practicing.

Remember when I said I make fast friends? Harold is still a good friend to this day. He and Drew are both parts of my childhood that I've carried all through my life and still hang out with today.

But, unfortunately, the guitar wasn't meant to be. Not for me, anyway. Although, I still play, just not blistering leads, a la Warren DeMartini.

Harold was a pretty good guitarist. He took lessons and knew all about music theory and scales. Shit like that. I didn't seem to have it. Not the patience, not the talent, not the "mojo.” Whatever it took to be an axe-slinging rock god, I didn't have it. And, it frustrated the hell out of me.

While Harold and I hung out and practiced, and the talent gap continued to spread, another kid in the neighborhood hooked up with us. His name was Marty Cory, and Marty was a budding drummer.

A drummer.

I hadn't really thought about it before. But, it sounded good.

It wasn't long before our little jam sessions began to evolve, but only for me.

I got into the habit of sitting on the drum kit and working the beats while Marty picked up my guitar. In short order, I had surpassed Marty in as a drummer.

We traded, straight up, my guitar and amp for his drum kit.

Harold continued to bloom on his guitar, but our sessions never really went anywhere as a group.

But, it wasn't four or five months later before I was playing band calibre drums. Joining bands was the next step.

Life was pretty good, for me. And, thankfully, it was being lived on my terms, for the most part. Naturally, this existence would lend itself to trouble, but I didn't care. It was my life, with my decisions to make.

School was no different. Drew and I were the designated offendees. Often times, we were guilty. Other times, not so much. But, I'd call it even, considering the number of things we didn't get busted for.

Drew was the first to go down. He was kicked out of Sam Levy, and sent to a "specialty school.” It was sort of a special education / juvenile detention kind of place. Honestly, it was the sort of place they sent the disposable kids. You went there, and your academic potential would be pronounced dead a week later.

Not to piss and groan about it, mind you. I mean, what else were they going to do with the kids they didn't know what to do with? It was just easier to sweep them under the rug than deal with them. The seventies were never that big on consequences. Know what I mean?

My own educational demise at Sam Levy wasn't far behind, and oddly enough, it was a fairly minor infraction that spelled the end.

One day, in 8th grade, we got to school a bit late. We'd been hanging out at the 7-11, smoking cigarettes and a joint or two. Needless to say, I got to class with a sinister case of the munchies. I'd have taken a bite out of the desktop if I hadn't found something to kill the cravings.

Fortunately, I found something.

In the desk belonging to the rather odd girl who usually sat next to me was a package of Dip N Sticks. For those who don't remember this shit, it was a foil package of a substance kinda like Kool-Aid. It was, basically, a bag full of flavored sugar. It even came with a little stick, which was white and made out of even more compressed sugar. You could eat the stick! I'm surprised they didn't make a way you could eat the fucking bag! It was a sinister sweet treat capable of leveling the typical educational experience with a few gritty swallows of packaged sugar high.

Needless to say, I was stoked.

I snatched the package up and gave it a shake. Sure enough, the familiar sound of granulated tooth decay Rattled back.

I unrolled it and upended the contents into my mouth.

In hindsight, I probably should have considered the oddness of the girl who sat next to me. Because, surprises in life are often very enjoyable. This wasn't one of those times.

It seems after consuming her package of Dip N Sticks, she saw the empty foil bag as a perfect place to hold spilled glue, and to her credit, the glue was still pretty fresh. But, it tasted like hammered shit, and I spat it all over the desk in front of me, gagging and choking. I was generally making a huge scene of the whole thing. The whole class ground to a halt, and watched me be a clown for a couple of minutes.

Never one to leave an opportunity unexplored, I thought I might be able to get out of the rest of my school day if I made like the glue had made me sick, so I milked the moment.

It worked a little too well. It got me out of that day, and all the ones after it.

The teacher took me to the office, and after several minutes of arguing with the powers that be, I was unceremoniously kicked out of school.

Generally, our teachers, parents, or any adult in a position of authority viewed Drew and I as troublemakers. We were rowdy, true, but we were kids. What did they expect?

Thinking about what I was like as a kid, and often times as an adult, I was probably A.D.D. / A.D.H.D. If I had been a kid in today's world, they would have had me medicated to the nines, walking around like I was on a lithium drip. But, being the times it was, no one had a damned clue as to what Attention Deficit Disorder was...

...and I preferred to self-medicate, anyway.

In the end, our only true crime was the music we listened to. Something happened in the adults of the seventies. I truly think they forgot what it was like to be young and eager to discover.

So, fuck em.

I told you that two things happened of great significance during this time.

The first was Pete giving me my guitar, which led to my first drum set.

The second thing was something that happens to every horny young guy. I met a girl.

Her name was Jeni Malara, and she was Carol's best friend.

Jeni used to come by all the time, hanging out, staying over, listening to music with Carol, doing all those Seventies teen girl things. Let's face it, I was always horned out. If it was female, I was going to give a once over, and my standards usually weren't that complicated.

She lived on 226th in Torrance, just up the street. There was something about Jeni and the way she was around me. I think she really dug me, but I was younger than her by a year or so, and getting into her pants (as hard as I tried) wasn't in the immediate future.

It's not like I thought she was "the one," but she had a quality other chicks didn't. Besides, Drew's super hot sister wasn't really working out for me, right?

My future with Jeni was set. It was only a couple of years later that we were living together...

...then getting married...

...and having a son...

...and stomping down the rugged road of life for another 24 years.

Stay tuned for more on THAT.

RATT in Pasadena 1982, Metallica opened for us on this show.

My entire life is bound, wrapped and colored by music; both the music I listen to and absorb, and the music I've helped create.

There's something that happens when you're around music. Yours or someone else's. Something inside you kicks on, or turns off accordingly. Whether you're into whatever is playing, or not, your soul responds. And it's a different response for everyone. There are dudes in this world who worship the accordion. I don't know those guys, mind you. My guess is that most of them are middle-aged, virginal, and still living with their mothers. But, at least they have the accordion. Bless them for that, right?

I have been blessed in my own ways. One of the best is my memory. It's served me very well my entire life. I remember dates, events, experiences, almost at will. And, with really great clarity. I can remember most every concert or show I've ever seen. Even the shows where I'd abused myself in some fashion or form (chemically speaking, of course), I can pull up with near total recall. It's a gift that I cherish. It's also a gift that has saved my career, as you will discover a little later.

Once I'd been bitten by the creative process, I couldn't get enough live music.

I'd spent my childhood huddled around beat up record players listening to everything. I had my favorites, true, but I'd give a listen to most anything. Music even determined most of the relationships in my life. If you weren't into music, I wasn't into you.

But, when I started playing, and playing well, I tried to go to every concert that came through the LA area. The guys who manned the gate at the Long Beach Arena knew me on sight. I saw everything.

It was like music school, on the cheap. One weekend, I might catch Humble Pie, Spooky Tooth and Uriah Heap on the card at the arena, then catch a couple of local shows over in Hollywood the next night.

I was a machine, and each show I went to was a learning experience in some fashion. It wasn't about fame and fortune. It was about life. My life. And there wasn't anything else I was going to be able to do with it. I HAD to be a musician.

One night in July of 1975, I had one of my best moments at a show. It was the night that Aerosmith headlined a show at the Long Beach Arena with Mahogany Rush and Status Quo opening.