That Time I Hung Out With A Rock Star - Ratt Edition

I lived some prime years of my life through the decadent age of hard rock and heavy metal that dominated the music landscape in the 1980's. It was an incredible time. The music was loud, the clothing was loud and the hair went all the way to 11. Anything worth doing was worth overdoing.

I followed those bands with the big hair and the black leather and the flashy guitars like they were a religion. I bought the rock magazines and studied the articles. I tore the glossy photos from the rags and plastered the walls of my bedroom with them. I bought cheap mall knockoff rock star clothing and frequented every local music store dreaming of the day I would be able to afford a sexy looking $700 guitar that would make women melt without even playing a single note.

My dedication to the music, the bands and the scene led me on many great adventures. I frequently sought out the bands when they were in town. I would stalk their tour buses and wait for the opportunity to hang out with anyone from the band.

It worked many, many times and I have these stories to tell. Like this one time when I hung out with the guys from Ratt.

Way back in 1987, Ratt were infesting Mtv with videos for their latest release, Dancing Undercover and they were crisscrossing the nation, invading our privacy on the Dancing Undercover World Tour. I scored a backstage pass to the show when they rolled through town.

There are legendary tales of partying and debauchery from ever 80’s rock band’s back stage area. Motley Crue’s were so infamous, they made a movie out of it. Def Leppard have infamous stories of what went on under their stage-in-the-round. But I can assure you, what I encountered backstage at the Ratt show can not be topped.

Poison opened up the show and they kicked ass. They were definitely on the precipice of being the next great rock band. I was sure they’d be headliners next time I saw them. But when Ratt took the stage, they blew the crowd away. Juan Croucier slithered around the stage as he thumped out some dirty bass lines. Bobby Blotzer made the arena thunder behind his massive drum kit. The twin gun fire of Robin Crosby and Warren DeMartini shook the crowd with their thunderous guitars and Stephen Pearcy screeched like a nest full of rats on vocals.

For ninety minutes, Ratt put on one of the most energetic shows I’d ever been to, before or since. I was left as sweaty and spent as the band looked when they took their final bow and retired backstage for the party that was to come.

As most of the crowd of over thirty thousand Ratt fans funneled out of the arena, I went in search of the door to the backstage area. I was a bit tricky. I had to go in the opposite direction everyone else was headed. Eventually, I found my way to the floor level of the arena and flashed by laminated backstage beauty to a few security guards. They ushered me forward to another set of doors deep in the underbelly of the venue.

There I came face to face with the first line of Ratt’s defences. Two burly body guards stood in my path to backstage party glory. I flashed my pass. They didn’t budge. I looked my pass over, had I been sold a fake? I had no way to know. It looked real.

Two girls came up behind me. They wore the tightest, lowest-cut, neon pink and green mini skirts I’d ever seen in my life, before or since. The guards parted ways for them, barely checking their passes. I moved in behind the girls. The guards didn’t stop me.

The world behind the portal to the mythical backstage area gave way to what had to have been the best party in the world happening at that moment. The place was wall to wall hair. Guys and girls alike wore might helmets of hair that cascaded over their shoulders and down their backs almost as far down as their hair was teased up. The pants were tight, the skirts were short, the heels were high and so were most of the people back stage.

Everyone held a cup. There were groups mingling. There was a pent up energy in the air. Everyone was giddy, waiting for the members of Ratt to appear. They were, no doubt, in the showers right now, playing grab ass, guzzing shower beers and partying like naked rock stars. A bevvy of naked beauties were sure to have been sponging the fellas down.

I peeled off from the two girls I followed in. They had no interest in me, they weren’t worth pursuing. Instead, I found a giant tub filled with ice and beer. I plucked a bottle loose of it’s icy chamber, twisted off the cap and took a slug. Life was good.

I paid no mind to what brand of beer I grabbed but, maybe I should have. After a few seconds my head began to swirl. I shouldn’t have been catching a buzz off one pull. I wiped my arm across my eyes and blinked, trying to clear the vertigo. I took a look at the label on the bottle. All it said was, DRINK ME, in black letters on a plain white label.

Curious.

Fuck it. The swirl had me feeling fine if only just a little light headed, so I took another pull. This stuff kicked because the whole room began to spin not long after the second swig. I tattered about, planting my feet, trying to maintain my balance like I was on board a ship in a storm.

People around me began to look at me funny. I smiled at them. They looked funny to me too. They stretched and compressed like they were made of rubber bands. I felt a hand steady me by my elbow.

I said, “Thank you,” without turning my head to look at my would-be hero.

My rescuer whispered in my ear, “come with me.” Another hand was placed at my back.

I did. He led me away from the party. The room spun but I felt grounded by the hand guiding me along by my elbow and gentle push from my back. Like I was being guided along chaotic currents by a small trolling motor.

I was brought to another set of door. Another set of big bodyguards blocked the way. They stretched and shrunk like everyone else at the party. I laughed at them. They parted to the sides and the doors opened. I was shoved inside.

The doors closed behind me.

In front of me was a long banquet table. Ridiculously long, if you ask me. Did you ask me? You shouldn’t ask me, I was drunk. Or drugged. Either way, that table was fucking long.

At the end of the table closest to me, a person sat in a heavy wooden chair. That person had long, luxurious blonde hair. They were tall. I could tell even though they were sitting down.

I moved forward to see who was sitting there.

Another person danced past me from behind. He dipped a shoulder and side stepped, brought his feet together (heel to heel, never crossing them) and dipped his shoulder the other way. He smiled at me like a joker as he passed in this manner. It was Juan Croucier, the bass player.

Juan sidestepped and high stepped to a chair along the long part of the banquet table. I moved to the opposite side of the table Juan sat and chose a seat two down from the tall blonde-haired person. As I sat, I looked to my host. It was Robin Crosby.

Somehow I’d been ushered into a dinner party with some members of Ratt?

“Hello, Mr. Crosby. Thank you for inviting me to dinner.”

Robin looked at me steely eyed. He crooked one eye brow and hoisted one of his endless legs up on the chair. He reclined a bit, resting his heel on the seat of the chair. He threw his head back and laughed.

“This isn’t a dinner party! This is a tea party.” He threw his arms to the table for me to notice the banquet that had been laid out.

There were indeed tea cups set at ever seat. There were several trays of cookies, biscuits, pastries and little sandwiches. There were porcelain bowls and pitchers. Robin reached for the lid on one of the bowls near him and lifted it, “sugar?”

“Ahh, no I’m not really a tea guy.” I was disappointed. I came to party with a legendary L.A. rock band and now I was stuck at tea time with the rhythm section.

“Sugar,” Robin repeated. No, demanded.

“I’m good man. Maybe I’ll just go back outside and grab another beer. Sorry for bothering you guys.” I said, getting up to leave.

From behind, I was pushed toward Robin. Stern hands held me down near him and his sugar bowl. I glanced over my shoulder. The drummer, Bobby Blotzer, was manhandling me.

“Sugar.” Robin insisted.

I looked at the bowl. It said “Eat Me” etched by a careful hand on the side. If it was sugar, it was the powdered kind.

Curious.

Robin fished the small serving spoon that sat in the sugar and put it to my nose. Bobby Blotzer gave me an urgent shove toward the spoon. I snorted the sweets being foisted upon me.

My head spun out of control once again. Blotzer dropped me into the chair next to Robin and sat in the seat I sat in originally.

I looked at Robin. He spun round and round but didn’t move anywhere at the same time. My heart thumped hard in my chest. I would have worried that it would explode had I not felt so fucking happy at the same time.

Thunderous laughter erupted from the far end of the table.

I looked that way and saw a giant rat seated at the head of the table. It was a lady rat. I think. If she was a lady, she was an old lady.

The rat lady wore a flowery, old lady dress complete with oversized pearl necklace and earrings. As a proper lady at any banquet should, the old rat lady also wore white silk gloves. I knew she was a rat lady because of the large rat head that sat upon her head. But, below the snout of the rat was the wrinkled face of a human. A human whose face was familiar to me somehow.

“Uncle Milt! Welcome to our lovely tea party.” Robin stood and bowed toward the old rat lady.

Uncle Milt? Oh shit! Milton Berle! This was crazy.

“Who’s coming next? That mad hatter?” I quipped in my state of delirium.

“Not Mad Hatter,” Milton Berle said in a not-very-feminine vocal impression, “the Mad Ratter.”

“He’s quite mad you know.” Robin said from the other end of the table.

Juan Croucier laughed like they were Uncle Milt and Robin Crosby had just told the funniest joke. Was it possible he was this Mad Ratter? He sure acted the part.

Bobby Blotzer grabbed a fine pewter tea kettle from the table like it was a pitcher of ice cold beer. He poured off tea into the cup in front of me until it spilled over and moved along over pouring tea into Robin’s cup, then Juan’s and finally Uncle Miltie the Ratt Queen’s. Then he raised the kettle over his head and poured hot tea into his mouth until it ran over his gaping maw, running down his neck and beaded down over his tour leathers.

“He’s quite mad you know.” Robin said, raising his tea cup up to Bobby as a toast to his madness.

I raised my cup to join in the toast. I noticed the side of the cup said, “DRINK ME.” I did as it instructed. I caught a buzz off the sip I took right away. The table and everyone around it stretched and shrunk and spun round and round in my vision.

Curious.

“We need some entertainment, don’t you think Robin?” Uncle Militie the Ratt Queen asked.

“Oh yes, the Mad Ratter won’t come unless we provide entertainment for the good man.” Robin said with elegance and grace.

There was a loud bang from above. Then another. And another. Then the ceiling above the table cracked and crumbled. A body fell through the hole in the ceiling onto the table. I jumped up and away from the plume of drywall dust, shocked and aghast.

It was Warren DeMartini, the other guitarist from Ratt. He was unharmed from the fall. He landed like he was Tom Cruise in some Mission Impossible movie, crouched down on one knee and his guitar strapped around his neck. Before I could process what had even happened, Warren broke into a wicked guitar solo.

Warren's licks were dizzying. The high squeals and manic scale runs dizzied my head. His solo work was as intoxicating and everything I ate or drank tonight.

Curious.

Robin Crosby stood up and clapped his hands over the honey-sweet licks from Warren DeMartini’s guitars that squealed over amplifiers hidden around the room. Juan, Bobby and Uncle Miltie rose to their feet as well.

They all looked at me. I stood from my chair. My head spun. The beer, the sugar and the Warren DeMartini tabletop solo worked overtime on my buzz. I teetered then I tottered. They all laughed at me. Their faces stretched and shrunk as they laughed.

Curious.

Robin held his arms out to his sides like a preacher at a sermon, “Lades and Gentlemen and Ratt’s of all ages,” DeMartini galloped on his low E string, building anticipation, “the moment we’ve been waiting for all night. I present to you...”

I looked around. Now who the fuck was going to show up at this mad tea party?

“...The Mad Ratter!”

Warren DeMartini windmilled his guitar. It went: Wha! Wha! Wha! Wha!

The room filled with fog like it did when the lights in the arena. The lights in the room dimmed. Strobes of purple, blue, green, red and white filled the room. My head swam, I put a hand on the back of my chair to try to stead myself.

The room stretched and shrunk.

Curious.

A figured materialized through the fog and flashing lights. A shadow at first that sauntered up to the table. The figure, silhouetted by the strobing lights from behind, placed its hands down on the table top, still standing.

Warrant DeMartini finished a bumble bee scale run, letting the final note ring out. The lights turned back on and the strobes cut out.

Before me stood Stephen Pearcy, lead singer of Ratt.

“The Mad Ratter!” Robin Crosby introduced the guest of honor.

Stephen Pearcy said nothing. He just stared me down, gripped the edge of the long banquet table and flipped the motherfucker!

Tea cups and kettles crashed to the ground and shattered. Candelabras clattered over and lit the table cloth ablaze. Juan Croucier panicked and ran in circles like a trapped mouse. Robin Crosby sneered as the light of the fire danced against his pupils. Bobby Blotzer danced to music that no longer played.

Stephen Pearcy climbed upon the tables edge and pointed at me. That’s all he did. Just that.

Uncle Miltie, the Ratt Queen. He laughed and laughed and laughed. His face stretched and shrunk. He stopped laughing, looked at me and simply shrugged.

Curious.