Authors: Bobby Blotzer
I told her that I was really touched by her story in Behind the Music. She is so sweet and nice. People like to trash talk her in the media, but I'm telling you, she's as good a person as I know. Those people are full of shit.
We're laughing up the old times, talking about the VH-1 episode, and she goes, "Wouldn't it have been great if they had put "the shoe" in there?”
I about fell out laughing. "Oh, my God, you remember that, too?”
She goes, "Oh, God, are you kidding?”
I guess a rancid shit in a shoe is hard to forget.
I'll give you another example. My 32nd birthday. 1990.
One of my neighbors, and really good friends, was Alan Niven. Alan was the manager for Guns N Roses, and it so happened that on the night of my 32nd, Guns was playing the Los Angeles Coliseum, opening up for the Rolling Stones.
I'm a huge Stones fan. Alan knew it, and suddenly BAM! There I am with a laminate pass around my neck, watching the show.
It was awesome! A great birthday present. And, the Stones were really knocking it out during their set.
I couldn't resist getting a closer look.
Gradually, I worked my way to stage right, where the bands are led up. In a matter of minutes, I was standing on the stage, just out of sight of the crowd.
Mick Jagger kept looking over at me, confused. It was pretty obvious that he had no idea who I was, or what the fuck I was doing there. Everyone else around me was personnel working on the show.
After about 20 minutes, this guy taps me on the shoulder, and with a thick English accent goes, "Excuse me. Who the fuck are you, and what are you doing on my stage?”
I tried to calm the guy down. I told him that I was a friend with Alan Niven, manager of Guns N Roses. My name was Bobby Blotzer and I'm the drummer for RATT. It's my 32nd birthday, and I'm a huge fan.
The guy's like, "Happy birthday. Now, get the fuck off my stage.”
He wasn't having it.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah...keep walking.” He led me down the stairs at stage right. By the time we got to the bottom, I'd convinced him I wasn't just some guy who wandered up there, and I kinda belonged.
So, he mellowed a bit. At least he didn't try to have me tossed from the place.
From there, I figured the best place in the house to hear the show was going to be from the sound booth, since the guys mixing the damn thing were all sitting right there.
So, I made my way through the crowd to the sound booth. Again, a place I shouldn't have been allowed.
But, there I was. Standing there at the board, sharing a beer with Barbara Streisand.
It was a great show. And for 20 minutes, I was on stage with the Stones. Very memorable for me. And Babs hardly backwashed at all.
The night ended with just as much surprise as it began.
It's two in the morning, and I'd just gotten back to the house. The show is still buzzing in my ears when the phone rings.
It's Alan Niven.
"Dude, get dressed. I'm taking you somewhere.”
"Where?”
"Just get dressed. I'm sending a car.”
Sure enough, a big limo pulls up in front of my house a few minutes later. They won't tell me where we're going, but by three o'clock, I'm standing on the tarmac of a private airport next to a leer jet.
Alan shows up, we board, and by sunrise we're on the East Coast, making plans to see Great White.
I don't remember much after that.
Thirty-two was a really good number!
Stories like these don't happen with the same frequency anymore. These days, we just don't hang out much anymore. Everyone is off doing their own thing, having evolved beyond the 80s. So, it's more of a matter of just running into each other every once in a while.
I still have all the same friends that I always have had, and for that, I'm thankful. I just don't see them much.
I see them when I see them.
Back in our early days, when we were rehearsing at Dennis O'Neil's mother's house. Our chemistry came pretty quick. I was a good drummer, and had a lot of experience. The others could sense that, I think. Plus, we were all influenced by the same bands. Aerosmith, in particular. We were all close to the same age, and had the same influences, and that became a launching pad. We were just like, "Well let's have at it. Let's do it.”
Our mentality was not so much a family mentality as it was just a gang. It was us, out there to get "them.” "Them" could be anything from an individual to the world. But, we were out to plant our flag and take what's ours.
Of all the guys in the band, I was probably tightest with Robbin. He was the most sensible. He was pretty well educated, and had an even, cool temperament. Juan and I were pretty tight, too, though. Because we were close while growing up. But, then Juan started having some serious ego issues, especially when we really started to get famous. It just got to the point where I really couldn't stand him. I didn't want to be around the guy, and he had been one of my closest bros.
Warren and I were like brothers who, when you see them, it's great, but when you don't see them, you don't see them. It's no big deal.
The Invasion tour finished off in the United States in San Diego; Stephen, Robbin and Warren's hometown. Then we finally got three or four weeks off. It didn't last long, though. A month later, it was off to Europe with Ozzy and the Monsters of Rock Tour. After that, we were off to Japan to wrap things up.
We had been on the road nonstop for almost four years. The strain on the band was very evident, and for me, all I wanted was to get home and be normal for a while.
The thing never seemed to end. Not that I wanted the BAND to end, mind you. I just wanted a chance to be a dad and a husband for a while. But, every time we would get home, it was immediately back into the studio, then right back out on the road.
The Show Pony Express, that was us. Atlantic Records and our management were driving our asses, whip in hand. I wanted any chance to see my family, and when they came, I jumped on them.
I was the first one in the band to buy a house. Paid $248,000 for it. It was right on Torrance beach, in a neighborhood called the Hollywood Riviera, right at the beach. And, in the tradition of the booming 80s, my interest rate on the loan was, brace yourself, 13%. Fucking Reagan Era, baby! Yuppies ruled the Earth, and greed was still good!
I put $50,000 down on a $248,000 house and my payments were still $2300 a month. At the time, I was getting rich, so I didn't give a shit, but, Jesus! Today, you get that house at 5%. It's nothing.
When we got back, they tried to shove us right back into the studio to record "Dancing Undercover.” But we weren't anywhere close to ready for it. Our manager was giving us shit because there was a deposit on the studio, and we were going to lose it if we didn't get in there. So, there was a lot of pressure.
That album was winged together so quick. Pearcy was at his worst. The guy wasn't at a single rehearsal. There was really a lot of dissension in the band by that point. Lots of bad vibes. I got to say that most of that blame falls right at the feet of the label and management. They worked us right into the ground for three straight years, and now they were "back for more," to not put too fine a point on it.
There's some good stuff on it, too, but by and large, it wasn’t my favorite. Especially side B. There are songs on there that are musically cool, but the lyrics are a waste and it blows it for me.
One night, somewhere around 1988, Jon Bon Jovi calls me up. He was in town, and he goes, "Hey, Blotz. You wanna go to this Keith Richards listening party for his 'Cheap Winos' record down at the Whisky. You want to go?”
"Yeah, bro. That sounds pretty hot.”
So, Jeni and I pick Jon and his wife, Dorothea up at their hotel. I was really surprised when I saw where they were staying, too. I was giving him shit about it. I'm like, "Jon, you've sold 20 million records with that last album, and you're staying in this place?!?”
He was staying in a Ramada Inn. It was in the Wilshire area, but a really old, kinda dumpy Ramada. It was WAY below what he was used to.
We get to the Whisky, and they're playing the record over and over. We see Keith come in, surrounded by bodyguards and make his way to the VIP area.
We were all in the balcony area, sitting at a table. Keith walks right past us on his way upstairs.
"Well, there he is! Keith Richards!” I figured that was the only time we would get to see him. He looked well guarded and unapproachable.
A few minutes later, a guy comes up and says, "Jon, Keith would like to meet you and take some pictures.”
I was like, "Shit.” I really wanted to go up, too, but I didn't want to intrude, you know.
So, I sat there with Jeni and Dorothea, just shooting the shit for about a half hour. Jon comes back, and I was asking him all these questions. He was a little star-struck by the whole thing, and I can't say I blame him. It's fucking Keith Richards!
A few minutes later, Keith came back down, being escorted out. So, it was over. He had made his appearance and the evening was done.
At some point, Jon decides he want to go, so he's like, "Man, if you want to stay, that's cool. I'll just jump a taxi.” So, he and Dorothea were off. So, Jeni and I, along with my buddy, Krell-Gar, Phil Soussan, the bass player for Ozzy, and this chick that used to be with Mick Brown, the drummer for Dokken are all sitting on the back stairs at the Whisky, just inside the back door. We're just talking and having a good time.
All of a sudden, the back door opens, and in steps Keith Richards without a bodyguard in sight. I look at him, and I'm like, "Holy fuck. Keith, what are you doing, man?”
He's like, "How you doing?” In his raspy, vice-addled voice. He looks around, and goes, "Ah, shit. I thought I gave this place up in 1963!”
I go, "I'm glad you're still here.” I introduce everyone around, and he's hanging out, talking to us. I was telling him what a Stones fanatic I was, since I was old enough to walk. He's being real polite, but has to get upstairs.
He stops on his way by and looks at me. "You want to have a drink?”
I'm like, "Hell, yes!” It was clear he was talking to me, but Phil Soussan latched on to our belt loops and joins us.
We get upstairs, and Keith pulls out a bottle of Jack Daniels. He pops the cap, and we're passing this thing around for a while, just taking a pull and handing it on. I was completely tripping out. I'm thinking, "This is never going to happen again, so definitely enjoy it. Milk it for all it's worth.”
I'm asking him questions about old Stones songs and records. I told him that "Exile on Main St." was my favorite Stones album of all time. A double album, and every single song was fantastic.
He's like, "That was a good one, that was a good one.”
I go, "How's Charlie doing these days?”
He takes a long drag off of his cigarette, sucking the most he can get out of that thing, like he's the masculine version of Bette Davis; blowing a long cloud of smoke out like it's never going to hurt him.
He looks at me, and goes, "Ah, Charlie's great. That Charlie loves to buy cars. He's got a whole stable of them, there in his garage.” With his English accent, garage came out as "gay-rodge". Pretty funny. "He never drives them. He just starts them up and stares at the dash. He loves to play with them.”
Jon was tripping when I told him about it.
Another instance with Jon, the day before they got their American Music Award for "Slippery When Wet", we were over at Doc Mahgee's house for a bar-be-que party.
Some of the guys from Mötley were there, and the guys from Bon Jovi. I was the only one from RATT who was there, but a bunch of people who worked for Doc were hanging around. It was a pretty big party.
We stayed well into the evening, long after people started to fade away and leave. Jon and I were shooting pool, and doing shots of tequila; just shooting the shit. It got to where it was just the two of us.
I had sent Jeni home with the car, because I wanted to stay and hang out. Doc told me, "You want to stay, hang out. I have a limo outside. I'll have it take you home.”
So, me and Jon were getting completely crapulous on tequila. That was Jon's drink back then. Tequila, the bitch whore of all hard liquor. So, we're polluted pretty bad, and I go, "Jon, I'd never ask anyone this normally, but I've had enough to drink, so I'm going to. What was your take on that last tour and record?”
He goes, "You mean as a whole, or what I pulled myself on that?”
"What was your take?”
He thinks for a second, then says, "I don't usually tell people stuff like that, but since I'm as shitfaced as you are, I might as well. Right now, it's sitting at about eighteen.”
I grin, and all tongue-in-cheek, I go, "Eighteen hundred bucks? Odd, I would've thought you would have made more than that!”
He starts laughing, and goes, "Yeah, eighteen hundred bucks.” I’m thinking to myself that this guy who opened for me last year made $18 million.
I go to leave, and the limo is gone. Doc comes outside and goes, "What are you still doing here?” I told him about the limo, and he calls them back to take me home. The guy picked up the bill on it, and everything. Doc's a great guy. I just crashed out in the back of the limo.
The next day, I was SO hung over. I was hurting all day long, and kind of laughing to myself, because I knew Jon had to be hurting too, but he had to get up in front of a huge audience at the award show and look good!
Sucks to be him, right? Mister "I made Eighteen!”
So, I watched it on TV, and they kept showing him on the camera all night. He looked all right, but I know different. No way was he was in good shape. No way!
Two nights later, there was an Aerosmith show at the Forum. I was at the sound board with the laminate pass, and I feel this tap on my shoulder. It was Jon. We immediately started pointing at each other, laughing. I knew exactly what he was going to say.
The first thing he does is hand me my wallet. I'm like, "What the fuck are you doing with my wallet?”
He goes, "You left it at Doc's the other night.”
"And YOU have it? Alright, whatever.”