Tales Of A RATT (12 page)

Around this time, I get a call from Don Dokken.

First off, let me say that he's a bit neurotic, our Don is. We were like brothers for so long, almost twenty years. I got him out of so many jams, mostly because he was, and still is a pathological “story enhancer.”

The guy was ALWAYS on the hustle. ALWAYS.

At any given time, Don had five or six girlfriends who all had money, and were always funding him. He would be juggling them around, but, sooner or later, he'd get busted. It always fell to me when they needed someone to call, crying and upset. I'd wind up spinning them a story to bail Don out of trouble and get them calmed down until the next time it happened. Just say that Don has some pretty serious baggage floating through his gene pool.

He calls me, and is like, "Dude, I swear to God I'm about to fucking lose it! I'm gonna have a nervous breakdown. I gotta make it. I gotta make it right now. Fucking, you and Tom are over there. I got you that gig. You know, Vic Vergat, fucking going on tour with Nazareth. I'm sitting over here fucking dying.” He didn't have a band put together at the time.

I'm like, "Don, why don't we do this. Let me talk to Dieter Dierks (who Don introduced us to) and see if he'll let you come over here and record your demo. Tom and me will play on it. See if you can get a deal over here.”

So, I did. I set the thing up with Dieter. Don scrounged the money up to come over, but he had absolutely NO money while he was here. He slept in my bed, in my little hotel room in the Hotel Trost. I remember that I drew a "Line of Death" down the center of the bed with pillows. I said, "Don, if you cross this line in the middle of the night, you fucking die. I swear to God! Don't even poke your FINGER at me.”

His first night there, I made him put his socks outside the window because he'd been wearing them forever, and they smelled like a demon's crotch! Not that I've ever smelled a demon's crotch. It’s a point of reference.

Don is a strange guy. As I said, he had these weird habits, like the “story enhancing.” He'd tell stories to people, and I'd know they were total bullshit. I'd know, because I had been there to witness whatever story he was elaborating on. Then he would look at me and say shit like, "Isn't that right, Blotz?” And, I'd be going, "No, dude. Not really.”

But, for all his bullshit, Don and I were bros, even though he fired me from Airborn. We used to always be able to talk about our careers and that incessant journey to "make it.” I had my bands, and he had his bands. We were just two guys trying to grab the brass ring. Neither of us were going to give in, and that sort of made us brothers-in-arms.

I've had a lot of really good times with Don. Lots of good memories, just none coming to mind at the moment.

He was a really good mechanic, and would always help me out with my cars.

So, Tom and I wound up going in and rehearsing with him. We had stopped rehearsing in the bomb shelter, and had moved to this theater where all the seats had been removed. We would work on the stage show with Vic, and then rehearse the stuff we were working on with Don, right after.

We cut 3 songs. "Stick to Your Guns," "Paris is Burning," and some other song, I forget. Something Young. Young something. "Young Girls," I think it was. They were all on the "Breaking the Chains" album.

Tom and I wrote on some of this stuff. "Paris is Burning" was one of George Lynch's songs. He was in a band called The Boys, and it was one of his songs. Don and I used to play gigs with them when we were in Airborn together. We used to always jam this song of theirs called "Paris is Burning" at Airborn rehearsals, because it was a cool song. Don said he had acquired it from George; bought it or something. So we worked it up, and I wrote the last lyrics in the song. Tom did some writing on it as well. We put everything together. We worked our ass off on all this tape we did with him. It was so good, that the songs went onto the Breaking the Chains album untouched.

Michael Wagner is the famous German engineer who has produced Warrant, Skid Row, the White Lion records, on and on. The guy has skins on the wall. He engineered the work, and this demo with Dokken was fantastic. Absolutely kick ass work. Don took the demo, telling Tom and I, "Look, if anything happens, you guys are getting half the publishing on these songs.” It wasn't a big deal. We felt we were just repaying the favor. You know? He put our names in the hat, and we got the gig and were off on a major arena tour. So, it's the least we could do for a bro.

So, Don goes down to Hamburg and he comes back with a briefcase full of money! And, we're like, "What?!?” He got his deal, you know? Then, he gives Tom and me a hundred bucks each. That was it. We never got any writing credit. No publishing. Those songs went on the Breaking the Chains record just as we had recorded them. We were uncredited, and by then he had gotten George Lynch, Mick Brown and Juan Croucier in the band.

Typical Don.

After being in Cologne for two months, we boarded a train at the Cologne Station, heading for Switzerland for the beginning of the tour.

While we were over there, Tom and I were in a hotel in Basil, Switzerland. We had just gone out on tour. We were listening to some Beatles stuff, and playing backgammon with the television on and the sound down. I happened to glance over and catch a map of the US with a big red spike stuck right in Washington DC. I was like, "What the fuck?" I turned the sound up.

That was when we heard about President Reagan being shot. They showed the footage over and over. It was a very strange, disturbing feeling to be in a foreign country when someone tries to murder the President. Then, not long after that, some wackjob tried to kill the Pope. First Lennon, then Reagan, and then the Pope. It was a weird, disjointed time.

Most of the holidays are the same, with a few exceptions. April Fool's Day is NOT one of those exceptions.

While we were still in the hotel in Basil, I had this fax sent to me, and faxes were new then. I had never heard of a fax.

"What the fuck is this? A fax? Okay…”

I'm reading this fax, and it's from Eddie Van Halen. It says that Alex has been injured, and they need a fill in drummer to finish out the tour with.

I was freaking out! Was this real?!? This was Van Halen! The biggest band on the planet. It seemed like a possibility! I mean, I'm here in Europe, about to go out on a major arena tour. Maybe I'm coming into my own, you know? They knew me from when I was in Airborn. Maybe they knew I was making records and out on tour? I was going to play with VAN HALEN??? This better be fucking real!

I called Jeni, and was like, "Did anyone from Van Halen call and ask for the contact phone over here, or something?” She said, "No". I told her what was going on, and then we were both freaking out! The mighty Van Halen, and I was going to play with them!

I rolled with this thing all the way into the night, calling and trying to find out any information I could. The end of the fax had a little blurb saying they would be in touch with all the important info. Then later that night, we were all liquored up in the bar, supposedly celebrating, when Vic starts laughing. He and Tom had set up the whole thing.

"April Fool's, fucker!” The bastards...

I got him back, though. After we got back stateside, we had a couple of weeks off before we went out on the road again. We were going to do a couple of rehearsals, just to tighten things up before heading out again. Vic was waiting for us down at the rehearsal studio.

He had been staying at the Oakwood Apartments in Burbank at the time. So I got hold of him through Pricilla, the girl who worked the front desk at the Burbank rehearsal studio.

I threw a bunch of bass in my voice and said, "Yes, Mr. Vergat? This is John Sweeney (or whatever name I made up in my head) over at the Oakwood Apartments, and we seem to have some problems over here. Apparently there has been a burglary and your apartment was broken into. Everything has been turned inside out and there's a lot of damage done. Are you a musician, or something?” He's like "Yes, I am." And you can hear the crushing doom in his voice. "Well, the people who did this were seen leaving the apartment with guitars and things. Did you have instruments in there?” He's like "Oh my God, yes, I did!", with his Italian / French / Swiss / German, only Americanized, accent. "Well, the place has been ransacked. Some of the guitars have been smashed, and are in pieces in the room. You should probably get here as quick as you can.”

So, he's hauling ass the 5 or 10 miles from the studio to the apartments, just sick to his gut.

I specifically waited for this moment, so I could be late. When he got back, I was already at rehearsal. He comes walking in and I'm like, "We're even, motherfucker! From Basil?” It was completely hysterical. A huge laugh.

I haven't seen Vic in years and years. He surfaced at my house back in 1994, and stayed with me for a week. His hair was all white. I mean, really white. "Albino with a bleach habit" white. Completely tripped me out. The guy was ten years older than me, and in great shape; just white headed in his mid-forties. He's back in Switzerland, as far as I know. I heard he was working in a studio over there. But, who knows?

After we had finished rehearsing, and Don had scurried back to the states with his briefcase full of money, we went on tour with Nazareth in Europe.

Incredible. Absolutely one of the highlights of my life. Packed to the rafters at the arena shows every night. Just a huge sea of people each night.

We had a couple of guys in the crew who were monumental assholes. The label had hired these guys, and sort of shoved them on us. One was the soundman, Night Bob, who had cut his teeth for seven years on the road with Aerosmith.

The guy was a New York type. The tour who was a New York attitude on wheels was Rabbit.

Because they had finished a couple of tours with some names, they had all these stories to tell, and that was pretty cool. But, they always talked shit. Always. And, they would do it in that really condescending New York way, like they wanted to fight.

I tended to just shine them on, but Night Bob was rolling on me one night, when we were touring the U.K. He was just giving me nonstop grief, and Tom got sick of it. He walked up and called the guy out. It was a thing of beauty. Night Bob just caved. The guy went down like Heidi Fleiss with cashflow problems. A total pussy moment. I gotta give props to Tom for that. It was a beautiful thing to behold.

Touring with Vergat had some interesting moments. Most of them coming from Vic himself.

Vic used to have a habit of washing his ass in the dressing room sink before each show. That's right. You didn't misread it. He would wash his ass in the sink.

Tom and I would be laughing our ass off at this. We'd be going, "Vic, what the fuck are you doing? Why are you washing your ass in the sink?”

He'd say, in his funky Euro-accent, "I don't want my ass to stink while I'm on stage!”

"Who the hell is going to be smelling your ass while you're on stage?”

"I don't know, but if they do, I don't want it to fucking stink!”

There's an odd logic to that, especially when you've been stuck in Europe for weeks on end. But, logic or no, Tom and I were not going to wash our asses in the sink. Let them stink! If they were dumb enough to sniff our ass, they deserved what they got!

Those damned ass-sniffing Europeans!

We came back to the states and toured over here, also with Nazareth, and then the Joe Perry Project was added. I was playing huge arenas, at only twenty-one years old. I was sure that I had made it!

Rock music is racked with its touring traditions and superstitions. One of those traditions is for the headlining act to prank the opening acts on the last night of a tour. Our last show of the tour was in San Antonio, Texas.

However, this was not to be a traditional closing night. The crew, bastards that they were, decided to fuck with the rookie, meaning they fucked with me. They told me that it was customary for the OPENING act to prank the HEADLINER, not the other way around.

I didn't know! I was a kid on my first tour!

But, never one to buck tradition, I was told to put baby powder in Darrell Sweet's hi-hats. When he came on, he hit the hi-hats, and baby powder exploded out of the thing! A huge cloud of this shit completely encompassed the stage. Pete Agnew, their bassist, was so completely pissed off that I thought he would stroke out on stage. The guy was spitting at me! He was ready to kill!

By the end of the first song, Darrell's glasses and beard were solid white! He looked like he was ready to be tossed into a frying pan. The whole room stunk like baby powder, and, dear God, they were so fucking pissed! I'm lucky they didn't beat the shit out of me. But, again, I was a kid! What the hell did I know about it? I was just doing what I was told!

You can never trust a road crew. Not ever! They're pranky little pricks who would love nothing more than to get you beat to death by a gold record artist!

The guys in Nazareth did come hunting for me after the show. And, I did plead my case.

"Those dudes told me to do it, man! I didn't know!”

Nazareth was a great band, and obviously they had a good sense of humor. At the least, they were forgiving, as evidenced by my ability to still breathe. Either they were forgiving, or their lungs were so permeated with baby powder, they couldn't breathe enough to stomp the shit out of me.

Jeni was pregnant with Michael during the American leg of the tour, so she was coming out with this huge belly with Michael in there.

Oddly enough, it's when things are going the best that the worst shit tends to happen. The American leg of the tour was done by late November of 1981. We were gearing up to do it all again. We went into the Capital Records Studios, which are in the basement of the world famous Capital Records Building, and cut thirteen new songs. We were looking for a producer, when suddenly, there was no more money.