Gladiators And Dancers, Too!

Gladiators And Dancers, Too!

Sharon Liveten

Contrary to popular opinion, the center of Hollywood is not exactly a glamorous place. “Sleazy” is the operative word here. Really scummy. And on a corner even hookers avoid after midnight, one will find the building that houses the pride of hard rock L.A.—Ratt Central. The official base for Ratt: vocalist Stephen Pearcy, guitarist Robbin Crosby, bassist Juan Croucier, guitarist Warren DeMartini and drummer Bobby Blotzer. The place looks like a home for rodents, and not only those of the two-legged variety.

But on the upper floors, under the shadow (on smogless days) of the Hollywood sign, Ratt headquarters is a busy place. Assistants are scurrying around, trying to answer fan mail, set up video locations and more or less prepare the world for yet another attack from the killer rodents.

Yup, Ratt are back. After crashing out of the L.A. club scene and onto the Billboard charts with 1984’s Out Of The Cellar, the band released a disappointingly mellow follow-up. Invasion Of Your Privacy and spent an alarming amount of time on the road—and out of the country. Good news, Ratt lovers—their latest album, Dancing Undercover, won’t send them hiding again. It rocks. It contains their patented hooks. It’s fun.

Now, after countless postponements and a few last-minute changes, guitarist Robbin Crosby and Stephen Pearcy have designed to come to Ratt Central to discuss the new disc with METAL. Oh, wow.

The guys do make a dramatic entrance: as he sweeps into the room, the top of guitarist Robbin Crosby’s blond hair (are we talking L’Oreal, or what?) grazes the top of the doorframe. Stephen sort of glides, and sinks behind the office desk. Without his headband, Stephen still looks like an album cover. Cigarette and all. “I don’t really smoke,” he says with a smirk as he tears apart the desk drawers for a match. “I do it for attitude.” Just before he falls into a complete nicotine fit, an assistant arrives with a lighter. It’s attitude, all right.

But Robbin doesn’t waste time with pleasantries. “Well,” he demands, “what do you think of the album?”

That’s my question. But he asked first. And the man is the size of several L.A. Raiders.

“It’s better than the last one,” I began before Stephen, a man with a constantly running (but usually amusing) motormouth, interrupts. Rock star to the rescue. Or something.

“The record’s been out for a week now,” he deadpans, “and let me tell you I’m excited. But,” he brightens, “we’re going out on tour soon.”

A real tour, that is. One where they actually leave L.A., and go up onstage and bring musical instruments and stuff. Apparently Stephen’s been doing his own tour of local venues since the band returned from Japan.

“I go out all the time to clubs,” he smiles. “I still go right back where it all came from to see what’s going on. There are nice people out there. It’s cool to go to clubs. Nobody gives us a hard time when we go out. It’s not like we’re signing autographs or anything,” he grins. “Unless someone asks. The people around here know that’s where we come from, and we just happen to be hanging around, Like the Whiskey; everybody has played there. That’s why we shot the video of “Dance” there. But coming back to L.A. is always weird. It s always changing, but it’s still the same. You always want to come back, though—if you live here you know why. Nobody else does.” This is true.

Stephen’s addiction to L.A. accounts for part of the reason the band chose to record in their hometown instead of opting for one of the trendier European or New York studios. It also helps that Crosby, the proud owner of a house nestled in the Hollywood Hills, is a homebody. And the studio is his second home.

‘‘We recorded this record in L.A.,” Robbin laughs. ‘‘So Stephen comes in, does his part and splits. That's why he likes to record in L.A. I’m in the studio more. I like to check on things from the ground up. I like to see what happens all the way through.”

‘‘Being in the studio,” whines Stephen in perfect Val-speak before dissolving into laughter, “it like, messes up my rad tan.”

Still, the TLC administered by the Ratts—or at least Crosby and Croucier, the band’s studio bums—to Dancing Undercover makes a difference. It has an immediate, less prissy feeling than it’s predecessor. It doesn’t sound like the band spent months in the studio agonizing over an eighth note. Which they didn’t. This time the guys went in prepared and recorded fast.

“This record is a little harder, and not as sterile as Invasion was,” says Stephen. “To me, even though that was a good record—the best we had to offer then—it was not great. This is a little harder— maybe a little heavier—but it still has all the hooks and melodies. We spent more time in the studio last time. Dancing is the fastest record ever made by Ratt. It was done in three months—rehearsed, recorded and out the door. It’s like the old Boy Scout motto, be prepared. We were prepared.”

Not that any of these guys were Boy Scouts (OK, Stephen was a Weblow— which is a SoCal variation on the theme. Or so Robbin and Stephen claim). Ratt isn’t shy about having a good time—they figure they’ll make it to the Olympics of partying. But they don’t share the same kind of “lock up your daughters and hide the sheep” image of some hard rock outfits. Ratt don’t get arrested. They make melodic music. And Uncle Miltie shows up in their videos. How bad can they be?

Not very, which is why they’re concerned about the recent outbreak of violence and destruction at hard rock shows. ’Cause they figure their audiences are above all that.

“Our fans are pretty cool,” Stephen seriously insists. “They’ve got to know that if things get out of hand they’ll never have shows in their cities again. It won’t be allowed. But our audiences listen—they have to listen because one person can ruin the whole party for 14 or 15,000 people. They have to be considerate, because everyone wants to party, to Ratt ’n’ Roll. They want to go to shows, to see people. Our audiences,” he smiles, “they are dangerous, but worth the risk. Like us. You can take us home to mom. We’re not going to attack her. That’s our audience, too. They’re not going to beat the shit out of each other. They’re just out to have a good time. Our audience is very cool, that’s why I like to go out and hang out at clubs with them."

He’ll have that chance across the country in the next couple of months. After five months of relative serenity in L.A. the gang is gearing up to take on America.

“We haven’t toured here in more than a year,” says Robbin gravely. “I mean, that’s a long time. Playing live is what we do best. That’s why we tried to get that on the record. I like doing studio work,” he grimaces, “but not exclusively. We like to have fun. Playing is what we like to do. We play some places that other bands never want to go to. The funkier the place, the better, be it a big city or a small one. We boldly go where no band has ever gone before.”

But touring, particularly the non-stop kind that the Ratt boys are fond of, can take its toll. “We’re a live band," says Stephen, “so chaining us down is boring. Touring is not an exhaustion—-it’s like running around a track until you drop. It’s like any sport where you’re exhausted, and you wake up, and you’re ready to do it again. That’s more or less our attitude. We’re gladiators. Pirate, hippie gladiators. There are some very hip places out there. I like to get out and see people."

The public turned the tables recently and had a chance to get out and see Stephen as well. All of him. Possibly more than they ever desired.

In what was either a moment of serious mental trauma or just off-road boredom, Stephen joined the dubious ranks of Burt Reynolds and Steven Ford in stripping for the cameras of Playgirl. (He didn’t get the centerfold.)

“I did it ’cause it was fun," he says, blushing slightly. “I guess I’m an exhibitionist at heart. You’ve got to love to show off a little bit to be in this business, and I’m a nonconformist."

Thank God for rock ’n’ roll—and long tours. Otherwise he might be walking the streets of Los Angeles. Just kidding, we love ya Steve, we’ll do lunch when you get back. Say, next year?