The sun was finally going down.  It was still hot, but the temperature had cooled off.  Several breezes wafted through the backstage area.  It was a welcome relief from earlier in the day, when the heat and humidity seemed to hang in the air.  I had just finished watching Vince Neil perform and was waiting for him to make an appearance.  While I was waiting, Phil Lewis of L.A. Guns emerged from the inner sanctum with a pimp hat on his head and a girl on his arm.  He approached me.

“Hey mate! What are you up to?”

“Not much, man,” I replied. “I’m waiting for Vince to come out.”

“I haven’t seen him around.  He probably split.  You want something to drink?”

The heat had made me slightly dehydrated, so I took him up on his offer.  He returned from the catering area with a couple bottles of water.

“Sorry mate,” he apologized.  “It’s lukewarm.  Oh well, what’s good for the goose is good for the gander.”

We clinked bottles and drank.  Phil looked wistfully at the Scorpions’ deluxe tour bus, which was parked behind us.

“As much as I miss those things, I’m glad my army days are over,” he said.

“What do you mean?”

“Whenever I would bring fans on that bus, they would all comment on how nice and big they are, but they aren’t.  Touring on a bus is fun for the first couple of days.  It’s you and your band against the world.  After a couple weeks, you start to annoy each other and dirty socks are everywhere.  It’s disgusting.  I like the way we do it now.  We jet from gig to gig.   I have my own seat and my own room.”

“Where are you guys going after this?” I asked.

“Cleveland,” he said.  “Hey, do you smoke?”

“Once in a while,” I said.

“That’s what I like to hear.  C’mon, we can do it over there.”

We went over to the artists’ lounge and sat around a coffee table.  Phil lit up.

“I don’t do drugs or drink much anymore.  I just really like to smoke. Does that make me a sinner?  What about you?”

“Nah, I just drink occasionally.”

“Cool.  What’s your drink?”

“Amaretto and Coke.  It has to taste good.”

“Yeah.  I just drink red wine and the occasional gin and tonic.  I never liked feeling out of control.”

Phil started telling me about his childhood.  He was born in London and dreamed of becoming a soccer player.  He was good at it, but his life changed the moment he saw Alice Cooper perform “School’s Out” on television.

“I came home with my cleats on my shoulder and I heard that riff.  I had to be a part of that.”

Phil’s first stab at stardom was with Girl, a glam band that also featured Def Leppard’s Phil Collen.

“We couldn’t play, but we looked fantastic,” he said with a laugh. “So pretty.”

“That’s not necessarily true,” I said.  “Phil Collen can play.”

“Yeah, because he actually practiced,” Phil explained. “He was up in his bedroom every night with a book learning how to solo.”

Eventually Phil got sick of trading on his looks.  He moved to the United States and hooked up with L.A. Guns.  Although the band never reached the heights of Mötley Crüe or Poison, they are able to tour all year round.

“I’m not rich, but I’m able to pay my bills playing music.  We aren’t the biggest band in the world, but I know we sound great.  That’s the one thing I’m really proud of.  We sound so tight.”

By now we had been joined by the Scorpions bass tech, who happened to have an acoustic guitar with him.  He handed it to Phil, who started to play Rod Stewart’s “Maggie May.”   The performance was loose and sloppy, but he didn’t miss a note.

“That was awesome,” I told him, impressed.

“Thanks.  It’s a really cool song.”

Phil got up and stretched.

“I never realized that there was a hammock back there,” he said.  “I think I’m going to go lie in it and watch the fireflies.”

“That sounds good man,” I said.  “Thanks for the talk.”

“Anytime, John,” he replied.

We slapped hands and he went to lie in the hammock, with the girl hanging from his arm.

The M3 Rock Fest will invade Merriweather Post Pavilion on June 18.  Here is your handy-dandy guide to this public display of hairspray abuse.

Scorpions

The Scorpions are supposedly on their final tour, so the M3 Rock Fest will be the last time that “HELLO BALTIMORE, WE ARE THE SCORPIONNNNNNNNNNNNS!” will echo through the Pavilion.

Cinderella

Underneath the big hair and spandex, Cinderella is a great blues-rock band.  Tom Kiefer’s scratchy yowl is more Rod Stewart than David Lee Roth.  The only downside is that Eric Brittingham’s beautiful blonde palm tree no longer exists.

Vince Neil

It’s not Motley Crue, but it’s the voice of Motley Crue. That counts for something right?  He’ll play “Too Young to Fall in Love,” which is awesome in any context.

Kix

I rarely pass up an opportunity to see Kix.  Steve Whiteman is still one of the best frontmen in the business.  I never get tired of his corny double entendres.

Warrant

Jani Lane is no longer in the band, but they still have his songs.  The big hits are often cited as the worst example of the genre, but they work beautifully in an arena setting.

Winger

There was a time when I hated Winger with the white hot intensity of a thousand suns.  I’ve come to realize that I hated them for the same reason I hated Hanson; Kip had better hair than I did.

Nelson

Nelson is the butt of a lot jokes, but they don’t take themselves too seriously.  “After the Rain” is the definition of a guilty pleasure.

Jetboy

Jetboy is coming into the M3 with a ton of momentum.  Their five-song EP is one of the best hard rock records of the year, but they break out in a live setting.  You wanna see these guys.

Also appearing:

LA Guns

Trixter

Dizzy Reed

ZO2

Black Mambooza

Bang Tango

Jetboy is one of the most interesting bands of the 80s hard rock scene.  While the Sunset Strip was teeming with hopefuls from Iowa hoping to be the next Poison or Mötley Crüe, Jetboy came roaring out of San Francisco.  Their music was much heavier, closer to punk rock and the sleaze of Hanoi Rocks than the theatrics of Van Halen.  Although the band was talented, they were derailed by the death of original bassist Todd Crew and record company mismanagement.  They were ahead of their time, and fans didn’t know how to react.  Two decades after their major label debut, Jetboy has completely reformed, and is ready to reclaim their place in the pantheon of hard rock.  The core of Jetboy remains, frontman Mickey Finn and guitarists Billy Rowe and Fernie Rod.  They are joined by a new rythym section, bassist Michael Butler and drummer Doug Hovan.    I sat down with Jetboy prior to their set at the M3 Rock Fest to discuss their songwriting process, the heavier sound of Bay Area bands and touring with Stryper.  Check them out on Myspace: myspace.com/jetboyrocks

How are you guys doing? What are you up to?

Mickey Finn: We’re working on a new record. We’ve got about 11 new songs and we’re going to play about three new ones today.

Michael Butler: Four new ones.

Fernie Rod: Are we doing “Dying Inside?”

MB: Yeah.

FR: So we’re going to do four new ones for ya. How’s that?

Cool. So this will be your first new record in how long?

MF: Since ’90. Damned Nation came out in 1990.  There have been a few compilations since then, but this is the first new record in a while.

What’s your songwriting process like?

MF: We usually start out with acoustics, write a few licks and then I’ll write some vocals.  Then we’ll work in Garage Band a bit, get some basic ideas down.  We hadn’t written together in about 17 years.

Billy Rowe: Usually Fern and I will sit down and write the music together and then he’ll come up with the lyrics, but this time Mickey had lyrics written.  So we basically just traded riffs with each other like “What about this riff? What about this riff? What about this riff?”

Who are your influences?

FR: That’s a big question.  A key band was Hanoi Rocks.  They were really influential, and then (bassist) Sami (Yaffa) ended up in the band.  That made it much more special.  We all listen to so many different types of music.  Mick is a huge punk rock fan, so he brought that to the band.  But it all comes down to the classic rock bands. AC/DC was a huge inspiration.  Aerosmith was a huge inspiration as well.

What inspired you guys to get back together after all these years?

MF: The scene.  The scene started to come up again and we started working with Cleopatra Records, who wanted to release some of our stuff.  We started hearing a buzz about this style of music coming back, this ‘80s, ‘90s rock.  We thought “If people want to hear it, then we’re going to play because we never wanted it to go away in the first place.”

This is the ten year anniversary of the first really big ‘80s rock nostalgia tour, which featured Poison, RATT, L.A. Guns and Great White.  Ten years later there are festivals like the M3 Rock Fest all over the country.  Did you ever think the scene would blow up again like it has?

MF: Never. In retrospect it kind of makes sense though, because everyone involved in the scene is older now.  They aren’t interested in the new bands coming out.  They want bands like AC/DC and Aerosmith and stuff like that.  So it makes sense if they can’t find new bands doing this type of music, the old bands start popping out of the woodwork.  This band’s reuniting, that band’s reuniting. Everyone’s reuniting.

You guys are from the Bay Area, but most of the glam bands are from L.A.  I’ve noticed that the glam bands from San Francisco have a heavier sound.  Why do you think that is?

MF: I think the bands from the Bay Area have a more underground vibe. When we hit L.A., we were all listening to the New York Dolls and Guns n’ Roses when everyone in L.A. was still trying to be Van Halen. So we came from two different schools and merged into this whole glam rock/hair metal thing.  San Francisco has deep roots in blues and punk rock too, so that could be why bands from the Bay Area are heavier.

There is a major punk rock influence in your music.  It must have been hard to break through, especially in 1989.

MF: Yeah, I don’t think people were as ready for what we were doing back then, which is why I think we have a better shot today.  I think most people have heard of us, but might not have heard a lot of our music.  I think they will be more receptive to our new music because of that.  Anything goes in rock n’ roll today.  I was flipping through the channels the other day and saw a new country band.  The bass player had a Mohawk and was wearing a kilt.  I was like “That’s it! I’ve seen it all now (laughs).”

Let’s go back a little bit.  Right before you guys were about to break, your original bassist, Todd Crew, passed away.  Did his death hinder your success?

MF: It definitely buckled us.  At that time we had a lot of record company people, managers and A&R people pulling and tugging at us. They were telling us “You guys are going to be this, you guys are going to be that, going to be huge.” We were really young and we really felt the weight of it.

You guys were really into drugs though right?

MF: We were, but we kept our feet on the ground.  He was one of those people that was reckless and some people don’t do well with that kind of stuff. He had an addictive personality and we knew that was going to happen to him.

BR: It was one of those things where there was nothing that we could do, you know?  We tried to send him to rehab, we tried to get his parents involved, we tried to get everyone involved, but he was going to do what he was going to do.

How did you guys get involved with Sami Yaffa from Hanoi Rocks?

BR: We pretty much just contacted him.  Todd was still in the band when we asked Sami to join the band.  That was a really difficult time for us because we knew he was holding us back.  We tried to help him, but we had to let him go.  That was the hardest thing for all of us, the way it went down.  We had to do what was best for the band, and that’s what we did.

It’s kind of ironic because now Jetboy and Hanoi are considered the missing links of the entire genre.

FR: Yeah, I guess we’re missing links.  I mean you found us.  But we’re still a little bit under the radar.

Back in the day, you guys toured with Stryper.  What was that like and how did you get on that tour?

BR: (laughs) I don’t know how we got on that tour, but it was funny.  It was an available tour and they had a big album out at the time. It was cool though, because we were playing for 3,000 people a night and it got us out there.

MF: They were total hypocrites dude.

So the stories are true?

MF: Oh yeah.  They’d be walking around with six packs, always with some girl.  Then the next week they’d have their wife on tour with them and would be pushing a baby stroller.

What would be your ideal tour?

MF: AC/DC!

BR: Aerosmith.  Either of those bands would be wonderful.

FR: If the Stones ever tour again, I wouldn’t complain about that either.

Are you guys planning to tour?

MF: Oh yeah.  We decided not to book a bunch of shows this summer because we wanted to concentrate on writing.  The band is back together though.  We’re not necessarily riding the nostalgia train or the 80s rock train.  We came out of that period, but the band is current.  The idea is to move forward with the roots that we have in that great period.

So you’re still going to play “Feel the Shake,” but you have new stuff.

MF: Definitely.

BR: That song is timeless.  Rock n’ roll is timeless.

The backstage area bustled with activity.  I kept reminding myself that I was there as a journalist, not as a fan.  It was really hard though, especially when Stephen Pearcy emerged from the dressing room.  RATT was three minutes from the stage.  A roadie handed him a microphone and he was pacing back and forth, psyching himself up.  He stopped pacing long enough to say hello to me again.  He gave me a high-five.

“Hey man, we didn’t have time to hang out this time around.  Next time we’ll grab a brew or something,” he said, before returning to his routine.

The other members of RATT emerged: Warren DeMartini, Bobby Blotzer, Robbie Crane and John Corabi.  I shook hands with each of them and wished them a good show.  The road crew finally kicked me out, and I went to my seat.  When I got there, they were playing “Slip of the Lip,” my all-time favorite slice of RATT n’ Roll.  It was a surreal end to a surreal day.

The M3 Rock Fest felt like one giant high school reunion.  The bands had all toured with each other at one time or another during their Aqua-Net heyday, and greeted each other with hugs and laughter.  It was a high school reunion for me too, as guys I worshipped in high school kept walking by me.  Every few minutes a van with tinted windows would pull up, and someone would get out.  When I came back from the concession stand, I found Nuno Bettencourt and Gary Cherone of Extreme lounging in the pink chairs of the backstage area.  Gilby Clarke went motoring by on a golf cart, waving to me as he passed.  Jani Lane was talking shop with Marq Torien of the BulletBoys.  I was totally professional, but in the back of my mind I was thinking, “Holy shit….Mark Slaughter is standing over there.”

I also ran into people that I hadn’t seen in years, like Linda, who I first met as a teenage mallrat.  She worked at Hot Topic, and held t-shirts for my mom to approve.  I ran into Tammi, who I first met through the Poison board.  She helped me meet Bret Michaels back in 2005.

I kept my game face on for most of the day, but there were times when I couldn’t help but flex my geek muscles.  Keri Kelly’s mouth hung open when I told him that I remembered him from Big Bang Babies.  I asked Gilby Clarke why he didn’t play any Candy songs during his set.  He shook his head in disbelief and said “Um, I forgot them all.”  Jetboy laughed when I told them I caught a Stryper bible.   Jani Lane put “I Saw Red” in his setlist for me, because we had the same first name.

Twisted Sister was the headliner of the festival, a spot they deserved.  Dee shook my hand and said hello as he got out of the van.  I didn’t see him again until his performance.  His onstage alter-ego is as fierce today as it was in 1984.

The M3 Rock Fest was my ultimate teenage fantasy come to life.  I thought about Teenage John all day.  His freakouts would have been on the outside, instead of a series of inner monologues.  His hands would have been shaking as Nuno Bettencourt acknowledged his presence.  He might have gotten a little misty talking to Stephen Pearcy. He would have had tons of fun.  Adult John had fun too, but in a different way.  It was cool meeting these guys, but it was much better having real conversations with them.  Teenage John bubbled to the surface only once.  Jani Lane was playing “Heaven,” and asked the crowd to sing it with him.  Teenage John burst forth and sang about the sparkle in Laura S.’s eyes, completely free of irony.

In the summer of 1999, Poison, Ratt, Great White and L.A. Guns teamed up for a tour of amphitheatres.  Hair metal was considered dead and buried, and industry professionals doubted that the tour would be a washout.  They were wrong; it was one of the most successful tours of the year.

A decade later, hair metal has risen from the dead and packs sheds every summer.  A new development is the 80s rock festival, which began two years ago with Rocklahoma.  This year, the M3 Rock Festival will bring the Aqua-Net faithful to Charm City.  Here are some of the bands that will be invading Meriwether Post Pavilion on May 30.

Twisted Sister

If you need one reason to check out the M3 Rock Fest, Twisted Sister is it.  They still look, sound and perform as if it was 1984.  Dee Snider is even more frightening in middle age, and his voice is even more powerful.  Come for the hits, but stay for the more obscure songs like “Under the Blade,” “SMF,” and especially “Burn in Hell.”  The Sisters don’t perform very often, so if you haven’t seen them, don’t pass it up.

Ratt

Although they are primarily known for their ubiquitous 1984 hit “Round and Round,” Ratt had much more to offer.  Guitarists Warren DiMartini and the late Robbin Crosby updated the tandem guitar sound of Thin Lizzy for the 1980s.  Crosby’s melodic playing provided a backbone to DiMartini’s lightning-fast shredding.  Singer Stephen Pearcy doesn’t have a good voice in the traditional sense, but his sleazy drawl gives Ratt its flavor.  Besides, all their songs are about strippers with hearts of gold.  Isn’t that what we all want out of life?

Extreme

It’s easy to make jokes about Extreme, since their two biggest hits were primarily acoustic.  Their lyrics could be a bit clunky at times (“Rock a Bye-Bye” anyone?), but Nuno Bettencourt is probably the best guitarist the genre ever produced.  He shreds, but he’s got taste and feel.  Even when he’s playing a million notes a minute, it’s never shredding for the sake of shredding.  He knows when to play and when to hold back, and that cannot be taught.

L.A. Guns

The Steve Riley/Phil Lewis version of L.A. Guns might not have the band’s namesake, but they deliver the goods live.  Would you rather hear Phil Lewis sing “The Ballad of Jayne,” or the dude from Rock Star: Supernova?  I thought so.

KIX

KIX is the pride and joy of Baltimore and will probably end up stealing the show.  Their songs still hold up, Steve Whiteman has charisma dripping from his pores, and Brian Forsythe and Ronnie Younkins are riffing machines.  I would be afraid to follow them on any bill, but in Baltimore?  Forget about it.  The Hammerjacks faithful will be en masse.

Steel Panther

If I get to hear “Big Boobs” live, I will die a happy man.

Keel

I think I know what to expect from Keel’s set.  They will probably play “The Right to Rock,” which will remind us that we’ve got it, the right to rock.  That’s awesome and all, but the real question is….will Keel tell us that his horse is a Harley?

Other Bands on the Bill:

Dokken

Jani Lane

Bulletboys

Slaughter

XYZ

Y&T

Jetboy

Gilby Clarke

SLAMM

If you are a fan of the genre, you don’t want to miss this show.  Tickets can be purchased at all Ticketmaster outlets and Ticketmaster.com, as well as the Meriwether box office.

Personnel:

Jani Lane- vocals

Erik Turner- guitar

Joey Allen- guitar

Jerry Dixon- bass, eyebrows

Steven Sweet- drums

Warrant is everything most people hate about hair metal. They somehow managed to pack every single conceivable cliché into three records. The white leather suits, synchronized jamming, and sexual innuendo are all prime targets. Jani Lane’s constant battles with the bottle, the rotating members, and constant unprofessional behavior also add fuel to the fire.

After I discovered Poison, Warrant was one of the first hair bands I got into. I’ve always been a sucker for a power ballad, and I thought “Heaven” was poetry. I imagined playing it for my 7^th grade crush, Lloyd Dobler style. I even thought those damn white leather suits were awesome. I loved “Cherry Pie,” too because of its constant references to swinging and laying the batter while she laid the beater. Bobbi Brown’s spectacular cleavage was magical to fourteen year old John.

Once I got over those two songs, I lost all interest in Warrant. They were just another cookie-cutter band from 1988, with two big hits and plenty of filler. I learned never to put “Heaven” on a mixtape. Girls get creeped out when a guy in a white leather suit tells them that there is a color deep inside them is like a blue suburban sky. If you received a mixtape from me circa 1999, I sincerely apologize.

Within a few years, Warrant was gathering dust on the Isle of Misfit Toys, my pet name for the discs I don’t listen to anymore. Jani Lane was cannon fodder for Metal Sludge and snarky VH1 shows. I wanted to feel empathy for him, but I couldn’t. He got drunk too many times, screwed over too many fans, pissed off too many collaborators.

I rediscovered Warrant last year, when I was working on my senior project. I was writing about the Isle, and dusted off records that I hadn’t listened to in years. The liner notes are fantastic. A sample:

“It’s not hard to imagine future generations in turn covering classics by Warrant, as songs like “Heaven” will certainly endure. The big hair, stylized clothes, and party-hearty image may be a thing of the past, but Warrant’s music remains valid. Songs that defined an era stand the test of time and make an indeliable (sic) impression.”

I can’t wait until Radiohead covers “32 Pennies in a Ragu Jar.”

Most of the album was as silly and juvenile as I remembered. However, there was one gem that I missed. On Cherry Pie, “I Saw Red” is a power ballad. On The Best of Warrant, it is recast as an acoustic lament about lost love. It’s understated, painful and lovely. It shows that Jani Lane was a good songwriter when he wasn’t held down by the parameters of genre. If Elvis Costello had written “I Saw Red,” it would be hailed as one of the greatest breakup songs of all time. Unfortunately, it was written by the guy who wrote “Cherry Pie.”

I understand why Jani doesn’t want to be known as the “Cherry Pie Guy.” For many people he is the same guy he was at 24. He wants to be taken seriously. There is an element of denial though, because when you join a band like Warrant, you automatically know what you are getting into. Lane wanted rock stardom and he got it. Once the stardom faded, he got upset that he wasn’t Bob Dylan. He claims that he was forced to write “Cherry Pie,” but I doubt it. He was living in the moment.

Jani Lane could have been a “legitimate” songwriter, but he traded it in for the blood, sweat and beers. It’s easy to chide him for his decision, but I probably would have done the same thing.

Personnel:

Davy Vain- vocals

Danny West- guitar

James Scott- guitar

Ashley Mitchell- bass

Tom Rickard- drums

If you spend a certain amount of time in the hair metal underground, you hear this sentence a lot: “(insert band here) should have been huge.”  Once you get past the Poisons and the Mötley Crües and the RATTs, there is only one place to go, obscure.  You join a few message boards and get turned onto some of the second tier bands: Faster Pussycat, L.A. Guns, and Britny Fox.  You like them too, so you eventually get even more obscure.  You find yourself going even deeper, listening to Dangerous Toyz, Bang Tango, Tuff and Pretty Boy Floyd.  Once you start dropping Spread Eagle references in casual conversation, there’s no going back.

I know this, because I was an active member of this underground.  I engaged in arguments about which band had the superior version of “Toast of the Town,” Mötley Crüe or Pretty Boy Floyd.  I discussed the merit of Dokken post-George Lynch.  But most of all, I listened to obscure bands who should have been huge.  Tyketto, Shark Island, Bang Gang, Southgang, and Slik Toxic all had their supporters. In my opinion, that sentence only applied to one band.

Four months into my tenure at the Poison message board, my friend Thom asked me if I’d heard Vain.

“I’ve heard of them.”

“Dude, you need to get a hold of that record.  They are amazing.”

Vain only released one album on a major label, No Respect.  It had been out of print for over a decade and was one of the most sought after records on the Aqua-Net market.  A used copy on CD could fetch $100, and that was on the cheap end of the spectrum.  Like Leather Boyz With Electric Toyz, I had to settle for a cassette.  After listening to it for a day, I made a copy so it wouldn’t wear out.

The thing that sets No Respect apart from dozens of other hair metal records is its immediacy.  The opening track of nearly every hair metal record is a slow build.  The build lasts for about a minute before the band enters full-on rawk mode.  Vain doesn’t have time for such indulgence.  Danny West plays the riff for “Secrets” for two seconds before the band comes roaring in.  Except for a couple ballads, Vain never stops.

The crux of the hair metal scene was the Sunset Strip, but Vain came from San Francisco.  Thrash metal was born there, and the heavier sound is reflected in No Respect.  In fact, lead singer Davy Vain produced Death Angel’s second (and equally underrated) record, The Ultra-Violence.  Davy Vain is an anomaly among hair metal singers.  He never screams, nor does he use a fake punk or blues affectation.  His voice slithers like a snake, with a rich vibrato.  His voice oozes sex, which is appropriate because every song on No Respect deals with sex.  However, the Vain boys aren’t having fun with their sexual escapades.  There is an underlying current of paranoia on No Respect.  The album’s lead single, “Beat the Bullet,” is about sexually transmitted diseases.  This is territory that the average hair metal band never crossed.  In Davy Vain’s world, sex has very real consequences. Another interesting thing about No Respect is the lack of profanity.  Davy’s mouth is clean throughout the entire album, until “Aces,” when he proclaims that he is a “bad motherfucker.”  He uses the word so sparingly that it doesn’t lose its visceral power.

No Respect is not just the Davy Vain show.  Guitarists Danny West and James Scott play their asses off throughout the entire record, creating intricate tandem leads.  They never succumb to the clichés of hair metal.  It’s almost like they are Thin Lizzy with two-hand tapping.  Ashley Mitchell and Scott Rickard hold it all together.  Rickard isn’t a technical drummer, but like Steven Adler, he’s got feel.

In a just world, Vain would have been on the same level as Guns n’ Roses.  Unfortunately, Island Records had no idea how to handle them.  They managed to open for Skid Row on a tour of the UK, but never quite broke through in the states.  By the time they were ready to release their second record, All Those Strangers, they had been dropped.  Vain continues to make albums to this day, and while all of them have their moments, No Respect is their masterpiece.  This video is just a small taste of their power.

Recommended Listening: If you are a fan hair metal or hard rock in general, you need to own a copy of No Respect.  Fortunately, it’s back in print, so now you can score a copy without breaking the bank.

Personnel:

Bret Michaels- Vocalizin’ and Socializin’

Bobby Dall- Bass Rapin’ and Heartbreakin’

C.C. DeVille- Guitar Screechin’ and Hair Bleachin’

Rikki Rockett- Sticks, Tricks and Lipstick Fix

Every time I turn on VH1 I see Bret Michaels.  He’s always waxing philosophical about how he wants to find the perfect woman, and the only way he can find it is to sort through dozens of starfuckers.   On the rare occasion that I watch Rock of Love, I automatically think like the rock critic I’ve become.  Thoughts run through my head about how utterly vapid it all is, and how Bret should be ashamed, yadda yadda yadda.  Then I take a step back, and I remember how much Poison meant to me.

Ten years ago, I had a series of major surgeries.  I had a steel plate put in my hip in January, and three rods put in my spine in November.  It was the darkest point of my entire life.  Through those dark times, Poison was a constant companion.  The weekend before one of my surgeries my mom took me out on a shopping spree.  We stopped at Waves music, and I bought Look What the Cat Dragged In, because “Talk Dirty to Me” was my anthem of the moment.  I bought it, and it didn’t leave my CD player for two years.  On the day of my big spinal surgery, the doctor came into my room and said that I could listen to music as I was being put to sleep.  I gave one of the nurses my CD, and he did a double take.

“How old are you?! This is a classic!”

They removed Bach from the CD player, and “Talk Dirty to Me” echoed off the OR walls.  My dad said that it was one of the most surreal moments he’d ever experienced.  I lost consciousness as Bret said “C.C., pick up that guitar and talk to me!”

When I recovered, Poison remained my favorite band.  My friends liked to tease me about it because they were so profoundly uncool.   The thing that they never understood about Poison is the thing that most people don’t get about Poison.  No matter who you are or where you come from, you are invited to their party.  They lack the hipness of exclusion. I saw them live only once, but I’ll never forget it.  The lights went out, and there was a huge explosion.  Bret came running out, and he was so magnetic that I felt like he was my best friend.  They only played for a little over an hour, and the setlist was predictable, but I didn’t care.  I was just happy to be there.  Towards the end of the show, Bret came over to my side of the stage.  I held out my hand, and he flashed me a smile.  He ran over to slap my hand, but couldn’t reach it.  I expected him to give up, but he got down on his knees and grabbed my hand.  I was so happy I burst into tears.

Each time I saw Bret live, he made the extra effort for me.  When he played the Recher, he signed my CD onstage.  When he played the House of Rock for the first time, he recognized me in the front row and personally said hello.  When I finally met him in 2005, he called me his brother and gave me a hug.

As I grew older, I slowly grew out of Poison.  I wanted more than just lyrics about sex, drugs and rock n’ roll.  I discovered new bands, got new heroes.  I would criticize Poison and their ilk in a snarky tone.  It was just stupid, inconsequential party music that was strictly adolescent.  The zealous tone of some of their fans made it easy for me.  Rock of Love made it even easier. Bret Michaels’ latter-day sins made him a rich target.

I was on Facebook today when my friend Thom mentioned that he watched Poison’s episode of Behind the Music and still knew every word.  We started trading quotes from the episode.  There was some snark there, but there was a great deal of affection behind our remarks.  After our conversation subsided, I pulled out my copy of Look What the Cat Dragged In and put it on.  Whenever I listen to it, I immediately become a teenager.  I didn’t bitch about set lengths or lyrical content, I just wanted fantasy. Poison provided the ultimate fantasy.  Their music is totally cliché and derivative, but I don’t care.  I just want to put my fist in the air once in awhile.  I want to hear about a girl goes down slow like a shot of gin.  I want to have nothing but a good fucking time.

I wrote a similar essay to this one last year that was more sarcastic in tone.  There is an unwritten rule in rock journalism that metal isn’t meant to be taken seriously. I chose to follow that rule, and sounded like one of those snobs that I hated as a teenager.  I wanted to show it to a friend, but was afraid she’d balk at the tone.  I’m proud of that essay, but Poison deserved more respect.  Because as this feature has proven, you never quite get over the music of your youth.

Posting might be slightly slower then usual this week, since I am lining up some interviews and working on a major post for Thursday.  Bear with me.

I forgot to put a PBF video in the Leather Boyz post, so here it is.  Enjoy!

Personnel:

Steve “Sex” Summers- vocals

Kristy “Krash” Majors- guitar, backup vocals

Vinnie Chaz- bass

Kari “The Mouth” Kane- drums

Scott’s patience was wearing thin. Did we really need to visit another record store? Hadn’t we seen enough? We hadn’t. I could tell from the look in his eye that he was regretting signing on to this intrepid quest for vinyl. I was doing research for my final journalism project, and enlisted Scott to come along because he is one of my most patient friends. He’s feigned interest when I’ve breathlessly recounted the Flair/Steamboat feud of 1989. He’s put up with more Butch Walker pitches than I care to count, and has nearly gone deaf at some of the shows I’d dragged him to. After a day of criss-crossing the greater Baltimore area popping in and out of record stores, his seemingly infinite amount of patience for my quirks began to wear off. I was getting frustrated too, but I didn’t let my weariness show. As we pulled into Joe’s Record Paradise, I had a feeling it was going to be worth the drive.

When I walked through the doors of Joe’s, I had a vision of what I want my apartment to look one day. There were records and CDs as far as the eye could see, old stereo systems and vintage Kiss posters on the wall. It was one of the last bastions of the true music geek. I was practically skipping through the aisles, perusing the racks with joyous glee. Scott stayed toward the front with my mom, occasionally stopping to check out the selection.

After 20 minutes, I had a few cool albums but nothing truly amazing. Michael Monroe’s Not Fakin’ It was out of print, but I could probably find it on eBay for a fiver. Before we left, I asked Scott to help me browse the P section, since I was unable to reach it. Scott dutifully bent down and began to flip through the thick rack. At first, the rack was pedestrian: The Police, Pretenders, Tom Petty. They were pretty much the run of the mill records you saw in every used record store. I was about to pack it in when I saw it flash before my eyes. I let out an audible gasp. Scott was still flipping.

“DUDE! GO BACK!” I yelled.

“What?” Scott asked, frightened by the frantic nature of my request.

“GO BACK!”

Scott flipped backwards, and there it was. A copy of Pretty Boy Floyd’s Leather Boyz With Electric Toyz, in its original shrink-wrap. I shrieked like a fourteen year old girl at an *NSYNC concert. Scott handed it to me and I held it above my head as if I was Indiana Jones handling The Holy Grail. I was nearly in tears as I breathlessly showed it to my mother, whose response was as warm as I thought it would be.

“That’s great John. Can we go home now?”

This was a good idea. I needed to purchase this as soon as possible, before somebody else does. The clerk looked at me in disbelief when he rang up the record, especially my zealous response when I mentioned it. Nobody understood what a momentous occasion this was. I’d seen this record on eBay for more than $50, and I was getting it for a measly seven. It was the culmination of the intense obsession I’d had with this record.

It all started with a magazine. An issue of Spin with pre-cornrows Axl Rose on the cover. I remember buying the issue and thinking he looked like a god. He was rail-thin, poured into a pair of black leather pants. The look on his face conveyed both apathy and sensuality. He looked so cool. The feature story of that month was the legacy of the Sunset Strip during the 1980s. When I bought the magazine I was still relatively new to the genre of androgynous looks and hard rock hooks. The stories that I would know by heart a few years later were still fresh and exciting. It was the first time I’d read about the complete and utter debauchery of the Motley Crue house. Taime Downe from Faster Pussycat talked at length about receiving oral sex under a table at the Rainbow Bar and Grill. As a fourteen year old kid, it was one of the most exciting things I’d ever read.

Unfortunately with every rise there is a fall. The end of the article spoke of the thousands of bands that glutted the Sunset Strip by 1989. These subpar bands were being snapped up by every record label, completely diluting the genre. Eventually the public got sick of it and the flannel monster from Seattle named grunge took over. Spin cited Pretty Boy Floyd’s Leather Boyz With Electric Toyz as one of the final nails in the Aqua-Net coffin.

I was a young and impressionable lad then, and completely bought into that statement. If Spin said it, it must be true. After all, you have to truly be enlightened about music to make such a broad statement. Despite what the magazine said, I really wanted to hear this record. I figured it would be like watching a really bad movie, and besides this band supposedly killed an entire genre. That’s pretty hard to do.

Hearing Leather Boyz was easier said than done. The album had been out of print for over a decade, and copies of it started at $35 on eBay. I scoured the site for six months, and every single copy was out of my price range. Then I found a copy for the low price of $10. There wasn’t a picture on the auction, but I was so desperate that I took a chance. When the album finally came, I found out why it was so cheap. It was a cassette. I was so anxious to get my hands on a copy that I’d neglected to notice. I was bummed, but at least I could finally hear the band that killed my favorite genre of music.

I held the record that supposedly killed hair metal in my hands. Before I took the cassette out of its case, I examined the cover. It was the kind of cover that could only be taken seriously in 1989. Four transvestites were standing on top of a skyline, and the one in the center was shooting lightning out of his hands. For a brief second, I wondered if this was Nitro redux. Was this just another case of image without the songs to back it up?

I blew the dust out of my dormant cassette deck and prepared myself for the worst. The title track began with a slow fade-in and an explosion of drums. Then Kristy “Krash” Majors played the opening riff, and Steve Summers sang something about being a “black on black sex attack.” I must have been a moron, because this song didn’t suck. In fact, it kinda ruled. I listened to the album once, twice, three times. By the third time I knew every word and was singing along. It was one of the best examples of the genre that I’d ever heard.

So why is Pretty Boy Floyd only known to hair metal nerds? If their record is so good, why aren’t they on a package tour with Poison or Motley Crue? PBF are victims of bad timing. In 1989, hair metal was becoming a parody of itself. The once vibrant scene was awash with generic bands. The threatening sleaze of Motley Crue, Ratt and W.A.S.P. was replaced by generic pretty boys. Winger, Danger Danger, Firehouse and Slaughter were virtually identical, and the music was overproduced and polished. They were as safe as they could possibly be. Even the Crue became homogenized, releasing the safe and unremarkable Dr. Feelgood.

In the midst of the blandness, Pretty Boy Floyd was a throwback to the early days of the scene. When most bands were going for a more subdued look, the pictures on the inside of Leather Boyz make Poison look butch. The songs were straightforward and memorable, with strong hooks. Each chorus contained a word or a phrase that was designed to be chanted back at the band: “ROCK!” “ON FIRE!” “LAST KISS!” The record’s pacing ensured that there was never a dull moment. Kristy “Krash” Majors was not Dylan or Leonard Cohen, but knew how to write a catchy guitar riff, which was all that mattered.

The reason that I connected with PBF was because it sounded like a hair metal record I would have made. The lyrics are endearingly clumsy, but the band had attitude to spare. When Steve Summers sang about running away to Hollywood, rocking and rolling all night long (like he never could), he really meant it. There’s a Mickey Rooney/Judy Garland, “Hey kids, let’s make a hair metal record!” aspect to the album, which is something that the scene lost towards the end.

There is a lot of controversy about Pretty Boy Floyd. They were complete posers and were not ready to be signed. The songs were not written by Kristy Majors, but by Ariel Styles. Steve Summers is a tyrant who conned former bandmates out of their share of writing credit. I don’t care about the politics that went on with these leather boyz; I just really like listening to their electric toyz. PBF is everything some people hate about hair metal, and it is everything I love about it. It’s a record that you don’t really think much about. You put your fist in the air and chant when the band tells you to. Besides, it does provide one universal truth, rock n’ roll will always set the night on fire.

Recommended Listening: Leather Boyz With Electric Toys, duh.