Ratt ‘N’ Roll

The year 1987 blew in with a heavy dose of Ratt Poison.

No, not the stuff you buy at the grocery store that kills pesky little rodents. I’m talking about rock ‘n’ roll, baby.

It was the middle of a cold, frosty January when Ratt laid claim on Joe Louis Arena in Detroit for a concert. Time to tease my tresses and track down some black tights to go with my leather mini-skirt and stiletto boots. 

That winter, the rockers headlined a tour with a new band that came with eight legs, clothing found in grandma’s attic trunk and more eyeliner than a department store make-up counter. Da-Da-Da Dum: meet Poison.

Poison had just released its debut album “Look What The Cat Dragged In,” a record that fit in perfectly with the big guitar solos and drum beats of the ‘80s. Everyone at school was talking about the band’s “Talk Dirty To Me” video rotating on MTV and how gorgeous lead singer Bret Michaels was. I had a major crush on bass player Bobby Dall...just the way his wavy hair cascaded like a waterfall. 

As a high school junior trudging through life in the halls of Warren Woods Tower High School, I couldn’t wait to bang my head come concert night. Ratt ‘N’ Roll, we would.

Friday night came and my mom dropped off my friends Shawn, Debbie and me at Joe Louis Arena in downtown Detroit, a concert venue that held about 21,000 people. Damn, it was cold. While waiting outside for the doors to open, the three of us met up with another friend and her boyfriend who would be our ride home back to the suburbs. 

Funny thing about rock concerts. The unexpected usually happens. As we stood out in the arctic air clutching our concert tickets trying to stay warm, that is exactly what happened. The unexpected. 

Somewhere between my mom driving away and Poison opening the show, a well-dressed woman from MTV approached me. She had a microphone and a cameraman. She wanted to ask me a few questions for a segment the station was going to do on…..groupies!!! Roll over, Beethoven. She didn’t have to twist my arm. Of course, I would talk to her, although technically I wasn’t really a groupie. Just a hardcore rock fan with lots of Aqua Net sprayed into my hair and a heart full of soul.

I can’t remember the interviewer’s name or what she asked me although it had something to with why I dug music. I’m not sure what I said to her, but I tried really hard not to embarrass myself or the city of Detroit. The Motor City has gotten a bad rap for decades, and people tend to stereotype rock girls as, well, you know. But I think it’s safe to say my name and number have never ended up on a bathroom wall. 

During my impromptu interview, I tried to speak articulately and intelligently into the mic. I didn’t hold up the metal horn signs with my hands and scream “Woooooo” at the top of my lungs. I didn’t flash any body parts or use foul language. I wanted to come across as a nice girl. 

Did I? I never got the chance to find out because my family did not have MTV. We didn’t have cable television, so if the segment ever aired I never saw it. (If anyone has footage of the Ratt 1987 concert MTV showed, please let me know.) 

We finally got inside the arena for show time. Yes! With the scent of freshly-pressed rock T-shirts for sale and the stench of lit Marlboros, it smelled like a concert. On with the show. Main floor general admission was no picnic. There were no seats, you stood the entire time wherever you found a spot, and there was very little room to walk. At one point in the evening, a group of people fell on me and it took me a minute to catch my breath. 

Poison was up first. There was a lot of excitement in the reefer-filled air. We head banged stage right, which meant we were parallel with guitarist C.C. DeVille. His wild mane of platinum blond hair nearly touched the mile-high ceiling, and I seemed a million miles away from Bobby Dall.

My friends and I shimmied our way closer to the stage when Ratt came...out of the cellar. We got as close as we could to the stage and by the end of the concert, I was basically in front of bassist Juan Croucier. He was so cute in his black Spandex pants, red mesh shirt and long, curly hair. We waved to him from the crowd and he waved back. I can’t even imagine what it must be like to play your heart out in front of a live audience that large. 

The show was great, but our high quickly faded when our ride back to the suburbs left without us. Not sure what happened there. Debbie, Shawn and I were stranded with no way home. It was Shawn who called her parents to come get us. It took forever because the Detroit skyline decided to snow that evening. Old Man Winter reared his head and a blizzard came down, so it took Shawn’s mom and dad hours to get us. 

We weren’t the only ones stranded. Several other rock fans waiting for rides were moved into a security room where a guard sat behind a counter and a black-and-white television. The seconds turned into minutes and the minutes and so on. So much time passed the security guard had to close his office, and he herded all the remaining Ratt/Poison followers into the Joe Louis Arena walkway where we continued waiting.

And that’s where we met Ratt, albeit fleetingly. 

Lead singer Stephen Pearcy, with a rock babe on his arm, zoomed by our group as he left the arena. I couldn’t believe this big rock star walked by just a few inches away from me. It happened so fast I didn’t have time to react.

I was paying attention, though, when guitarist Robbin Crosby appeared. He was so tall. He didn’t know which way to turn until a member of his entourage said something like, “Over here, Robbin.”

“There he is!” I pointed. I just could not hide my excitement. 

Robbin turned around and gave me a big, sincere smile. Sad to learn he had a heroin addiction, would contract the AIDS virus and pass away at a young age.

The rock fans banded together and formed an assembly line in hopes we’d bump into the other band members. Drummer Bobby Blotzer must have ran by because I don’t recall ever seeing him. Guitar whiz Warren DeMartini quickly walked through the crowd, followed by Juan, who was super friendly and said “Hi” to everyone. I made sure to tell him “Good show, Juan,” as I tapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks,” he acknowledged.

With that, the band was gone off to its next gig. Shawn’s folks finally arrived and we made it home safe and sound. Coming face-to-face with Ratt was a highlight, fer sure. I talked about that night for days to anyone who would listen. It still brings me warm memories of such a frigid, snowy night. 

In harmony, Maria Allard