Sex, Drugs, Ratt & Roll: My Life in Rock by Stephen Pearcy & Sam Benjamin

Author:Stephen Pearcy & Sam Benjamin [Pearcy, Stephen & Benjamin, Sam]
Language: eng
Format: epub, azw3, mobi
Tags: Music
ISBN: 9781451694567
Amazon: 1451694563
Goodreads: 15802409
Publisher: Gallery Books
Published: 2013-05-07T07:00:00+00:00

MARSHALL CALLED. “WHAT ARE YOU BOYS doing next week? Got appointments at the tailors, or are you ready to work for me?”

“What do you have?”

“You ever been to Phoenix before?”

“No, I don’t think so, man.”

“Well, it’s hot as hell. Tell the boys to take sunglasses. I got you a big gig. You’re opening for ZZ Top.”

We trucked all our shit to Phoenix, trembling with excitement. We’d have a half hour to make our mark before handing the stage over to ZZ Top.

“Holy shit,” Robbin said. “You don’t understand. I idolize these cats. Billy Gibbons is one of my favorite guitarists ever. I don’t know, man—are we ready for this?”

We had no choice but to be ready. We blazed through the set with a manic, ripping energy that surprised me. Where the fuck did that come from? I wondered as I rushed off the stage, dripping with sweat. The crowd was going batshit. They wouldn’t shut up. Thunderous applause rained down from the rafters.

“Dude,” Robbin yelled, shining with excitement. “You hear that? They want us to go back out there!”

“We’re the opening act. We don’t get an encore.”

“They want it!” he cried.

“Go back out there, you dummies,” Billy Gibbons yelled. “Hurry up and give ’em another one.”

We hit them with “Sweet Cheater.” The crowd swelled up, spread its legs. It was our greatest moment yet.

“Unforgettable,” Robbin said, driving back, overwhelmed with gratitude. “I never thought I’d do that in a million years.”

That taste of the big time had us riled up. I was ready to go out on the road, and told Berle as much. He pressed me to stay in Los Angeles.

“The industry’s here. I’ll set up some showcases. Bring people to come see you at gigs.”

“We’re red-hot,” I told him. “Make it happen.”

Now I was more than preoccupied: I was obsessed. No longer would I devote precious brain space to ordinary activities, like chewing food. I shoved one sandwich down every day, baloney on white, chasing it with a can or two of Budweiser, otherwise completely occupied with plotting our rise to the top.

“Stephen,” one of my semi-girlfriends at the time, Patty, complained, “I never see you anymore.”

I fixed her with a look. “I’m a little busy here.”

“Too busy for me?” she said, fingering her gold-link necklace.

“Sweetheart,” I said gently, “too busy to shit. I haven’t taken one in a week.”

Every waking hour was spent thinking about the goal, and our image, and how to market us, how to rise to the top. Phil Schwartz helped me get one hundred promotional Frisbees made: TELL THE WORLD! they said. We opened for Mötley at the Troubadour, hurled the discs into the crowd. Next, I ordered one thousand buttons from a wholesaler in the Valley. They commanded you to BE A RATT! I passed out stickers, matchbooks, and flyers, enthusiastically, tirelessly, dutifully, eventually hatefully, day and night on the Sunset Strip.

I’d been carrying around a rock-and-roll dream in my head for nearly a decade. It was now or never. We had a name.

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