May 24, 2013

Book: Tales Of A RATT Excerpt


Cleveland. 1987. It’s our third monster tour in as many years, and we are scintillating rock and roll GODS!

The swell of noise from the crowd is testament to that. They have come tonight to worship at the throne of the RATT. And, we have come to receive their sacrifice, in all its various forms.

With my family in the crowd, visiting from Pittsburgh, the arena watches in awe as a monstrous wash of backlight slowly rises. And there, standing on the drum throne with the devil horn’s thrown in pride; silhouetted in the coolest rocker machismo possible, is me. Bobby Blotzer. The Blotz. A rock and roll God in person!

The crowd goes ape-shit; yelling and screaming! The sexual energy in the room is flowing like Vesuvius, flooding the people of Pompeii and forever encasing them in it’s molten heat…well, at least until the krell wears off.

I prepare for the blast of music already bubbling to the surface in Stephen, Juan, Robbin and Warren. My partners in crime. All they need is my lead. That moment where I drop to my throne and smash out a vicious four count on the hi-hat cymbals.

I’m anticipating the hot sizzle of the thing. CHSHH!! CHSHH!! CHSHH!! CHSHH!! And BOOM!!

The thundering sound of Ratt N’ Roll, motherf**ker! Permeating every corner of the building! Creating a frenzy of the masses! The sexual energy will morph into an actual scent! It’s a wonder the chicks aren’t knocked-up by the odor of the thing!

All they need is my lead.

I drop to my throne, and, with my family watching their famous sibling in front of 15,000 screaming fans, I almost kill the tour.

My right foot catches on the leg of my drum throne, turning my ankle onto its side, and slamming the side of my foot flat into the floor! The snap, heard clear to the lead singer, is immediately followed by the most immense pain I’ve ever experienced…

…and the scintillating rock and roll God, the Blotz, is terrified.

The 15,000 adoring worshipers immediately become 15,000 fans that have expectations! Expectations that I can’t deliver. The weight and pressures associated with being the band that carries an arena tour come crashing down like a f**king mallet.

My ankle is pulverized. A few seconds, and it’s the size of a grapefruit. I’m going to have to cut my shoe off, and my whole lower leg is a white-hot ball of pain. But, I HAVE to play. I don’t have a choice! Everyone; the band, the fans, the label and promoters; has expectations of me.

So, I play.

My trusty drum tech feeds me shot after shot of my good friend, Mr. Jack Daniels. This warm and soothing nectar of Tennessee will get me through it. I play the entire show, hardly able to think through the haze of sour mash and broken ankle.

Thus, you have an example of RATT. A band with so much talent and drive, yet so much cannibalistic ego and self-deprecation, so much misfortune, that it can barely hold together through five multi-platinum records.

RATT. The greatest band ever to almost become rock and roll Gods.

This is my story. Bobby Blotzer. The Blotz. The dubious backbone of the strongest underachievers in heavy metal.

Sit back and enjoy.


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