It’s hard not to like hair metal.
I was born in 1989, when the genre still had some legs. It’s fun to imagine my parents driving around in my dad’s ‘83 Jeep Scrambler, listening to Ratt on 96 Rock. Knowing my dad, though, it was more likely a Goose Creek Symphony cassette.
My big brother loved hair metal.
Jeremy was (and to this day remains) 11 years older than me. Is there any better target audience for hair metal than pole dancers and middle school boys? When my mother got pregnant, my parents made the altruistic gesture of allowing Jeremy to pick my middle name. He landed on ‘Brett,’ after Bret Michaels from Poison.
I suppose it could have gone worse. My middle name could have just as easily been “Alyssa Milano.” Had I been born a couple years later; it might have been “Cobain.” Truth be told, I never minded being named after Bret Michaels. It made me a lifelong Poison fan. The name provided me with a permanent fun fact choice, a real two-truths-and-a-lie zinger, if nothing else.
As luck would have it, it also gave me an ice breaker when I met the producer of Look What the Cat Dragged In.
…
The Review
Poison
Look What the Cat Dragged In
1986
Poison is one of those rare bands that transcends its genre.
Classic era Poison songs are melodic, ripping little bangers on a mission to burn it all down. Their Greatest Hits record could be the soundtrack to a documentary about the sleazy decadence of the Sunset Strip, and I mean that as a compliment. Some might bristle to hear me say this, but for my money, Poison is the natural next evolutionary step after the New York Dolls. Proto-punk purists might claim that the Dolls begat the Ramones, and they wouldn’t be wrong, but I think their lineage extends beyond that.
Listening to Look What the Cat Dragged In, in many ways, feels like listening to a punk record. It’s unpolished, rough around the edges, down and dirty. Most records from that era sound like they’re meant to be played in an arena but Look What the Cat Dragged In sounds like it’s meant to be heard at the Troubadour. If I strain hard enough, I can faintly hear evidence that they’re dorks who grew up worshiping KISS and the Sex Pistols just like me, and baby, that makes my heart sing.
Look What the Cat Dragged In is also surprisingly … metal.
One fun thing about hair/glam metal is that it isn’t considered pop essentially only because we all agree that it isn’t. What’s the difference though, really? Both genres at the time were trafficking almost exclusively in three-minute major chord tunes with sing-along choruses and glossy production. Swap out lyrics about wanting to bang high school girls for lyrics about wanting to fall in love, replace squibly guitarmonies for synthesizers, and tell me with a straight face they’re not the exact same thing. Bonnie Tyler and KISS released two different versions of the same song at the end of the ‘80s and y’all didn’t even notice. The defense rests.
Poison would go on to lean towards the poppier side of the spectrum, but their debut isn’t a reflection of that. Instead, there are moments of legitimate head-banging. Put the title track in the hands of a band like Accept, and I think we could convert any non-believers. Are their glimpses of things to come, though? Sure.
“Cry Tough” is a monster opening track for a first record, and quite frankly an instant classic. “I Won’t Forget You” is a pleasantly agreeable ballad, readymade for prom. Then, bizarrely the opening B-side track, we have the career-making Rikki-rocket ship.
“Talk Dirty to Me” is the finest song about adolescent groping ever put to tape.
Even if you hate Poison, which I assume is because you’re deaf and incapable of joy, you must at least admit “Talk Dirty to Me” has a perfect opening riff. Even if you just found out that both of your parents had beat each other to death fighting over who was the most disappointed in you, that song would still put a smile on your face. It’s three minutes and 44 seconds of pure power pop perfection Trojan horsing its way into your heart with metal packaging.
Obviously, while we’re here, I should point out that “I Want Action” is also great and “#1 Bad Boy” exists. I’m not even giving an opinion of “#1 Bad Boy” other than to say it’s delightful to live in a world where someone put that song out. Give it a spin and you’ll see what I mean.
I will always be a Poison fan. They may have terrible album covers and more makeup than a Sephora, but they’re just s’damn fun. For me, they’re comfort food. I’ll always have a soft spot for them, and to some extent, probably that whole genre.
Imagine my excitement when I met someone who helped create that sound.
…
The Tale
My first year in California, I lived with the Scarred.
I migrated west in the fall of 2013 after graduating from the University of Georgia. With a freshly printed degree in journalism, $200 and a Ford Ranger full dreams, I made the trek across the country. Justin “Scarred” Willits was my co-pilot, and we made the trip in five days.
Living in California had always been a dream of mine. As graduation approached, I sent writing samples to LA Weekly, OC Weekly, and the Orange County Register. To my utter shock, all of them agreed to take me on in some capacity. It all seemed way too good to be true, because it was.
That first year could not have gone less according to plan.
In my experience, it’s always been much harder to find gainful employment than the baby boomers would have you believe. I burned through my stash of cash almost immediately, and the situation became about as harrowing as things can get for a white person from the suburbs. As it turns out, the trick for melting off those unwanted pounds is not being able to afford to eat.
There was a long spell where I would eat one bowl of ramen noodles once a day. If it was a special occasion where I could splurge, I would walk to the Jack-In-The-Box at the edge of my neighborhood and get five tacos for $5. One time I was at a 7/11 debating on whether it was financially viable to spend the 75 cents in my pocket on a can of Coke just so I could finally taste something other than water.
You’re probably thinking, “But Tyler, what about all those writing jobs you were just bragging about?”
If you’ll recall, I said all those publications took me on in some capacity. No one hired me as a staff writer; I only signed freelance contracts. I would pitch the magazines dozens of ideas; maybe they would take one, and then I would get paid a small amount. The paper allowed me to do man-on-the-street coverage, but as you can imagine in the early days of the death of print media, they weren’t showering me in cash either.
To keep paying my rent and not starve all the way to death, I got two minimum-wage jobs. One was at a Hot Topic in the mall where they filmed Back to the Future and another was at a Starbucks across the street from Gwen Stefani’s old high school. I was fired from the first job for accidentally breaking a display case, and I quit the second job after a gypsy attempted to curse me for taking too long on her coffee order.
I’m telling you all of this to make you understand how incredibly out of place I felt when I attended a party in Beverly Hills that spring.
Someone in our household had met and befriended noted record producer and author Ric Browde. Browde’s name might not be familiar, but he had produced Up Your Alley by Joan Jett (featuring the hit “I Hate Myself for Loving You”), Faster Pussycat by Faster Pussycat, and there were even rumors he had ghostwritten “Rock You Like a Hurricane” for the Scorpions. What piqued my interest was that he had made Look What the Cat Dragged In with Poison.
Browde, I was told, had extended an invitation to all the roommates for an upcoming gathering at his home.
This was at a time when I was just learning about “Hollywood invites.” Essentially, someone would pretend to invite you to something impressive as a way of bragging that they were going. I learned about this firsthand when a neighbor of ours invited us to an event to meet John Lithgow, only to discover much to my chagrin that he never had any intention of putting us on the guest list. I’ve still never met George Henderson, damn it.
I thought this party was someone pulling another classic Lithgow bait-and-switch, but son of a bitch if later that week I wasn’t standing inside a Beverly Hills mansion.
Not that I would have recognized any of them anyway, but I was given to understand there were a lot of serious somebodies at that soirée. Personally, I had consumed exceptionally little entertainment outside of the shoebox of DVDs I had brought with me to California. I wasn’t too cool for it; I just couldn’t afford cable. Someone suggested a fellow party patron was on the Disney channel, either currently in some capacity or formerly to some degree of recognition, and I accepted that they were. Instead of hobnobbing or rubbing a single elbow, I was busy being transfixed by the location.
This was Beverly Hills, the one from the Weezer song. People took bus tours of these neighborhoods. If I trick-or-treated here, I had a real shot of finally meeting John Lithgow! Although, I have to say, the mansions themselves weren’t all that impressive from the outside. They would have simply been regular sized houses in a neighborhood anywhere else in the country. These homes just happened to costs millions of dollars for no reason.
All this and more were on my mind when I, buzzed on signature cocktails, was introduced to Ric Browde.
“Hey man,” I began, all southern and friendly, “I just had to tell you that I’m named after Bret Michaels from Poison.”
Browde looked me up and down.
“Well,” he said to everyone around him, “I didn’t know they still made crack babies.”
Sure, I was angry, but I don’t know what bothered me most. Was it that this little man had decimated me with a world class burn? Was it that he had insinuated my mother was a crack whore? Was it the visceral display of classism? No, it wasn’t any of that.
He had insulted Poison.
I’ll admit to you now that defending the honor of Poison was not a hill I thought I would be willing to die on before that party. Yeah, “Cry Tough,” is a banger and all, but there’s lots of bangers out there. But, for some reason, I felt that insult in my bones. He affronted a fellow Bret, and I couldn’t let that stand. Not on Ace by-God Frehley’s birthday!
Scurrying away to the bathroom, I tried to fight through the drunkenness to come up with a plan. I knew I had to be careful, since I was a hillbilly in the land of Mulholland Drive. I couldn’t kick up too big a ruckus, but I could … the jukebox! It was perfect! Earlier in the night, I had overheard Browde telling another attendee that the jukebox had become more decorative than anything else. It tended not to work correctly, and it drove him crazy.
So.
While all the fancy guests waxed philosophical about the issues of the day, I snuck toward the jukebox inch by inch. I had a university education, but there are moments in life where you must unleash your inner hillbilly. Maybe it’s playing into what they expect of you, but it feels good to show everyone how the alums of Valley Point Middle do business.
Wobbly drink in hand, I ambled my way directly in front of it. There was no need for circuitous subterfuge; no one could have possibly been less interested in who I was or what I was doing. I was just some guy in a plaid shirt standing in front of a jukebox at a party where that was allowed. In my mind, though, I was pulling off some ferocious foolishness. I scanned the available selections, found what I was looking for, entered the numbers, and ran back into the night.
The unmistakable opening chords of “Talk Dirty to Me” blasted out of those speakers like it was their birth right.
Browde had an old-school, proper jukebox, one that played seven-inch vinyl singles. Anyone who collects records knows that, if not properly cared for, records tend to skip. Generations brought up on streaming, unfamiliar to the ritual of CDs, vinyl and cassettes, may not know about skips. If a piece of that old technology is scratched or scuffed, they will repeat a shrill, God-awful sound, like a wrathful DJ spinning in Hell itself.
That was the exact noise that took over Ric Browde’s party.
Everything came crashing to a halt as the guests stopped and stared at the jukebox. After a moment, as if on cue, Ric Browde slid into the room like Cosmo Kramer to put a stop to the oppressive noise. He scanned the room for a culprit, but quickly ended his investigation with a sigh and a shake of his head. I stood warm in the shadows, happy to have poisoned his evening.
Crack Baby: 1
Ric Browde: 0
…
The Aftermath
I lived in California for two years, almost to the day.
My friends and I weren’t invited to many more decadent gatherings. The only other one that comes to mind is this time in Hollywood when Justin and I were reprimanded by Seth McFarlane’s assistant for doing alternate 1985 Biff Tannen impressions too loudly. If you’re ever scolded for loving Back to the Future Part II too passionately, then buddy, those aren’t your friends.
Messing with Ric Browde’s jukebox was stupid; I know that. I was a guest in his home. After I did it, I could almost see my grandmother Betty, force ghost style, telling me to act like I’ve been somewhere. I should probably regret it, feel a twinge of cringe, but the truth is that I don’t.
Would I pull the same stunt now? Absolutely not.
These days I would have laughed and moved on. I know now that sometimes people are rude because they need it for emotional sustenance. There are folks who need to make you feel bad so they can keep their own demons at bay for a moment longer. I get that; I’ve been there myself. I can weather a joke at my expense and keep whistling down the highway, because honestly, who cares?
Still, all things considered, I’m happy I went for catharsis when the opportunity presented itself.
Personally, I think we all want the last word all the time. We can’t have it because the world would spiral into chaos from all the never-ending conversations. Those big monologue moments feel so good while they’re happening, but when the dust settles, they feel so empty and wasted. It’s so much better to listen and make space in the conversation for everyone.
But if all other efforts of diplomacy fail, make them frantically run through their gaudy house to loudly apologize for their skipping jukebox.
