JIZZY PEARL TOUR DIARY
Jizzy Pearl is currently travelling all over the country on the Rock Never Stops tour, fronting Ratt as they tour with Quiet Riot, Firehouse, and headliners Cinderella. Whenver he feels compelled to do so, Jizzy will be sending us updates from the road.
“One shower, One Shitter…”
Sometimes it’s not all roses. Sometimes you’re in a situation where you just have to make do. Sometimes this gypsy caravan of 5 buses and 3 semi-trucks has but one shower facility and one shitter at the venue and that’s tough. In Mercedes, TX all they had for shitters were Porta-Poddy shitters and that was REALLY tough. Try relaxing and letting go a few Duralogs in a 3 foot by 3 foot stinkbox that would make Papillon gag. A turdbox that’s been sitting in the hot Texas sun for ten hours slow-baking the contents into casserole. A box that smells like John Wayne Gacy’s basement at High Noon, a box that collects shits like grisly Zingers and saves them for…what? At these times if you’re at all sensitive or a germ freak then you’re just shit out of luck; what can you do? You can’t shit on the bus…well, technically you CAN shit on a bus, you can do anything. Here’s a trick I learned in LA Guns. If you can’t wait until the next truck stop get yourself a medium sized plastic trash bag and spread it inside the toilet like a basket. Bend over and let go. The shit makes a funny sound when it hits the plastic, like a couple of rustling mice. When you’re finished bag it up and when the bus parks throw the bag under the bus. In LA Guns there were rarely any hotels so we’d sit parked next to the club with a bushel basket of Ladyfingers heaped under the bus like dead soldiers. If you had any trouble that night with the local promoter revenge was made sweeter by having the bus driver roll over the bags and mash them into the pavement. Then for the Coup D` Grace open up the spigot and send several gallons of fermented piss washing all over.
When you live in close quarters with a bunch of men you get used to having no privacy. It’s like a submarine, really, a working submarine. Get up early like me and there are a few hours alone. Got to bed late like Corabi and, again, a little privacy. There are no secrets either. If a band is having problems everyone knows. Crew members leaving, bus drivers leaving, fighting, it’s all public knowledge…but not outside the circle of wagons in our gypsy caravan. I don’t intend to embarrass anybody…unless they PISS ME OFF.
HOB, St. Pete, & HOB
Orlando. Disney. Gay. Family-style tourism, Vegas without the Booze. I bought a book and a Beethoven CD and watched the parade of flowered shirts and thunder thighs. I got the obligatory stares, I’m not like you people, I have rings on my nipples and tattoos and I wipe my ass with a stick. My home is a metal bus and I live off Deli trays. I have a job where drinking is encouraged and a blowjob is occasionally had. I don’t even know what day it is….fuck, I don’t wanna know. The HOB is like all other HOB’s, good sound, good production, etc. The gig was packed, I met a girl, tattooed like me, smart like me, 22 years old (not like me) Her and her friend came on the bus and we laughed and sang and drank wine from Dixie Riddle cups. Shortly afterwards came a BANG BANG BANG on the bus door
“Is my girlfriend on that bus? “ –the question a boyfriend hopes he never has to ask. Tattooed girl’s friends’ boyfriend was outside our bus determined to ruin our fun. He was fuming and I couldn’t blame him. He was a musician himself and was no doubt imagining 50 sorts of horror. She was tied up, she was getting filmed, she was wielding cocks like the many arms of Shiva, etc. It’s a sad and lonely place when you’re on the outside looking in. So we sent her off and Tattooed girl stayed for a while. Later on I walked Tattooed girl back to her car and there squatting on the ground next to her car was HER ex-boyfriend. In a corner waiting, knees drawn up to his chest, giving me a look of hatred and shame.
“He’s my ex…” Tattooed girl hurriedly explained, “ But we still live together.”
Great. Wonderful. Good thing we’re not on a Grassy Knoll. Drama. To be continued…
Arena. Hurricane Dennis is rapidly approaching, we watch its progress on our Weather Channel satellite. It did not however ruin anyone’s good time; the gig was sold out, 3 or 4 thousand packed inside. People here are tough, they just accept hurricanes as a matter of course, they buy water and batteries and batten down the hatches. In L.A. if some chick breaks a nail there’s a shooting spree. Some of the band’s kids are riding with us, Jeff Lebar’s son Sebastian, C.J.’s daughter Heather, family and friends. C.J.’s whole family showed up and I christened them the Snare family Robinson. We did our show and some of the kids rocked out in front of the barrier, too small to be seen. Are they RATT fans? Jizzy fans? Kids have no perspective, not only were they born too late for us they weren’t even born for G’n’R, LA Guns, Love/Hate, vinyl records, the Mamas and the Papas, Van Hagar, Pearcy leaving RATT the First time….it’s all a blur. After the show I walked back to my dressing room and there was C.J. pacing in front of the door, a worried look on his face.
“What’s up?” I asked.
“ I don’t know how to handle this…” he said, “ but my daughter is in love with you.”
“ How old is she?” I asked.
“ Sorry dude, she’s a little old for me…”
I signed for her and gave her one of my new CD’s (Vegas Must Die. Shrapnel, July 19th) What do you say to a 12 year old girl? Rock on I said, Heather Dear you’ll be rocking long after I’m gone, signed—your Creepy Uncle Jizzy.
Kidnapped. Tattooed Girl is traveling with us. She met up with me at the St. Pete show and now she is my slave…maybe slave is the wrong word. Concubine? Friend? Traveling Companion? We spent the day after the St. Pete show in Charleston, SC, recovering from the night before. She is young and bounces back far faster than I. It rained all day, the hurricane is coming, the rain is here.
HOB Myrtle Beach. Alligator farm next door, boring to visit except for the 3 o’ clock feeding. I played this HOB a few years ago and I swear I saw a hunch-backed figure dumping a load of live cats into the churning water, now it’s only chicken shaped squares…took all the fun out of the thing. I did an interview with a radio guy who promised to play five new songs off my new record. It would indeed be odd after all these years of relative obscurity to hear one of my new songs on the radio. The gig was great, packed as usual. Jeff Lebar’s son carries a guitar around with him as big as he is and he can actually play. I asked him if he knew any AC/DC and he started banging off the chords to Back in Black. I joined in and everyone upstairs got to hear me and this young Angus bang out the verses and chorus like pros. It was School of Rock and I was Jack Black….how weird, when I was this kid’s age I could barely handle a fork and spoon and he is already rocking hard…when Cinderella played Tattooed Girl was in the Third Row, Cinderella is her favorite band and she insisted on rocking to the Limit, in the Pit with the Punters. She has the music in her, she is not jaded by bad record deals, disillusionment, poverty, she has her dreams intact. To her music is a state of Being, it has nothing whatsoever to do with fact sheets, T-shirt sales or Reality. She was leaving us tonight, going back to Orlando. She had made friends out here, not just me and the band but Eric’s wife Inga and others. She had joined us as a surrogate Gypsy and now that she had to go home the Drama began. She got too drunk and things got strained. I was accused of using her, our few days together were just bullshit, I had another girl waiting for me in Canton, Ohio (Like that was even possible…Canton, Ohio?) It was sad, I was sad. It is What It is, I said, there are no Intangibles out here, sooner or later We must All Go Home, even me. There is no girl in Canton, there are no girls anywhere, Jizzy is not a Bitch Funky Sex machine, I’m just a Boy, not grown up, denying Reality at every step….
We are now rolling on the bus towards Canton and another week begins. For better or worse, this one has ended…