Bon Jovi were smart enough to get on the right tours, which I think Tom mentioned in the Bad Name review. Opening for RATT on the Invasion of Your Privacy Tour, got them in front of a ton of people, so even if 3800 Farenheight didn't set the world on fire (see what I did there), they were primed to explode. Even if Slippery wasn't the world-destroyer that it became, it would have at least pushed them to platinum/double-platinum status. Jon was too much of a star.
And almost every hair band power ballad rips off it's "Life on Tour" format.
Some of them are good (Heaven!) others are....interesting (Why is Britny Fox singing about starving children while showing footage of Dizzy Dean Davidson signing boobs?)
Thanks so much everyone.
As I mentioned when I started posting here, I've met almost every hair metal adjacent personality, and almost everyone has been nice to me. I just need to get the rest of the Crue and the Gunners, and I can finally rest. Oh and I've never met Def Leppard.
But Bret, Sebastian Bach and Phil Lewis from LA Guns were my Russell Hammonds. They just decided "We like this kid." And I had different relationships with all three.
Bret was the mature one. No shenanigans.
Baz was a peer who I traded Motley Crue bootlegs and argued about the merits of Kiss Unmasked with. He was also the first person to offer me weed, which I declined and I regret to this day.
Phil got me drunk when I turned 21. We went to a strip club with Faster Pussycat once, and as you all know we smoked weed with the Scorps.
All of them were on first name basis with my mom.
Weirdest hair metal story: I watched Bobby Blotzer from RATT eat a comically large sandwich while I interviewed him in his hotel room.
Biggest dick is not a member of any band, it's Eddie Trunk. Blew me off twice one day until he noticed Mark Slaughter and I were having a conversation and then suddenly, couldn't be nicer.
Poison's Look What The Cat Dragged In is the bridge between the darker, sleazier early part of the scene and the Bon Jovi inspired AOR that would unfortunately give us Firehouse.
Motley Crue's Too Fast For Love is as pivotal as Nevermind and I will die on that hill.
You couldn't look like REO Speedwagon, Styx or Journey anymore.
Accidental downvote, sorry.
But yes, Talk Dirty is the best. The best the best the best. And it really made me mad when Bret started OPENING SHOWS WITH IT. It's YOUR CLOSER, DAMN IT.
From my point of view:
I loved GNR, as documented here, but I was also kinda scared of them.
Poison seemed like way cooler dudes than me, but would let me hang out of them
Unfortunately all my pics with Bret are from a pre-smartphone era and are somewhere at my parents house, but here is the copy of Look What The Cat Dragged In that he signed from the stage.
https://i.ibb.co/CVk3FvC/Cat-Dragged-In.jpg
From a musical point of view, Open Up and Say Ahh... frustrates me me because they left two really cool songs, Face The Hangman and Livin' For The Minute (The b-side of Every Rose) on the cutting room floor in favor of Tearin' Down The Walls and Back to The Rocking Horse, which, yuck. Just nada.
It has a lot of hits, but Open Up feels rushed every time I listen to it, and I hate Tom Werman's production. I wish they had gotten along with Ric Browde who produced Look What The Cat Dragged In, because even though he didn't like the band, he understood them and knew how to record them
It’s easy to make fun of Bret Michaels, because Bret Michaels is a ridiculous person. The bandanna, the sleeveless Poison shirts, the cowboy hat, the way he says “awwwsome.” Rock of Love. I’ve made fun of him. I’ve watched his band make fun of him. I’ve watched Bret Michaels make fun of being Bret Michaels. I’ve personally heard the story of writing Every Rose in that Laundromat in Dallas Texas on at least four occasions. So I get it.
But I love Bret Michaels. I love Bret Michaels because was I an awkward kid who felt like I didn’t belong anywhere, and for some reason, Bret Michaels decided I was cool.
A year after my first Poison show, Bret announced a solo tour and he was playing a tiny club fifteen minutes from my parents’ house that I had been to a million times. Holy shit. Bret Michaels was going to be in Towson. I could potentially talk to him and tell him how much his band meant to me. I found out he liked The Sweet, so I bought him a copy of Desolation Boulevard. I got there early and his band noticed me and started talking to me and I asked “Could you give this to Bret and tell him it’s just a small way of saying thank you.”
“No problem,” Pete Evick said.
Pete came out ten minutes later and said “Hey John, Bret’s diabetes is acting up today, so he won’t be meeting with fans, but he loved the record and wanted to thank you.”
That was all I wanted.
I got in and I’m front row center, and the band started playing “Look What The Cat Dragged In.” Bret bounds onstage, and made a beeline to where I was, and he recognized me from Pier 6. He shot his hand out, shook my hand and said “Great to see you again!” And then boom. He’s doing Bret things. The set was mostly Poison songs, a few solo numbers and cover or two. He finished up with “Talk Dirty” and took a final bow. I don’t know what compelled me to do this, but I pulled out my copy of Look What The Cat Dragged In, and held it up. Bret smiled, pointed and took it from me.
“Big John, I need a Sharpie.”
He pulled out the booklet, and signed it. He handed it back to me and said, “There you go my friend!”
I started crying. He didn’t have to do that.
I went home and wrote a glowing review on the Poison message board, of which I was a charter member. It got a ton of likes, and one day I got a DM.
“Hi, this is Jana. I work for Bret and the band and Bret was really moved by your review and he wants to meet you. We’re playing Baltimore again in a few months, and we want you to be a VIP.”
Four months later, I’m sitting in a tiny club with a VIP pass. Afterwards, a woman in a Poison baseball jersey came up to me. I knew those jerseys. They were crew jerseys.
“Hi! Are you John?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Jana. Come with me. Bret’s ready for you.”
I followed her into a room, and there was the guy who had been staring at me from posters my entire life.
“THERE’S MY FRIEND!” Bret said, all smiles. “John, I am so excited to finally meet you! How the hell are you?”
Bret Michaels knew my name.
“……..I’m um. I’m good, man.
Do not cry in front of Bret Michaels.
I was wearing a vintage “I Want Action” raglan from the Dragging The Cat Across America Tour and a jean jacket with an enormous back patch of the back cover of Look What The Cat Dragged In that Libby made for me as a surprise one Christmas.
“Wow, I don’t even have one of those!” Bret said, pointing at the shirt. “Pete, when was the last time you saw one of these?”
“I told you, Bret. The kid is devoted!”
That broke the ice.
“I have 45 Poison shirts, Bret. I have a tour jacket too. And my mom made me this. May your first child be a masculine child.”
“So you’re the one who pays my mortgage!”
And then he started asking me questions. Do you go to college? (Yes) What’s your major? (Journalism) What bands do you like? (Motley Crue, The Replacements, Poison) Did you like the set? (Hell yes) What did you think of the new songs? (Bittersweet should be the single.)
It was like we’d known each other forever. I brought records for him to sign and he signed them all. I couldn’t believe this was happening. And then my phone rang.
“It’s Mom, where are you?”
“Um, I’m hanging out with Bret Michaels.” Coolest/weirdest sentence ever.
Bret motioned for me to give him my phone. “What’s your mom’s name?”
“Libby.”
“Hi Libby, this is Bret. Your son is a really cool guy and we’re having a blast, feel free to come on back.”
Bret Michaels called me a cool guy. I’ve won.
And that’s how I said, “Mom, this is my friend Bret.”
Bret charmed the hell out of her.
We chatted for a few more minutes and then Libby was like “We gotta go.”
Before we left, Bret came with an imposing guy behind him.
“John,” he said. “This is Big John. He’s my right hand man. He’s going to give you his card and you give him your email. Whenever we’re in town, shoot an email or give him a call and we’ll hook you up, OK? You never have to pay for another ticket. It was great to hang out with you.” He hugged me.
“It was an honor to meet you, Bret.”
“Dude, please. It was my honor. I’ll see you soon, OK?”
Libby, being the eternal optimist: “You probably won’t hear from them again.”
Six months later:
“Hey John, it’s Big John. We’re playing Baltimore and Bret wants to know if you want to come.”
And that’s how it went for several years. I would show up early, run errands for the band. Bret would sit on the steps of his bus with a Diet Coke and listen with the patience of a saint as I asked him Chris Farley-esque questions about the minutia of Poison. Real hard hitting journalism like “You know that move where you and CC and Bobby step step kick? How did you come up with that?” (I ca The only time he ever got annoyed with me was when I asked him one too many questions about the green mic stand in several of the videos and he just was like “John, I have no idea what happened to that, but I ever find it, you will be the first to know.”
He always made time for me. His crew always looked out for me.
One time we were talking and he asked me if I was dating anyone and I said “It’s just hard for me, man. I don’t have the confidence.”
And he looked at me and said, “You’re going to figure things out. I have no doubt about that. Just be yourself. man.”
It was surprisingly non-toxic advice from the guy who sang I Want Action and hosted Rock of Love.
Once Rock of Love happened we fell out of touch. In 2012, Bret played the Maryland State Fair and I took a girl who was in love with him. She’s married now, but to this day, Bret Michaels is her hall pass.
I really liked this girl so I said, “You know, Bret and I are friends.”
“Sure.” she said.
We were in the front row because being disabled has its perks, and Bret bounded onstage like he always does. I hadn’t seen him in about five years, but he recognized me immediately. He mouthed “JOHN! HI!” Then he saw the drop-dead gorgeous girl next to me and saluted.
The girl looked at me with her jaw on the floor.
He was right. I figured it out.
Bret Michaels is a 10.
You guys knew this was coming.
Meanwhile on the Aqua-Net side of town.
Gotta say, pleasantly surprised by Tom's rating.
Poison deserved to make it to the top of the charts. They worked hard, they wrote fun songs, and they gave a shit.
I wish it had been “Talk Dirty to Me” (a 10) instead of “Every Rose Has It’s Thorn.” When people slag Poison, it’s because of this song, which is too much Bret and not enough CC. Every Rose became the signature song, so Bret called more of the shots after 1988. Bret is a brilliant frontman. I’m not kidding when I say that he’s the best frontman I’ve ever seen besides Bruce Springsteen and Prince. He connects with people. He vocalizes and socializes, as advertised in the liner notes of Look What The Cat Dragged In. As a songwriter, he never heard a cliché he didn’t like. CC wrote the anthems that made them The Glam Slam Kings of Noise. The production on Open and Say Ahh… doesn’t help. It’s as clean and hermetically sealed as a hospital hallway. The immediacy of Look What The Cat Dragged In is gone. Poison had money now, and succumbed to the worst of late ‘80s production, as bands of all genres did. CC’s solo is the highlight, and I love the downbeat video, which is the mirror image of the Technicolor tour diary of “I Won’t Forget You,” which is their best ballad in my opinion (It’s a 9).
The studio version of Every Rose Has It’s Thorn is a 7.
When you see Poison live, it’s a different story. Rod Stevenson from the road crew gives Bret an acoustic guitar and he says something like “Gimme a second, I just need to get in tune,” and plays something that sounds like “Every Rose” but not quite, and the crowd rumbles. Then he turns on the cornball Bret Michaels charm, “All right, I’m going to need everyone to help me sing this one out, you guys took it to number one. This one’s called “Every Rose Has It’s Thorn.”
10,000 people sing the chorus back to him before CC hits that enormous power chord. For a genre that is all about artifice, that reaction is completely authentic. I fall for it every time.
The live version of Every Rose Has It’s Thorn is a 10.
Continued on next comment.....
The first time I took my mom to see Bruce they left to take a break,, and she was like "They didn't play Born to Run"
ME: Libby, we have another 90 minutes.
They played for three hours and 15 minutes that night.
The first time I saw Cheap Trick was in a tiny club that I couldn't believe they were playing.
Somebody yelled for "The Flame" and Rick Neilsen was like "I hate that fuckin' song," and it was kinda dickish, but funny so nobody was mad.
The fourth time I saw Cheap Trick was at the first Virgin Fest at Pimlico Race Track headlined by The Police and I can't remember who else. ANYWAY, they were playing at a ridiculously early time, like 1 PM or something and I told my friend that I didn't care about much else, but I had to be in the front row for Cheap Trick, and he was mad because "Who cares? We're gonna miss The Fratellis (remember them?)
I told him "I'm on your time for the rest of the day but I insist we be in the front row for Cheap Trick.
We're in the front row. Cheap Trick kick ass like they always do and then for the first time I heard the opening chords of The Flame.
I've heard them play The Ballad of TV Violence more than The Flame.
That's why Cheap Trick is awesome. Their biggest chart hit is a live rarity.
The Flame is a 7.
Will You Love Me is the song I associate most with post-Cetera adult-contempo Chicago, so I assumed that would be the song we would be talking about today. I still hear it out in the wild thanks to the CVS corporation. When I watched the video I thought of the scene in Jailhouse Rock where Elvis's older country singing cellmate is trying to get him to sign a bullshit contract and says "I need a young man to appeal to the kids!" Wait a second, was Jailhouse Rock a documentary?
Will You Love Me is a 4.
I'm very well-versed in the music of 88/89, and the Diane Warren canon, the good, meh and, Jesus Christ if I hear this song one more time I'm going to go from disabled to profoundly disabled. I've don't think I've ever heard Look Away. Man, Robin Zander would have sung the HELL out of this.
The Cheap Trick version in the alternate timeline is a 9.
Chicago: It's.....good. I've haven't said that about many Chicago songs, Terry Kath era or otherwise. Some solid power balladry here, and I'd go higher if the drums weren't electronic.
I wouldn't go out of my way to hear it, but I think it's a 7.
The saga of The Stones of Sissyphus took up fifteen minutes of Chicago's Behind The Music episode.
Look, capitalism is bad and I care about art, but I'm taking Reprise's side on this one.
Rick Wakeman has less pretentious album titles than that, AND HE WROTE AN ICE BALLET ABOUT KING ARTHUR. THAT'S WHAT HE CALLED IT. AN ICE BALLET.
And this is it.
Free Baby gets my pick for the worst song of the 1980s, and every time I hear it I go blind with rage. I hate the plastic keyboards. I hate how impressed the lady and Rosenberg sound so goddamn impressed with heath other, as if combining Baby I Love Your Way with Freebird was Beethoven's Tenth undiscovered symphony. I hate how the video is like a music video for 1980s Memphis babyface blowjob tag team The Fabulous Ones only not as endearingly cheesy/unintentionally homoerotic. Tom is exactly right. Rosenberg looks exactly like a mid-card heel from Jim Crockett promotions who would be endlessly feuding with Boogie Woogie Man Jimmy Valiant, which would culminate in a terrible hair vs. hair match AND THEN THE FUED STILL WOULDN'T END.
When Bret Kavanaugh was put on the Supreme Court, I turned my friend and said "There is a man who had "Free Baby" by Will To Power as his wedding song.
I realize that a man who has written thousands of words about Poison has no room to throw stones, and I have adopted a live and let live attitude to pop culture as I've matured. But not here. Fuck this song. Fuck this band. Fuck Rosenberg and his stupid fucking motorcycle. Goddamn he's so impressed with himself.
Free Baby is a 1, and if I could go lower I would.
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