Album of the Day



I was trying to think of a good excuse I could use as to write about Ratt ,since I’ve been having kind of a Ratt week. Warren DeMartini’s birthday? No. Apparently, that was in April. Anniversary of Robbin Crosby’s death? Nope, that was back in June. Then it hit me! The always useful ALBUM OF THE DAY.

My favorite Ratt album is Reach for the Sky. Come on — “Way Cool Jr.,” “What’s It Gonna Be,” “I Want A Woman?” All great classics. But recently I’ve been sticking to songs strictly from 1986’s Dancing Undercover. Especially “7th Avenue.” It’s got a slow-but-hard intro that I absolutely adore. It might possibly be because it’s the exact same one as on  “Between the Eyes,” from the band’s previous album, Invasion of Your Privacy. If you’re going to rip someone off, it might as well be yourself.

Motley Crue’s “Girls, Girls, Girls” is always heralded as the stripper song of the ‘80s, but if we’re really going to go with a thrice-yelled single-word choruses, Ratt’s “Dance” is clearly the superior pick. The lyrics might are “Dance, dance, dance. Feel the heat of the rhythm, feel the heat of my hands,” but I used to think Pearcy was singing, “Feel the heat in my pants,” and it seemed oddly fitting.

“Body Talk,” is a close second. DeMartini’s opening riff is probably among my favorites, although, weirdly enough, the song was written by bassist Juan Croucier. Probably the only band member that doesn’t have a shit-ton of infamous stories to his name. Sadly, I don’t think anyone cared about him. Oh, well Juan — “It Doesn’t Matter” (har, har).

Speaking of, that’s another understated but fun song with a ridiculously catchy beat and chanted out lyrics that get stuck in my head quite often.

I clearly have a knack for picking the most lackluster albums from a band’s career. (Case in point: I actually liked a few songs from Generation Swine.) Commercially speaking, Dancing Undercover was kind of a disappointment. But when it comes down to it, if I were a stripper with daddy issues, this would be my go-to album. Grossly enough, Stephen Pearcy was my first hair metal crush. What’s gross about that? I found out (today, in fact) he’s the same age as my dad.

I wonder if that club Centerfolds downtown is hiring.



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