Free Dirty Rocker Boys by Bobbie Brown, Caroline Ryder

was driving me to party even more, and it was affecting my career. My manager and agent despaired of my no-shows, my increasing lateness, my flaky attitude. It was no surprise to them when I failed to show for my first meeting with Warrant, but the band’s management was relentless. They called again. And again.
    “Bobbie, they’ve got a major hard-on for you,” said myagent. “Can you please just meet with them and get them off my back?”
    “Oh, fine, whatever. I’ll go.”
    I was told to meet Jani Lane and his “people” at Jerry’s Deli in Sherman Oaks, in one hour. I was, of course, late. Bleary-eyed from partying the night before, I slid into the booth next to Jani, picking a French fry off his plate.
    “Thanks,” I said, licking my lips. I had a killer hangover. “I’m Bobbie, what’s up?”
    They told me about the video concept and asked if I’d be okay with wearing little shorts while the band hosed me down.
    “Um, sure.”
    Jani barely said a word. I picked another French fry off his plate.
    “So, what’s the name of your band again? Torrent?”
    “It’s Warrant. We just toured with Mötley,” said Jani.
    “Oh, I fucking love Mötley Crüe! So you know Tommy Lee?”
    “Of course,” said Jani. “You in?” They hired me on the spot, and a few days later I was blasting their song, “Cherry Pie,” in my car tape deck on the way to the video shoot. I didn’t even know much about the hair scene, to be honest. Apart from Mötley and Def Leppard, I didn’t listen to rock. I had always preferred soul, dance, hip-hop, and rap. Bobby Brown, Whitney Houston, Mary J. Blige. New jack swing. When it came to my musical tastes, I had always been the blackest white girl in Baton Rouge, and probably on the Sunset Strip too. But “CherryPie” I liked. It was fun and poppy. It had a cool hook, and I could picture strippers the world over go-go dancing to it.
    She’s my cherry pie
    Put a smile on your face
    Ten miles wide
    Catchy, I thought. Apparently the head of Columbia Records, Don Ienner, had called Jani asking for a “Love in an Elevator”–type rock anthem, and Jani had come up with “Cherry Pie” in about fifteen minutes, writing the lyrics on a pizza box (the box is now on display at the Hard Rock Cafe in Destin, Florida). At that time, no one had any idea just how much of a hit it would be.
    “Hey, Bobbie, you look nice,” said Jani, giving me a sideways glance as I walked on set. I peered at him over my sunglasses. He was dressed even more wildly than when we had met at Jerry’s. With his teased blond hair and sprayed-on ripped jeans, his image seemed much louder than he was. I hoped he’d relax a little before the “bedroom scene” I’d seen in the treatment. I hadn’t told Matthew about that part. He was already upset that I was doing the video in the first place. Nelson was at number 1 with their hit “Love and Affection,” but Matthew knew it was all too easy to become last week’s news. It seemed disloyal, as far as he was concerned, for me to be starring in a competing band’s video.
    Hair metal had, at this point, become part of the MTV hit machine. Record labels wanted pretty boys with tight pants and eyeliner to feed the craze for as long as it lasted, one after the next after the next. Hurricane, Autograph, Keel, Vain—the list of one-hit hair metal wonders is endless. Hair metal was never going to be an art form that lasted, it was supposed to be a fireworks show—a shocking, colorful, and short-lived event that burnt itself out less than a decade after it started. By the time Penelope Spheeris’s documentary The Decline of Western Civilization Part II came out in 1988, capturing the vanity, hubris, and self-importance of the L.A. glam metal scene, kids were already starting to lose respect for it. Anyone who was in a hair band in 1990 was probably starting to feel the futility of it all. For Nelson, Warrant, and all the newer hair bands, there was an unavoidable