Ratt
Infestation

To tell this story, one must start with solitude. One must start with the stench of piss, the sadness of sleeping in a car because you no longer have a home, having squandered it with women, drugs, alcohol. You have nothing left. Or rather, you have one thing: AIDS. Where have all the friends from the Los Angeles coke-sniffing days of the early eighties gone? Disappeared, lost like you.

You are Robbin Crosby, guitarist of Ratt. You will die at the beginning of the century, struck down by a lethal dose of heroin. With you goes an entire scene, a way of understanding and conceiving heavy rock. Or rather, it had already disappeared long ago, thanks to the advent of grunge. But you know this story well.

Your former bandmates, in the meantime, tried to regroup and release a new album (the self-titled "Ratt," released in 2000), partially distorting their sound, and accomplished nothing.

Everything goes to hell. Fights, lawsuits, assorted malice. One of the best hard rock bands ever to exist falls apart in an unworthy manner. I come to terms with it, I still have the records from the glorious years. I continue to follow Stephen Pearcy's solo career, but it's not the same. Then, four years ago, good old Step comes back home. Sure, it's just business. The business isn't going well, the solo career isn't taking off, the other rats aren't any better off. They go on tour, playing a lot in America. Roadrunner scents the deal; the glam revival is strong, there are quite a few bands (especially Scandinavian ones, one being Crashdiet) that have revived those sounds, people still need party rock.

"Infestation" comes out (April of this year).

I am speechless. Mother of all albums, a real kick-ass record. Thanks to the excellent production by Baskette, the band has a powerful sound, modern, yet firmly rooted in the sounds that made them famous. Listen to the damn guitars (you, Robbin, have been worthily replaced by an excellent Carlos Cavazo), surgical, sharp, plaster-scraping. "Eat Me Up Alive" starts, and it sounds like "You're In Love" played by Judas Priest of "Painkiller." "Best Of Me" discovers the band's more charming side, but the rest is a full-on assault. The Ratt take no prisoners. They know well that there's no more time. But it's no longer just party rock time (or at least, not only). The album is dense, dark, compact; past experiences leave indelible marks. "Last Call" is pure Ratt'n'roll, "Take A Big Bite" possesses an almost metal punk fury, "As Good As It Gets" is a vicious boogie, "Lost Weekend" is a perfect self-reference to the famous "Lack Of Communication." De Martini's solo is spine-chilling (listen to the opening of the solo in "A Little Too Much"), but the surprise is Step's condition: powerful, lascivious, more characteristic than ever. The album loses a bit towards the end, with the last two tracks not keeping up with the previous nine. "Infestation" wipes out all the competition.

The Ratt, in 2010, are hard rock.

This album is dedicated to you, Robbin. Your bandmates got lost and found each other, only to bring everything back home. The circle is complete. Rest in peace.