Poison

The first time I ever heard the name Bret Michaels was sometime around 2007. I was in my early twenties, blissfully unaware of the man’s musical past—just watching MTV’s Rock of Love like it was a social experiment gone terribly wrong. There he was: a man in his mid-forties, wearing eyeliner and a cowboy hat like a security blanket, surrounded by 25 women all allegedly obsessed with him since childhood. Which, considering the age gap, felt less like romance and more like a legal grey area.

I watched with morbid fascination, constantly asking: Who is this guy? What is he wearing? Why is everyone sobbing into leopard-print cushions? And most importantly: Why does that same sad acoustic ballad keep playing every time someone gets sent home?

That song—Every Rose Has Its Thorn—became an instant in-joke between me and my friend Julia. A cursed anthem. A ringtone. A meme that haunted us for over a decade. Still is.

But here’s the kicker: I had no idea who Bret Michaels actually was. Not in 2007. Not for a long time.

It wasn’t until I started researching glam metal for this blog, nearly 15 years later, that I had my full "OH. OH. Bret Michaels" moment. And suddenly, all the pieces fell into place—too late to help me, but just in time to make things worse.

Naturally, I had to dive into Poison. Maybe the music would help me understand the man.

Spoiler: It did not.

Poison formed in 1983 in Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania. Not exactly the sexiest origin story. The original line-up: Bret Michaels (vocals), Matt Smith (guitar), Bobby Dall (bass), and Rikki Rockett (drums). Matt Smith left early on, allegedly because he didn’t want to move to L.A. to chase eyeliner dreams. Probably dodged a lawsuit or three.

Enter C.C. DeVille, the final missing ingredient in this glittery potion of debauchery. Aside from a short break from 1991 to 1996—when personal differences (read: fights and substance abuse) kicked him out—Poison has mostly kept the same line-up. Which is impressive, considering how often they’ve nearly punched each other off the stage.

They’ve released seven studio albums, four live albums, seven compilations, and thirty singles. Thirty. That’s not a discography—that’s a cry for help.

They’re the blueprint. If someone says “glam metal,” your brain should immediately cough up Poison. Flashy clothes, perfect hair, radio-friendly choruses about sex, and a lifestyle best described as "spray tan and probable rehab."

I listened to their first three albums, plus Native Tongue—the one where they allegedly "matured." (Spoiler: they didn’t.)

Only one album truly hit: Look What the Cat Dragged In (1986). It’s dumb. It’s fun. It’s unapologetically sleazy. I put Talk Dirty to Me and Look What the Cat Dragged In on my playlist because sometimes you need music that makes you laugh-snort and clean aggressively at the same time. Poison delivers.

And, if you turn it up loud enough, there’s even the faintest trace of metal. Blink and you’ll miss it.

Maybe it’s the acoustic whimpering. Maybe it is just because it is  forever tied to the image of Bret Michaels squinting meaningfully at someone named Destiny while soft-focus tears fall in the hot tub. Either way: no thank you.

Still, credit where it’s due—it was a career-defining hit. Poison owes a lot to that weepy little tune, even if I don’t.

From 1993 to 2000, Poison released exactly zero new studio albums. Instead, they dropped a Greatest Hits compilation. Respect. If you can’t make new music, just remind people you used to be relevant.

In 1999, C.C. DeVille came crawling back for a reunion tour, and from there, they somehow became a full-time nostalgia act. Since the 2000s, Poison has been back on the road almost every year, playing sold-out stadiums to fans who clearly never stopped loving them—or the eyeliner. The band members have all got their solo projects going too, but I’ll be honest: I haven’t listened to any of them. My curiosity has limits, and Bret Michaels has already used up most of mine.

In the early 2000s, glam metal made a comeback—fueled by nostalgia, irony, and people who still wear leather trousers unironically. Poison jumped right in with Crack a Smile... and More! (2000) and Hollyweird (2002), which—happened. There were still fans around. There still are fans around. Some people never stopped loving this stuff. And Poison? They never stopped giving it to them.

They’ve since toured with KISS, Warrant, Cinderella, Ratt, Sebastian Bach, Dokken, Mötley Crüe, Lita Ford, and Def Leppard. At this point, they’re the connective tissue of glam metal’s undead touring circuit. Like glittery cockroaches. In a good way.

Of course, no glam band is complete without a generous helping of personal tragedy and legal drama. Poison delivered.

• Bret Michaels: Brain haemorrhage in 2010. Minor stroke. And oh, also a sex tape with Pamela Anderson that was stolen and distributed. Because why not. And also—seriously?!
• Rikki Rockett: Throat cancer in 2015. Fully recovered. Still drumming.
• C.C. DeVille and Bobby Dall: Substance abuse, rehab, and reportedly literal on-stage fights. Icons.

They’ve also been sued more times than I could count. At this point, their tour rider probably includes a defence attorney.

But here’s the thing: they never reinvented themselves. They never tried to be deep. They just doubled down on the party-metal nonsense, and it worked. People have been listening to Poison for over 30 years—and somehow, they’re still going.