by Duff McKagan
There weren’t going to be any mints left on pillows or handwritten notes from hotel managers on this trip, but I had my bandmates and two crew guys, Paul and Rob. They’re a great bunch of fellas, and not a diva or dick in the bunch. Though I had a rough start to the day, I was looking forward to opening a string of dates for Biffy Clyro. It was a big step toward gaining fans in Europe, and all of us were willing to suffer a bit in the short run to try to gain a larger long-game advantage for the Walking Papers in that part of the world.
I’d played Dusseldorf’s Mitsubishi Electric Halle before. To get through to the backstage/loading area, you have to drive through a phalanx of security gates, as the arena itself is attached to some sort of police training facility. There are three floors of dressing rooms, and ours shared the main floor with catering.
Opening for a bigger band means we get the openers’ dressing room, and privacy kind of goes out the window when you’re smack-dab in the din of everyone getting fed. Crew guys from the other two bands stopped by, as did the other drivers, the riggers, and the promoters and catering staff. It’s actually quite nice, as they all wished us well. But it gets complicated when I have to change my pants (I don’t wear panties).
We met Biffy’s production manager, and he seemed like a really nice Scottish fella. Not to generalize, but as an overall rule, the smiling glint in a Scotsman’s eye always seems to indicate that a joke or a laugh is imminent. We were told that they were ready for our sound check. There was also some talk about us going on at 8:30 and that we’d get a forty-five-minute set. Cool, cool. We are seasoned guys; we’re prompt and never overplay our time limit.
We did the sound check, and our gear appeared to have weathered the trip swimmingly. The stage sounded great. We hung out and watched the opening band, Arcane Roots, fire into their set. They were really, really good, and for some reason we instantly felt a kinship with them. We all talked a bit after they murdered the stage, and we got ready to do the same.
Our tour manager, Jay Smith, a twenty-eight-year-old Welshman, took up this line of work after he crashed his motorcycle and broke his back in a Grand Prix race in Ireland. While his body healed, he still needed to work, which made these gigs perfect for him. He could drive for fifteen hours straight, move gear if needed, sell merch, settle the money on a gig, and book hotel rooms effortlessly. His forte is timeliness, and he stresses if we aren’t side stage ten whole minutes before we play. We know this about him, so we started to mill around back there at about 8:20.
As the clock hit 8:30, Jay flashed his flashlight to our front-of-house sound guy, Rob Jones, to signal that we were ready. Our intro music started, and the house lights went down. We took the stage, and the place was absolutely packed. Biffy Clyro has a very ardent and fanatical fan base (think Pearl Jam) that was aware that Biffy handpicked us and gave us a rousing applause and show of enthusiasm. I suddenly didn’t feel sick at all, and the gig went really well for us. It felt so good to be playing with these guys again.
We came offstage feeling pretty damn good. The stress of the day dissipated, and my energy-drink high masked my fever as we got comfortable in our dressing room.
Just then, Biffy’s Scottish production manager came in all excited. Wow! I guess he really liked our band? “If you guys try to pull these shenanigan’s again, you’ll be off the tour!” Shenanigans? Right! Like, rocking the fuck out shenanigans. But something was off. My radar for judging things was askew because of sleep deprivation. He was pissed, but I thought he was joking, because of the whole smiling Scottish eyes thing. But no, he wasn’t joking. He was absolutely irate that we went onstage without his okay. What?
Again, we are pros and went on exactly at the time he wanted and came off exactly forty-five minutes later. Apparently, he forgot to mention that he has to signal for house lights to go down, not Jay. I was completely insulted by this little fucker, who continued his rant. I’d never seen anything like it in all my years of touring. It took everything in me to not kick this asshole in the teeth (now, that would have been some real shenanigans). I’d traveled this far and left my family to travel home on their own. I was sick as a dog and just trying to get my band to a higher level, and this dude pulls a cheap power move?
It was pathetic. I took a breath and remembered a few things my sensei had passed on to me. Don’t let this kind of energy get into your head. It’s his stress coming out sideways at us for whatever reason. Forget it and move on. In truth, if there really was an issue, a professional would have gone to our tour manager first—never the band. It’s just not the way things are done. I unclenched my fist and thanked the maker that I was not like this dude. But he came close to getting a beat down. And I don’t get close very often.
Jay said he’d deal with it, and I knew the Biffy guys knew nothing of this guy’s antics. Done.
We went out and watched Biffy Clyro after the unpleasantness and soaked it all in. Technically amazing. Great songs. The band’s a ball of energy and put on a fantastic light show. They will be around for a long, long time if all is right in the world. (Check out the song “Black Chandeliers.”) They are also, perhaps, the nicest dudes in rock.
The gear was loaded into the van, and that was it—we were off across Germany to our next city, some 375 miles away. Our plan was to pick up a hotel in the middle and catch some sleep. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep sitting up, so for the next 175 miles, I got caught up with my good friends Barrett, Jeff, Ben, Jay, Paul, and Rob.
After a few hours on the road, Jay’s GPS started telling us that we were near our hotel. The robotic voice barked something about exiting the freeway, but I was sure it was wrong. We were in the middle of nowhere—I’m talking forest and fields, nothing else. Except for one light on the horizon, somewhat blocked by ponderosa pines and scrub brush. Our hotel? Yes. Certainly not anything close to the Mexico City St. Regis, but when I’m not traveling with my girls, all I need is a bed.
There were no lights on in the lobby when we pulled up in the gravel parking lot. Actually, there was no real lobby, just a bunch of German words next to a phone number. We called it, and a gruff woman barked back at us in German and hung up. Yeah, definitely not top-shelf accommodations and service, but at thirty euro a night, what could we expect?
A side door opened, and we were greeted by a hostess in curlers and a weird housecoat that I thought went out of production before Reagan took office. She gave us our keys, pointed up a set of stairs, and we were in. It was 4 a.m.
I was exhausted beyond what I thought I was capable. My sickness was coming back in a brutal way. The fever was well above a hundred degrees, my bones ached, and my stomach was heaving. I got to the room that I was sharing and shoved my bag in the tiny space that separated our beds in the miniscule room. There was a kettle with granulated coffee for the morning. OK. Caffeine will be good in three hours when we have to get up. No gym. No room service. Just us, on our own, and with our mission to kick ass on this tour. I took some nighttime cold medicine and four Advil, read one page of The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich, and I was out.
That was one fucking long day. Mexico City to New Jersey to Dusseldorf for a gig, then another two hundred miles to this country motel.
We all believe in this thing, and we sacrifice, because that is what it takes. Just like anything worth something in this life, you forge on through the sleet and skirmish through the bullshit.
None of us are out here to get famous. None of us expect to get rich. But it would be nice if we could get this band to a place where Jeff Angell wouldn’t have to pick up a hammer every time we came off tour to pay his rent.
7
CHAPTER
KNOW YOUR TUNES
(Or, the One Hundred Albums Every Man Should Own)
IT OCCURS TO ME THAT MANY OF YOU READING THIS IN the United States are likely unfamiliar with Biffy Clyro, the monstrous band Walking Papers has been opening up for in arenas across Europe. Even in our hyperconnected age, bands break in certain parts of th
e world years before they make a splash in others. But that’s a different story.
Thinking about those of you who have never heard Biffy got me thinking: What other music that is critical to my being are you unfamiliar with? To get us all on the same page, I’ve compiled a list of the one hundred albums that every man must be acquainted with. I wish that you were reading this online so that we could argue about the list and you could turn me on to some of your favorite bands that I’ve missed. So, feel free to ping me @DuffMcKagan on Twitter, and we’ll have a go at it. For now, get your headphones out.
ABBA, Gold: Anyone who is or has been a songwriter will surely testify to the song craftsmanship that makes up the basis of ABBA’s golden, blissful sounds of the ’70s.
AC/DC, Dirty Deeds: Along with the Saints and Radio Birdman, AC/DC kicked our asses from all the way Down Under!
Adam and the Ants, Kings of the Wild Frontier: The Ants’ music was a great left turn for us punk kids back in the ’80s. This record still holds up for its boldness in direction and songwriting.
Aerosmith, Aerosmith: I remember looking through an Encyclopedia Britannica back in ’73 or so and reading that Aerosmith was America’s answer to the Rolling Stones. Maybe this was an overly simplistic explanation of who they were at the time, but it certainly got me into what became a fascination with early Aerosmith. With scrappy songs like “Make It” showing the earthiness of this band, the majestic “Dream On” seems just so much bigger and more genius. Here’s a kick-ass rock record from tip to stern. If you can find it, also consult Look Homeward Angel—hands down the best real bootleg that I have ever owned.
Alice in Chains, Dirt: When four dudes from Seattle discovered a new thing of their own, they wrote classic rock songs right out of the starting gate. This first record completely annihilated everything else that was around then. Dirt has stood the test of time very well, too. Layne = cool. Jerry = genius. Sean = brilliant. Mike = badass. A timeless record.
The Avengers, The American in Me: 1977 SF punk. Hear it.
Bad Company, Bad Company / Free, Best Of: Here’s something I learned just the other day: Paul Rodgers sang his first Free song at the age of sixteen. Sixteen! We’ve all got some catching up to do. Both of these bands should be a staple of every music collection.
Badfinger, Badfinger: This was a magical band with a tragic ending. Some say that Badfinger was cursed, others say that the Beatles wrote their songs for them. Whatever, they were really great.
Bauhaus, Singles 1979–83, vol. 1: What? No, I’m not even going to try. Bauhaus!
The Beach Boys, Pet Sounds: This record is the sound of a band of extremely talented people trying to find a new direction. With success! Pandemonium, both personal and public, surrounded these guys during this time of their career. Instead of saying, “Fuck it,” they melted into the studio and got straight-up genius.
The Beastie Boys, Paul’s Boutique: This record was a complete game changer when hip-hop’s game needed a change.
The Beatles, White Album: It is an impossible task to pick just one Beatles record, of course. But this record was one of the first rock records I ever heard. It taught me to play guitar and bass, so there you go.
Jeff Beck, Blow By Blow: No one will ever be able to play guitar like this again.
Chuck Berry, The Complete Anthology: I got to see Chuck Berry for the first time when I was a sixteen-year-old punk in Seattle. The lines on his face were more punk than anything I’d ever seen.
Biffy Clyro, Opposites: Biffy is a Scottish band that sells out arenas in Europe for a good reason. The song “Black Chandelier” was the standout rock song of 2013 for me. Biffy Clyro is building steam now in the US because, hell, they are fucking fantastic. Thanks for the road trip, guys.
Black Flag, Damaged: When Black Flag released this tour de force in 1982, it immediately went into heavy rotation alongside a T-Bone Burnett record called Truth Through the Night. Inexplicably enough, these two records really complement each other!
Black Flag, My War: The punk-rock bible. “You say that you’re my friend but you’re one of them. . . . THEM!”
Black Sabbath, Paranoid: When I was growing up in Seattle, there was a serious divide between the Sabbath and Zeppelin fans. If you were from outside of the city, it was Sabbath. For us urbanites, it was ALL about Zeppelin. We seemed too smarty-pants for them; they seemed too butt-rock for us. We were all young and dumb and full of cocksureness. The truth is, both of these bands are just so damn different that there is no way to compare or contrast them. Actually, you can’t compare any other bands to these behemoths.
David Bowie, Diamond Dogs: It’s easy to forget that David Bowie has constantly morphed and challenged his own pop success. He’s a restless soul who’s never done anything twice. For simplicity’s sake, I’ll pick Dogs as the David Bowie record here. With “Rebel, Rebel” and “Diamond Dogs” as singles, this record is as good a place to start as any.
Jeff Buckley, Grace: My first daughter is named after this record. Yeah, that is how important this music is to me.
T-Bone Burnett, Truth Through the Night: Known mostly as a producer, T-Bone put out this solo masterpiece in 1982.
Kate Bush, Lionheart: A beautiful respite from loud guitar and thumping bass.
Buzzcocks, Singles Going Steady: The best singles collection this side of Prince.
Cameo, Word Up! This is the record where Steven Adler and I found the groove for Appetite For Destruction.
Johnny Cash, The Essential Johnny Cash: Johnny is an American classic. A true icon, and someone everyone can agree is badass. “Jackson” alone is worth the price of this record.
Nick Cave, Murder Ballads: Man shit.
Cheap Trick, At Budokan: Maybe the best live record ever. Wait. Maybe? Perhaps because they’re best known for this album—a hard act for any band to follow—their shows are always something to look forward to with loving rockticipation. The Trick has never used tape at shows, and they have never gone to in-ear monitors or other new-fangled onstage technology. They play loud rock music. And no one does it better than Cheap Trick—on record or onstage.
The Clash, The Clash: A band for the people by the people. The Clash took the mystery and inaccessibility out of the equation for fans like me. This is one of the best records to come out of the UK ever. This record was at first an exotic and very grown-up listen for me as a young teen. Yes, some of the messages on this record have been eclipsed by the passage of time, but it acts as a majestic time capsule in those moments. Years later, when I moved to LA, Paul Simonon’s bass-playing on this record helped inform my decision to make the instrument my main axe.
The Cult, Electric: A record that stands the test of time. Great songs. Dry recording. No gimmicks.
Dag, Righteous: Vibe magazine hailed this band as the best R&B band of the decade. No small feat, considering they’re a bunch of white boys from North Carolina.
The Dead Boys, Young, Loud, and Snotty: I discovered this record in the summer of ’79, just as my young ears were coming of age to the trashier sounds of punk rock and roll (as opposed to the English stuff of the Clash, the Damned, the Vibrators, 999, the Undertones, XTC, the Jam, the Pistols, etc.). This was the first in a long line of great records that left me wanting to break stuff.
Death Cab for Cutie, Something About Airplanes: This is what happened when four dudes from Western Washington University decided to see what post-post-postpunk was all about.
The Deftones, White Pony: This band has been plagued by a massive copycat syndrome because what they invented was so damn innovative and kick-ass.
Dr. Dre, The Chronic: This groundbreaking record forever reshaped the face and thump of hip-hop.
Greg Dulli: When it comes to Dulli, I gave up on trying to choose one single record or one single band he has formed. When Mark Lanegan made Imitations in 2012, he played me a 4-track demo of Greg Dulli’s, because Mark was planning on doing a song from it. “Deepest Shade” off of that Imitations record is one of Dulli
’s throwaways? Dulli is so talented that his refuse is better than most artists’ best work.
Bob Dylan, The Essential Bob Dylan: If you are new to this planet, Essential is a good place to start to get yourself acquainted with a man named Dylan. No, youngsters, Bob Dylan didn’t cover Guns N’ Roses’ “Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door.”
Earth, Wind and Fire, That’s the Way of the World: Another band that gave the ’70s its soundtrack.
Faith No More, The Real Thing: The summer this record came out, I was stuck in Chicago writing songs for what would become Use Your Illusion I and II. What a groundbreaking record this was at the time: fresh and vibrant.
Fear, The Record: Maybe you just know these guys from a certain notorious performance on Saturday Night Live. If so, do yourself a favor and give The Record a spin. This is LA punk at its best.
Foo Fighters, Foo Fighters: On this debut, Dave Grohl was finally able to realize his full talents as a songwriter, singer, and guitar player, and the rest of us reaped the benefit. He makes everything seem so damn simple.
Generation X, Generation X: A rock-and-roll gem. Billy Idol, of course, got a lot of attention later on as a solo artist, but Generation X highlighted to us musicians just how fucking good a BAND could be!
Germs, GI: After the Sex Pistols, the Germs took punk music to another level, where hardcore was born. This is perhaps the most important record in rock that the fewest people have heard.
Green Day, Dookie + American Idiot: This band has weathered time well by way of elbow grease and reinvention. No matter what genre Green Day tries out, they know that there has to be a great song at the basis of it. Sorry, can’t pick just one record.
Gutter Twins, Saturnalia: “The Stations” alone is worth the price of the record. It’s a great Sunday morning song that’s a call to arms for humankind. Sorry if I seem a tad grandiose when writing on the Gutter Twins, but Mark Lanegan and Greg Dulli challenge you to think and imagine beyond yourself.