by Duff McKagan
Be a rocker. This occupation helped me get through the awkward “dating years,” as I really never dated at all until I got sober. Those early years were basically filled with postgig hookups or some other male-female interaction as a result of dark, loud, booze-filled haunts. Of course, I was pretty much hammered all the time until I was thirty and experienced TWO bad (but thankfully short) marriages. You don’t have to be a musician to be a rocker: to rock is to have self-confidence, to be comfortable in your own skin, something I didn’t truly achieve until years after I became sober. Which reminds me . . .
Get sober. Damn, what a scary prospect my first sober date was. I really didn’t know how to act. What was I supposed to talk about? What if I got food on my face? I know I wouldn’t even have cared before. So many things were going through my head that I probably came off as some sort of weird loser with no social skills. Those first dates after I got sober were some of the most horrible, failure-filled times in my life. “Hooking up” was definitely the last thing on my mind. But of course, in the end, sobriety and the choices that I make when sober are really and truly mine.
Open the door for your date. Especially if it’s to your bedroom. Old-fashioned values and courteousness never go out of style. Pulling the chair out at the restaurant is also a classy move. Opening car doors and shedding your jacket for a woman when it is nippy are two things that should become habit for you guys out there. Your date will appreciate these gentlemanly gestures, and she will never tire of them.
Mind the three As: attention, affection, and appreciation. These are three things that women crave and that we men don’t easily or naturally dole out. The three As are applicable in matters big and small, and they shouldn’t be tossed off as unimportant kowtowing to your chick. She will respond in a positive manner, and that is good for you both. It helps if you actually mean the things you say, but it’s not always necessary. Here are two examples, one bad and one good. Bad: “Hey, you, you are HOT! [Attention.] Give me a hug! [Affection.] That felt good! [Appreciation.]” Good: “Are you wearing new lip gloss? Let me kiss you! I like it!” Actually, both of these would work, and neither of them are stellar, but you get the idea.
Bonus tip for the ladies: make your man feel important. Men are pretty simple. We require very little, in fact, to make us happy. I think we feel more vital and “hot” when we are successful in our chosen field. This probably comes from our instincts as the hunter and provider. When you “bring food back to the cave,” you are appreciated and important. I think relationships fail more often when this mutual appreciation breaks down or is ignored.
Wear something sexy underneath. My Seattle Seahawks (Sea Gals) cheerleader lingerie had usually been my “go-to” undergarment to make myself feel good and surprise a lucky girl if the night went that far! You get the drift.
Don’t text your date. I believe that protocol during the embryonic period of dating should be as text-free as possible. This early time in a relationship should be nothing short of poetic, and it actually used to be called courting. Phone calls and sweet notes are far and away the best way to a woman’s or man’s heart. An unexpected delivery of flowers or chocolates shows women your sensitive side; even Cary Grant would be proud. Don’t tell all your “boys” every last detail, thus spoiling an intimate place reserved in your heart. The same goes for us married fellas, too. Just because we’ve been with the same woman for a few years doesn’t mean she’s lost her taste for romance. A nice note goes a long way.
Never split the bill on a first date. I’m old school; the man should pick up the tab. I do realize this is perhaps an antiquated way of thinking, but you can suck it!
NEVER say someone else’s name in the throes of lovemaking. Again, I’m old school! If you mistakenly call out your old girlfriend’s name, make some shit up, and QUICK! This is the one instance when I can condone lying. If you can’t remember the name of the person you’re with, may I suggest coming up with some kick-ass moniker that you can remember. You will have to call that person by the same name tomorrow, after all! While a name like “my little Irish whorelette” may be good after a couple of cocktails and thence into the “sack,” it probably won’t work well in the morning with coffee and a danish.
Protect your daughters. Fellas, we all know what boys want. And all of you fathers of daughters know the horror of that first boy coming by to pick up your little girl. Short of brandishing a shotgun when you open the front door, I’ve discovered a different weapon: your cell phone. Let me explain:
When the first dude shows up at the door, take the young buck to the side and explain the ground rules: “Hey, bud. My name is Duff and I am Grace’s daddy. Now, I want you guys to have a really excellent time tonight. As a matter of fact, let me store my phone number in your cell. Now, listen, I would like it if you had her back home by eleven. Oh, and just remember this: EVERYTHING THAT YOU DO OR TRY WITH MY DAUGHTER TONIGHT, I WILL DO TO YOU WHEN YOU GET BACK TO MY HOME. Great, now that that is FULLY understood, have a wonderful time and call me if you need anything at all.”
20
CHAPTER
KEEP YOUR FRIENDS CLOSE
AS PARADIGM CHANGING AS IT WAS FOR MY DAUGHTER to not only express interest in the same things as me, but to solicit and appreciate my help, something else monumental was percolating that seemed no less consequential: my Seahawks were winning. All the time.
The Walking Papers guys, and really, a majority of musicians that I know, aren’t big sports fans. In high school, there is the classic jock/artsy crowd split. A lot of young musicians simply veer away from sports at that age because of the youthful sneering from the “jock crowd.”
To hell with the jock/rock divide. I’ve been a Hawks fan as long as I can remember.
In 2006, my friend Alice in Chains guitarist Jerry Cantrell joined Susan and me at Super Bowl XL to watch the Hawks play the Steelers in Detroit. When we got married, Susan understood that being a Seahawks fan was part of the deal if we were going to have a loving, long-term relationship. The geeked-out excitement I had for that game was quickly extinguished by a lop-sided flag-throwing contest where all the calls went against my beloved team. Before the game, it seemed so obvious that our team would not make a great national story as winners of the Super Bowl. Seattle wouldn’t draw a huge TV audience and sell tons of TV ads. Am I saying the outcome was predestined? Well, I’m not saying that it wasn’t. We got burned. We went back to our little corner of the United States, licked our wounds, and home grew the 12th Man.
Here we were, entering the playoffs, ready for another shot.
As sick as I was, I rallied and made it to the Hawks’ final regular season game, a few days before New Year’s Eve. But my doctor made it clear to me that the first playoff game was out of the question. All I could do was lie in bed and take antibiotics. With a victory against the Saints out of the way, we were one win away from returning to the Super Bowl. And who would we be playing? Our archrivals: the 49ers.
This I couldn’t miss. I’d been with my team all season, and I couldn’t let them down now.
The season began just as Walking Papers took its place on the Uproar Tour, a traveling festival that invited us to headline its second stage right as our first record was coming out in America. It was an excellent opportunity for the band to get that vaunted US mainstream hard rock exposure, and we jumped at the chance. As much as I was looking forward to the opportunity, I was a bit apprehensive, since we’d be touring during the start of football season.
When you’re in a touring band, where and how you will be spending your football Sundays becomes a part-time job. And guys like me, with a wife and kids in school, also have to figure out how and when to get back home during a tour as lengthy as this, not to mention when and where I can do my daily fitness stuff. I was about to turn fifty, and I wanted to be able to kick life’s ass like a he-man at this pivotal juncture in my life.
Lucky for me, Alice in Chains were on the Uproar Tour, too. My longtime Hawks superfan pal
, Jerry, offered to get the DirecTV Sunday NFL football package on his bus. There it was. The problem of finding a sports bar or Applebee’s was averted. We’d be able to watch at least the first four weeks of the season on Jerry’s bus.
Jerry and I have been friends since the late ’80s. We’ve both had some serious ups and downs in our lives, and our friendship has deepened as we’ve seen our respective bands go through hell, or, far worse, witnessed friends and bandmates perish. A large component of what bonds us is our mutual love of the Hawks. I’m not trying to sound funny here, but our football team became a constant in some of our most chaotic and dark times. Sports can be a powerful thing.
We had just lost our beloved Seattle Supersonics; our Mariners hadn’t had anything on the field to compete on a high level since 2001. All we really had was our Seahawks.
The tour moved from the Gorge Amphitheater in central Washington to Portland, Oregon, the evening before the first football Sunday of 2013. Since Jerry had already invited me to his bus to watch all the games, he furthered the invitation by seeing if I wanted to crash on one of his spare bunks. Jerry splurged on himself for the tour by scoring a bus of his own to help accommodate what’s important. JC supplanted some real shitty and unhealthy things in his life with some new white stuff: golf balls!
I love the guys in the Walking Papers, and I think they feel the same about me, but a day away can do wonders for everyone involved (although I have no idea just how they got along without me).
The Walking Papers bus had the twelve-bunk configuration (six per side). Jerry’s bus had two per side. Since there were only four bunks on Jerry’s bus, they were absolutely huge. He even sent someone to get me coffee, a must if you know me. All of this is pure luxury at this point on the tour. I slept like a damn rock.
Jane’s Addiction were also on this tour. Little did Jerry and I know, but JA singer extraordinaire Perry Farrell is, like us, a total NFL geek. His wife, Etty, texted me Saturday night and asked if Perry could come watch with us. He didn’t want to invite himself, and his wife sort of set up an adult playdate.
If you’ve ever seen Perry perform, then you know he is edgy and flamboyant and, I think, the second coming of Iggy. But a football fan? I was surprised. It’s not like Perry is a stranger to me. We’ve been on the road together. And for a brief time I sat in with his band.
I woke up at 8:30 on Sunday morning. I could hear the NFL Network pregame show cranking from the front lounge and could smell the coffee brewing as I stumbled out of my bunk. My football-watching pal was already fully engaged in what would be the first of a sixteen-game ritual. He had fantasy football up on his computer, snacks were open, and his Hawks hat was firmly ensconced on his dome.
The New York Jets were playing the early game. Since we were on the West Coast, it started at 10 a.m. The Jets have been Perry’s team since he was a kid and Joe Namath was their quarterback. If Perry was gonna come over to our bus, it’d be for this game for sure.
Now, here is the deal when you have the DirecTV football package at home or on your bus: whoever is the owner of said package also gets to control which games are being watched and switched between. It just isn’t proper football code to insist on watching your game when you’re the guest. But Jerry conceded that if Perry came over, he’d be happy to have the Jets game on somewhat when the Hawks weren’t playing.
Before we move on here, I’d like to point out how much I admire people like Perry Farrell. Perry don’t give a fuck about what anyone thinks of him. He is a true free spirit, with a heart consisting of parts lion, child, killer, and saint. He is a true weirdo, in the best sense of that word. I’ve seen him at home, as the gentle baseball-coach dad to his son’s teams. I’ve seen his eyes onstage, when shit gets very real, and he is a man possessed (and something I wish we had way more of in rock and roll). I’ve even witnessed him get all “street” on some dude who was trying to be all tough and threatening on some shitty street corner in Hollywood.
But I’d never watched a football game with Perry. There are certain unspoken rules in place while watching that go beyond insisting on your game: You don’t talk about antiquing or clothes shopping. You don’t talk about how some new hand-hewn wood flooring would “look great in your entryway.” You don’t talk about people in your band or your wife or girlfriend or boyfriend. It’s football Sunday! When we do speak, it’s about fucking football. Got it?
Perry showed up at the bus with a bottle of red wine. Red flag. He didn’t want to come empty-handed, and since he was sharing his bus with Etty and the female dancers for Jane’s Addiction, it’s all he could muster. It alarms guys like Jerry and me when a fella brings a bottle of red wine to the game for the above-mentioned reasons. Red wine bringing is dangerously close to clothes shopping.
Our fears, however, were instantly allayed when Perry followed his entrance with a vocal and informed tirade about the new possession-out-of-bounds rule that the NFL was trying out. Neither Jerry nor I even knew about it, so we fake nodded like we were just as miffed as Perry about the situation. Perry went on to school us on the holes that the Jets needed to fill—team, coaching staff, and personnel—if they stood a chance of getting to the playoffs.
Perry could be a goddamn NFL commentator. I’d almost forgotten: the dude is good at everything.
Perry drank that bottle of red, and Jerry and I watched him get more animated and thrust himself into the game. Unfortunately, his team lost.
When it came time for the Seahawks, Perry, sensing the blue and teal blood pulsating through our veins, started to wax poetic and informatively about how the Seahawks made sense this year, how good he thought the “system” of Coach Pete was and how good Coach Pete and GM Schneider were at finding gems in the lower draft brackets. How the hell did this guy know so much about our team?
We realized then and there that Perry is an NFL historian and aficionado. Don’t judge a book by its cover, people.
He will always be welcome to our future football-watching sessions. I may have to call him next year for advice on my fantasy football picks.
As for Jerry and me, we watched our Hawks beat the Carolina Panthers and knew that we were in for a special season.
Before the playoff game against the 49ers—the game that would decide which team would compete in Super Bowl XLVIII—the city of Seattle started to go ballistic and I started to feel a little better. Slowly. I went to my doctor again and asked if there weren’t something he could do so that I could go to the game. I could see in his eyes that he understood me. He understood that I had waited since I was twelve years old for a team and a season like this. He switched me up to the heaviest dose of antibiotic offered, told me to dress warm and stay dry, and wished my team the best of luck.
Feeling better started to put my brain back in the right place again, too. The old “healthy body, healthy mind” adage is really quite true. I started to fantasize about how far my team could go, and though I’d never audibly say the words “Super Bowl” for fear of jinxing my boys, I did realize that the Super Bowl would land two days before my fiftieth birthday. What if? I mean . . . just imagine?! Turning fifty, for me, began to have the old pre-illness appeal again.
With doctor’s approval and Jerry at my side, we made our way to Century Link Field in Seattle for what was one of the most consequential sports moments in our city’s history. Century Link sits on hallowed ground. Before it was Century Link, the property was home to a large, important multiuse facility called the Kingdome. It was a homely venue, sure, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t get a bit emotional when it imploded (literally). It played host to the Hawks, the Mariners, and even some Sonics games. It’s also where some of the most consequential musical moments of my life took place.
I played there with Guns N’ Roses in 1992, and my whole family was able to come out and see what we were up to—for better and for worse. But that night at the Dome wasn’t nearly as important to me as the night I spent there fifteen years prior.
I s
aw Led Zeppelin at the Kingdome on July 17, 1977, when I was thirteen years old. It was the event in my life that seemingly nothing else would or could ever compare to. I mean, how could anything ever come close to seeing Led Zeppelin live, in their prime as a thirteen-year-old boy? Way back then, my three best friends (present tense still applies—we are still best friends) and I all stood in line at the record store at 10 a.m. on a Saturday morning to buy ten-dollar general admission tickets to see Led Zeppelin.
We got our tickets at Cellophane Square, a record shop in Seattle’s University District that had just started to become a central gathering point for my group of friends. Before the Internet, the place to find out about new and essential music was at the record store. Cellophane Square had a little pinball room in the back, as well, so little shits like us would end up hanging out at the place—listening to music and playing pinball for hours after school and on weekends. Heading down there to wait in line for Led Zeppelin tickets just added another layer of coolness to our favorite record store. Shit! I got turned on to the Sex Pistols, learned pinball cool, and got Led Zeppelin tickets at Cellophane Square. For a thirteen-year-old, it was the coolest place on earth.
The thing about holding general admission tickets is that you don’t have a reserved place. The first ones to the venue are the first ones through the door. First ones through the door get the best place on the floor, closest to the band. In the ’70s, it was common to go down to the venue the day or night before the concert to camp out in line to be in the first-wave, best-seat/standing-place category. The practice is now illegal because of trampling deaths, but it was just the way it was done back then. Even as thirteen-year-old kids, we knew we’d have to somehow get down to the Kingdome way early the morning of the show to have a chance at getting anywhere close to Zeppelin. Our Gods. The Chosen Four. The best there ever was.