by Duff McKagan
It’s easy to think of a band like U2 as always having been a colossus—and for fans born in the ’90s, they always have been. But Island Records stuck with the band for four albums before they broke with Joshua Tree. Labels today don’t have the resources to do that anymore. Sometimes I think about how many U2s have broken up this year or last because they just couldn’t sell enough records to make a follow-up. It’s not that they don’t love making music anymore. It’s that they have to feed their kids.
The Walking Papers are a musical powerhouse. I’m not saying that because I am in the band. I joined this thing because of how much respect I have for the guys who started the band. Jeff Angell and Barrett Martin are two of the most creative guys I’ve ever worked with. And keyboardist Ben Anderson’s approach to auxiliary sound is sublime. This band is just one example of a group that could develop into something special (on the road, we see others all the time). Of course, we need to keep selling records to continue. We’ve all got kids and homes and responsibilities now. Those cute old punk-rock days of just being excited to have a 7-inch out have been supplanted by hard facts. We have to financially succeed to a degree in selling product if we are going to continue this band. This is our job now: to create a place where our kids can record and wrap 7-inch singles of their own.
It is a much tougher row to hoe these days to break your band, but goddamn, it’s still all about the music. Playing our songs, writing new ones, and imagining what could be, it all feels the same as it did when I was sixteen years old.
I can’t wait to do it all again.
24
CHAPTER
KNOW HOW THINGS WORK (AND WHAT YOU CAN FIX)
“To make mistakes is human; to stumble is commonplace; to be able to laugh at yourself is maturity.”
—WILLIAM ARTHUR WARD
WHEN I’M HOME, LIFE IS PRETTY NORMAL AROUND the McKagan house: my daughters go to school during the day and spend evenings in their rooms (I thought we were over this!); Susan and I spend our days talking about our girls and our evenings worrying about them. I try to fix things around the house. I like to fix things. Always have.
I bought my first car when I was seventeen. I had a steady job as a cook in Seattle and saved up enough money to spend three hundred dollars on a ride. That was a lot of money in 1982, especially for a guy barely making four dollars an hour—who had rent to pay. I wasn’t old enough to legally buy a car, so, like I had done a few times before, I asked Kim Warnick from the Fastbacks to be my adult representative. At nineteen, she was an adult in the eyes of the law and fit to cosign for the car.
I found a Ford Maverick with 200,000 miles on it, but the owner explained to me that “that slant-six engine would run for another 200,000!” He also said something as an aside about the car being able to make it to LA without a problem. That was all the confidence I needed to drive to LA and find some guys to start a band with. He could never know what an impact on my life that sentence would have.
While, yes, the engine may have been fine, I soon learned that the brakes weren’t. The brakes were spongy, and after a week I had to start applying the brakes a good half block before red lights and stop signs. I explained the situation to the guy working the counter at a local auto parts store. Considering my limited funds, he pointed me toward a junkyard north of Seattle to look for something called a master cylinder. I had never seen a master cylinder before and soon found out that they are massive, daunting objects.
The junkyard was filled with rows and rows of towering hunks of rust and rubber: cars stacked on top of cars, all with scribbled codes in different colors of ink. I found out that the different colors signified different intentions: yellow meant that the engine was intact, blue signified that the body parts were in good shape. I had to go to the main office at the junkyard a few times to finally find an area at the yard where I might find what I was looking for. The guys in the office seemed to take an interest in my case and, sensing that I was a complete neophyte, started doling out advice. I even managed to learn a few things.
While tearing a master cylinder out of one car, I figured out how the bolts worked for when I’d have to install it back into my car. But, really, I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know, for example, that one had to bleed the brake lines of their fluid and keep vacuum pressure before installation. I failed. Three times. After each attempt I made my way back to the junkyard, to the boys in the office, asking the gruff dudes at the yard for advice. I still don’t pretend to know how a car’s brake system works, but I did figure out my Maverick. The whole process taught me about patience and trying to ask more questions and get more informed BEFORE I had the next issue with my car—or anything else for that matter.
I like to know how the stuff around me works. I know that a light doesn’t just automatically turn on when you flip a switch. There is power running from the street to your house and then fuses and conduits and whatnot. That power from the street comes from some sort of city power plant, where that electrical energy was converted from a dam somewhere and transported all the way to your light switch.
It’s fun to learn how inanimate objects—broken lighting sconces, brick walkways, undug trenches, and unlayed sprinklers—work. And it’s fun to figure out how to fix them.
It’s in our blood. Men like to fix things. Sometimes out of necessity—and sometimes because we can’t sit still. Sometimes because we’re in a position to fix things. And others, um, because we mean well. We try to fix our cars, our toilets, even our relationships. We can’t help it. We try to fix things. But there are things we can’t fix.
Our twenties and thirties can be a real pain in the ass. A lot of us think that by that age we must have it all figured out. The fact is that learning about ourselves and others is not static; it’s an ever-changing process.
When I have problems or confusions with my wife and loved ones, it’s easy to forget that I’m only seeing the light switch. When we fellas try to fix a problem in our relationships, we naturally want the immediate malaise to be cured. We try patching things up without thinking of where the current of the problem with our loved one is coming from. The street, the city power plant, or the dam? I’m not a pop psychologist of any sort, but I’ve found that trying to look a little deeper and trying to understand the whole situation with my wife or daughters goes a lot further for both parties involved.
Teenage kids spend a ton of time in their rooms. They have iPads and iPhones and Spotify, and my wife and I have gotten used to our daughters going straight to their rooms after school. But when I hear a door slam when one of them comes home from school, I know there is something wrong. My first reaction, instinctively, is to scold her for slamming the door shut, but I’ve come to realize that this is only the light switch to some other situation that my daughter may be having.
These days there are a few more variables than a dam and a city power plant and a fuse. With teenagers, there is school, girlfriends, boys, social media, driving, college pressure, and, yes, us parents. Peeling back the onion can be challenging with a teenager, but I hope that by gently prodding and eventually getting to the root of an issue, my girls will soon enough learn a little about exposing their own problems to themselves and self-solving. Hell, these kids grow up so damn fast that before you know it, they will be out on their own.
Back when Susan was having our babies, she started making a habit of showing me different clothes she liked in magazines and catalogues we got in the mail. I was busy in school and studied for hours at home each day when I wasn’t physically at school. I’d feign interest when she showed me a pashmina or dress from a catalogue, or, when we were out to dinner, and she’d point out something in a store window. Me being a guy, I simply would go get her these things from the mall or downtown on the way home from school, thinking this would fix the issue. Right? Wrong.
When I’d bring something home for her, she’d sort of half smile, say thanks, and leave the item where it sat for a week. This started to bug me as mu
ch as it was seemingly bothering her. I couldn’t figure it out. Finally, one night we got into a little spat. That’s when I finally found out why I was getting the “gift-clothes” cold shoulder. What I wasn’t noticing when she’d show me those clothes in magazines was that she wanted us to go together and look for that beige pashmina at Nordstrom. In my rush to fill my brain with knowledge at the business school at Seattle U, I was forgetting that my wife liked to spend time with me, too. It could have been clothes she was pointing out to me or vegetables from the grocery store mailer. She just wanted us to do some small things together. Duh.
I don’t know the whole story with friends or strangers who are short with me at the gym, either. I try to talk to people and learn from others, and I realize most of the time that I just can’t go back to some scrapyard and get another part when it comes to relationships. The overarching male intuition to fix has to be pushed back for us boys if we’re ever to grow into bona fide man-dom.
25
CHAPTER
LET GO OF RESENTMENTS, VOL. I
“Mountaintops inspire leaders, but valleys mature them.”
—SIR WINSTON CHURCHILL
THIS, I WAS NOT EXPECTING. I GUESS THAT’S THE POINT. When I was thirty, I believed that if I made it to fifty my life would have a straight path forward, that I’d know exactly how every day was going to end. Every year since, I’ve been further convinced I was wrong.
I have much more at fifty than I ever imagined I would. Only through adaptation and change have I been able to enjoy the process. My daughters are more than any father could ask for, and my marriage is still spicy.
(Note: To you young married couples. There is no such thing, I believe, as a marriage without conflict. The important thing in all relationships is to get rid of resentments. Resentment will absolutely kill any relationship.)
A couple months after my birthday, I was in Australia with the Walking Papers. We were offered a great spot on the touring Soundwave Festival, playing seven shows in five cities, and things were going pretty swell. Susan was with me, and the girls were in the midst of schoolwork back home. They were happy to get a break from their parents, and Susan and I were having some serious grown-up time in a fantastic part of the world.
(Note to married couples with children: Grown-up time is very important. Getting away from the kids for a night or more and wearing fancy underwear—guys—is healthy all the way around.)
Out of nowhere, I got a call from a good friend who has been working for Axl. He told me that there was a scheduling mix-up and that GN’R’s bass player, Tommy Stinson, couldn’t play some South American dates with the band. “The gigs are booked and tickets are on sale. Duff, could you come down and play them with Axl and the guys?”
It had been seventeen years since I’d played many of those songs. In those seventeen years, a lot of chest puffing and resentment building had taken place. That band was such a monstrous thing that none of us original guys were able to walk away unscathed. I’d done things that I wasn’t proud of. I’d had feelings about it that, looking back now, seem completely sophomoric.
Members of the GN’R inner circle said things about me, too, that I didn’t appreciate. Being able to get through this stuff and work on resentments and figure out what my part in the whole thing was has been a healthy part of me getting the chance to mature, to not just appreciate but love all of the original guys from the band. We did a lot together in a short amount of time, and I realize how some of the dirty water that flowed under our bridge came to be muddied. Today, I look back at those times with something close to honor.
Of course, when you have kids, you don’t have a lot of time to look back at life. Kids keep a guy in the now in a big way. Kids have diapers, bottles, and toys . . . toys that a dad has to put together. Kids have preschool, kindergarten, grade school, high school . . . and drama and boys. And more drama.
Dads go back to school. Dads start new business endeavors. Dads get sober, sharpen their minds with martial arts. Dads work on their marriage. Dads play fart tennis with their bandmates; write columns for Seattle Weekly, ESPN, and Playboy; and write books about dogs and how to keep roses alive in the backyard. We follow the Seahawks, say good-bye to the Sonics. We replace the blown lightbulbs in the motorcycle. We keep up with friends. I assumed life would slow down at fifty. It does not. Many of my formative years were spent elbow to elbow with the guys in GN’R. Axl and I had a great bond that I let bad advice and internal politics push me away from. Resentment reared its ugly head. This shit happens, and I’m glad I found a way out of that period. I’ve yet to find any good purpose for resentment anywhere in my life. As a friend once told me: resentment is like taking poison and hoping the other person gets sick.
This call from my friend was much more than a call about some gig. It was a chance to rectify mistakes and recover a friendship. But I had to think about it. I’ve gotten similar calls before.
Toward the end of 2011, just as Loaded was wrapping up a world tour, I got a call: would we open for Axl and GN’R in Seattle and Vancouver? I had to think of this several different ways: Would my band that’s still trying to recruit new fans perform in front of 20,000 people predisposed to liking our music? Would I like to tack one more show onto the end of a grueling tour? Would I like to open for a band that’s performing hits that I cowrote?
In the end, I decided, yes, we’d play the shows. Not only would it be a good chance to give Loaded a look at some new fans, but I’d have a chance to start the process of getting to know my friend again.
A few days before the show, my phone rang again: I was to be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame as a member of Guns N’ Roses. This news left me grateful—and speechless. It also cast the shows with Axl in a different light.
I’m so glad we played the shows. Not only was our set vicious, but I had a chance to sit in with Axl and his band. Seeing the way the crowd reacted to the sight of the two of us together reminded me of something: as big as GN’R was for me, my bandmates, and our families, it was bigger to our fans. It left a lasting impact that I don’t think I’ll ever be able to fully comprehend.
At the time, I felt like it could have been the beginning of a new chapter for me and Axl, and maybe even the whole band. We were to be honored with an induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Perhaps it would be time for us to finally put the past behind us and move forward.
It wasn’t meant to be. My friend Izzy Stradlin asked me to relay a message via my Seattle Weekly blog that he would not be attending the event. And Axl released his own letter soon after announcing his intention not to attend. I know both men had their reasons, but I couldn’t help but feel like we were missing an opportunity and letting down our fans.
I received an open letter from a fan named Chris Gehrt on behalf of “Worldwide Guns N’ Roses Fans” that put a sharp point on the situation:
Dear Guns N’ Roses,
On Saturday April 14th 2012 you will be inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. This gave a great hope to every GN’R fan on the planet for a one time reunion show. Our one and only chance to see the original lineup on stage together again, if only for five minutes. Something we’ve been told for years would never happen. Rumors swirled, the band denied, and the fans prayed. It will always be okay because you never promised us anything.
With less than 2 weeks before the induction, the fans are watching as our reunion hopes start to disappear like Marty McFly’s family in a polaroid picture. Each day it seems like there is some new story about how there has been no communication, nobody knows what is required of them, nobody’s talking, and nobody really seems to care.
We care.
It would be easy for you to just show up, accept the induction, spend a few awkward minutes together at a podium and not talk again until somebody’s funeral. But this time we need more.
We are not trying to be selfish, God knows you have given us plenty of legendary songs, spectacular shows, and classic rock moment
s. You are sincerely the best rock band in the history of the world. All of your solo efforts and reincarnations of the group are awesome too.
Your music has inspired billions of people. Each one of you is still a fan inside. You loved Elton John, Aerosmith, Queen, Kiss, The Misfits, ELO and more. Please remember how great it feels to see your favorite band play.
We beg you to pick up the phone, grab your instruments, drag Izzy to Cleveland and play together.
You can make music history. Please do it. Give us one more memory. We deserve it.
We will continue to support you no matter what, but at the end of each concert Axl tells the crowd to “Not take . . . from anyone.” And that means ANYONE!
Sincerely,
Worldwide Guns N’ Roses Fans.
The letter was painful, but also inspiring. With Slash, Steven, Matt, and I all planning to attend, I knew we’d have to do something special for our fans. It all went by in such a blur that the details didn’t come into focus until after I watched the performance on the HBO special weeks later.
It was a very poignant event. I don’t think I was expecting just how heavy the whole deal was going to be for me on a personal level. Walking into the lobby at the hotel that all the artists were staying at, the first person I saw was fucking Ronnie Wood from the Faces/Stones. He gave me a huge hug and smiled a huge grin. “Isn’t this going to be fucking great, Duff?!” Uh, yeah, sure . . . but, what a welcome it was.
In the aftermath of all of the drama leading up to the event, I stuck to my mind-set that I was there to honor our fan base who had been there for us over the last twenty-five years.
A funny thing happened in the lead-up to Cleveland. It seemed that there was an understanding not only with the people who flew in to Cleveland to see “their band” inducted but in how the other bands inducted rallied around Slash, Steven, Matt, and me. They had our backs, and all offered their help in any way that we could use it.