How to Be a Man

by Duff McKagan

  Earlier that day, I had stripped my deck and dock back home, and I knew it would all be ready for my staining assault the next day. All was right in the world.

  We got into the backstage area and got passes for Andrew and—critically—a parking spot for his Jeep. I told Andrew that he was my guest and so try to behave himself accordingly. He was a real gentleman and understood completely.

  The gig went on without a hitch. I got to see my old pal play some scorching rock music and then got to see a great set from Aerosmith in that most beautiful amphitheater along the Columbia River. I have been friends with those guys since 1988, when GN’R did our dream tour with them just as Appetite was breaking out commercially. Hell, the Walking Papers had just gotten back from a European tour with these guys, so the whole thing was like going to see family.

  As Aerosmith’s set was getting going, Espen came up to me and invited Susan and me to his yacht in the San Juan Islands later that night. Steven Tyler was going to come on the plane with us, and Matt and his wife would meet us up there, too. We’d spend a few days just cruising the islands. I told Espen, though, that I really had to get back to Seattle because of some “stuff I had to do.” It was tempting to spend a long weekend with my wife and friends on a private yacht in the San Juans. But in the back of my head I kept thinking, those boards in the backyard are not gonna stain themselves. They never do.

  Let’s see:

  A.Go by private jet and helicopter to a yacht with one of my boyhood rock idols in tow and cruise the most beautiful part of the world, with a chef and full crew.

  B.Get up at 7 a.m. and take care of my deck.

  You know what happened. I’ve got to take care of my home and my family. Don’t get me wrong, at any other point and time, I would have loved to go. I love the water. I love boats, and I love good company. But, again, the deck wasn’t going to stain itself!

  Then Espen asked another question, After the show, do you think Andrew could take us back to the plane?

  Oh, right. Andrew! I looked around and found Andrew having the time of his life . . . and a few cocktails. “Andrew,” I said. “Can you give us a ride back to the plane? We are bringing Steven Tyler with us now, too. Is there room? And, are you OK to drive?” I could tell Andrew was stunned: driving Steven Tyler in his car was going to be a story he could tell his grandkids! Andrew put down his drink, drank a pot of coffee, and sobered up.

  After the show, we all piled into Andrew’s Jeep, and he took us back to the plane. We all thanked him for his service and sent him on his way. I am convinced that my friends thought Andrew was a paid, professional driver. I never let on that he was a guy I had found through a friend who had just come out to the show and hit the rock-fan lottery. Andrew played his part like a pro.

  When we got in the air, both Espen and Tyler were trying to convince me to come along with them. I started to think that I was a real buffoon, but the thought of one of my daughters, my wife, or a guest snagging a bare foot and getting a sliver on an eroding deck plank back home sealed the deal. “Nope, guys. I got stuff to do.”

  We dropped the guys off on Orcas Island, and Susan and I had the plane all to ourselves. The pilot said that he had enough gas in the jet to take us to Vegas if we wanted. No thanks, we had to go back home. At another point of my life, I would have done all of this stuff and more. But, I’ve got to say, I get a thrill out of the simple fact that I like to do this maintenance stuff at my house, and it is a major priority.

  The next day, we woke up to a sunny, warm day in Seattle. Susan and I put on our work clothes and prepared for the job in front of us. The Seahawks were going to be playing a preseason game, and I’d be blasting the play-by-play on the dock.

  I had to get in the water to stain the sides, and I was careful not to spill a drop into the lake. I looked up at the yard and saw my wife happily staining the deck. We had a blast and felt good knowing that our deck and dock would be secure for a few more years.

  Matt sent us a bunch of pictures from the yacht. They all looked like they were having a great time, and I took a certain pride thinking about them enjoying our hidden treasures of the San Juan Islands. It was all good. I jammed with my buddy, I got to fly in a fancy jet, got to meet a new friend in Andrew, got to see Aerosmith, and I got to finish the daunting yet enjoyable task of doing my own work at home.

  This, my friends, was a very good weekend.

  EPILOGUE: NEVER QUIT DOING WHAT YOU LOVE

  I FINISHED THIS BOOK ON A FLIGHT FROM LOS ANGELES to London, two days before Thanksgiving 2014. I was on my way to South Africa with the Kings of Chaos crew. This tour had an added perk: We were joined by ZZ Top’s Billy Gibbons, Aerosmith’s Steven Tyler, and the great Robin Zander from Cheap Trick. To call these men three of my heroes is an extreme understatement. You think Andrew from Kirkland was surprised to see Steven Tyler riding shotgun in his Jeep? Imagine what it feels like for him to shove a microphone in your face during “Toys in the Attic”!

  When I was thirty, I asked a nurse to let me die. In a couple days, I’m going to play “Cheap Sunglasses” alongside the man who wrote it.

  This tour—this year, the year that I turned fifty, that I’ve chronicled here—is the latest in a long line of surprises and blessings that I could not have comprehended in the lowest parts of my life. A time that coincided with the height of my band’s fame.

  When I got sober and completely flip-flopped my life, I thought my music career was over. I was still technically a member of Guns N’ Roses, but I had somehow assumed with a dumb-ass certainty that one had to be inebriated to write songs and play onstage. I mean, really, who the hell does this rock thing without a little juice, a bump of coke, a glass of vodka, Valium, more cocaine, some needless boy/girl drama, whiskey, beer, opiates, Quaaludes, more vodka, and another snort of cocaine?

  All of us reach tipping points in our lives when we cross over into a new chapter. It is what we do at these moments that dictates the “part deux” of our lives. For this there is no handbook. We can only hope that putting our heads down and forging ahead will get us through. Guys like me are too dull to do it any other way.

  At the time, I didn’t have the capacity to comprehend a future as a musician.

  My mind was elsewhere.

  Just focus on trying to not use for one more day. I’ll think about all of this other stuff later. Get on the mountain bike and ride until you can’t. Go to the dojo, and punch, kick, learn everything possible from Sensei Benny. Punch and kick and stretch until you can’t anymore. Sweat this shit out. Learn. Try. Try fucking harder. Yes, Sensei. Yes, Sensei! Bow out, and go home and eat something good. Drink lots of water (water? this is a novel idea). Try to look at yourself in the mirror at home before bed. Did I do everything to the best of my ability today? Was I honest about every action and word spoken today? Really? Who you lyin’ to? Yourself? That’s pretty lame. I’ll try harder tomorrow. Just don’t use! Just. Don’t. Use.

  Music was put on the back burner. I couldn’t surmise how I’d ever play live without my shield of inebriation. Little did I know at my crossroads then that I was so insanely dead wrong.

  With ten months of sobriety under my belt, I was approached by one of my all-time heroes, Steve Jones of the Sex Pistols, to start a band with him, Matt Sorum, and Duran Duran’s John Taylor. I hadn’t played a live gig sober yet, and I wasn’t sure how that was going to go.

  My first gig with this new band, called Neurotic Outsiders, would be at the Viper Room in West Hollywood. I’d never played there before, and, to be honest, I was more nervous than ever. Would I have a panic attack onstage? Would I tense up and not be able to play? Would people stare at me and judge me? Would we be any good? But the thought of playing a small room after all of those massive GN’R shows was refreshing. As a musician, performing in small rooms really improves your playing. The sound systems are smaller and less forgiving than huge PAs. The audience is right there in your face and can watch your playing almost as if through a microscope.
You have to be good.

  Starting a new band this time was a bit easier. Shit, I was playing with Steve Jones, and he had a massive hand in the sound and songwriting of the Pistols. The songs he brought to the band from the get-go were stellar. I was also sort of living out a teenage punk-rock dream. I knew it was gonna be cool, no matter the size of rooms we played. Believing in something for the pureness of that something carries a lot of weight with a guy like me.

  We rehearsed for two weeks leading up to the Viper Room gig, and driving down there from my house in Hollywood (that used to serve as my drug headquarters), I really felt that I was starting a new chapter in my life.

  I wasn’t sure how to get into the club. There was a line around the corner. Do I walk through the people in line? I hadn’t been around this many folks since I’d been sober, and it felt as if everyone were staring at me. I felt a bit too aware, a bit too sober. It felt like four hundred sets of eyes were burrowing into the back of my head. I started to sweat. My breathing became shallow and fast. If I can’t handle maneuvering through these people, how would I be able to play in front of them in a couple of hours?

  Just then, Matt showed up and nonchalantly mingled with folks in line. I remember watching in awe as he made the whole thing look easy. “C’mon Duff! Follow me!” Matt said, sensing my unease. And that was it. I was in.

  We walked down the small, dimly lit hallway that led to the stairs up to the main room. Once I saw our gear sitting there on the stage and our crew guys waiting for us to sound check, things became a bit more familiar.

  I know how to do music. This is where I am supposed to be. Those people are here in anticipation of seeing this new band. They aren’t staring at me in judgment. They are being polite and probably a bit shy. Right. Don’t freak out, Duff.

  This incident sticks in my mind as one of the illuminating moments in my life. Everyone who has lived and breathed on this planet has experienced a time of great change. That evening I realized that my brain was sending me all kinds of signals I wasn’t used to receiving. My breathing quickened, and my thought processes went a bit awry as I wasn’t used to any of this sober, social gig stuff.

  The gear sitting on the stage snapped me out of it. The gear was a source of strength, proof that I was in a safe place, a situation I knew how to navigate. I learned from then on to envision a homing point (my gear on the stage, if you will) before I get into situations that might make me uncomfortable or ill at ease.

  As I got adjusted to the dim light in the club, Sal, the club manager at the time, came up and told me that a rumor was going around outside in line, a rumor that I had gotten a facelift. A facelift?! Right. In the preceding year, I had lived a sober life and had sort of clung to the confines of my martial arts dojo and rode my mountain bike, and I’d dropped fifty pounds of booze and drug weight. More like a life-lift. There had been no pictures of me taken during my gradual recovery, so it must have seemed like an instant change to some of the people standing outside. If I wasn’t sure how to deal with social situations yet, it was apparent that some people weren’t quite sure what to make of me either.

  Steve and John Taylor were sitting backstage, and we all kind of hung out there as the doors opened. As I was warming up on my guitar, Jonesy asked how I was doing. “I’m good, Steve.” He told me that he remembered his first sober gig and that this would probably be my clearest musical moment in years. “You are gonna play better than you have in a long time, mate.” That was all I needed to hear.

  The new band was really good, and it was a total blast, with a lot of humor among the four of us. Humor was something that had been missing in my life for some time, and I had forgotten how much I missed levity and bad jokes.

  When we hit the stage, the place erupted and we laid into a perfectly kick-ass set of OG punk rock. Steve was anchored to my left, looking my way every now and then, checking and nodding his approval. John Taylor is a bad man on the bass, and it suddenly hit me that, right, Mr. Taylor and Duran Duran were a full-on movement in modern music. John is so mellow and low key that I guess he sort of disarms you to the fact that he is John FUCKING Taylor!

  Matt was on the drums, and he too slowed my roll. I settled in with a group of guys who had my back. If this is what playing sober was gonna be like, I wanted a whole lot more of it.

  When we came offstage after the set, I felt like it had been one of the biggest gigs I’d ever played. Sure, we were a new band, and it would be an uphill battle to take this thing to bigger places and all, but that was beside the point. It felt right and honest and had real fucking balls and intent. Those are the things that matter to guys like me.

  I drove home that night by myself. No Hollywood party. No chicks. Certainly no drugs or booze. Getting into bed, I realized that I was more fulfilled musically right then than I had been in some time. The spark was back. I knew I would be able to carry on playing music without the aid of inebriates. I was ecstatic and relieved and really just plain happy. I watched a bit of Ken Burns’s Civil War and fell off to a deep sleep.

  The Neurotic Outsiders did not become my life. My family did.

  At the time, I had a romantic notion of what I wanted in life. I guess I still do.

  I was still aspiring to It’s a Wonderful Life, the movie that had such a deep impact on me when I first saw it at age twelve. I wanted a family more than anything. I wanted that wife and those kids. I wanted to struggle and love and nurture and be Jimmy Stewart. I still use his role as George Bailey as a benchmark for how to be a dad and husband. My wife indulges me with one of those 1947 dramatic kisses and hugs once in a while (for some reason, though, when Susan is miffed at me, approaching her with one of these George Bailey just-got-my-life-back-isn’t-life-grand? violent kisses and squeezes just doesn’t seem to unmiff her all of the time, but sometimes it works).

  Thanks to Steve Jones and company, I discovered that I could get onstage sober. But a woman? I wasn’t quite ready for that stuff at all. I couldn’t even fully look at myself in the mirror yet. How the hell could I be a Jimmy Stewart to my future Donna Reed, when I still had cysts of toxins popping up all over me as they were escaping their old home that was my body?

  Forge ahead. Try harder. Do the thing that is directly in front of you, and don’t think beyond that. Head down. Ears pinned back. Move in a direct line.

  A friend of mine set me up on a blind-ish date. I saw a marvelous photo of this beautiful woman, as my friend dialed her number. I talked to her on the phone, and the rest is history. I found my Mary Bailey in Susan Holmes. She wanted the things I wanted. Kids. A chill life (she had just “done” seven years in the high-stress world of couture fashion modeling). And Susan cried the first time we watched It’s a Wonderful Life together. Man . . . she gets me!

  Flash forward a few years, and we are happily married with two sweet little daughters. We were married with our families as witnesses in a beautiful little ceremony in the backyard of the house I bought back in my hazy days. Even all fucked up, I had held on to fading hopes of one day having a family. And now it was really happening. All of it. Sober. Being a father. Trying to be a good husband. Trying to be a good student at Seattle University. Trying to start a new life.

  But the music gene that I was born with—the recurring dreams I had as a child that I could never shake—was starting to demand attention. When you have this particular inside makeup, you don’t feel completely whole unless you are getting music out. In my case, I wanted to create something new. I was playing guitar a bunch and even got a rehearsal space in Seattle so that I could jam with some friends. I created a Loaded record and played a couple shows with the band in Japan and around Seattle. I also played with some guys around town like Mark Lanegan and the Presidents of the United States of America.

  Then in 2003 I got a call telling me that the great rock drummer Randy Castillo had passed away. Matt Sorum and Slash and I were asked if we’d play together again at a show in LA to benefit Randy’s family. The three of us hadn’t played
together since the end of GN’R in 1993. I truly think that we’d been sort of avoiding the inevitable “Oh, right, so you are just gonna get a new singer then?” type of questions from the rock public at large, which we knew would happen if we played together. But we all quickly and unquestionably assented, as Randy was one of those guys who constantly bent over backwards for others his whole abbreviated life.

  Playing together that night was a powerful thing.

  But I was still in school, and Susan and I had three-and six-year-old girls at home in Seattle. When Matt and Slash and I decided to pursue what would become Velvet Revolver, there was no question that Susan and the girls would be there with me. We rented a small, three-bedroom duplex in Hollywood as the band began its ten-month foray into writing songs and finding a singer.

  As that band progressed and toured, my family got to come on the road with me quite a bit. I much preferred it that way and knew I was fortunate to be able to do it. VR was playing big enough places that the economics of the thing allowed for me to have the best of both worlds.

  I found that it wasn’t a “this or that” situation. I could be an active musician and a father and a husband and a bandmate. I could do the thing that I loved and support the family I’d always wanted.

  I was gaining confidence in life as a whole. I started to write for Playboy and Seattle Weekly and ESPN, and I found that writing soothed some parts of those creative spasms that I will continue to maintain until the day I’m gone.

  But, until then, I wanna use myself up. I want to live this life to its fullest. I want to see all that I can see and love all that I can possibly love. Those crossroads that I experienced were necessary turning points in my life. They allowed me to know now that when my life comes to its end point, I will slide headlong into my grave, exclaiming “Wow! What a ride!”

  At least that’s what I’m working on.