It’s So Easy

by McKagan, Duff

  Listen, Buckley, maybe we should rest up and cuddle before we go. Or just go to sleep.

  Ah, yes. But when I go out and rock, when I play live shows, I am still that glass-chewing, fire-breathing man among men. I spit and swear and lose myself in the moment. That is my time, and my family understands and gives it to me freely, with their full support. Susan and my girls are often dancing and cheering me on from the side of the stage.

  When I come off, Mae invariably says, “Daddy, you cuss too much.”

  I’m proud to say that’s one of the only vestiges left of what you might call a typical rock-and-roll lifestyle. In fact, I would go so far as to say I now have contempt for the term rock star. You may be saying to yourself, Yeah, right, the dude from Guns N’ Roses has a beef with a term that probably describes him to a T. Let me tell you something: I cringe whenever that term is directed anywhere near me. Here’s why.

  I was fortunate enough in my teens to see the Clash on their first U.S. theater tour. This was before they received broader recognition on the London Calling record and long before songs from Combat Rock landed them on MTV, but they were already larger than life to me. And they seemed truly exotic to me, too, somehow different and removed from me and my world. If the term rock star could have been used at any time in my experience, it would have been then and it would have described these guys who inspired true awe in me.

  About two hundred people showed up at the Paramount in Seattle to see this gig and it was, simply put, mind-blowing. During the show, a big yellow-shirted security guy up front punched a fan and broke his nose. Blood was everywhere. The Clash stopped the show. Bassist Paul Simonon appeared from the wings of stage right wielding a firefighter’s axe that he must have plucked from the wall. He jumped down in the pit and proceeded to chop down the wooden barrier separating the fans from the band while guitarist Joe Strummer dressed down the security goon and went on to say that there was no difference between the fans and the bands: “We are all in this together! There is no such thing as a rock star, just musicians and listeners!” That moment remains crystal clear in my mind to this day.

  I also have a strong dislike for the term rock star because I do actually know some people in the biz who refer to themselves as rock stars. These people really think they’re better than their fans. I, for one, find that kind of behavior embarrassing. Don’t get me wrong. I get why the term is used and I was myself easily smitten with rock stars as a little kid—I was mesmerized by the likes of Jimi Hendrix and Led Zeppelin. Over the years, though, I have had the distinct honor of meeting some of the artists who occupied my classroom daydreams and have been pleasantly surprised at the regular-dude quality of these older rock musicians. I guess the assholes get weeded out and longevity tends to happen for those who see themselves as serving the music. I like that.

  The term seems to have evolved a lot, too—from a noun into a much overused adjective, as in, “he sure has on some rock-star clothes.” Families of touring musicians can attest to the fact that rocking is just a job, really, one that allows, at times, for the clan to see some cool places together. At other times, it brings forth almost desperate loneliness for all. Those times aren’t very “rock star.”

  A moment of great humility came for me a few years ago after I played a huge stadium in Buenos Aires, Argentina, with Velvet Revolver. I was in the midst of finishing an online course at the time and had a question for the professor of the course. I told my wife that I had to call him when we got back to the hotel—we were getting a police escort back because the fans there can get a little, um, overzealous. When we got back to the room, fans had surrounded the hotel, singing soccer chants modified for the occasion. I had timed my call to catch this professor during his office hours.

  When he picked up the phone, I said, “Hi, Professor Greene, this is Duff McKagan in your Business 330 class and I want to ask you a question about this week’s assignment. I am calling from out of the country, so I was hoping to make this quick.”

  I had just played a stadium, been given a police escort, and now people were chanting my name on the street outside.

  “Duff who?” he replied.

  I came back down to earth in a hurry. And somewhere Joe Strummer was probably laughing his ass off.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The idea of writing a book would never have occurred to me if I hadn’t already started to write in public forums where others could read my work. For that I must thank Chris Kornelis at the Seattle Weekly and Tim Mohr, then at Playboy, for believing in me enough to give me a chance as a weekly columnist in their respective publications back in 2008. These two editors gave me fruitful ideas, helpful advice, and ample room to grow.

  It was through those columns that I learned I could actually get my ideas across much more clearly in written form. Talking or doing interviews was one thing, but committing my thoughts to paper became—and remains—a passion. I also have to thank and give props to my readership at the Seattle Weekly. I have been honored to receive your comments, and the constant exchange has given my writing more depth, insight, and color. My fellow writers at the Weekly also set a high bar for me to aspire to—especially Krist Novoselic and John Roderick.

  When I approached my erstwhile Playboy editor Tim Mohr with the idea of writing a book, he gave me the confidence and energy to give it a proper go. Tim has been with me every step of the way on this book, and was my daily editor and consigliere. It’s So Easy (and Other Lies) is as much his baby as mine.

  Long before I ever thought of writing professionally, back when I first tried to enroll at Seattle University in 1999, I had to compose an admissions essay. I hadn’t written an essay since sometime in the very early 1980s. My good friend Dave Dederer—Brown graduate and Presidents of the United States of America alum—walked me through those first scary steps of writing again. I still have his gift of Strunk and White’s Elements of Style proudly displayed on my library shelf.

  My wife, Susan, showed me the tricks of typing back then, as well as how to punctuate correctly. The typing is going strong, but she cringes now at some of the “creative” punctuation that’s slipped into my writing in the meantime. She is as smart a wife as anyone could ask for, especially when it comes to writing and grammar. (All of this, and she is smoking hot!) Thank you, baby. I love you.

  Writing is a solitary undertaking. Whenever I feel all alone, though, my dog Buckley is always there, snoring right by my side. Thanks, pal.

  My literary agent, Dan Mandel at Sanford J. Greenburger, eased me through the process of securing my book deal. This could and should have been a pain in the ass. Dan, you made it all understandable and actually fairly enjoyable.

  I wish to thank my band Loaded: Jeff Rouse, Mike Squires, and Isaac Carpenter. Thanks, fellas, for putting up with me burying my face in a damn laptop for countless hours in the studio, on the bus, on flights, and wherever else.

  Thanks also to my business manager, Beth Sabbagh, the rock and voice of reason in my often chaotic life; to my lawyer Glen Miskel—we’ve come a long and eventful way together and I’ll miss you; to Andy Bottomley, for being the smartest business partner a guy could ever ask for as well as a good friend; and to Jim Wilkie for letting me continue to hone my craft with a column on ESPN.com.

  My editor, Stacy Creamer, Touchstone’s publisher, believed in this project from day one, a fact that still floors me. When a professional of her caliber shows such unabashed excitement, it shames the rest of us who are jaded and gray. Thank you, Stacy. We are fellows cut from the same cloth; threadbare, sliced open, and constantly looking for the sun breaks to warm the calluses and cold away.

  Words, of course, are the ammunition with which we writers fight. New York Times crossword guru Will Shortz has over the years helped add crafty and smart vocabulary words to my arsenal. Jon Krakauer and Thomas Friedman write stunning and readable nonfiction that constantly inspires me. Cormac McCarthy and the late, great Upton Sinclair craft the most wonderful and dark prose ever wr
itten. Period.

  To Axl: thanks for putting up with my shit and being my friend in those dark hours.

  To Izzy: thanks for leading the way and being a mentor.

  To Slash: thanks for being such a musical inspiration.

  To Steven Adler: I will always love you like a brother.

  To Matt Sorum: you’re a lion of a man.

  To Dave Kushner: you are the real hero of Velvet Revolver.

  To Scott Weiland: keep on, my friend.

  To Sensei Benny Urquidez and Sensei Sarah “Eagle Woman” Urquidez: simply put, I learned to live again through the two of you.

  To the Seattleheads worldwide: you guys fucking kick ass!

  To Marybeth: thanks for being an awesome friend and for getting a whole mess of photos for this tome. You are one of a kind, sister.

  Thanks also to Iggy Pop, who provides the ethical compass I use to point my way. You keep it real. I try to.

  To my siblings Jon, Mark, Carol, Bruce, Claudia, Joan, Matt—for starters, let’s just get this out of the way: Mom loved me best. You probably overheard her whispering this to me from time to time. What’s that? You say she loved you best? God, we were lucky to have that woman as our mother. But I also feel lucky to have had you all as sisters and brothers. I appreciate all the inspiration, support, and guidance you have provided—and your low tolerance for bullshit.

  And to Grace and Mae: I know that someday you may both be curious to read this book. You have asked me questions about my youth and I have done my best to responsibly answer your questions without terrifying you guys too much. This is the whole story—the good, the bad, and the ugly—and these pages are an attempt to make some sense of the crazier times in my life. Writing this book has made me realize just how lucky I am to have two daughters at all, and I hope that I don’t embarrass either of you with any of these stories. In fact, I hope you guys can learn a thing or two from them, and I hope that going through so much hell allowed me to learn lessons that I can apply now as your father. You guys and your mom have provided me with a new life and light, and I will always treasure and protect you and do my best to steer you clear of some of the deep and dark chasms I fell into.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Duff McKagan played drums, guitar, and bass in punk bands in Seattle before taking his bass and moving to Los Angeles at the age of twenty. There, he and four new friends soon cofounded Guns N’ Roses, whose Appetite for Destruction became the bestselling debut album in history. In 1994, McKagan barely survived when his pancreas burst as a result of drug and alcohol abuse. After thirteen years in GN’R, he left to start a family and study business at Seattle University. He went on to form the bands Loaded and Velvet Revolver, as well as to play stints in Alice in Chains and Jane’s Addiction.

  ABOUT THE COLLABORATOR

  Tim Mohr is an award-winning translator of German novels, whose own writing has appeared in The New York Times, The Daily Beast, and The eXile, among other publications. He also spent several years as a staff editor at Playboy magazine, where he worked with writers including Hunter S. Thompson, Matt Taibbi, and Harvey Pekar. Prior to joining Playboy, he made his living as a club DJ in Berlin. He is currently at work on a history of East German punk rock.

  My brother Mark left for Vietnam when I was three years old. That’s me bawling my head off with my mother and my brother Matt beside me. This is one of my first memories ever.

  With all of my sibs, looking oh so groovy for 1972. That’s me in the middle in the “UW” shirt.

  Playing rhythm guitar with Ten Minute Warning in 1982 at the Metropolis in Seattle. Photograph by Charles Peterson.

  With Ten Minute Warning in 1983. I had all of the hope in the world. Photograph by Charles Peterson.

  With my dad in 1987. It would be years before we ever became close— and that was only after my wife, Susan, encouraged me to reach out to him. I’m so glad I did. We had a pretty good relationship by the time he passed away in 2007.

  With Ed—bachelor pad, 1984— three months before I would take off for L.A.

  My apartment in L.A. next to West’s. A musical centrifuge of characters.

  The Vains—Chris, Andy, and me—gearing up for a show, circa 1979. Photograph © Lance Mercer.

  Flyer for our 1985 show in Seattle: the first and only gig of the Hell Tour. The show ended up being shifted to June 12, and into the other (smaller) room at the same venue. Photograph © Lance Mercer.

  Rare photos from the recording sessions for Live Like a Suicide! at Pasha Studio in Hollywood. Photographs by Jeff Clark.

  Owning the right side of the stage with Izzy at an early Guns gig. He and I have remained good friends to this day. Photograph by Marc Canter.

  Onstage, 1986, with Guns. This is the bass that I got just before I moved to L.A. It’s the one I wrote all the bass lines for Appetite on. Photograph by Jack Lue.

  Now that is a rock and roll band. Photograph by Marc Canter.

  They called us the Rose Bros then. Photograph by Jack Lue.

  Slash’s playing blew my mind from the first moment. Photograph by Marc Canter.

  Hair falling out and gloves on to protect my cracking hands. Puffy as fuck.

  Bloated and hopeless, just before the fall.

  With Cully in the hills above L.A. Riding mountain bikes was a large part of my learning how to live a new life. Photograph by Chris Hatounian.

  With Andy in 1995. I was one year sober, and he looks relieved.

  In Hawaii. I think I just found out Susan was pregnant. Susan took this photo.

  Susan and I with brand-newborn Grace. The beginning stages of me becoming a grown-up.

  I was glad that my mom got to know Grace.

  Teaching Grace to swim, under the watchful eyes of Barney and Chloe.

  Susan I get married in Seattle! Grace was our flower girl.

  Grace and I backstage at a Velvet Revolver gig.

  Baby Mae! In every picture I own of her as an infant, I am kissing those cheeks!

  Velvet Revolver at the premier of The Hulk. Our first ever band photo.

  VR at the El Rey in LA. Our first gig. Photograph by Karl Larsen.

  Susan and I in New York on the way into a David Letterman taping of VR. Photograph by Tina Marie.

  On tour with Velvet Revolver. Nice pants! Photograph by Karl Larsen.

  Ah, the fog of a relapse.

  Back in the saddle and sober again.

  Hitting the dojo with Benny, my sensei, mentor, and brother.

  Touring in Europe with Loaded for The Taking album. Photograph by Afshin Shahidi.

  Love playing for our European fans—with Loaded in Lille, France. Photograph by Afshin Shahidi.

  The McKagan girls on vacation in Hawaii.

  The McKagans tour in London in 2010. We’re a happy family!

  On stage in Buenos Aires just before I call my professor. “Duff who?”

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  * Note: The American Medical Association would not approve.