This day was similarly debauched. Rolling onto the Gasworks patio, I had somehow let my friends know we were going to be there. Rick and my buddies from Peterborough showed up. We all started drinking. Lars, at about three in the afternoon, whips out a bag of cocaine. Dumped it down right on the table, while businessmen and families were walking past. We started snorting lines in the middle of the beautiful sunny day, on a quaint, Canadian terrace, breathing the fresh, crisp air through the pure cocaine we shoved up our faces. The owner of the establishment came up and said, “Sebastian!” He looked horrified. “I can’t let you just do that here right in the middle of the table!” Lars and all of us, fueled by booze, just turned and looked at him and laughed. Like this guy was going to throw out me and Lars Ulrich? Out of his rock ’n’ roll bar? In 1990? Of course he wasn’t. So, we kept inhalin’, like Van Halen.
Metallica had a photo sesssion set up the next day with the world-renowned rock photographer Ross Halfin. They asked me to come along and hang out. We ended up at a studio somewhere on Queen Street, I believe. When I walked in the studio, as a joke, all of Metallica had their hair done just like Skid Row. We were the originators of the side part, giant hairdo, which wasn’t exactly original, but we had perfected it down to hair spectacularness. People dug our hair, man. For sure! They still do. It’s wild.
So I walk in, and they all are making their Sebastian faces at the camera.
I had brought a case of beer, probably Labatt’s Blue. We cracked it open and started drinking. Jason Newsted was brand-new to the band. Started copping a pretty good buzz. Someone had the idea to take the photo shoot up onto the roof.
By this time, we had killed half a case and were feeling pretty good. Since I wasn’t working, I probably imbibed more than the guys in Metallica, but I remember James in particular was feeling no pain for sure. We are on top of the roof with a great view of Toronto. For some reason, there was a bicycle up there, next to some air ducting. I got on the bike and started riding it around the roof. We laughed.
As I put the bike back, I discovered that the front wheel was detachable. After a couple more Labatts, I started rolling the wheel of the bike around the roof of the building, for fun. I got a little carried away. Gave it a little more torque than I should’ve.
The front wheel of the bike went flying across the roof of the building. It hit the lip of the eavestrough, and soared into the air above. James and the rest of Metallica ran to the edge of the building and looked with shock into the sky above, at this lone bike wheel, spinning madly in space.
Collectively, we gasped in horror at what might happen. On the streets below, this was a busy day, in the middle of the city. There were people going to work. Coming home from school. Going to the grocery store. This was ridiculous.
The bike wheel shot up through the air, and then began its descent to the ground far below. We were next to some sort of alley. Underneath us was a brand-new Mercedes-Benz SUV sports-trucktype vehicle. Black. Shiny. Obviously, this year’s model. Somebody had worked super hard for this vehicle, and had gone to the necessary precaution of parking in this alleyway, where surely no harm could come to it.
That was before Metallica decided to do a photo shoot on the roof.
With a sickening crrrrasshhh, the wheel sailed through the air straight through the windshield of the SUV. Neat and precise, the whole windshield was destroyed. Nobody was hurt. But at the sight of this brand-new SUV, with a bicycle wheel now lodged in between the driver and passenger seats, smashed glass all around, and the alarm sounding, James Hetfield let out a roaring laugh, turned around, and said, “Oh my fucking God.” We got the fuck outta there.
The rooftop photo shoot was over.
Time to go party!
Went to a club somewhere that night that was full of, how shall I say, colorful characters from the Queen Street/Yorkville community in Toronto. Not exactly Metallica’s crowd. I just remembered at the end of the night James Hetfield screaming in some guy’s face, as we pulled him away before he destroyed the man. Then, in the cab ride home, one of the band members trying to eat my girlfriend’s sister’s arm.
I had to tell him to stop biting her.
Rock ’n’ roll.
San Francisco. Metallica stomping grounds. Live. Playing in Oakland, headlining, with Pantera opening the show. Grandma is there. Even though this was a very wild show, Grandma was always there. After Slave to the Grind came out, she said, “Sebastian. Does the music have to be so heavy?” I told her, “Oh, well, yes at that point, it did.” She respected my work ethic, and believed in me since I was a little boy. Gave me Frank Sinatra cassettes when I was in Madam X. Always told me that Frank was the example of as fine as a singer could be. She was right. She taught me about good singing at an early age.
The day after the show, me and Lars decide to hook up with Steven Tyler. At San Francisco’s infamous Mitchell Brothers O’Farrell Theatre. The place they made that movie about. This is one of the original vaudeville strip clubs in San Francisco, with a crazy story and reputation to match the craziness that went on inside. Upon entry, we were handed laser pointers, to highlight any naughty bits, as they say. We had some fun with that. But after the strip club, me and Lars wanted to step up the fun meter a little more.
We decided to go score some blow. Lars knew the place, but it was in a shady part of town. We went driving his car and ended up at some dudes’ house in the middle of a residential street. Got out of the car. Went up the sidewalk. Excited to score, we were drunk, and we were loud.
Went up the stairs, onto the porch. Lars knocked on the door. Nobody came.
“Dude, are you sure this is the right place?” I helpfully inquired.
“Yes, Sebastian, I been here before, I know this guy. He’s got the bad shit. This is the fucking place.”
Knock knock knock knock.
“Dude, where is this guy? This is bullshit. What the fuck is going on?”
Knock knock knock.
“I swear, it’s cool. Just chill out, this guy’s got the blow. Some fucking good shit, too, man. Chill out. Trust me.”
Knock knock knock knock.
BANG! The blind behind the window on the front door on the porch shoots open. And there, standing in the doorway, right in front of us, is a long-haired man in a bathrobe.
With a shotgun.
Pointed right at Lars’s head.
“Holy fuck, dude!!!!! What the fuck!!!!!! Come on!!!!!! It’s me!!!!”
“Who is it and what the fuck’s going on????” the guy says, greeting us with his hand on the trigger.
“Oh, LARS!! Right on, man!! What’s happening??” He puts the gun down, and lets us into the house. Actually he just lets Lars in. I go wait in the car.
Lars returns excitedly with a bunch of coke. It was party time. Time to go back to Lars’s house, talk, a lot, and solve the world’s problems. Before the sun came up. Then, watch the sun come up. This night was getting weirder and we were determined to see it through.
We made it back into the winding hills of the East Bay, where Lars lived. Cranking tunes on his stereo and having fun. When we got to his house we noticed something weird. Two guys running around in the street, in front of his garage. Lars said, “Who the fuck is that? That’s weird.” Having never been there before, I had just had a gun pulled on me. So I didn’t think it was that weird.
We pulled in the garage, next to his other car. He noticed that the windows were down in the other vehicle. “That’s weird,” he said. What I thought was really weird was that he had an elevator. In his house. The hill was so steep getting from the garage up to the dwelling that we got in Lars’s little elevator and were promptly elevated to the top of the hill. To Lars’s house. We jumped into the living room, cracked open some brews, snorted some lines. Let’s get this fucking party started.
Dad having been an artist his whole life, having been surrounded by art myself, I marveled at the artwork on the walls. Lars was the first rock ’n’ roller I had ever met that
appreciated artwork like my family did. Big, large pieces. Huge, surreal paintings. Abstract, realism, both. I was blown away by the art.
And the blow.
We did what rockers back then did. We sat up all night, doing coke, drinking, listening to music, and talking. That’s what blow used to do. Before it started to freeze my brain, make me unable to speak, breathe, or sleep, the blow made me talk. A lot. Lars too. Sebastian Bach and Lars Ulrich, together, high on cocaine, ended up doing A LOT of talking. Not a lot of sleeping.
Sometime before the sun came up, Lars was bragging to me about the stereo he had in his car. Not the one we came home in, but the other one in the garage. He told me that this was the most insane car stereo ever invented by human beings. “The amplifiers and speakers are the most powerful known to man,” he declared, the small Danish sound enthusiast that he is. Suggesting we get some beers, take the elevator down to the garage and check out some Mercyful Fate in the car, I was totally into the scene.
We got off the elevator and stepped back into the garage. Laughing, drinking, and having fun. Got into the car. Shut the door. Lars puts in a CD, and says, “Wait till you fucking hear this.” He turns the stereo on, and I look at the dashboard. It was all lit up. I braced myself for the heavy metal onslaught that was about to shatter my brain.
“Your’re naaaaauught gonnaaa belieeeeeve this,” Lars says to me in his Arnold Schwarzenegger high-on-crack accent. “This is the most unbelievable newwwww speaker in the world for heavy met-al music.” He turns it louder, and louder, and louder.
But nothing.
No sound.
He looks at me.
“What the fuck?” he says. Then, turning around, Lars looks into the backseat of the car and notices that the two backseat windows are not rolled down. They are actually smashed in. And, where once lived the most valuable, loudest, most important heavy metal speaker of all time, now was just a hole, in the wall, of his car, with wires hanging down out of it.
We clued in.
Holy fuck! Those guys that were running around the street in front of the garage when we pulled up? They had actually been in Lars’s garage, smashed the windows out of his car, and stolen his speakers.
We just looked at each other and laughed. Most people would be freaked out. Pissed off. Lars looked at the smashed windows, the wires hanging out of the speaker, and erupted into laughter. This dude was so rich he could have anything the fuck he wanted. We just kept on laughing, drinking beers, and saying, “Jesus fucking Christ, can you believe this shit?” Not even concerned that they could still be in the area or anything. We were invincible. We were true rock stars. We stumbled out of the car, into the elevator and back up the hill. To do more blow, drink more, and play some more rock ’n’ roll.
The night went on and on. And on. Into early morning. Then, it was 10:00 a.m. And then 11:00 a.m. Yes, dear reader. We were still up into the afternoon, playing Don’t Break the Oath, snorting, drinking, and talking.
Knock knock knock comes from the door. Surprise! Me and Lars turn and look at each other. I gasped in fright. There’s not supposed to be anybody here. Shit, it isn’t those dudes coming back? Who stole the speakers? Is it the guy with the blow with the shotgun pointed at our heads? Only hours before? Is it the cops? Come to bust us for all the drugs?? And all the fun we were having? We were so fucked up, we couldn’t believe somebody was knocking at the door. It was past noon. We were so high on blow, I’m surprised we had any lips left.
Knock knock knock knock knock.
“Hide the blow!!!!” Lars went over to his elevator, told me to hide out in the living room and chill out. I sat on the couch keeping as low a profile as I could, after doing mountains of cocaine and having been up all night drinking.
“Oh my God!!! Sebastian!!! You’re not going to believe this!!!!!”
I turned to my right expecting the worst. Not ready for who I was about to see in front of me.
And there, stepping off the elevator, into our world of debauchery, was . . . my grandma.
Yes, that’s right, dear reader. My grandma was there! At Lars’s house. In his living room. I had forgotten that I had made a date to see her that day, and hang out with my family that night, at our family reunion. Completely had escaped what was left of my mind.
She walked in the room. We hid the blow.
“Hi, Bass!!! It’s so wonderful to see you!!!” God bless her soul. She had no concept of what we had been doing for the last twelve hours or so. None of which had involved sleeping.
Lars Ulrich could not contain his glee at the situation. As he was about to have his last beer, and attempt to form some semblance of sleep, my grandmother was elated at the prospect of spending a quiet afternoon with her grandson and family members. We would have a lovely dinner, take pictures, and have a quality family time together as I was coming down off a blow and booze bender with the best of ’em.
We say goodbye to Lars, and take the elevator back down to the street below. Past the smashed windows of his car in the garage, and into my grandma’s new Honda Accord. The same car that I had bought her in 1990 for her birthday. It was the very first brand-new car she had ever had in her whole life. Now, she wanted me to drive it home from San Francisco to Walnut Creek. I was so high I could barely keep my hands on the steering wheel.
My grandma’s positivity, and attitude, got me through this day. Never once did she comment on my appearance, which was no doubt disheveled. All she did was smile and tell me how great I looked, and how happy she was to see me. I concentrated on driving the car as best I could, after not having slept for two days. We left and I felt the same as I did when I used to come stay with her every summer as a child. She lived in the same place on Creekside Drive and miraculously I pulled the car into her driveway. Made some coffee and had some chocolate chip cookies. The same kind she used to make back in the ’70s. I chilled out and then made it to Auntie Margaret’s for dinner, where my cousins, brother Zac, and my dad had flown in from Canada. Along with my aunt and uncle, we had a giant family dinner together. At dinner I overheard my uncle Bill said, “Well, I don’t know, it looks like he hasn’t slept that much in a couple days. He looks kind of burnt out.” If you only knew, Uncle Bill. If you only knew.
1991
Toledo, Ohio
Raceway Park
Maybe you can tell by this book, back in the 1980s and early 1990s drugs were definitely a part of rock ’n’ roll. Part of the scene. This is nothing new. Any other rock book on the shelf next to this one will contain similar tales. On the Guns N’ Roses tour, they had the MGM Grand plane as a mode of transportation. I had asked Axl many times, “Hey dude, can I come on the plane? Can I come on the plane? Seriously, can I come on the plane?!?!”
“No, no, no, no, and no,” I would always get told.
“I really want to get on the fucking plane with you guys!”
“No.”
One day, after a gig, I went out to the fence where all the fans are standing. Looking for some weed. I asked a hundred or so people, “Any of you guys got any weed?” This was in Toledo, Ohio. I remember distinctly. A couple days after the St. Louis riot. Nobody had any weed that day in Toledo. Then, some guy said, “Hey, I don’t have any weed, but I got this.” I go, “What’s that?”
“It’s opium.” I had never seen opium in my life, and I have not seen it since that day. I said, “What the fuck is opium?” I didn’t know what it looked like, or what you even did with it. Smoke it? Shoot it? Snort it? I didn’t know. But since there was no weed, I was willing to find out.
Dude came to the front of the fence. Big Val let him through. He then reached into his pocket, and pulled out a cellophane wrapper. Unwrapped it. Inside was a round ball of dark goo-like substance that he told me was pure opium. I said, “Sure, I’ll take that, dude,” and gave him a couple backstage passes. I now had a large ball of opium, whatever that was, but I still had no idea what to do with it.
Saw Axl that night backstage. “Hey dude, can I c
ome on the plane, man?? Seriously! I think we would have fun.”
“No, Baz, you still can’t come on the plane.”
“Come on, Axl, please let me come on the plane, dude, for reals.”
“No, I really don’t think it’s a good idea, Baz. Sorry, maybe tomorrow.”
“You know what?”
“What?”
“I just got this big fucking huge ball of opium.”
“Hey Baz.”
“What?”
“Get on the fuckin’ plane.”
That’s kind of how it was then. Fast-forward to Castle Donington, 1995. The bill is Metallica, Skid Row, and Slayer. Yes, you read that correctly. Here today it might sound incredible that Skid Row would be on the bill between Slayer and Metallica. But that’s the way it was.
I remember this day for many different reasons. Backstage, walking around the Donington race track concert site, everybody drunk, in the mud, drinking beer, pissing everywhere. Hot dudes in denim jackets. Not many bathrooms.
Hanging out with Tom Araya of Slayer that day. I have been a Slayer fan since Show No Mercy/Haunting the Chapel EPs back in the early eighties. I went to their first ever Toronto show, at Larry’s Hideaway, and ended up smoking hash with them that night at Larry’s. It was amazing to play Castle Donington with them a decade later.
Tom Araya and I were walking around the backstage area, when a drunken British musician came up to us. “Hey Sebastian!” the lout shouted in my general direction.
“Hey dude, how are you?” I said, annoyed.
“Oh yes, Sebastian!!!!” he said, with a hint of “mock” in his tone.
“Guess what the name of my band is?!?!?”
“What is that?” Like I gave a fuck.
“The name of my band is . . . KID WIKKID! Ha ha ha ha haaaaaa, yes! That’s right, Sebastian!!! Kid Wikkid! What do you think of that, Sebastian?? Do you like the name of my band???”
18 and Life on Skid Row Page 15