Our answer to being perceived as balladeers was to come out as hard-ass screaming metal as we possibly could. And we definitely accomplished that goal.
Living in Fort Lauderdale for a month or two was really a lot of fun. We recorded at New River Studios. Frequented the local strip bars, of which there were plenty. Pure Platinum and the other gentlemen’s establishments became our stomping grounds while recording the album. We had a drunken blast, as any hot-blooded young men would. I, as had become my pattern by now, of course took my fun to extremes. Which was starting to become the norm.
Courtesy of Mark Weiss.
One night in particular stands out. I went out to one of the local Fort Lauderdale strip clubs, drunk on Jack Daniel’s and ready to kick some fucking ass. After drinking, smoking, and snorting who knows what, I managed to wind up in one of the cages on the strip club floor.
Naked.
Where the dancers dance. I pulled my pants down, in public, onstage, in a cage, and then had another stroke of brilliance.
I proceeded to light my pubic hair on fire.
To the dismay, and considerable hilarity of the shocked establishment. In actual fact, as fucked up as I was, no one was that shocked.
It was a different time.
I had forgotten about this incident until decades later, when some dude came up to me backstage.
“Man, I was with you that night. When you set your pubes on fire.”
“Excuse me?” That’s not exactly something you hear every day.
Dude reiterated the story back to me.
“In Fort Lauderdale. We were sitting there having some cocktails. All of a sudden you jumped out of your seat, into a cage, on the stage, and lit your jungle bush on fire, dude.” It all came flooding back to me.
This was so long ago that people actually had pubic hair. We’re talking medieval times here, folks.
After I lit my pubic hair on fire, onstage, I continued drinking Jack Daniel’s until I got so drunk I got kicked out of the club, and wound up passed out in the parking lot in the back of someone’s pickup truck. I slept off the booze, walked back in the club, and gave the guy who owned the truck my black leather Skid Row tour jacket. He drove me back to my place with Lumpy, who was so high on speed he asked if he could get out on the side of the road and walk the rest of the way home. On the highway. The sun was coming up. It was beautiful. We let him off, in his bare feet, as he walked towards the next town. He never made it. Lumpy was picked up by Florida State Troopers. They took him to the Dade County jail for a week or so before they let us bail him out. He had no shoes.
When we got back to the hotel, I fell asleep for twenty hours. When I woke up, I came to the realization that I had given some guy my leather fucking jacket. My one-of-a-kind, personalized, First Album Tour, Skid Row Leather Jacket!! Oh my God. We went back the next night, found the dude, and he gave my jacket back. As crazy as shit got, us rockers usually looked out for ourselves. We were like a gang. A gang of drunk people who liked to set their pubic hair on fire.
Recording of the record went well. We came up with some kick-ass heavy metal music, and performed the songs as if our lives depended on them. Because they did. In my case, the incident with the bottle throwing in Massachusetts on the Aerosmith tour had cost me pretty much every penny that I had. I paid over $300,000 in settlements and lawyers’ fees, after all was said and done. That also added to the fuel and fire of the Slave to the Grind album. Looking at all the platinum records on my wall, in my brand-new house on my own sprawling property, I had the distinct feeling of “Oh my God, we did it. Now we got to do it again if we want to keep all these houses and shit.” So we came out with all guns blazing.
I sang so hard, I actually blew my voice out for the first time in my life. For the Slave to the Grind record, I was warming up my voice in the usual Bel Canto singing scale style, and then I began to end my warm-up with Whitney Houston singing the “Star-Spangled Banner” in the 1991 Super Bowl Halftime Show. It was the most amazing vocal performance I had ever heard, and I wanted to see if I could do it. I practiced singing it until I could nail it. I would sing The National Anthem in the foyer of New River Studios, at the top of my lungs, with fans outside the building, listening. Then the song would end, and they would all would clap and cheer for me. I laughed. When you listen to it today, it seems amazing that a male voice could do the same thing. But I could do it, full voice. Then I would walk in the studio and sing the vocal tracks for the album Slave to the Grind.
The moment I knew I had pushed my voice too hard was when we were in Florida, cutting the song “Wasted Time.” I had screamed so much on that song that I couldn’t sing it anymore without shouting. My ballad voice in “I Remember You” and “18 and Life” is never shouting in any way. That vocal sound is a very controlled technique known as speech-level singing. I save all my power for all those high-scream vocal histrionics. I had overused my pipes to the point where I just couldn’t get that floating sound that is one of the trademarks of my voice. I had simply sung too much, too hard. I had pushed my throat muscles and vocal cords to the point where they couldn’t be subtle anymore. Just full out.
I went down to the beach, alone on a rainy day, to the Fort Lauderdale Howard Johnson. Got a coffee. Went up and down the sand, torturing myself as to what to do. The band was depending on me. The record company and management were depending on me. Most importantly, the fans and my family were depending on me. I decided to take a couple of weeks off from singing. I would rest my voice, and pick it back up in California a couple weeks later.
We moved the whole operation back to California. The guys in Metallica were in town making The Black Album. When I sang the beginning of “Monkey Business,” Lars Ulrich came to the studio. He was actually sitting behind the board the night I recorded the vocal to “Monkey Business.” He dug that opening scream and told me, when we both thought it sounded right, that I was “roaring,” which was certainly my intention.
James Hetfield came by a couple of days later. He took me for a ride in his truck as we listened to some of the new tunes we had cut. James turned the music down as we got back to the studio. As we entered the parking lot, he said in a hushed tone, almost under his breath, “Sebastian. I want to tell you something. My favorite singers are . . . John Bush. Of Armored Saint. And . . .” he cleared his thought, and forced himself to utter the words. “And . . . well, and you.” For a moment there, I was very flattered. For a second. “But don’t tell anybody that,” said James Hetfield. Gee thanks. I’ll promise I won’t let anybody know.
We had demoed the whole record in a very small studio in nearby Colts Neck, New Jersey, prior to going to Florida. We had cut most of the record, and in particular, a really vicious version of the song “Slave to the Grind” that was so potent on that original demo. But it was not recorded with the same sonics as New River, or any of the places in LA we were at. So we decided to re-record that song along with the rest of the demos.
For some reason, we just could not capture the original fire of the demo for the song “Slave to the Grind.” The demo blew away the album version in every respect. No matter how many times we tried, we couldn’t capture the same magic as that original take. I was adamant that the demo was the version of the song that should go on the record. Michael Wagener battled me on every front in this respect. He tried his hardest to beat the demo. We just couldn’t do it. The album was completely done and mastered. He brought me, alone, to the studio, to listen to the “final” version of “Slave to the Grind.” After all, this was our baby. I listened to it, turned to him, and said, “Nice job dude. But the demo is better.”
“I know.”
And that’s what ended up on the record. The first time we ever cut the title track. To the first #1 heavy metal album in the history of Billboard magazine charts.
The first cut is the deepest.
[[Still to come:
—Vince aharise studio
—motley tryout
—
Jm fucks girl in 711 parking lot]]
10
LOSE YOUR ILLUSION!
1990–1991
I had developed quite a good relationship with Guns N’ Roses’ mercurial front man, Mr. Axl Rose. We spent time at his apartment in West Hollywood, at Shoreham Towers, where he came up with the idea for the GNR song “Right Next Door to Hell.” Dedicated lovingly to his neighbor.
Bang! Bang! Bang!!! went the door.
“Open up! It’s the West Hollywood Police!”
We looked at each other in shock. Well, me more than him.
“BAZ! Hurry! Go lock yourself in the closet!!”
I was like, “What?”
And so, being that it was Axl’s apartment, I followed Axl’s directions. I went into his kitchen closet, leaving the door opened slightly. I peeked out and witnessed a scene I have not seen before. Or since.
There were about seven police officers, male and female, assembled at the door. Axl opened it up, and spoke to them in a quiet, understated, yet undeniably aggressive manner. I could not hear exactly what was said. We had been drinking and smoking and doing who knows what else. Cranking Dread Zeppelin, a bizarre musical cross between Led Zeppelin and Reggae music that Axl thought was hilarious. He liked to crank it very loudly.
From my view in the kitchen closet, I could see the cops arguing with Axl. But they never entered the apartment. Whatever they had to say, Axl responded to, out-reasoning the authorities in his Clint Eastwood/Dirty Harry baritone voice. It wasn’t too long before I watched him literally talk seven police officers into leaving his premises. I came out of the kitchen closet as he shut the front door. We continued to rage all night long.
Surprise! We had some great parties. Someone at Axl’s house showed me how to smoke dope. Something I had never done before. We broke off sheets of aluminum foil, put the dope on it, heated it up with a lighter, and then rolled up a piece of Reynolds Wrap to use as a pipe. This was all new to me. The sensation was indeed pleasant, but I didn’t really enjoy it all that much. It was like going to sleep while still being awake. I remember it felt really good to scratch my face. I would smoke some, and then talk to Axl about all sorts of crazy shit.
We called Howard Stern one morning, as the sun came up, with Erin Everly and Maria partying along there with us on the balcony. It took Howard and his radio staff ten minutes to believe that it was really us. But once we did do the interview, it became one of the most replayed interviews on Howard Stern to this day.
We were smoking dope.
It was a different time.
Axl and I were like partners in rock ’n’ roll crime. We kinda sorta ruled the world from 1987 to 1991.
He would call me at home in New Jersey and we would talk and laugh. We became friends quite quickly. Erin Everly became friends with Maria for a time. It was on their hips, the first time I ever saw hip-hugger jeans. Sitting on Axl’s couch, Erin and Maria walked in with jeans so tight they looked painted on. They had shimmied their pants down to be barely above the ITG. This was the first time I’d seen that look. It was a good look.
I have never, and will never, use needles to do drugs. I snorted dope for the very first time with Steven Adler, at his house, the night before Skid Row’s first ever photo shoot with renowned rock ’n’ roll photographer William Hames. Steven invited me over, as we had made plans to go out on the Sunset Strip later that night. But we never made it that far.
When I got to his house, Steven was lying in bed watching The Love Boat. I snorted dope for the first time, in Steven’s bed, as the familiar theme song played on the TV.
Love,
exciting and new
Come aboard,
we’re expecting you
I looked over to my right to the most amazing scene. As Steven was rolling up a joint in his hands, with his head against the backboard. He had nodded out. Yet his hands remained vertical, above his chest, with the unrolled joint perched precariously in his fingers. For about eight hours. As Steven settled into his nod, no marijuana leaf whatsoever dropped out of the unrolled Zig-Zag paper. For the whole time that he was asleep. I was completely amazed. When he came out of the nod, around 2:00 a.m., he yawned like the Cowardly Lion in The Wizard of Oz, looked around the room, at me, and finally at the unrolled joint in his hands. He then nonchalantly resumed rolling up the joint that he had started on about eight hours previously.
By the time we woke up, all the bars were closed. So we stayed in bed and watched TV. How wild can you get!?!
The next day, at the William Hames photo session, I had the distinct feeling that I had been changed somehow. A je n’est c’est quoi. A feeling of innocence lost. I only touched heroin two or three more times in my life. It did not hold the romanticized allure for me that it did for some other poets, writers, and musicians of the past. I thank God for that. Wine and weed is more than enough for me. Being at that photo shoot, I felt different. Like I had crossed a line somehow. Which I had.
Steven Adler would walk around his house explaining to me how everybody was mean to him, and how he would never let the band down. As he would tell me this, he would walk into his bathroom, look me straight in the face, and tell me he didn’t even do dope. Then, he would remove a loose brick from the wall behind his toilet. Reaching into his bathroom wall, he would pull out a stash of dope. Which he would then do in front of me. The whole time, explaining to me how he didn’t do it.
It was bewildering to witness. I was with him the day that he was told he couldn’t play the drums to the song “Civil War,” and that Guns N’ Roses were going to have to bring in Matt Sorum to finish the track. Steven was absolutely heartbroken. He stammered on to me for hours.
“I can play it! I know I can do it! How can they do this to me???” But none of this slowed down the pursuit of “good times.”
Duff “The King of Beers” McKagan was also super fun to hang out with. I would go to Duff’s place, on Mulholland Drive, where he was always hanging out with his friend “Nasty,” who was lead singer with a band called Creature. They looked like early KISS, wore full face paint and costumes, and had neon green glow-in-the-dark Creature T-shirts that I used to love to wear.
Duff would send me and Nasty out on booze runs in Duff’s black Corvette. Nasty would drive at 100 miles an hour, catching air off every bump in the street, screeching the tires on every turn. Drunk and high on coke, we would speed through Beverly Hills. The whole time Nasty would be laughing and cackling, like the evil rock ’n’ roll coke-fiend clown on Metalocalypse.
“Dude! Slow down! We’re going to crash! We shouldn’t be doing this to Duff’s car!”
“Ha ha ha ha ha.” Cackle cackle cackle. Nasty thinks this is all funny.
It was a different time.
The album Slave to the Grind wasn’t exactly a rush job, but we were under pressure to finish the album as quickly as possible. Axl called me and asked if I could be ready to tour, in only two months’ time. We were not done with the record yet, but we made the decision anyway to go on tour with no new record out at all. Guns N’ Roses had also not yet finished the Use Your Illusion double album set, so they were going out with no new record either. That illustrates just how big both of the bands were at the time. It was unheard of in 1991 to go out on tour with no new record in the stores.
The album situation did not make a difference in ticket sales. We sold out multiple nights, in the biggest venues, in every single city around the globe.
Alpine Valley has been home to some of my greatest concerts. The venue is so electric. Outside, summertime, rock ’n’ roll at its finest. But Alpine Valley is also known for its tragedy.
Due to its remote location, Alpine Valley was only accessible at the time by one single, solitary road. For all the fans and the bands. This makes it impossible to get there on time for the show if you have to wait in line with 25,000 other people, also headed to the same destination. The answer to this was to fly the bands, in helicopters, from the nearby hotel where we were staying
to the backstage area of Alpine Valley. All of the bands did this. On the Bon Jovi tour, the day that I was picked up to fly, I couldn’t believe that the pilot took it upon himself to give us a joyride in the air. Reckless and crazy, he was laughing and quite obviously star-struck from us being in the helicopter. Doing all he could to impress, zigzagging around, dipping in altitude, accelerating, decelerating, etcetera. At one point he came dangerously close to a set of power lines running up the side of the mountain. I was glad to get to the gig in one piece.
When I returned to New Jersey, about a month after that experience, I was driving around in my 1989 Camaro IROC listening to the radio. I pulled over the car, not believing the news I was hearing.
“Stevie Ray Vaughan has been killed in a helicopter crash, going to his concert at Alpine Valley in Wisconsin” said the DJ, choking on his words. I stopped the car and wept. Only three weeks before, I had been in the same helicopter, staying at the same hotel, playing the same stage that Stevie Ray Vaughan played that fateful night. It was only a simple twist of fate that it was Stevie Ray Vaughan who was tragically killed and not any of the other musicians who played the legendary venue.
The very first night of the Guns N’ Roses/Skid Row tour held at Alpine Valley was a harbinger of things to come: magical, loud, crazy, violent, weird.
We went onstage just before the sun set. I was so skinny at the time due to my kung fu regimen that I had worked on prior to the tour, with Sifu Damian Cordisco back in New Jersey. How ironic that my kung fu instructor, who got me in shape throughout the Skid Row years, died recently of a heroin overdose. Makes no sense at all. But very few things do.
It was a glorious night for rock ’n’ roll. The sun was shining down on me, in my brown leather pants, no shirt, the omnipresent Peter Pan boots kicking ass all over the stage. We were veritable hellions of heavy metal rock ’n’ roll, at its apex, in our early twenties, in one of the biggest rock bands in the world. Opening for what was undoubtedly, at that moment in time, the biggest band in the world: Guns N’ Roses.
18 and Life on Skid Row Page 17