Slash

by Slash

  Our manager, Vicky, and I wandered around this huge mess in an attempt to find us a slot somewhere on the day-long bill. We pushed our way from stage to stage talking to the organizers, looking for an opening until we found one—playing after Social Distortion. It didn’t sound like the best idea, following a loyally beloved local punk band, but it actually turned out to be one of the greatest gigs we ever did.

  The audience was full on punk and still bloodthirsty after just having seen Social Distortion. We got up there and ripped into our set, and within the first thirty seconds, the show became a spitting contest between us and the first five rows: their fans fucking spit on us, so we just spit on them back. It was hilarious and memorably sickening: I remember going over to Izzy’s side of the stage and standing there beside him spitting back and forth with these people because that’s the kind of band we were. We were very tenacious, so no matter what any crowd ever did, we always turned it on them. By the end of our set, this disgusting war of the wills became fucking fun. We ended up with green phlegm all over us, and considering that it was warm out, not only was I shirtless, but the heat cooked the spit and made it start to smell pretty bad. It didn’t matter, I was impenetrable: in the moment the energy of it all took over.

  The next time we played the Street Scene was memorable, too, on a much different level. That go-round we were scheduled to open for Poison, who were headlining one of the bigger stages. It was going to be our biggest high-profile gig to date, and we were very ready to blow Poison off the stage. In the end we didn’t even have to: we got up there and played, and everybody went nuts, climbing the scaffolding and pushing the stage to and fro in excitement. By the time we were done, the fire marshals decided to close the place down. I remember seeing Poison roll up in all their glitter, ready to go on but unable to. I was quite pleased to see them all dressed up with no stage to play.

  SO…BACK TO HEROIN. IN THE WEEKS that followed that first time with Izzy when we’d spent the afternoon in that pink bedroom of that girl from Fairfax High, I developed a new interest. And I was dead-set to enjoy the honeymoon phase.

  Yvonne was the only one who showed any real concern for my well-being at that point because she was from another world entirely. From her point of view it was easy to see that I was taking a casual stroll into the abyss. Our relationship had been on and off for a while, but she called me one day and asked me to meet her for lunch at Mel’s on Sunset. I could tell that she was suspicious; as soon as we sat down, she started interrogating me in a subtle way, trying to figure out where I was at, what I was up to, who I was hanging with, what I was doing. The band was doing great, but in her mind we were still a little L.A. club thing—she didn’t see what I saw at all. At the same time, Yvonne knew me very well, and she knew how ambitious I was, so I’m sure she had faith in what I had planned. What she couldn’t put her finger on was why I wasn’t my usual self—and that answer was obvious, but I wasn’t going to tell her.

  I remember her dropping me off on the corner of Clark and Sunset and going up to Vicky’s apartment, where I was still crashing on the floor. I didn’t turn around but I felt like she was looking at me; I felt like she knew something was up. A week or so later she called me over at Vicky’s place, which was way out of line. She said it was important, she said that her grandfather had died and that she was so upset that she needed to see me. She asked me to come over that afternoon. Being the compassionate ex-boyfriend that I was, I didn’t think twice—she picked me up and we went back to her house, all the while talking about the recently departed.

  When we got there, it was probably about six p.m. and we went into her bedroom. I took my usual position at the corner of her bed, just watching TV and taking my cues from her. The doorbell rang suddenly.

  “It’s probably my mom,” she said, and left the room.

  Ten minutes went by, then the door opened again. When it did I saw two people I’d not seen in the same room in ten years: my parents. My attention was captured.

  Yvonne came in and started feeding my mom and dad her interpretation of what was going on with me, which was very overdramatic; if anything, she sounded like the narrator in one of the antidrug films I’d seen in school, or at least the main character in an after-school special whose best friend is out of control. My parents were listening and studying me as well, just taking in the whole scene. I have two of the most liberal parents in the world, so once they didn’t see anything wrong—I wasn’t missing an eye or a limb and I seemed to be sitting up straight—they assumed that I was okay.

  “So,” my dad said, looking me in the eye, “is this true? Are you doing heroin, as Yvonne here has claimed?”

  I didn’t say no but I didn’t quite say yes. I was loaded but hiding it as best I could, so there was no visible evidence of Yvonne’s accusations—as far as I was concerned.

  “It’s really nice to see you guys in the same room,” I said, grinning. “It’s been a long time.”

  I went over and gave my mom a kiss, and that is when the entire mood shifted. Suddenly Yvonne’s strategized intervention became a family reunion. I could feel her fuming as my parents and I spent the next half hour getting reacquainted. I kept up appearances while they were there, but the minute they left, I demanded that Yvonne take me home. Midway through the ride, I changed my mind; I asked her to drop me off at the Whisky. I didn’t say a word to her the whole way over there. While I knew she meant well, we didn’t speak to each other again for quite a while.

  THIS PERIOD WAS PRETTY INTENSE AS we made a name for ourselves, waded through the puddle of shady characters gathering at our ankles all while becoming the best band we could be. Eventually we found someone we could count on named Bridget, who was a lot like Vicky Hamilton but with slightly deeper pockets. Bridget wanted to sign us, but we never signed with anybody, so she was content just “working with us.” Bridget was managing a band called Jetboy from San Francisco that was pretty popular on the club circuit, so we rented a van and drove up there to open for them. We stayed at their house for a few days and got a glimpse of how a functional band, with a group apartment and a real roadie, actually lived. They were playing gigs all the time, and though we didn’t dig the band very much, we respected their professionalism.

  The coolest guy in the band by far was their bass player, Todd Crew, who became one of my best friends and a friend of the band for years—often to the chagrin of his bandmates. Todd had the best style: he was well over six feet tall, had this long straggly brown hair. He had a perpetual look of bemusement on his face, full-sleeve tattoos on both arms, and always wore some variation of a sleeveless leather vest, holey blue jeans tucked into his beat-up cowboy boots, and a cigarette between his lips at all times. Todd stood out from his band because he was classic rock and roll while the other Jetboys were typical glam poseurs. The singer did have a green Mohawk, though, which helped them seem a bit less transparent than Poison.

  It was a great trip for us; our gig at this club called the Stone was great, and Todd’s roommate was a reptile collector, so I was entirely occupied. I was really envious of his collection: he had snakes, a bunch of exotic monitor lizards, and a variety of crocodilians. On that trip we saw what was possible on a local level and realized that it was very much within our grasp.

  The ride home was memorable, too. We were in our rental van, drinking and playing acoustic guitars, when I came up with the jangly intro to what became “Paradise City.” Duff and Izzy picked it up and started playing it while I came up with the chord changes. I started humming a melody and played it over and over. Then Axl chimed in.

  “Take me down to the Paradise City…”

  I kept playing and tossed off some impromptu lyrics. “Where the grass is green and girls are pretty,” I sang. I thought that sounded totally gay.

  “Take me down to the Paradise City,” Axl sang again.

  “Where the girls are fat and they’ve got big titties!” I shouted.

  “Take…me…home!” Axl sang.
r />   It was decided that the “grass is green” line worked a bit better, and though I preferred my alternate take, I was overruled.

  I expanded on the basic structure of the song as everyone improvised lyrics in rounds as if we were on a bus heading off to rock-and-roll summer camp, which, as the L.A. skyline came into view, I suppose we were. After we got that whole chorus rolling, that’s when I slammed into the big heavy riff that anchors the song. And that’s the moment that “Paradise City” became my favorite Guns N’ Roses song.

  As atypically happy and gay as this all sounds for Guns N’ Roses, it definitely went down that way; and it was sort of that kind of experience.

  OUR NEW MANAGER, BRIDGET, HELPED us succeed in taking our act to the next level, at least within the confines of the L.A. club circuit. The fact that we had played in San Francisco helped generate a bit of a buzz because the fact that we were able to play there meant that word of mouth was starting to spread; we had a fan base. Afterward we were able to book gigs with a more seasoned attitude, because those little things went a long way. We became one of the most-talked-about bands in L.A. at the time, which started to generate interest from the labels. The word was starting to get around, so much so that when Tom Zutaut of Geffen Records first saw us play at the Troubadour, he deliberately left after two songs, telling every A&R guy he saw on the way out that we sucked because he intended to sign us immediately.

  Tom had become a legend after signing Mötley Crüe—he was the guy that every other rep in the industry watched because his instincts usually sifted the gold from the mud in the Sunset scene. The next time we played the Troubadour, Tom came backstage and introduced himself and I remember the whole band thinking that he was the only A&R rep that we’d met who deserved our respect, because his accomplishments spoke for themselves. His enthusiasm was also so real; he told us that we were the best band he’d seen since AC/DC and when he spoke about our music we could tell that he related to the songs more truthfully than anyone else had. We’ve been through years of ups and downs, but Tom still knows how to get my attention; when he really wants me to come out to check out a band he’s thinking of signing, all he needs to say is: “I haven’t seen a band rock this hard since I saw you guys that first time.” There was something keenly sincere about Tom that night in the dressing room, and although we never told him so at the time, we had no intention of signing with anybody else.

  Tom tried to fake out the competition, but it didn’t work; word got around that he was interested in us and overnight every other label in town was trying to contact us. Bridget was still our kind-of manager, but since Vicky Hamilton was much better connected in L.A., all the A&R reps were calling her to get in touch with us. And that was enough to rekindle our relationship with Vicky.

  It was a great time: we enjoyed as many free lunches, dinners, drinks, and whatever else came included from the major labels for as long as we could before signing. For the better part of the next two months, we were courted by Chrysalis, Elektra, Warner Bros., and a few others. We’d roll into these nice restaurants and order these extravagant liquid lunches, then sit there and just play the game. The only thing that we’d agree on was that we needed to meet again for lunch to discuss things further before we agreed on anything.

  On and on it went until the day we decided to go down to meet David Geffen and Ed Rosenblatt and sign with Geffen Records. I sat there the entire time during our negotiations looking at David, whom I hadn’t seen since I was about eight years old, thinking about all of the times I’d gone back and forth to his office with my dad when he was dropping off artwork, and wondering if David had any idea at all who I was. He didn’t, of course, as my mom found out later. I made a point to visit the bathroom at Geffen, whose walls, as I remembered from my childhood, were a hippy collage, done very nicely in a very sixties style, of pictures from old rock magazines. I was happy to see that it was exactly the same.

  The negotiations were quick: we demanded six figures, among other things, which was an unheard-of advance for a new, unknown artist in 1986. They accepted; Vicky Hamilton was our acting manager, so she hooked us up with Peter Paterno, who became the band’s attorney. Peter wrote up our contracts and it was a done deal.

  So Guns N’ Roses was finally signed, but once we were, our new label didn’t want us to play gigs anymore. They wanted us to lay low, build our mystique, and get our business in order: they insisted we find a real manager, and a producer, and focus on making a record. They wanted us to live off our advance and not be distracted by the routine of playing weekly while we took the necessary next steps. Little did they or any of us know that setting us loose with any kind of funds was a bad idea; they were sanctioning a degree of freedom that we had never known. Out of all of us, I was the most apprehensive about not playing any gigs. We were just going to sit idle with thousands of dollars to burn? That wasn’t going to end well. The five of us had managed to make every day an epic on a budget that was determined by what we found in our pockets that morning; with our advance money in our hands and a record label behind us, much too much was possible.

  As we all came to find out, back then and again and again, the worst thing that ever befell this band was having nothing to do and some money to spend.

  7

  Appetite for Dysfunction

  Restlessness is a fickle catalyst; it can drive you to achieve or it can coax your demise, and sometimes the choice isn’t yours. My restless nature is what earned me my nickname and it’s kept me looking for the next thrill, the next gig, and the next mountain to climb for as long as I can remember. It’s not the kind of thing that takes days off.

  Before Guns got signed, I had no job and was living in a vomit-stained garage that was about as charming as a South American jail. All of my energy went into day-to-day survival and working to further the band, one show at a time. Once Guns was signed I didn’t have to worry about money, food, or shelter. This minor sense of stability was unfamiliar to me; I had no concern for acquiring any of the trappings of normal life, so what seemed to be a blessing to me was almost a curse.

  We were signed for something like $250,000, and our signing advance was around $37,000, of which my cut was about $7,500. I translated it into American Express traveler’s checks that I kept in the right front pocket of my jeans, thanks to my trouble with the IRS. Saving my share wasn’t an option, but I didn’t celebrate by buying myself a new guitar or anything—I spent almost all of it on heroin. Each of us learned the same lesson in our own individual way before we got ourselves in line to do what we’d set out to do. It wouldn’t be the last time that we’d need to rally against our instincts: whenever we earned ourselves some peace of mind, the same restlessness that fueled our success threatened to destroy it all.

  It was obvious to everyone in our camp that Vicky Hamilton wasn’t going to cut it as a manager once our operation increased in scale. It was also time to get a real crew: Joe wasn’t a tech in any way, and Danny was a drug bud (whom I continued to hang out with in that capacity for years) but not any kind of road manager. We weren’t entirely happy about making those changes, but it had to be done. It was the end of an era; we were no longer scrappy with nothing to lose: now we were scrappy with corporate backing.

  Tom Zutaut arranged a few meetings with potential managers, the first of them being Cliff Bernstein and Peter Mensch of Q Prime, who managed Metallica, Def Leppard, and others, then as they do today. I went to Tom’s office and they were late, so I passed out on Tom’s couch waiting for them. For the record, I’m not sure if I was high or not. What I do remember is that the meeting didn’t go well.

  “Guns N’ Roses just doesn’t have a musical enough sound to be a band that we’d consider representing,” one of them, I’m not sure which, said.

  I sat there, pretty dumbfounded. Huh? I might have mumbled.

  Basically, I took that insult lying down, because actually I was lying down, and that was the end of it. I didn’t say anything, but my face must have reg
istered a look of disdain or at least some skeptical confusion.

  “You know those guitar solos you do?” the other one, I’m not sure which, said.

  “Yeah,” I mumbled.

  “They just sound like noise to me, whereas if you listen to Metallica, their playing sounds really melodic.”

  “Okay, man,” I said. Whatever you say, Jack, I thought to myself.

  The whole time Tom did his best to mediate a potentially explosive situation by chiming in with comments meant to cheer things up and keep it positive.

  “Well, the music really isn’t well represented in the demo, guys,” he’d say. “You really have to hear the songs properly produced.”

  Tom knew, as well as I did, that the music was very well represented in the demo—these guys, like so many others, just didn’t get it. They passed, of course, and they regretted it. Everyone Tom introduced us to in those days who passed on us regretted it—which in the end was a lot of people.

  At the time Izzy was still living in his apartment and Duff was now living with this Hungarian girl, Katerina (whom he’d later marry), in an apartment on Hollywood Boulevard, coincidentally, next door to Sly Stone. I guess you could say that he and Duff had a tight neighborly relationship: Sly used to come by Duff ’s place unannounced to smoke PCP, crack, or a mix of the two, alone, in Duff ’s bathroom and then just leave. That blew our fucking minds. Apparently he did that all the time, but most of us didn’t see it because we never really hung out at Duff ’s place—his girl wasn’t the type to host a bunch of guys sitting around the living room. But I used to meet Duff over there before rehearsal, so I did witness it once.