Slash

by Slash

  Slash and Velvet Revolver in Santa Barbara, September 2007.

  Having Considered All Things

  It felt like a baseball bat to my chest, but one swung from the inside. Clear blue spots lit up the corners of my vision. It was abrupt, bloodless, silent violence. Nothing was visibly broken, nothing had changed to the naked eye, but the pain made my world stand still. I kept playing; I finished the song. The audience didn’t know that my heart had done a somersault just before the solo. My body had delivered its karmic retribution; reminding me, onstage, of how many times I’d intentionally served it up a similar loop-de-loop.

  The jolt quickly became a dull ache that almost felt good. In any case, I felt more alive than I had a moment before, because I was more alive. The machine in my heart had reminded me of just how precious this life is. Its timing was impeccable: with a full house in front of me, while I played my guitar, I got the message loud and clear. I got it a few times that night. And I got it every time I was onstage for the rest of that tour, though I never knew when it was coming.

  A doctor installed an implantable cardioverter-defibrillator in my heart when I was thirty-five. It’s a three-inch-long battery-powered generator that was inserted through an incision in my armpit. It constantly monitors my heart rate, delivering electroshocks whenever my heart beats too dangerously fast or slow. Fifteen years of overdrinking and drug abuse had swollen that organ to one beat short of exploding. When I was finally hospitalized, I was told I had six weeks to live. It’s been six years since then and this piece of machinery has saved my life more than a few times. I’ve enjoyed a convenient side effect that the doctor did not intend: when my indulgences have caused my heart to beat too dangerously slow, my defibrillator has popped off, keeping death from my door for one more day. It also shocks my heart into submission when it beats fast enough to court cardiac arrest.

  It’s a good thing I got it adjusted before the first Velvet Revolver tour. I did that one sober for the most part; sober enough that the excitement of playing with a band I believed in to fans who believed in us moved me to my core. I hadn’t been that inspired in years. I ran all over the stage; I basked in our collective energy. My heart raced with excitement hard enough to trigger the machine inside me onstage every night. It wasn’t pleasant but I began to welcome those reminders. I saw them for what they were. Strange moments of alienated clarity, moments out of time that encapsulated a life’s worth of hard-won wisdom.

  Photographic Insert

  Photograph by Gene Kirkland

  1971, age six.

  Photograph by Ola Hudson

  Slash’s elementary-school photos.

  Courtesy of Ola Hudson

  Slash was roughhousing that day; he was being difficult for some reason.

  Photograph by Ola Hudson

  At the bike track in Reseda, practicing. The blond kid is Chris, Jeff Griffin’s younger brother. He thinks he’s beating Slash, but Slash has the inside lane.

  Photograph by Ola Hudson

  Slash and his mom, Ola.

  Photograph by Perla Hudson

  Slash and Axl onstage, July 1988.

  Photograph by Gene Kirkland

  Guns, circa 1987

  Photograph by Gene Kirkland

  Guns, circa 1992.

  Photograph by Gene Kirkland

  Gilby Clarke, Duff, and Slash on the Use Your Illusions tour.

  Photograph by Gene Kirkland

  Duff, Izzy, Matt, and Slash at Mates rehearsal studio, jamming pre–Velvet Revolver. They may or may not have been working on a song called “Snafu.”

  Photograph by Gene Kirkland

  Duff and Slash.

  Photograph by Gene Kirkland

  Slash playing with Lenny Kravitz; note Lenny’s dreds at left.

  Photograph by Gene Kirkland

  Slash on the set of the video shoot for “Estranged.”

  Photograph by Gene Kirkland

  Slash during his forced exile in Hawaii. He was sent there by management for two weeks to stay out of trouble.

  Photograph by Gene Kirkland

  Slash doing a sound check during the Use Your Illusions tour.

  Photograph by Gene Kirkland

  Slash fatigued at the end of a long set during the final notes of “Paradise City.”

  Photograph by Gene Kirkland

  Opening for Aerosmith at Giants Stadium, New Jersey.

  Photograph by Gene Kirkland

  Slash and Ronnie Wood.

  Photograph by Gene Kirkland

  Slash and Steven Adler.

  Photograph by Gene Kirkland

  Izzy and Slash.

  Photograph by Gene Kirkland

  Iggy Pop and Slash after an Iggy gig either before or after Slash recorded with Iggy on his Brick by Brick album, 1990.

  Photograph by Gene Kirkland

  Good buddies Tommy Lee and Slash backstage at some awards show, probably KROQ.

  Photograph by Karl Larsen

  A grumpy morning on the bus.

  Photograph courtesy of Perla Hudson.

  Perla gives Slash a special kiss in the lobby of the Hard Rock Hotel in Vegas. He’s standing in front of the Guns N’ Roses display in the lobby.

  Photograph courtesy of Perla Hudson.

  Charlie Sheen and Slash in a private jet, most likely headed to Vegas. Slash used to keep that necklace he’s wearing loaded with coke.

  Photograph courtesy of Perla Hudson.

  Ron Jeremy and Slash judge some kind of Miss Nude pornography-related beauty contest in Indiana. Note the intense concentration.

  Photograph courtesy of Perla Hudson.

  Self-explanatory Slash.

  Photograph courtesy of Perla Hudson.

  Slash and Perla and Johnnie Walker.

  Photograph courtesy of Perla Hudson.

  Slash and good friend Robert Evans, legendary film producer.

  Photograph courtesy of Perla Hudson.

  Photograph by Gene Kirkland

  WE HUNG AROUND FOR A WHILE THEN we headed out to New York City to play a few headlining dates. We had Zodiac Mindwarp opening up for a few, as well as EZO. These gigs were staggered, but I remember playing the Limelight. We didn’t take it all that seriously: our plan was to just fly in and use some other band’s equipment. I took sleeping pills before the flight in L.A., and when we missed our flight because Axl was running late, I somehow managed to stay awake.

  We always traveled together on the road, and while we waited for Axl and the next flight I kept drinking Jack. By the time we got to New York City, it was time to go right to the show; and the combination of booze and pills had really kicked in. I’d slept maybe an hour on the plane, so basically I was the walking dead. We go up there unannounced, and all things considered, it was a pretty good night. The only problem was the dreaded moment when we had to play “Sweet Child o’ Mine.” It took me ten minutes to get those first eight notes together. I’d start and stop and start and stop until finally I figured it out. It was embarrassing but funny at the same time. I think that was the same night that I stage-dove and the crowd parted like the Red Sea and let me hit the floor. I lay there for a moment taking stock of whether I’d broken any bones or not. Then I got back on stage and tried to maintain some semblance of cool.

  The Ritz show in New York we played that trip was hugely popular on MTV. It wasn’t one of our greatest shows by any means: Axl was having vocal problems, and though we didn’t play badly, we’d played so much better in the recent past. In any case, it was loose and out of tune and punk rock, and for those reasons alone, it is something to be recognized. That footage is important because it is the essence of the band. The crowd was great, and like so many memorable moments, it was over and done before I even knew it.

  We did a slew of gigs on the East Coast afterward, and that was Guns in our prime. I remember one particular night at L’Amour in Brooklyn, which was one of the most classic metal/hard-rock venues that anyone could ever play in New York City. Izzy got totally d
runk downing beers backstage while we were waiting around to go on. But he remained cool in his own way—Izzy was always funny like that. That night he let on like nothing was wrong, spending the entire show sitting on the tiny ledge between the top and bottom cabinet of his rig. It was hilarious to watch.

  Those were great gigs—all of the fans that were there know it as much as I do. During that period, when we headlined, we had a certain majestic presence. Something happened in those months when we made the move from opening band to headliner; by then we knew how to make our forty-five minutes a no-holds-barred experience. We were a great opening band, and when we were billed to play more, we were even more bang for the buck. Headlining had a personal vibe to the set; those nights when we had free rein of the room, we were everybody’s band.

  WE LANDED BACK IN L.A. AND WE SHOT the “Sweet Child o’ Mine” video, which kept us busy until Alan could get us back on the road. That video was fine; it was just another long two-day sit-around shoot. As long as there was a live-performance element to it, I was okay with the whole thing. That particular video featured every band girlfriend of the moment, which, looking back on it now, is amusing.

  At the time, Alan had assigned Ronnie, the security guy, to look after me. He was fiercely loyal and committed and I turned that aspect of his personality into great fun. Alan had the best intentions in mind, but I got into more trouble once Ronnie was around than I otherwise would have because I began to focus on fucking with him as my new pastime. He’d have to lock me into my room and hide in the hallway in case I tried to escape—because I would. Ronnie was great; he played along, he never really lost his temper even in those moments when I devoted all of my energy to sneaking past him. All things considered, he was a great asset until it all went south. We’ll get to all of that in just a little bit.

  OUR NEXT JOB MADE EVERYONE APPREHENSIVE before we even said yes: it was opening for Iron Maiden, starting out in Canada in May 1988, on their tour in support of the album Seventh Son of a Seventh Son. We weren’t overly excited about it, as we didn’t feel like we were the perfect match. I had nothing against them, I had gotten into them via Ron Schneider from Tidus Sloan, who loved Maiden, Rush, Armageddon, and Sabbath—so I was very familiar with Iron Maiden’s entire catalog. I’d spent many an afternoon when we’d ditched junior high watching Ron play his Rickenbacker bass along to the Maiden records. I liked The Killers record most of all. After that one, I lost touch.

  Iron Maiden’s theme on that tour and on that concept album was some kind of polar holocaust: the set looked like a huge glacier from which their mascot, Eddie, emerged, unfrozen from his ice tomb or whatever. Apparently the album was a big hit for them in the U.K. and is considered one of their best. To us, the whole thing was ridiculous; we hated their stage show on sight and had a hard time playing with that ice-scene backdrop behind us every night. We showed up for the first gig and couldn’t do a sound check because their crew hadn’t gotten the whole glacier together yet. Not to mention the Yeti.

  Back then, we didn’t have day rooms paid for in the hotels, so we either hung out at the gig or on the bus until showtime. Those were interesting shows; we were so out of place that it was a challenge. We did our best to play well and we were well received for the most part; we weren’t hated and we weren’t loved—for every show where we really connected, there were plenty where we didn’t.

  Duff and I, for our part, tried to connect with the Maiden guys. That band is a British institution, and we realized that; they’ve been around forever, they have their crew, and what they do is what they’ve done for years. We were an American upstart band, all frayed at the edges, fucking with their very established system. Duff and I respected that and we hung out one night with them, and played darts and forged a momentary kinship and that was great. It wasn’t hard: they were amazing at darts and we weren’t, and we were totally cool with losing to them.

  For a short moment there, it seemed like we had found common ground between Maiden and us. But that didn’t last. A few dates later, Axl walked into the commissary, which was loaded with crew guys from both camps, and made a statement. The commissary is a kind of sacred place to bands on tour: it’s a neutral zone, it’s a shared area; if anything, it’s like the chow line in prison or the army. It is the one place on tour where everyone puts up with everyone. So we were halfway through this tour, and Axl walked up in there and fucking lost it: he flipped a table over and stormed out. He seemed so frustrated and at the end of his rope about the tour.

  There was already an uneasy tension between Maiden and Guns. This obviously sent the tension level to Yellow—Red being nuclear. The buzz went around the crew network, and from that point on, there was no socializing at all between the two bands. It was awkward but we were determined to hang in there and see it through.

  The Maiden tour wound its way through Canada and headed south into Seattle and Northern California. I’m not sure, but I think that it was a Bay Area date when Axl refused to leave the hotel to do the gig. If I remember correctly, he was still in his room when the rest of us left for the venue, and Alan was with him. Not long after, we got the call that Axl wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t perform. The crowd awaiting Maiden was pretty large, so Alan insisted that Duff and I go out there and let them know that Axl was sick. When we first walked on stage, there was a ripple of excitement and cheering, until they heard what we had to say. It was a huge deal—it sucked; I wish that it didn’t have to happen. For better or for worse, when Duff and I delivered the news, it wasn’t well received—and that was the first time that we’d ever gotten such a reaction in our career. The crowd was upset to the point that it was obvious that they really did care—and we weren’t even the headliner. We hadn’t expected much from Maiden’s fans. We had no idea that we’d crossed over the way that we had. It was a nice surprise.

  There were just a few Maiden dates for us to do in California to end the tour, and as much as none of us wanted to do them, we were all committed. There were two shows at Irvine Meadows, but Axl’s throat was such that he just couldn’t do those last two shows—there was just no way. I’m not sure how that went over, but it was registered early enough that Alan had time to scramble to fulfill the contract. In the end, L.A. Guns were hired to play the opening slot so long as enough of us showed up to jam with them. Duff, Izzy, Steven, and I showed up reluctantly—at best—to play at least a few songs. We got up there and our crew told me after that L.A. Guns had tried to sabotage our gear; they’d turned down all the amps to make us sound bad. I guess Tracii was worried that I was going to outplay him. Whatever it was, they tried to nip it in the bud, but our people caught it and fixed it. In any case, that show ended any sort of “civil” relationship between Tracii Guns and me.

  THOSE SHOWS WERE THE LAST DATES ON our schedule. When we got back to L.A. I started hanging around with West Arkeen and there was a rumor and general worry in the band’s circle that I was back on smack. The truth is, I got high once and that was it. But their intentions were good: they were worried that I might do myself in if we had nothing to do. And they weren’t exactly wrong. I had a penchant for being unruly and they could never nail me down. With that in mind, Alan decided that Doug should take me to Hawaii to chill out for a bit.

  Doug and I went to Maui and he’s a total golf head, so he was completely absorbed because we stayed at a premier resort that he picked for that very reason. I was supposed to soak up the sun and “relax”…it was a nightmare. The place was entirely bungalows; we had a rental car for the week and stocked our little huts with groceries. It was as expensive as a hotel but wasn’t like a hotel at all. We were scheduled for a two-week stay, but after five days I was ready to leave. I started calling Doug demanding plane tickets to somewhere more interesting. “I can fly anywhere, man!” I shouted. “Fuck this place, why am I here?”

  “Slash, relax, it’s cool,” he said. “Okay, where do you want to go?”

  “Anyplace! Fuck. I’m going to fucking New York Cit
y!”

  In the end, instead of flying me out, he agreed to fly in this hot stripper I’d met in Toronto. Doug arranged it all and then I was happy. I was supposed to be chilling out, but I still got really drunk on that trip. One night in particular I tied one on with her and for some stupid reason I found it necessary to smash all of the glass louvers in the front door of our bungalow. I didn’t think about it at all; it seemed perfectly natural at the time. Suddenly there was a knock at the door that night as we sat on the couch and this enormous Samoan guy who was a guard at the resort was out there and he was not happy at all.

  “Did you break all of this glass?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “So what?”

  “You’ve got to clean it up,” he said ominously. “You’re going to clean up this mess.” He was right; morally, yes, I should have cleaned up the glass I’d broken. But I was paying nearly a grand a night just to be there, and at those rates, I wasn’t about to clean up anything.

  “Why don’t you fucking clean it up, man?” I told him.

  The guy stared me down for a second, then he grabbed me by the neck and slammed me up against the wall. I didn’t know what he had planned; all I knew is that I could hardly breathe and that my naked back was seriously feeling the stucco wall.

  My girl went crazy and jumped on the guy’s back, totally raising Cain. It didn’t matter much; he was locked onto my neck like a pit bull: he swung at her with one arm, but the other one never loosened its grip on my throat. This whole scene was pretty loud; after a few minutes we attracted a crowd. This couple from next door came over, and when the Samoan guy saw them, it was like kryptonite: all of a sudden he straightened up and just ran away. The next day I tried to find him, but it was no use: he disappeared and never came back; he left his job and all of it behind, apparently.