My Appetite for Destruction

by Steven Adler

  I had inhaled crack and exhaled my soon-to-be shattered soul. It was the first time I smoked the shit. As I sat there, an incredibly powerful urge came over me. I had never experienced such a dire need to get high again. Right away. Now. And this was only about ten seconds after that first incredible high. All I knew, all I cared about, was that I wanted the feeling to last longer. So I continued to hit the pipe. I didn’t know it then, but at that very moment I had tasted the beginning of the end.

  LENNON HATED BLOW

  John Lennon once said that cocaine was a dumb drug because the only reason you do it is to do it again. Coke makes you feel like a new man. Unfortunately the first thing that new man wants is more blow. Lennon was able to walk away from cocaine after his famous “lost weekend” with Harry Nilsson during 1974 in L.A. He came back to New York City, begged for Yoko’s forgiveness, and found happiness at the Dakota. John and Yoko’s love was stronger than coke. Yoko bore Sean the next year and John’s new high was being a “house husband,” raising his son for the next five years. That’s a perfect example of finding a natural high to supplant drugs. And to me, that’s one of the most beautiful power-of-love stories in the history of mankind. I wish Lennon’s example and willpower could have inspired me to quit blow right then and there. But I was weak and hungry for the elusive high.

  Eventually, Loretta said she wanted to leave. I told her, “I’m not going nowhere.” I was smoking that shit and repeatedly inhaling it with a suicidal urgency to maintain the high. We went up to Ted’s bedroom, where he had a bottle of vintage Scotch. He broke the seal and poured each of us a glass. Loretta continued to pester me to leave. Finally I said, “Look, I’m having fun. If you wanna go, go.” She split and I never saw her again. She knew it was hopeless. She knew I was hopeless.

  Meanwhile, I’m figuring, “This is great, I’m not spending a nickel of my own money.” Ted was hooking me up just to hang out. And misery loves company. Two miserable drug addicts stoking each other’s habits. Within a couple of weeks I had set my drums up on some carpeting in Welch’s garage and moved in.

  INTRODUCING MR. BROWNSTONE

  Right after I set up my drums, Ted took me into Bob’s private home studio. It was a sweet setup with a beautiful board and perfect acoustics. Ted pointed to a big gelatinous black lump on a mixing console. He said, “This is the shit that put Bob in the hospital.”

  I was like, “What the fuck is that?” I had no idea.

  He said, “It’s heroin. You can shoot it up or smoke it.”

  He pulled a little piece of this black goo off the lump and stuck it to a four-inch square of tinfoil. He had a plastic straw in his mouth. He held the foil and with his other hand he lit a lighter underneath it, heating it up until the black substance bubbled. Thick wisps of smoke appeared. He inhaled the smoke through the straw and he handed it to me.

  I did the same thing with the wad of heroin and, of course, was fearless. I took a hit and exhaled a massive amount of smoke. It gave me a small rush, and I felt a little light-headed. I was taking another hit when my stomach suddenly flipped. I tossed the heroin and ran to the bathroom. I could hear Ted’s laughter fading out behind me. I knelt over the toilet and felt my head spinning. I was extremely nauseated and got so sick, I ended up puking all night. This shit did not appeal to me at all.

  I had met a new girl a few days earlier and was seeing her from time to time. I called her, and she came over and played nurse. She really helped me out. She took care of me for the rest of the day in one of the bedrooms.

  I talked to Izzy the next day and I was like, “Dude, I smoked this shit last night, I got so fucking sick.” He said, “Where is it?” I said, “I dunno, I threw it down next to my drums.” Before I could hang up the phone, Izzy was at the front door with some chick. “So where’s that shit?” he asked. I pointed to the garage. They just marched right in and found the chunk lying next to a cymbal stand.

  A couple of minutes later, while leaving to pick up some cigarettes, I spotted Izzy dragging the girl outside. I stopped the car and rolled down the window. “What the fuck’s wrong with her?” I mean, they just got there. Izzy told me, “She’ll be all right, she’ll be all right.” This chick was a rag doll, definitely not all right. She must’ve shot up and went out, like bam. He was dragging her out from the garage to get some air. That was the first time Izzy visited me at Bob’s.

  Hi. Where’s the heroin? Bye.

  A couple of days later, Izzy brought his gear over, and we jammed. I love Izzy. He defines cool and we really are good friends. He started coming by more often, and we played together all the time. He wasn’t hitting the crack pipe at the time, but he’d face that demon later. Whether it was the presence of drugs or a new place to jam, it didn’t matter to me. Izzy was just fun to hang with and I was happy to share this sweet situation.

  WELCH GETS OUT

  A few weeks after my setting up, Bob Welch was released from the hospital. When I met him he was a thin guy, bald on top. He had let what wispy hair he had grow long and fly freely. He wore a hat most of the time, flipped sideways, kind of French-beret style. I guess Ted had let him know about my staying at his house because Bob never had a problem with it and accepted me openly.

  We would hang out and he would show me videos of some of his concerts, my own personal rock ’n’ roll lessons, and he’d share all of his crazy stories. We watched tapes of him playing at the Cal Jam Festival in ’74 where it’s clear he’s a fucking genius; he sang and played guitar brilliantly. Check out his stuff on Fleetwood Mac’s Bare Trees and Mystery to Me albums. This was when the band still flexed its blues roots, and Bob penned and sang some incredible lyrics, among them “Hypnotized” and the aforementioned track “Sentimental Lady.”

  Although Bob had just gotten out of the hospital for overdosing, he was right back to smoking coke and heroin. To avoid these temptations and clear out my head a bit, I left for a day or two and couch-surfed on Sunset. It became clear what I had to do. I had gotten to that point (again) where I no longer recognized the guy in the mirror. When that happened, I knew it was time for a change of scenery. It was some internalized safety mechanism I benefited from at the time, but one day it would fail me when I needed it most.

  I decided to get my stuff out of Bob’s place and take off. I realized I had been there for two months, partying, smoking coke every day, and doing little else even with a tricked-out studio on the premises. When I came back to move out, Izzy was there, hitting the foil with Bob. He just gave me a slightly pained look as I gathered up my stuff, but it was cool between us.

  Izzy had nothing to do with my having to get out of there, just as I had nothing to do with Izzy staying. It was like that with Duff, Slash, and Axl too; we all lived completely independent lives. None of us ever tried to will an agenda on the others. We each occupied our own orbital, doing our own thing, and eventually if it was meant to be, the cosmic debris would line up again.

  Chapter 7

  The Original Lineup

  BACK WITH GRAM

  It was time to regroup at my grandmother’s place. That was always the spot where I could go to gather my sanity. It was my refuge, a simple place to take a shower and get something to eat. I had a backpack with some ratty clothes in it and I had my drums. That’s it. I didn’t wear underwear. I had three pairs of pants, some shirts. They were mostly concert T’s: Aerosmith, Kiss, and Queen shirts. It was easy for me to pack up and go anywhere, anytime. I’m still pretty much like that. Possessions are chains that, over time, shackle and crush you. My drums and the shirt on my back; any other shit just slows you down.

  After a few days back at Grandma’s, I hooked up with the greatest job at a liquor store on Sunset and Doheney. I worked there for five months, earned six bucks an hour, and made great tips. The owner, Sid, was a fun guy. He was a freak, always partying hard. I had the Road Crew-zer car and would deliver alcohol, food, and cigarettes to his customers, mainly on large estates up in Beverly Hills.

  Half
the time I’d go inside and start making out with these older women. Often I’d end up drinking the booze that I brought them. We’d do coke and smoke bud. I’d have only three or four orders, which the average driver would knock out quickly, but not me. I’d usually find my way back to the store a couple of hours later.

  I delivered to this one hot woman, Laurie, who had worked at the Rainbow for like twenty years. She was a classy lady, a real pretty blonde. She lived right behind the store. I brought stuff up to her nearly every night. She was a real sweetheart. Looking back, I became friendly with just about everyone on the delivery route.

  I’d go to Sid’s house sometimes. It was a nice, big place, plastered with pictures of him with big stars like Frank Sinatra. He had this safe in the floor under his bed, concealed by a carpet. I remember he opened it one time and I saw a big bottle of quaaludes, a bag of what looked like kick-ass smoke, and a big wad of hundred-dollar bills. He liked boys, so he always had a few of his young fellows up there walking around in their little bathing suits.

  He would tease me sexually, gentle come-ons, but no way I was going to ever be one of his playthings. And I was never offended by anything he said. He knew I didn’t swing that way and that was it. He was a real character, an aging bald guy who reminded me of the classic movie actor Edward G. Robinson, a fleshy round man who had done well and couldn’t have cared less about losing his looks and being out of shape. He worked hard in his early years, and that store meant he was set forever.

  FIRED AGAIN

  When I got fired from there, I couldn’t believe it. I got back from a delivery on a sunny Sunday afternoon, when it wasn’t too busy. I was stoned as usual and totally parched. I went into the cooler, because as the delivery guy, I also stocked the store. While I was in there I poured a small amount of wine cooler into a plastic cup and drank it down. That made me feel better. I popped out of the cooler and walked up to the cashier. “Hey. Any calls, anything happening?”

  He grabbed the cup out of my hand, took a sniff, and said, “That’s alcohol!”

  I looked at him and said, “Yeah . . . ?” It wasn’t the first time I had booze breath on the job for chrissakes.

  He looked at me like I just shot his mom, picked up the phone, and called Sid. Sid had no choice but to fire me, because it was clear that this nerd-detective cashier was determined to make a big deal out of it. I kind of understood. Sid just didn’t need the hassle. But I was really bummed to lose that job.

  Within a couple of days, however, it was life as usual. I would just run the streets with these goofy young girls I’d meet at the exotic dance clubs. They were strippers, so they had money and a place of their own. I always had a place to crash, but I never fell for any of them; they were just fun to party with. I’d bump into Slash from time to time, but he was currently in a pretty serious relationship with that raven-haired hottie. During this entire time we weren’t playing together much, just loving life. And it wasn’t like we missed playing. The time would come when we felt like jamming again, and time was on our side.

  DUFF’S THE STUFF

  In the fall of 1984, I scored another very decent gig. I moved in with a bass player and a guitar player, Jeff and Todd. Jeff played guitar and lived with his father, who owned a nice four-bedroom house in Granada Hills. Just playing with them was cool enough, but I had a bedroom there too. The garage was a converted studio where I just played drums with these guys and was able to practice every day and have a free place to live. I couldn’t have been happier.

  I had all I needed. But the band failed to score any gigs. Nobody took the initiative. After about two or three months, it was time to move on. All I wanted to do was get out and jam as much as possible with other musicians. I began to feel frustrated and every day I felt a growing desire to play.

  If I wanted to get good at it, I knew what I had to do. I got together with Slash again, and we decided to make our often discussed but not yet materialized Road Crew project happen. First we enlisted our old friend Ronnie Schneider on bass. He had a cool image, played well, and was my longtime bud-puffing buddy. There’s a picture of Ronnie in the Live Era album; he’s playing guitar next to Slash. He’s the one with the blond hair that’s all teased out.

  Ronnie soon left to join another band, so we took out an ad in the Recycler under “Musicians Wanted.” We got a call from this guy who said he was from Seattle. He explained that he used to play the drums in a punk band, but since there were so many drummers in L.A., he took up the bass. It cost money to rent a studio so we figured we should save our money and just meet him first to see if he was a cool guy to begin with and what kind of look he had. Image was important, and if you thought someone looked cool and could play at all decently, that nailed it. You took him on. If he didn’t look the part . . . next.

  We decided to meet him at what I personally consider to be the all-time legendary Guns N’ Roses landmark: Canter’s Deli on Fairfax. Slash knew the owner’s son, Marc Canter. He’s our age, and he runs the place now. Slash and I would go there every day to get meat knishes with gravy for a dollar, really tasty. The picture on the back cover of Live!? Like a Suicide! was taken in the alley behind Canter’s.

  Mark ended up taking pictures of the band at our shows. He was a smart, artistic, compassionate guy. We felt comfortable trusting him to shoot all the behind-the-scenes images of GNR. We knew he wouldn’t compromise our trust, wouldn’t sell out to some rag-ass tabloid, or let anything out that we didn’t approve. Mark and I are still close to this very day.

  BUILDING THE BAND

  So we’re hanging at Canter’s on a sunny afternoon in the winter of ’84, and in walks Duff McKagan. Right away I thought, “Well, he sure as hell looks like a rock star.” He was tall, six feet four, and had long, teased blond hair with a black streak running down the side. He had been calling himself Duff Rose and was all rocked out. I thought he was totally right for the look we were after. We hit it off right away, right down to the bands we liked, and just as important, the bands we hated.

  Although we got along, we didn’t actually get together to play. We did hang out a bit, and during that time, we introduced Duff to Izzy, but nothing really got going. For a good amount of time there it seemed, once again, as though putting together a band wasn’t going to happen. There just seemed to be a lack of drive or purpose.

  After admitting to myself that the Road Crew idea had fizzled out for a second time, I started having these depressing thoughts about what the hell I was going to do. College was out, and my gut still told me that being in a rock ’n’ roll band was my best bet.

  I was feeling so down about nothing happening that I dropped in on the local navy recruiter. I figured what the hell, I had nothing to lose. See the world on someone else’s dime. I took the test, and the guy there told me they’d get back to me in a few days. He shook my hand and smiled. Leaving the place I felt that I would soon be setting out on a whole new adventure.

  Well, I must have sucked on the test, because I never heard back from them. Admiral Adler was not setting sail in this man’s navy. Sometimes I shudder when I think that I could have been swabbing the deck on some boat in the North Sea instead of touring with GNR.

  EMPLOYED AND BUSTED!

  When I was nineteen, I found a job working for a computer chip company in a warehouse in Chatsworth. I was a packer and a shipper, making $5.35 an hour. The secretary there was a dirty-blond hottie in her late twenties. She and I would go to lunch together every day at Chatsworth Park. I would do her in her backseat during our break. Love those power munches—er, lunches. She partied and sold a little weed on the side, so we would sit under a tree in the park and take rips off of her bong. One day while we were getting stoned, these two guys came walking toward us. They were about twenty yards away when she covered the bong and the weed with her hat. They walked right up to us and flashed a badge. I was like, “Fuck!”

  One of the cops lifted her hat, exposing the multiple bags of weed. They arrested her and, fo
r some reason, just let me go. But of course, word got back to our employer so I could extend my streak of getting fired from every damn job.

  STAYING STOKED

  Getting canned didn’t upset me that much because ultimately all I really wanted was to be in a band, and playing the drums was the one job I took very seriously. I would drive anywhere, meet anytime, sit down with anyone just so I could play. I met a bass player named Gary who had a recording studio out in Burbank, so I started jamming with him. Bobby Chouinard, the drummer for Billy Squier, played on one of Gary’s demos, which was great because he had his very own recording studio and tapes of his fully produced music.

  Bobby’s studio was in Laurel Canyon, up in the Hollywood Hills. I felt like I was finally making some headway with the music, performing and listening carefully to the playback, picking out my strengths and what I needed to work on. Of course we were partying too. These guys loved to smoke weed and jam. It was a great vibe all around, solid musicians, great studio, kick-ass weed.

  GNR CYCLES AROUND

  I played with them about a month or so and then one night Slash called me up. He sounded excited and told me that Izzy had resurfaced and wanted us all to play together again. Like I said, that’s how it worked back then. Things just had to take their own natural course. Something would pop up, a booking, a festival, a fucking keg party, and a few phone calls later, we’d be getting together again. This time, however, my heart really started pounding because Slash told me that they had committed to doing a show Thursday night. And Friday they were planning on heading up to Seattle to play a couple of shows. Since we had introduced Duff to Izzy and Axl, he had been playing with them too. In fact, Duff was the one who booked the upcoming shows.

  So it was “Dude. Cool. I’m there!” The next day I got together with them, and they told me the band was now called Guns N’ Roses, after the band’s founders: Tracii Guns and Axl Rose. So I guess technically, the very first Guns N’ Roses lineup consisted of Rob Gardner on drums, Tracii Guns on lead guitar, Izzy on rhythm guitar, and Axl.