by Steven Adler
We were scheduled for two days of filming. The first was at Forest Lawn Cemetery in San Francisco, where we were cast as rock ’n’ roll friends of the deceased Johnny Squares. We all knew this would be great visual exposure. We were going to be in a movie. It was exciting and even Axl showed up on time.
During the first day of filming I hooked up with this stripper chick who was an extra on the set. She was a local, so we went back to her place. We smoked a little weed and she made us tea. I noticed that she had slipped a brown powder substance into my cup. I assumed it was some kind of spice or something. The last thing I remember, she had my head between her legs and was forcing my face against her groin. “Now I’ll show you how to eat pussy,” she purred. She was in control and I was floating, floating away on some silken cloud without a care in the world.
I began to chuckle at her remark as those clouds enveloped me, and then nothing. I passed out while she was mounting me. What a time for my first heroin overdose. I woke up in a hospital room the day we were supposed to be filming our second scene for the film. I had no idea how long I had been out. In fact, I had no idea where I was or what had happened, but as my vision cleared it was apparent someone was keeping vigil over me. Someone was at my bedside patiently waiting for me to come out of it, though no one knew if or when that would be.
I blinked. I blinked again. It was Axl. Axl got up and was now standing over me. He smiled. He looked genuinely relieved. He said, “Man, that was close, Stevie.” He was the only one there. Later, a nurse told me he had sat by my bed the whole time. The other guys went ahead to do the movie but Axl stayed at the hospital.
What Axl did was so noble, so selfless and surprising, that I cried, and they were tears of joy. He kind of shifted uneasily when he saw the waterworks, but that was just too bad. I felt nothing but unbridled love for him at that moment and I didn’t care if he saw it.
There he was, blowing off a chance to be in a scene for a major movie release, to stand by me, his own personal vigil, just Axl. Goddamn Axl. Soon as I thought I had him pegged, he went and did one of the most touching, meaningful things anyone’s ever done for me. That was so cool. Thanks, Axl.
Here’s the thing about Axl. He demands emotion. “Love me, hate me, but don’t you dare fucking ignore me.” He will not tolerate a vacuum. Sometimes I think that’s why he would keep our fans waiting for three hours before going on. He demanded an emotionally charged atmosphere at all times. He wanted a life spent on the frantic jagged edge, and that’s why he could deliver that unique urgency in his lyrics: he lived it.
Having Axl there really had a powerful effect on me. I was back on my feet in no time. The nurse called it “the power of youth.” More like the power of stupidity. Anyone with just an ounce of sense would have known to wait for a clean bill of health from the doctor, but not me. As soon as I could get out of bed without falling over face-first, and that happened at least a dozen times, I was leaving. Finally, I ripped the tubes out of my arms and just stum- bled out.
THE MAIDEN
Next up was a tour with Iron Maiden. I dug the band; I remembered jamming to their Piece of Mind record over and over when I was staying at Brad Server’s back in 1983. I was hanging with Nicko McBrain, Maiden’s drummer, one night in Quebec, a beautiful city. We were checking the sights, having a few drinks, and Nicko starts talking shit to me. I didn’t say anything to start anything, and I didn’t say anything back to him either. He was so drunk and he was getting pissed at me for no reason at all. I don’t know why. He is one big wide-body dude, and I thought he was gonna kick my ass. Luckily he drank himself into a stupor and got all pie-eyed and quiet. I just slipped away and grabbed a cab back to the hotel.
I do remember one time during this tour when probably a couple of hours after the show had ended, I walked into the greenroom, where about twenty fans were waiting around to meet the bands. Like I said earlier, the guys in my band were not into meet-’n’-greets, record signings, nothing like that. So I walk in, and it’s completely silent. All the kids looked bummed out; they all had their heads down, a real sad scene. So I go, “Hey, c’mon, this is a fucking party!” Suddenly everyone looks up at me, and the place erupts. It felt great. A big “YAAAYYY!” filled the room. One of the guys had a few joints and I lit one up after another and passed them around. I talked to everyone and signed autographs. I was so surprised at what a difference a little affection could make. I mean, as far as lifting these kids’ moods it was like night and day. It was really rewarding for me, and I always wished we had done more shit like that as a band.
The Maiden tour brought us back through Canada, back to the U.S., and ended in Sacramento, California. Our gear was set up, and about two hours before we were to go on, I hear that Axl can’t do it, his vocal cords are shot. Although a lot of our fans were going to be upset, the band was aware of Axl’s true intentions and understood what was actually going down, as you’ll see soon.
So at the last minute, local Sacramento band Tesla filled in. I think they even used our equipment. I was disappointed because the next show was going to be back at the L.A. Forum, a place where I saw so many bands when I was growing up. “Aw, man. I always wanted to play the fuckin’ Forum.” Our buddies in L.A. Guns got the gig, and they continued opening shows for Maiden. At Irvine Meadows Amphitheater, all of us minus Axl got up onstage with L.A. Guns and performed two songs to an ecstatic audience. We had bowed out of those shows at the last minute last time, and many of the kids went specifically to see us, so we felt obligated.
DREAM COME TRUE
Just a few days later, our dreams came true again when our long-awaited tour with Aerosmith kicked off in Illinois. I remember there was this one-way road to the venue that went on for miles. So we took a helicopter from the hotel right to the backstage area. It was so cool, so rock ’n’ roll. After the show we were in the dressing room and all the guys in Aerosmith came in, Tyler, Perry, Whitford, Hamilton, and Kramer, and said, “You guys rock. You guys definitely rock.” That was the first time we met them, and it couldn’t have been any better in a dream. Our heroes telling us they liked the way we played. And one of the main reasons they were impressed was because Axl’s voice was fucking incredible, godlike in its range and intensity.
That was because he had dropped out of the end of the Iron Maiden tour to give his voice a good rest. You see, Aerosmith meant so much to him, and so much to us, that he didn’t want to blow out his voice. He wanted to be well rested. And hearing Joe Perry tell us we kicked ass made it all worthwhile.
There was one show we played, I think it was in Indiana, where they even sold out the seats behind the stage. We definitely brought a lot of those people in. Everybody was singing along with the songs with a ton of energy. There was so much excitement, I had to yell to Tom as loudly as I could, “Get me a bucket. Get me a bucket!”
I must have sounded like I was in a damn Monty Python movie. Playing the show felt so great it actually made my stomach turn cartwheels and suddenly I had to vomit. As soon as the song ended I puked right in the thing. After I shed the jitters, it was even more fun than I could ever have imagined. I was like a little kid up there, sneaking under my own tree on Christmas day.
Aerosmith are my heroes. Period. I respect Steven Tyler more than any other front man in the world. He really was the coolest, greatest, most down-to-earth guy. Besides the fact that he was an amazing performer, and a rock legend, he was truly the nicest, most genuine guy. Remember, he’s a Tallarico and I’m a Coletti, so we share a little linguine lineage too.
The management told us to keep the drinking and drugs out of sight, as the boys in Aerosmith were all recovering addicts. After some of the sound checks in the outdoor theaters, Tyler and I would go out in golf carts and race around the venue.
He told me some amazing stories about his battles with drugs, how in the old days he would be dancing off to the side of the stage and he had his assistant there, ready with a syringe all filled up. He also confessed that in his
famous black-and-white-striped outfit, he had a mini-pocket inside the scarf where he stashed quaaludes, Valium, Percodan, a fucking pharmacy in his folds. Then he looked me right in the eye and said, “Don’t let yourself get too mixed up with that shit.”
I looked him right in the eye. “No worries, Steven, I won’t.” Ha. Famous last words . . .
One night Steven and I brought about ten girls back with us to the tour bus. We told them to get naked. Steven assumed the role of a director. “Now you three, suck his dick. You, sit on his face while he eats your pussy. You two, make out.” Steven Tyler, rookie porn director of the year. And me, the new king of porn. That was the most memorable night of the tour and one of the top ten memorable nights in my life. Tyler is nonstop fun.
We got to New Jersey to play at Giants Stadium, and after an amazing show, I went back to the hotel really looking forward to seeing Cheryl again. I began having some serious thoughts about our relationship because I figured I had gotten myself pretty well set up with a kick-ass successful rock band and had good money coming in as a result of it. And I don’t know, maybe the heart to heart with Tyler from the other night was making some headway into my thick skull. Maybe it was time for me to settle down a bit.
So as soon as we met in the lobby, I took her to my hotel room and said, “Take off your clothes.” We made love like never before. She could sense my passion and responded with just as much enthusiasm. We lay in bed afterward and as far as I was concerned, this was the one.
Chapter 15
Tragedy and Controversy
DONINGTON DEBACLE
In the middle of the tour, we were flown out to England to perform at the annual Monsters of Rock festival at a racetrack in Castle Donington, England. It was August 20, 1988. Opening the show was a German metal band, Halloween, then us, then Megadeth, David Lee Roth, Kiss, and Iron Maiden. To get us there quickly, a Concorde, the world’s fastest commercial jet, was chartered. It took only three and a half hours to cross the Atlantic. A normal flight would have taken like eight. The entire cabin was first-class, prime rib, Sennheiser earphones for the sound system, and your own gift bag when you got to your seat. I looked out when we were at our highest cruising altitude, like sixty-five thousand feet, and I could see blue, dark blue, then indigo, then if I craned my head to look straight up, black! Also, if you looked straight out, you could see the curvature of the earth, just slightly, but it was there. Pretty fucking cool.
We arrived the day before the show. Lars from Metallica was there and we were snorting anything that looked like powder. We were doing this pink shit, I don’t know what it was. It could have been crushed-up baby aspirin for all we knew.
Lemmy was there too, and he had a pile of speed on the table about a foot in diameter. All he did was speed. He offered me some, and I just did a little, a real tiny bit. It felt like fiberglass going up my nose. Dave Jr. (that’s what we called Megadeth’s bassist Dave Ellefson) and Dave Mustaine were there too. We had partied many times prior, including smoking up a little heroin.
In the middle of the afternoon we hit the stage. It was a madhouse. Over a hundred thousand kids were cramming against the front. The racetrack was selling these big thirty-two-ounce beers. The kids were drinking, and they weren’t about to go through this whole fucking crowd just to urinate at a stall, so they pissed in the bottles. Before we went on, we were standing at the side of the stage looking at the size of the crowd.
Suddenly, we saw what looked like a swarm of giant locusts flying through the air; they were actually hundreds of these plastic bottles of urine soaring over the crowd. We were like, “What the fuck?” Bam, pop! People were getting hit in the head and splattered with pee. But it wasn’t going to change anything. We had gotten spit on, we had bottles of booze and beer thrown at us, and we had gotten in shoving matches with fans and other bands, so what’s a little projectile piss?
I was surprised to see so many Guns N’ Roses banners waving in the crowd. By the time we went on there were 120,000 people screaming and jumping up and down. It was really an impressive sight for us all. Everyone was so out of control, and we had to stop the show several times because people kept rushing the stage. Axl asked the crowd to settle down and back up. People were getting crushed at the front of the stage. It wasn’t until the next day, after we flew the Concorde back to the U.S., that we were told that two kids were killed during our set. They were trampled to death.
I was shell-shocked. Numb. I couldn’t believe it. Of course, the media blamed the band, fueling our notorious bad-boy image. And we were just starting to get a broader, more friendly public image going when this happened. This was partly because “Sweet Child O’ Mine” had broader appeal than “Jungle” as a hit. We tapped into a larger following with that tune, reaching more mainstream rock- and pop-minded folks.
I called my mom and told her about the terrible tragedy. I never stopped to think of why I called Deanna instead of Cheryl or Big Lilly, but I immediately felt some solace as soon as I shared this horrible news with her. She was shocked but didn’t unravel. She managed to be very compassionate and real with me, explaining that I wasn’t to blame. She reasoned that the promoters have to control the numbers and the way the seating is set up. I understood, but it didn’t make me feel a whole lot better. I felt like I had somehow been a cog in some bigger machine that hurt those kids. It was weeks before I felt anywhere near normal again. I let Mom know that I would be back in town soon and would call her. To this day, the Donington tragedy still haunts me like a waking nightmare.
FAMILY MATTERS
We had two shows with Aerosmith at the Pacific Amphitheater in Costa Mesa, California, during September. I invited my family to the first show, but then I guess they got the idea to just come by and surprise me at the hotel beforehand. After all, they hadn’t seen me in a year. Me and Ronnie had been up all night doing coke, a lot of it. I had a huge pile of krel on this chest of drawers that was set up like a table. We were tweaking hard. At eight in the morning there was a knock at the door.
Consumed with paranoia, I asked Ronnie, “You expecting anyone?” He shook his head no. Another knock. I slowly stood up and made my way to the door. “Hey, Stevie, open up.” That voice, I know that voice. It’s cool.
So I opened it, and standing there were my mom, dad, and little brother, all sporting huge smiles. I was horribly, unreasonably pissed. “What the fuck are you doing here? Don’t just come over unannounced.” In an instant, I just saw their happy expressions turn to disbelief, then horror. Fuck ’em. I slammed the door and tried to get a little shut-eye before the show. Let’s face it, I was such a dick, I still feel bad about it. Hey, Ma, you out there? I apologize for that.
The next day we performed our last show with Aerosmith. As the crew was setting up the equipment I ran into an old bass player friend of mine, who I had set up with tickets and passes. He mentioned that he was going to score some dope, and I said, “You know, I got twenty dollars. What the hell, pick me up some.” I unzipped the fanny pack around my waist—I called it my “hippie” pack—and handed him a crisp twenty. I had done the shit only a few times up to this point; it wasn’t like I had a connection or anything. After the show, about three hours later, he came back and gave me the dope. I ripped a piece of foil off from a catering table and went to our bus. I went straight to the back for some privacy and smoked that bad brownstone.
KARMA KILL
I was feeling all happy-go-lucky, high as a kite. I was on my way to party with Aerosmith. I was smiling, on top of the world as I swaggered toward the greenroom and opened the door, striking my best rock star pose and surveying the scene. There, just five feet ahead of me, was Steven Tyler. He was smiling, chatting with someone. He turned to me, looked in my eyes, and his smile faded. He just knew. He shook his head like “Oh, man” and looked the other way. I didn’t understand it at that precise moment, but he was sad for me. Then it sank in and my own smile faded as quickly as my family’s had in the hotel.
I
was dumbfounded. I turned and quickly walked away. Not being cool with Steven Tyler is as uncool as you can get. He got to know me, but I was only playing along, only saying the things he wanted to hear so that he’d think I wasn’t doing that shit. He told me about how he was a loser for doing it. And there I was with those damning pin-dot eyes, busted. I felt as though I had let him down far more than I had ever let myself down. Steven Adler, the fucking fool, had deceived a man he loved and admired. I was miserable for days; I wanted to blow my fucking brains out to stop the pain.
In my head, I’ve identified that moment as the definitive turning point, the precise moment when things began to go from occasionally off-kilter to very darkly wrong in my life. Breaking my hand was the first warning shot, but I just kept going, gathering momentum, blowing right through those sawhorse barriers on life’s highway, keeping my metaphorical pedal to the metal until I ran out of road, crashed and burned.
FALL FROM GRACE
The day after our last show on the Aerosmith tour, Dougie called and said he had been asked if I’d be interested in a video shoot. Comedian Sam Kinison was super-hot at the time, and he was making a music video to promote his new album. I had known Sam for some time. A few months earlier, I had taken a number of friends to see him at the Comedy Store on Sunset. He invited us backstage and cut thick lines of coke for us all. He was a wild one, one of us, no doubt about it.
The video was for his outrageous video parody of the song “Wild Thing,” a hilarious retooling of the Troggs’ classic from the sixties. His idea was to have a big party, invite all of his rocker friends over, and double-duty the gathering as the cast and setting for his video. Slash and I got Sam’s invitation and went together. When we arrived, we were excited to find ourselves in amazing company. Our dearest buddy from the Crüe, Tommy Lee, was there and Bon Jovi showed with his entourage. I just looked at all these fun-loving rockers around me and said, “Fuck yeah.” It was like some perverse validation; I was so proud to be included in this group of genuine rock stars.