Disgraceland

by Jake Brennan

  When you first hear the N-word in the lyrics, there is a split second where your brain stops listening and you involuntarily ask yourself, “Did he really just say that?” and then, as if to answer your internal monologue, Axl immediately follows up the N-word with, “that’s right” as in, “Yeah, motherfucker. I just said that. So what?”

  Understandably, the press lost its collective mind. Axl was quickly labeled a racist as well as a homophobe for the following lyric, also from “One in a Million”:

  Immigrants and faggots

  They make no sense to me.

  The backlash was immediate. Radio refused to play the song. Billboard magazine excoriated the band. Certain promoters refused to market the record. Popular comedian Bobcat Goldthwait accused the band of writing the song just for the publicity. Vernon Reid, guitarist for Living Colour, a chart-topping African American rock band whose very existence (and success) challenged ideas around race in the music industry at the time, and fan of GNR, called Axl out publicly as well.

  Axl claimed that the song was about a real-life experience he had at a bus station in Hollywood. It was reality and therefore, in his mind, worthy of documenting. However, the actual reality was that Axl was leveling a haymaker at the press, who he must have known would react intensely in response to his highly offensive lyrics. It was the sixteen-year-old in Lafayette lashing out but this time at a bigger strawman and under a much bigger spotlight.

  But somehow, none of it mattered. The album was an immense seller.

  Album sales weren’t negatively affected, but the intensity of the public backlash was almost unbearable for Axl. He grew more manic. And then more depressed. He doubled down on therapy and through analysis uncovered “recovered memories” of sexual abuse as a child. He claimed publicly that he had been sexually assaulted by his real father who had, as Axl was now able to remember, raped him as a two-year-old. With psychotherapy, Axl felt himself making progress, but toward what he didn’t exactly know. A torrent of pain, shame, and high-pitched anger raged inside of him stronger and more intensely than ever before, and he was about to blow.

  Backstage at the Riverport Amphitheatre, in St. Louis, Missouri, in 1991, Guns N’ Roses cooled their jets. You could tell just by looking at them that they were one of the biggest rock ’n’ roll bands in the world. But the band Axl Rose had started back in Los Angeles six years earlier had begun to fade away. This band assembled before him, half-assedly working out its preshow jitters was a damaged, barely functioning version of its prefame self. Three years of hardcore drug and alcohol addiction and high-stress offstage drama had resulted in their current state.

  Slash lived in constant fear of dying of AIDS. He believed there was a coming LA Metal AIDS epidemic and that if he or David Lee Roth caught it, then it was all over; the entire metal scene would be wiped out. His band members most definitely included. Slash was also desperately trying to kick heroin under threat from Axl to quit the band if he didn’t. He was chipping occasionally, but for the most part he’d had it under control ever since Axl, while opening for the Rolling Stones onstage at the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum, threatened to quit the band, saying to the audience, “Unless certain people in this band…get their shit together…these will be the last Guns N’ Roses shows you will fucking ever see. ’Cause I’m tired of too many people, in this organization DANCING WITH MISTER GODDAMNED BROWNSTONE!”

  Unlike Slash, Izzy got the message. It was a combination of Axl’s threat and seeing his hero, Stones guitarist Keith Richards, up close and personal cheating death throughout middle age. What were the odds that a second Chuck Berry–obsessed guitarist in one of the world’s greatest rock ’n’ roll bands would also escape heroin’s mortal grip and live to see his forties? Izzy didn’t know the answer, but he knew his odds weren’t good. So he gave up dancing with every kind of intoxicant, but as a result he now barely interacted with his bandmates and elected to travel via his own tour bus with his smokeshow of a girlfriend rather than fly with the traveling party, including groupies, on the band’s chartered plane.

  Steven Adler either refused or was simply unable to give up heroin, and he was unceremoniously kicked out of the band.

  Duff, depressed from splitting with his wife, had retreated into his own bummed-out alcoholic nightmare while his new bandmates, drummer Matt Sorum and newly added keyboard player Dizzy Reed, did their best to fit into the highly dysfunctional band.

  A band that was under immense pressure to deliver a follow-up album that would outperform their massively successful debut. The recording of said follow-up was wrought with tension. Axl’s bandmates seldom appeared in the studio at the same time as he did, for fear of running up against his violent mood swings and thus sandbagging whatever slogging progress they’d made up to that point. The album was recorded piecemeal and at times by remote committee. The exact opposite of Appetite for Destruction, which was a short, frenetic shotgun blast of a musical statement made by five guys living the same life, dealing with the same problems and trying to get to the same place at the same time. That simplicity of intent was gone now. Axl was trying to make a grand creative statement while various members of his band were at times trying to work around dysfunctions: addiction, newfound fame, and an increasingly volatile and uncompromising lead singer.

  Said lead singer sat backstage and watched his rhythm guitar player bang out the riff to Chuck Berry’s “Sweet Little Sixteen” on his unplugged Telecaster. The strings eventually popped and snapped themselves into the chord progression for Elvis Presley’s “Heartbreak Hotel”; the version that Izzy and Axl had used to steal the show out from under Tom Petty at MTV’s Video Music Awards a few years back. Axl loved Elvis. He was the King. And Axl saw in himself some of that same ordained royalty. But Elvis was a nice boy and Axl was anything but…and he knew it. He crossed his arms and subconsciously ran his hand over the VICTORY OR DEATH tattoo on his left biceps. The yellow-and-red regimental emblem was the same design that Elvis wore on his hat in G.I. Blues. Maybe the outcome of the slogan wasn’t so either/or, though. What if you could achieve both? Victory and death?

  The pure rock ’n’ roll days of the Ritz show were long gone. These days, Guns N’ Roses were a worldwide phenom. The greatest rock ’n’ roll band on the planet. Guns N’ Roses were the real deal and very nearly coming apart at the seams because of it: victory and death.

  Life at the moment for Axl and the rest of the band was tense, but backstage things were calm. While Izzy fingered his guitar, Slash—oblivious—fucked with the FM dial on a transistor radio and nursed a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Duff mixed up his hundredth vodka cranberry, his head somewhere else entirely. Matt warmed up with a drum pad; an endless triple-stroke drum roll, eighth-note triplets, then sixteenth-note triplets that were both only slightly out of time with Izzy’s riff. Matt dropped the beat indiscriminately to sip cold domestic from a can. This being St. Louis, the domestic was Clydesdale piss from the brewery of Messrs. Anheuser and Busch. Dizzy was nowhere in sight, off somewhere chasing skirt, taking advantage of his new fame. Axl was quiet, sipping champagne.

  Preshow jitters time was the one time the band could stand each other’s presence. They waited. Bonded by the incredibly rare reality they were about to go through together. Something very few people on the planet ever experience; the adoration of twenty thousand screaming fans who all want to either be you or fuck you. The exact type of rare experience that can bond you together and overcome even the deepest divisions.

  Axl had “One in a Million” on his mind. It had been a while since they performed it. Who needed the headache? Axl took this as a defeat of sorts. Despite the controversy surrounding the song’s lyrics, it was still a good song. Axl toyed with the idea of sneaking it into the set that night, but the thought was short-lived. It was nearly showtime, the only time of day that mattered.

  GNR took the stage to a packed and rabid house. By now the band had their stage show wired tight. Axl insisted they fly by the seat of their span
dex and Levis without a set list to keep it fresh, but the band did rely on a handful of sequential songs guaranteed to drive audiences wild. “Welcome to the Jungle” and then a downshift into the anthemic ballad, “Civil War.” After that, a drum solo from Matt so Axl could suck on an oxygen mask backstage, then a guitar solo from Slash into the theme from The Godfather and finally into the barn-burning “Rocket Queen” to close the show.

  The crowd recognized the song the instant the drums picked up. They knew this was the closer. Their last moments of the show to dig in and enjoy, to stay transported off in that place far away from the realities of the real world, from their shitty jobs, their parents, their schools. They pumped their fists, danced, sang along, and did their best to rage with their rock gods onstage in front of them. From the blinding stage lights Axl could only see them swaying en masse. Flashback to Donington. He ripped into the first verse.

  He wondered about security. Upfront it was lax. To Axl, the security staff seemed more interested in the band than in protecting the crowd. Flashback to the Philly Spectrum. Fucking Pigs.

  His anger shot up through his chest and into his throat. His breath quickened. The words to the second half of the verse came out rushed and erratic.

  Axl homed in on a civilian in the first couple rows. Was that a fan or a member of the press snapping photos? The press were only allowed a certain amount of sanctioned pictures per show, and the band was to be captured during set times at the beginning of their set and from the confines of the camera well up in front of the stage only, not from within the audience. Oftentimes a performer will remove a piece of clothing after the allotted period of time, so that if a media outlet runs a photo of the performer without that scarf on, or without that leather jacket, then everybody knows that media outlet broke the rules. Axl boiled. Fucking press. Give them an inch and they take a goddamn mile. The press did whatever the hell they liked. Wrote whatever the hell they wanted. Spread whatever fucking rumors they felt like spreading. They had carte blanche to fuck with you just like the pigs in Philly. Just like the West Hollywood sheriff’s deputies and most definitely just like the hick cops back in Lafayette. They were all out to get him. To take advantage of him. Just like his father had done.

  As he sang out the chorus, Axl focused on the dude in the audience taking pictures. Shit. It was worse than he thought. Dude wasn’t taking photos, he was videotaping! Axl got three lines deep before it all became too much to take. He stopped singing and screamed into the mic,

  “HEY! Take that! Take that. NOW. Get that guy and take that!” Axl had stopped singing completely and was pointing at the dude with the camera imploring security to stop him. Axl could see now. Dude wasn’t a member of the press. He was a biker. Nobody did anything. Axl raged at the inaction. Here he was. Helpless again. The band, confused, continued the chorus behind him.

  Fuck this, Axl thought. Press member, biker, whatever. It didn’t matter. When not one member of the venue’s security team moved to help him, Axl literally flew into action. He barked into the mic, “I’LL TAKE IT, GODDAMMIT” before slamming the mic down and diving headfirst into the audience to solve the problem himself. The band, almost on cue, resolved the chorus and began muddling through an instrumental version of the second verse while their singer went at it—wildly throwing punches in the first few rows. Axl, unaware of who he was fucking with, began manically flailing and seriously pissing off members of the Saddle Tramps motorcycle club. Local security knew where their bread was buttered and went at Axl instead of at the bikers. Axl resisted. Kicking, punching at everyone in sight. When it became clear that security wasn’t helping, GNR’s roadies entered the fray and pulled Axl back up onstage, but not before he landed a full-fisted punch in the grill of one of the crowd members who’d got up in his face.

  Once he was back on stage Axl grabbed the mic, pissed, and quickening his pace toward the side of the stage, “Well! Thanks to the lame-ass security, I’m going home.” And with that he slammed the mic into the stage and stormed off. Slash leaned into a mic and added a casual, “We’re outta here.”

  That was it. Show over.

  The crowd was stunned. Confused. No one moved. No one knew what was going on. GNR’s roadies quickly went about breaking down the band’s gear. A clear signal that the show was definitely done. The party was over. Guns N’ Roses weren’t coming back. Beer cans began raining down on the stage from the audience. The boos started. At first a smattering and then the chorus of an angry mob. The roadies were pissed and rightly so. They began to taunt the audience, inciting them even more.

  Drunk, angry, and violent, the audience turned on itself. The Saddle Tramps went alpha, erupting on anyone who got in their way while making their exit. A naked man ran around the floor frantically, blood pouring from a wound in his head. The police descended to restore order and were openly challenged by fans. Beatings commenced. Batons. Steel-toed kicks to the skull. A chant of “Fuck You, Pigs” rose up from the audience.

  The crowd started ripping up the chairs from the floor. Pulling them apart and launching them to the stage. The cops reeled out the fire hose and attempted to use it to beat back the crowd, but the water pressure was so weak the audience began moving toward the water to cool off and thus toward the stage. One of the giant video screens on the side of the stage was pulled down. The massive sixty-ton sound and light rig lurched uncomfortably from side to side as idiotic fans swung from its cables. Riverport was about to make Donington look like a walk in the park until the cops broke out a tear gas–like substance and got hold of the situation.

  In the end it was a bloody riot that Axl Rose’s deep well of anger had incited: sixty-five people badly injured, twenty-five of them police officers. Dozens arrested, and hundreds of thousands of dollars in property damage. Axl was eventually charged with four counts of assault and one for property damage. The jury found him guilty and the judge fined him $50,000. It was worth it, Axl thought. They all had it coming.

  After he stormed offstage, the band’s road crew swept into action, endeavoring to get the band away without further incident or arrest. They exited out the back under a deluge of flying glass bottles from angry fans who had by now made their way around to the backside of the venue. The tour bus was too easy a mark. And the limos were out of the question, so all six band members dove into a nondescript passenger van and hid on the floor, out of sight from the gathering mob as they made their escape.

  They were traveling together again. Just like the old days back in LA. Before the fame. Before the chaos and the pressure of success. Axl was too keyed up to reflect on the irony: that his anger and mood swings that had contributed so significantly to driving the band apart as of late, were the exact things bringing them together at this very moment en route from one gig to the next. Hoping, just as they had in the beginning, to escape arrest in time to get to the stage for the next show. With a roadie behind the wheel and the band members outstretched on the floor, the van raced through the streets of St. Louis.

  It was a good half an hour before they raised themselves up off the van’s floor to look out of their windows, and it was lucky they did. Izzy watched as they passed a sign for Wentzville. Wentzville was where his hero, Chuck Berry, lived. Izzy knew enough rock ’n’ roll history to realize that Wentzville was west of St. Louis, Missouri. West. The dumbass roadie behind the wheel had them heading the opposite way they were supposed to be going. They needed to be driving toward Illinois and their next gig in Chicago, home of the blues and home to another one of Izzy’s heroes, the signifying Bo Diddley, and also home of Chess Records, where Chuck Berry made his greatest records.

  Chapter 6

  Chuck Berry

  Chuck Berry couldn’t sleep. Not on his government-issued mattress anyway. Not in the fifteen-by-fifteen-foot cell with the two other prisoners he was forced to shack up with. And not without sex. Horny wasn’t strong enough a word. Chuck Berry was driven to distraction. Who thought it wise to staff this place with female security of
ficers? There weren’t a lot, but hell, one female was one too many. And these women were easy on the eyes. Long hair. Heels. Curves for days. Chuck knew he was in trouble. So he wrote.

  Chuck Berry loved words. The way they showed up for him and then rolled off his tongue and out onto the page. First as poetry. Then, later in life, as songs. And behind bars he wrote both. The aptly titled “No Particular Place to Go,” “Nadine (Is It You?)” “Carol,” and “You Never Can Tell” were among the songs Chuck had written during his second stretch in lockup, back in 1962. This current stint was different. He was older. Wiser. And had more mileage in the rearview. It was 1979 and Chuck Berry was hell-bent on using his time away to write his autobiography and to set the record straight. But the women changed everything. Chuck couldn’t focus. Keeping his thoughts off sex, the kind of sex that lands you in jail—or keeps you in jail—that was a problem. There was only so much of the mess-around he could do by himself, so he wrote what his fellow inmates called “Chuck’s Good Stories.” They were pure sex. Bluer than a Redd Foxx party record. Chuck Berry, America’s greatest cultural export since jazz, in an effort to keep himself from spinning off the planet from a lack of sex in the pen, penned down-and-dirty fuck fiction.

  As far as prison was concerned, Charles Edward Anderson Berry, aka Chuck Berry, aka “the man who invented rock ’n’ roll,” wasn’t really bothered by it. It was the reason he was locked up that bothered him immensely. Sentenced to 120 days for tax evasion in 1979 was bunk. He was guilty, sure. One hundred and twenty grand or so unreported to Uncle Sam is legit tax evasion, but come on. Despite previously serving two prison sentences—one a ten-year stint, of which he served three, for armed robbery at the age of seventeen and one for violating the Mann Act, a beef that sent him to the federal pen for a year and a half in 1962 to serve legit, hard time—Chuck couldn’t help but think that had he not been “Chuck Berry,” the rock ’n’ roller, he would have been given the opportunity to work out a deal with authorities for the relatively harmless white-collar crime he had committed. Chuck knew that the real reason he was in jail was because he was a black man who enjoyed his freedom just a little too freely in a white man’s world. But being alone? Nah, it wasn’t all that bad.