My Appetite For Destruction (14 page)

W
hile other bands were singing about dungeons, wizards, and black magic or partying in the backseat of Daddy’s car, Axl was writing lyrics about life, his life and our lives. We all had lived through some pretty dark, twisted shit, but it was real, and the kids sensed it and responded. Axl excelled at capturing the mood, and whether it was “Nightrain” or “November Rain,” there wasn’t a soul in the audience who couldn’t feel what we were shouting about or living through. “It’s So Easy” also ended up being a song about our lives in the now, at that very moment. And nobody in the world sang with more intensity, more honesty, than Axl.

GNR
just played the kind of rock ’n’ roll that everyone loved. We were the wanton offspring of Aerosmith and the Rolling Stones, delivering the goods with a hard-core rock attitude. We were quickly recognized as the seediest primal band in existence
.
The few bands that were similar to our flush-the-fashion, don’t-give-a-damn look were also bands that often shared the same bill as us: Junkyard, Faster Pussycat, and the Joneses. The Joneses were these hip-looking street rockers who didn’t go out of their way to be too glam. Duff was close with them. There was also a cool chick band called Hardly Dangerous that Axl liked to have around. They were hot.

We also hung out with Taime Downe from Faster Pussycat. He started the Cathouse with another one of our friends, Riki Rachtman, who was in a band called Virgin. Their logo featured a cherry with a bloody knife going through it. It was quirky, whack, but funny stuff.

He and Taime really had the Cathouse jumping, and it became an extremely popular and successful rock club, with Guns N’ Roses playing no small part in its taking off. In fact, the Cathouse became Guns N’ Roses’ own personal hangout, where the DJ played our songs in a club for the first time.

T
he Cathouse started off over at the old Osco’s Disco building on La Cienega, where Slash and I spent a good deal of our early years. Across from the Beverly Center, it had an odd location for a rock club. Osco’s had been closed for quite a few years. It reopened as the Cathouse in 1986. Taime and Riki had an apartment together and they were business partners. “The World-Famous Cathouse” was the place to hang out, and we always got treated really well there.

I remember me, Riki, and Duff would stair-dive into the wee hours. We would get all drunk, climb to the top of the stairs, and dive off, sliding down the railings and bouncing off the steps. Occasionally, I’d slice my ass or crack a rib. Great times, but God, how my body would ache in the morning!

T
he “splash sink apartment” didn’t last and I found myself staying at yet another home, a little apartment on Martel, a few blocks from the Denny’s on Sunset. This time I was sharing it with my friend Monica. She was a tall, gorgeous blonde, extremely fetching, who had moved from Sweden. She made about $200 in tips each night as a stripper at the Seventh Veil and went on to do some work in porn. I’d walk her to work in the evening around six and pick her up at around three in the morning. She’d put the cash in my hand, and I’d go nuts shopping for groceries at the twenty-four-hour Ralph’s near La Brea on Sunset, known to everyone on the Strip as rock ’n’ roll Ralph’s.

A friend of mine, Cletus, had married Monica in order for her to get a green card. He was the drummer for a local band that played a few shows with us. Cletus and Monica, however, didn’t actually have a real relationship. So he had no problem introducing me to her. There was an undeniable instant attraction between us. The very next day, I moved in with them. I slept in the bedroom with Monica, and Cletus had the couch in the living room. After about a month, it was as if Cletus was the one living with us. Monica and I would be camped out in the bedroom day and night.

Cletus and I would always play our latest demos for each other. He’d be like, “Listen to this,” and I’d say, “Oh yeah? Well listen to this, fucker.” We’d always find a way to challenge our arrangements, sharpen up the percussion, and it helped both of us. I’d go back in the studio and attack a tune we had been working on with a fresh fervor. I’d look up and the expression on Duff’s face said it all. He was pleased. He knew I was working it. Duff and I were the keystone; we were the rock that rolled. We were to become the rhythm section for the biggest rock band in the world, and we pushed each other day and night to get there.

M
eanwhile, Izzy had a new place behind Grauman’s Chinese Theater in the heart of Hollywood. One afternoon, I popped by and walked in on him and Slash in the kitchen, where they were sitting down. Izzy had his eyes closed and his head back. Slash had a needle stuck in his arm.

My eyes bugged. “What the hell are you guys doing? That’s sick!”

“Dude, it’s dope,” Slash said.

I looked at the needle they were using, and it made me ill. I
hated
the sight of needles. So I laughed to cover up my fear and just blurted out, “My grandma’s got a whole box of those things.” Big Lilly was a diabetic, and she always had syringes on hand.

Suddenly Izzy came to life. “What? Go get them. Go get them now!”

I shot over to Grandma’s and came back with a handful of fresh needles for them to use. I swear, the look of those things going in their arms grossed me out so much
,
there was no
way
I was going to do that. Having forgotten my earlier ordeal at Bob Welch’s house, Izzy set me up with some foil, popped a piece on it, and cooked it up. When the smoke curled off the smack, I smoked it.

Again I got so damn sick. I puked in their toilet for a half hour. As I gargled half a tube of toothpaste from the counter, I realized that although I wanted to hang out with my bandmates, this shit was definitely not worth the hell it put me through.

I
zzy and Slash could really handle dope though. Izzy was just so mellow and cool all the time, you never knew if he was on anything. And when Slash was on the shit, people just thought he was drunk. Duff didn’t have a taste for the “brown,” but he was a serious drinker and was always half-crocked
.
Weed was my thing. Of all of us, Axl seemed to be the most straitlaced. He’d drink and smoke, but I never saw him get out of control with any hard drugs.

Now, we all had a taste for coke, like at a party or something, but we always held it together. At that time, we never flaked on band-related events. The band was our responsibility, but we never talked about it as such because we were having too much fun. It was just understood that you didn’t let your partying get in the way of what the band was about. You didn’t let the band down.

T
he band’s reputation as a standout kick-ass act became more widespread; word of mouth exploded and our popularity soared. We recorded some demos and handed them out to as many industry people as possible.
KNAC
, the popular L.A. hard rock/metal format, was the first radio station to play us. They had a show on Sundays that started at ten p.m. where they gave local bands exposure, and they played “Welcome to the Jungle” from the demo cassette. Slash and I were on our way to the Rainbow when we heard it on the radio. There is absolutely no way to explain the thrill of that experience. Hearing your song on the radio is one of those moments that gets seared on your soul. Slash just kind of chuckled while I went ballistic: “Yeah. Dude, that’s us!”

As for the business end, it always seemed to take care of itself. Slash and I would hand out flyers day and night. We’d walk from the Hell House to the Strip, each taking one side of the street, and wallpaper that entire stretch with flyers. They were everywhere.

There was a print shop across from the Guitar Center where we would have them run off. Marc Canter and this Asian dude, Jack Lue, would take the photographs. Then Slash would take his artwork and create a flyer. Our stripper friends gave us money to have them made. Everything just seemed to take care of itself. We always had advertisements for our shows running in the free local L.A. club scene magazine
Bam.

I had been reading
Bam
from cover to cover for years, but I never got over the thrill of seeing our picture in there. We were now delivering big crowds to our shows, and the local clubs knew they could count on us. I knew we were well on our way, and sure enough, in 1986, a seasoned pro who saw something in us offered to take us to the next level. We eagerly accepted her help.

V
icki Hamilton was a familiar face who was always on the lookout for new talent. It was no secret that we were becoming a major draw on the Strip, and Vicki was determined to capitalize on our popularity. Over the course of a couple weeks, she approached each one of us, either before or after our shows. She took the time to answer our questions and impressed us with the fact that she knew the business inside out and had no ego. I took an instant liking to her. She looked you right in the eye and didn’t brag, blow smoke, or over-promise. She basically said her actions would do the talking and told us she had already booked us a show.

This was the first time that we didn’t have to book a gig on our own. The general attitude among the guys was very simple and straightforward: as long as Vicki was helping us, hustling up something good for the band, she was a part of us. She continued booking shows for us and even gave us money from time to time. Vicki was from Indiana, so she, Axl, and Izzy kind of bonded. She had earned her stripes working with Mötley Crüe, Stryper, and Poison. I would have to say that out of all the guys, I was the most vocal about the fact that I was impressed with her. The other guys always played it closer to the chest with their thoughts and feelings. I appreciated the jump start she was giving our career. She really believed in us, and just that helped tremendously. I have to say that looking back, if it wasn’t for her, who knows?

I have no idea why, but the five of us just up and moved into Vicki’s one-bedroom apartment (we were broke, but I don’t think that was the only reason). She shared it with another girl, Jennifer Perry, who became an industry person too, later working with Ozzy Osbourne. The girls took the bedroom, and we crammed into the living room with all our equipment. We had free rein in the place, and we would have chicks over and party all night. The phone rang nonstop, and there was something going on there 24/7. The apartment was in a small two-story building, and if I needed some privacy, I would just head up the fire escape to the top landing. Now, if that rooftop could talk . . .

I
remember I had this one girl up there who I had just met. She was a friend of a friend and had a nice hard body. We were getting it on, but when she lifted her top, I saw thick patches of underarm hair. Hell, you could have braided it and rappelled down the outside wall. I just cracked up, it was so funny. She was like this militant artsy chick who didn’t go for all that shaving-everywhere nonsense. My God, she had the biggest bush. It was like being in the Congo. I needed a machete. She was great.

Whether at her apartment or at the clubs, Vicki worked her ass off for us. The first representative of a record company she brought in to see us was someone from Elektra Records. It didn’t go well because we insisted on maintaining total artistic control over our music, and that was just unheard of at the time. But regardless, after word got out that Elektra had sat down with us, all the record companies became interested. Vicki set up the meetings with the record people and she would screen each one of them, knowing what we wanted. If she felt that a label was genuinely promising, then she would have us meet them.

S
he handled our press and got us a cover with a magazine called
Music Connection
. This was a widely circulated local music publication based in L.A. The interview was held at Vicki’s place, and to show you how highly we thought of her, we insisted she be an integral part of it.

Izzy was so drunk, he kept interrupting everyone. Well, we all had been partying, maybe to try to calm our nerves about the interview. So we were all jumping in, just impulsively blurting out whatever came to mind. I remember that at one point, when we were talking about the way we created our songs, Axl said something like “I just want control over fucking everything.”

So Slash jokingly compared him to Ayatollah Khomeini, who was not exactly a beloved figure in America. Axl got a little pissy over that. Then we all got pissy over the fact that the interviewer kind of jumped on the “total control” comment to see if he could get us arguing among ourselves. I guess the way Axl spoke, it could have been interpreted as he
alone
wanted total control and was not speaking on behalf of the band. Then we all kind of ganged up on this guy, because that’s the way we were back then. You took on one of us, you better be prepared to take us all on. The next thing that happened was epic: Izzy shouted, “Fuck you and your magazine.” You know what? They printed it. The writer ended his article by saying, “Well, fuck you and your band.” That was great.

When we got the magazine about two weeks later, I was a little disappointed with the cover; I hated that picture, but we had no say over what photo they would run or copy they would print. I remember Axl was pissed because they spelled his name wrong:
Axel.

There was a positive, and that was that the
Music Connection
thing generated even more word of mouth. Our shows were now selling out regularly and people who couldn’t get in would just mill around outside. They sensed they were near something unique, something big. Vicki coming into our life had definitely moved us closer to our dream. Man, could she work the phones. She was very tough, a hard-ass at getting things our way. One time I heard her mention that she fancied herself a “white witch.” Maybe she had read about Aleister Crowley, Robert Johnson, or Jimmy Page and actually dabbled in some kind of dark magic.