My Appetite For Destruction (30 page)

W
e got to meet our heroes the first night before our performance. I was surprised by Mick Jagger’s appearance. I thought he was a little skinny guy from all those videos, but when he walked in the room, he had the presence of a giant, and he was in great shape, buffer than buff. I mean, he was cut.
Life
magazine once ran an article about Mick prepping for Stones tours, how he would get on a strict diet, run every morning, and lift weights like a boxer prepping for fight night. It looked like he was still devoted to that routine.

The whole band was there but Slash, who missed out because he was getting high. In fact, he just made it to the stage for our show. We were all partying pretty hard those days
.
As I neared the stage, I could hear the fans. As I rounded the corner, I could see the multitudes screaming their heads off.

The sound of that crowd was so powerful that it actually gave me an incredible buzz. When the audience caught sight of us, they all bolted upright. It was like one giant wave of energy, intensely stimulating. We were the proud prodigy, the bastard sons of the Rolling Stones, and we killed that night. We were there to show the world that rock was alive and bigger than ever, and we succeeded in every way.

B
ut at a time when we should have been rejoicing beyond all measure, Axl instead chose to wag his finger. He had become aware of the out-of-control partying that was happening within the band and he made a long rambling statement during the second show. “If some people in this organization don’t get their shit together and stop dancing with Mr. Brownstone, this is going to be the last Guns N’ Roses show. Ever!”

Axl went on and on, threatening to shut us down if the runaway abuse continued. Maybe it was done for publicity, maybe out of genuine concern, I don’t know, but it was way over the top. Disbanding
GNR
for drug abuse was like grounding a bird for flying.

So we all had to snicker when the Stones took the stage and Jagger decided to bust Axl’s balls for his little lecture. He stood up there, smiled, and grabbed the mike like he owned the whole fucking world. He strutted to the very front of the platform, leaned out over everyone, and waved his arm, asking the crowd if they had “heard enough of Axl’s bullshit” and were ready to rock ’n’ roll. Of course the crowd’s response was a deafening affirmative.

Axl’s statements made national entertainment news the following day, and no one said a goddamn thing about it. I had learned my lesson, so I wasn’t about to be the one to start. But sadly, no one else did either.

For the most part, Axl had been ignoring me during this period. But that was my fault too. I never took the initiative to talk with him and find out what was simmering in that brain pan of his. I wish I had insisted on making the time to sit him down and sort things out to clear the air.

In addition to our rooms across the street, each of us was given our own trailer on the Coliseum backstage lot to hang out in before the show.
MTV
was making a rockumentary about us and visited each of us in our personal trailers for interviews. I was hanging out with Cheryl, Ronnie, and David Lee Roth. David Lee was just being
DLR
, the legendary front man and incredibly funny friend.

My family was extremely excited about the event so I made sure to have Dougie take care of them. He sent limos for them every night. I saw them only briefly, however, because when I was performing, particularly in something this momentous, I was in my own separate world.

On the night of the last show, a unique thing happened. At the end of our set we put our arms around one another, and as a group, we took a bow. We had never done that before. It felt kind of awkward but appropriate. In my mind, that show was the last real Guns N’ Roses concert ever. Immediately following that bow, we once again went our own separate ego-inflated ways.

I
n early 1990 the band agreed to appear at a benefit at the famous Hoosier Dome in Indianapolis called Farm Aid. It was huge, tens of thousands of fans cheering nonstop, with millions more watching on TV. While it was an important event, we didn’t even bother to rehearse for it. I flew out there expecting to have a great time, but Duff and Slash continued to distance themselves from me. They seemed locked into their private little clique. Izzy was off on his own, but that was typical.

So I found myself hanging out exclusively with Dougie. No one else was talking to me. I felt very isolated. After that Stones show everyone kind of withdrew from me again, and the excitement I had felt during the event evaporated.

When we were introduced at the Farm Aid concert, I was so excited that I sprinted out to the drums, and as I leaped up, I caught my foot on the flange that ran around the border of the riser. I tripped and fell right on my ass. I might have been a little buzzed, but let me tell you, there’s nothing like wiping out in front of all those fans to sober your ass right up. I was bummed—”Shit, I’m on live TV.” But I quickly scrambled right back up, smiled broadly, and grabbed my sticks, ready to rock. I assumed we’d be playing a couple of our hits, like “Paradise City” or “Welcome to the Jungle.” Axl announced, “This is something new we got, called ‘Civil War.’ ”

Huh? Although I knew the song, I didn’t know that would be the title. So I looked at Duff and I was like, “Dude. What’s goin’ on?” He was kind of being a dick, maybe disgusted with my wipeout on the stage, so I just sat there, and when I heard Slash play the opening riff, I caught on. Although we didn’t even have that song completely down and had never rehearsed it with Axl, it played pretty well. I kind of sighed with relief to have gotten over that hurdle, but the damn surprises kept coming.

Next Axl says, “This is by a punk band called the UK Subs. And this song really rocks; it’s called ‘Down on the Farm.’ ” I’m like, “What the fuck?” I yell over to Duff, “Dude! How does it go?” He just claps his hands, providing me with a tempo, and then walks away. So I just played the tempo with my bass drum and winged it. I’d never once heard that song before. But I kicked ass, and that made me feel proud, not mad.

Looking back, I realize that this may have been proof positive that their plan to get me out of the band was already in full motion. They weren’t cluing me in to new songs or even telling me what they were playing. I believe their strategy was to make my playing sound like shit. I believe they wanted me to fuck up on live TV; that would be their evidence. By branding me as an ill-prepared, crappy drummer, they’d be armed with a sound reason for kicking me out.

W
hen we came back to L.A., we again went our own ways. I had gotten to another one of those junctions where my body was warning me to stop partying. I hit the brakes for about a week, then I suddenly became very ill. I had no idea what was wrong with me. I had been smoking heroin regularly and I was giving it an indefinite break. Now, I was shaking all over, feeling very hollow and cold. I was experiencing the full-on blunt force of withdrawal, as my body ached like it never had before. I lived in the bathroom, constantly having to throw up.

I called Dougie and told him what I was going through. He told me he wanted to take me to the doctor right away, and I immediately calmed down, thinking, “Good ol’ Dougie, looking out for me.” So we went to a medical facility at Olympic and Fairfax. The doctor there broke off about a quarter of a small pill and had me take it with water. He explained that it was an opiate blocker and told me, “This will make you feel better, because even if you try to cheat and take heroin, you won’t feel a thing.” What they didn’t tell me (and what the fucking MD didn’t bother to check out first) was that you needed to be completely clean to take it. Patients needed to
detox fully
in order for the drug to work properly. If you had opiates in your system when you took it, it would
fuck you up
. God, did I discover that the hard way.

Within hours after returning home, I became deathly ill, even worse than before. I called Dougie and told him, “Whatever the fuck they gave me isn’t working. I’m sicker than I’ve ever been in my life!” He sent a registered nurse over who was qualified to examine me. After she left, I remember sitting down, momentarily relieved that I’d be okay now. But as the sweat began to pour down over my face, I suddenly became incredibly scared and honestly thought I was going to die. This feeling lasted an eternity, because as I said, I hadn’t completely detoxed. You’d think they’d ask you your status before giving you pills and injections. I was terribly sick for weeks. Then came the deathblow: Slash called me and told me that we were going into the studio to record “Civil War.”

“Dude, haven’t you talked to Dougie? I’m sick as hell.”

Slash didn’t want to hear it. His voice was strangely detached, zero emotion. “We can’t waste any more money,” he replied.

Was I really hearing this shit? From my dearest friend, the guy I was instrumental in getting into
GNR
, for fuck’s sake? Where was the loyalty, the compassion? “Fuck that, Slash. Listen to me. We both know someone in the band who’s wasted a helluva lot more time and money than it would cost to postpone this one lousy recording session. It would just be for the week or so that it would take for me to get better.” We hadn’t done shit in over a year and now they wanted to record one damn song, and they couldn’t wait for me to feel better. It was such bullshit, and I could only hope that it was someone else pushing their buttons. I didn’t want to believe that Slash really had it in for me.

W
ith no alternative, I attempted to do my job. I literally pulled my head out of a toilet, showered up, and got to the studio on time. I sat on the stool, staring at my drums, but another wave of nausea hit me and I was suddenly sick as hell, doubled over in pain. The guys looked at me, and there was no mercy in their faces. Nothing.

Instead, they were annoyed with me, and no one said a thing. I tried to play but my timing was off. The guys in the sound booth asked for take after take, and finally I couldn’t take the tension. “Guys, I’m fucked up. But I’m sick, not high. I’m just ill and that’s all.” I asked Dougie to clear the matter up for me. “Dougie, tell them. Tell them how sick this medication is making me.”

But like a waking nightmare, Dougie looked away. I pleaded with him: “You’ve got to tell them that even if I
was
partying, the medicine they’re making me take would block it.” Dougie didn’t say a word. My last buddy abandoned me. There was no love; he just turned and left the room. I had been set up, through my own stupid actions, and they wanted the absolute worst for me.

I never thought this could happen to me. It was always the five of us united, an inseparable team. But the Guns N’ Roses machine had become massive, and I could feel it shoving me aside. I couldn’t stand the idea of being pushed out of the band. I desperately didn’t want this to end, and I honestly thought I had done nothing to deserve having it taken away from me. I just did what we all were doing, living the rock star life.

I seemed to be suffering under an unfair double standard. Christ, we open for the Rolling Stones, and Axl falls off the fucking stage while singing “Out ta Get Me.” The whole thing’s treated like no big deal. But
I
misjudge the drum riser during Farm Aid and the response is total outrage; “Look at Stevie, that drugged-out waste of an irresponsible fuckup.” We had all worked so hard to get to the mountaintop and were just beginning to reap the rewards. In my worst nightmares, I never imagined that it could all be taken away from me.

I counted on Dougie to keep me in the loop. He had me believe that he had my back, that he cared for and loved me. Well, he fooled the hell out of me. I had been lured into having total trust in him and didn’t want to believe some conspiracy was actually going down.

The day after the “Civil War” recording session, Doug called me and asked me to come down to the office to sign some papers. He offered no explanation for his behavior the previous day, and I didn’t try to lay on any guilt. I just told him I was still very ill. There was a long silence on the phone, then Dougie told me that the matter was very important and wouldn’t take long. He told me he had been instructed by the
GNR
attorneys to tell me that my presence was absolutely required. In spite of what had gone down, I still wanted to believe that Dougie was my caring wingman, and when he promised I would be in and out of there quickly, I decided to rally. I cared more for his situation than my own. I could hear the stress in Doug’s voice and I didn’t want to bust his balls, so I got myself together and Cheryl drove me. When I walked in, Dougie and one of our lawyers, a professional-looking middle-aged woman, had a stack of papers for me to read.

Read!? I couldn’t even see. They told me all I had to do was sign at the bottom of all the pages with the colored paper clips attached. I asked what this was all about. Dougie told me, “It’s nothing to worry about.” In my condition, I wasn’t about to read all this shit, but I was a little freaked and my jaw just dropped. In essence, I thought I was agreeing not to party and not to screw up on any band-related activities for the next four weeks. If I fucked up, they would fine me $2,000. I thought, “What the hell, no problem. The band doesn’t even have anything scheduled during the next month, and even so, what’s two grand?” I signed everything. I just wanted to get out of there, go home, and lie down.

I discovered later that what I had actually signed away was
my life.
What the legal papers actually stated was that they were going to give me $2,000 for my contribution to Guns N’ Roses. Everything else, my royalties, my partnership in the band, my rights, was gone! Of course, I didn’t know this at the time. I’m sure with all these papers I naively signed, they thought they had my fate sealed. They had a signed, ironclad deal against me.