My Appetite For Destruction (32 page)

T
he Erin debacle cemented the beginning of a dark and destructive period where I quietly burned in my own private hell. After getting kicked out of
GNR
, all I cared about was getting high, and if that meant dying, so be it. Or at least that’s what I was telling myself. God, I was scared. I couldn’t even admit this to myself, but deep down inside, I probably didn’t trust myself to be alone. With each day, Cheryl witnessed my becoming more despondent and withdrawn. She wasn’t around for much longer, however, and I couldn’t really blame her. One evening, while I was lying in front of the fireplace, high out of my mind, I heard a faint voice: “Stevie, Cheryl’s gonna stay with me for a while.”

I opened my eyes to see the blurred image of one of Cheryl’s girlfriends. I managed to mumble, “Okay.”

It would be years before I saw Cheryl again.

This abandonment was devastating and I went from bad to worse, becoming even more destructive. Cheryl was my last bit of support, and she was gone. It was my own fault because I had ignored Cheryl completely. She honestly, desperately tried to get me to help myself, but I was too far out of it. I was way beyond asking for anyone’s help; in fact, at this point, I just wanted to fucking die. “Dear God, just let me die.”

Every now and then I’d experience a moment of clarity. Guns N’ Roses had a great guy named Todd on their road crew. He went on to become Skid Row’s tour manager. When I became really sick, he let me stay at his place in Arizona. He had a speedboat that I would take out on the lake. He also had those ATVs, great for tooling around. Since I didn’t know anyone in Arizona, it was impossible for me to score dope.

I also went to Hawaii, but it was incredibly hot and humid. The big convenience chain store there is called
ABC
. There was one right across the street from my hotel. It was so scorching that after walking to
ABC
and back to get smokes, I’d have to take a shower. It was that miserable. I usually took friends with me to Hawaii. Ronnie Schneider and a close mutual friend of ours, Steve Sprite, came along a few times. Sometimes I’d leave for a week, or other times just for the weekend. It felt pleasant to dry out and get a decent, natural sleep cycle going. But my dry spells never lasted long. I’d get sick of the weather and as soon as I returned home, I’d make a call and the self-destruction would kick in again.

On my way to score dope one afternoon, I was cranking the stereo in my Mercedes. When I was on tour with
GNR
, someone had given me a tape of an up-and-coming band from San Francisco called Vain. I fell in love with their straight-ahead rock ’n’ roll sound. I was cruising on Santa Monica Boulevard listening to one of their albums when it hit me. “Hey, these guys aren’t doing nothing,” I thought. A lightbulb lit up and the excitement meter dove into the red. “I’m gonna get in touch with these guys and we are going to create a kick-ass band.”

I had already met the guys in Vain a couple of times in the past. When
GNR
hit San Francisco they would come out to the shows. I made a few calls and before I knew it, I was in touch with their front man, songwriter Davy Vain. He shared my enthusiasm for starting a new project. Davy got in touch with a couple of his former Vain bandmates and made a proposal on my behalf. Their guitarist, Jamie Scott, was working in a music store, a gig he had no problem quitting. Guitarist Shawn Rorie and bass player Ashley Mitchell fell into the fold. I flew them out to L.A. and rented a studio, and we proceeded to see if this thing would work.

I already knew all the Vain songs from the tapes, so we practically had an entire set ready right out of the gate. The chemistry was great, and I thought this definitely could be the new kick-ass band I so desperately needed. Davy knew some experienced businesspeople and secured the services of a lawyer and a manager. They were responsible for getting us gigs and press.

I had Davy move into my guesthouse, and I put the rest of the guys up in two apartments just down the street. In all, it cost me a couple thou a week. I never thought too much about my finances; I had people doing that for me. I just felt that this was the one thing in the world that was worth every penny.

Joining the guys from Frisco was their roadie, a frighteningly big guy named Rocko. He had crooked yellow teeth and stringy red hair and was the epitome of a big, ugly redneck. I felt a little uneasy about him at first, but I figured, “Shit, Jamie wouldn’t bring someone on board if he wasn’t cool.” Rocko knew his shit professionally and was an exceptional roadie. Like everyone else in my life, once I had made up my mind, I accepted him with no problem and greeted him with a smile.

We started to rehearse every day. We performed the entire Vain catalog and worked on a couple of cover tunes, most notably a rocked-out version of the Jimi Hendrix classic “Voodoo Chile.” Unfortunately the commitment to solidifying this bitching new band wasn’t enough to keep me fully occupied. I still partied regularly, and the guys caught on to my wicked ways pretty quickly. Sometimes I’d miss rehearsal because I was waiting on a dealer, or I’d be too fucked up to even play. The guys just wanted to rehearse, play it loud, and get it tight. They didn’t really party at all. They would drink once in a while, and that was about it.

But for me, there was still enough pain there, or just plain bad habits, that no matter how excited I got about the music, it was only a temporary stay from the drugs. Using was still front and center; the music just became a healthy distraction.

I
n spite of my continuing to party, we rehearsed and recorded an eight-song demo, which I believed completely rocked. We did it in the same studio where Metallica had just finished their “black” record. I know this sounds stupid and irresponsible, but we didn’t zero in on an official name for the band until we finished the demo. I’m sure it had been swimming around in the back of my head because as soon as I thought about it, I recognized it as a name I loved and had even used on my first car, the Road Crew-zer. I should have legally secured it as soon as I realized we couldn’t imagine calling it anything else. But we waited a bit too long, and by that point, Slash had learned of my new Road Crew incarnation and sought registration before we took the necessary steps to protect it. I couldn’t believe he would begrudge my having it. We had both come up with that name, but it didn’t matter to Slash. It felt like he snapped up “Road Crew” just so I couldn’t use it. My pal Slash.

But it didn’t matter because word of my new band got out through a kick-ass press kit that was making the rounds. We had write-ups in all the major metal magazines:
Kerrang!, Raw,
Circus,
and
Hit Parader.
Davy and I were even booked on MTV’s popular
Headbangers Ball.
Everything was going as planned.

A couple of shows were lined up; the first was in New York at the Limelight. After the gig, Nicolas Cage introduced himself to me. He’s one of my favorite actors. He gave me his room number at the hotel he was staying in and told me to swing by. When I arrived later with a couple of friends, the people at the front desk would not let us up. Oh well, his loss.

Next up was a New Year’s Eve gig at the Stone in San Fran. The show was fantastic, but I got so fucked up that night, I nearly died of alcohol poisoning. I’m sure the other guys in the band were thinking, “Who is this guy with the death wish? Is he too stupid to know he’s skirting the edge, or is he too depressed to care?” The boys were getting really tired of my shit. But after only three months as a band, we had four major labels interested in signing us. A showcase was set up for one of them. Two men and a young woman had been sent to represent one of the record companies. We invited them to the studio and even had the event catered with great food and fine champagne. Everyone was super-nice and professional. We played a blazing set for them, and it was clear that they were impressed.

We were sitting around and having a few drinks when one of the execs posed an awkward question: “Steven, I must admit we have one concern. What about the drugs? I’ve read you’ve had a serious problem. How are you with that now?”

Without blinking an eye, I reassured her: “That’s behind me. I’m clean.” The three of them nodded. The entire evening went incredibly well, and they told us they were in agreement. They were going to add us to their roster of bands. We promised that they could count on us to work our asses off and do whatever was necessary to succeed. I invited them back to my house, where we could relax more comfortably and sign off on the details of our deal.

We drove up to my house and had barely made it to the gate when we were distracted by the loud clanking of an old car. The driver pulled right up in front of us. She was a strung-out, wiry young chick. She got out and handed me a cigarette pack, God-fucking right there in front of everyone.

I was dumbfounded. She saw the fury in my eyes and immediately took off. But the damage was done. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out what had just gone down. The record execs pretended to have forgotten about another pressing engagement they needed to attend and politely excused themselves.

I just stood there looking up at the sky. “Why? Fucking why me all the time? Why?” I turned to my band. “I am so sorry, you guys.”

Ashley shook his head and said, “Fuck this.” I went into my house alone, cursing myself. The guys packed up their shit and were gone the next day.

I so feared being alone that I asked our roadie, Rocko, to stay around and act as my personal assistant. I offered him a salary of a grand a week, which he happily accepted. We never really hung out or anything, but he would pick up groceries or dope, or give me a ride whenever I needed. I set him up in a spacious extra bedroom in the attic of my home.

A month later, another girl had moved in with me. She was a hot model named Analise. One evening, I was high as a kite, relaxed as could be. I had the fireplace going, and I was watching cartoons on my favorite network, Nickelodeon. Analise was in the shower. All of a sudden I heard a loud thump, and then a scream. “Now what?” I thought.

“Steven!” Analise yelled. I jumped up and ran into the bathroom to see her pointing up at the ceiling. “Someone’s up there. I saw a gleam, a reflection through the crack of the molding.” Later I found out that Rocko had drilled a hole through the ceiling and was videotaping Analise and other unsuspecting houseguests.

At the time I thought, “What the fuck?” Sure enough, there was a peephole in the ceiling of the bathroom. Just then, Rocko comes walking in, nonchalant as ever. I put two and two together and got right in his face. “You motherfucker. Get your shit and get out, or I’m calling the cops.” He didn’t even respond; he was out of there in ten minutes.

I
continued to hole up in my room, completely adrift, doing my thing. I don’t know how (maybe through Cheryl), but my mom discovered that the band had cut me off completely and that I wasn’t going to be receiving any more checks from Guns N’ Roses.

Mom really went to bat for me. She contacted a top entertainment lawyer and proceeded to sue the band. I had given her the go-ahead and was all for it, but I was barely involved. When I had to take the stand, my nerves were shot. I kept a small stash in my pants and every chance I could, I went to the bathroom for a few hits. As a result, I delayed proceedings more than once. But the jury liked me. They believed I was honest and candid, because I was.

During the course of the proceedings, they dragged the whole band in. Can you imagine how I felt watching Axl and Slash speaking out against me? Axl and Slash took the stand and came off completely cocky and arrogant. You stupid fucks. Thanks, boys. Your condescending attitude was one sweet gift to me. You thoroughly alienated the jury and I was awarded $2.5 million in damages and regained my 15 percent in continuous royalties.

Thanks, Deanna. Don’t fuck with a lioness guarding her cubs.

In 1994, with financial security locked down for the first time in my life, I freely entered rehab in Arizona. There, I was roommates with Layne Staley of Alice in Chains. All we talked about was partying. Layne talked about his woman a lot and showed me some pictures that she had taken of him. They featured a naked Layne in a shower stall with a needle in his arm. All the pics were taken by candlelight. All this drug and party talk, as well as the pictures, drove us so crazy we couldn’t resist the urge to party. So we took the fuck off after only a couple of days, leaving the facility behind. He went his way to score some dope and I went mine. So much for that round of rehab.

I returned home, and eventually Analise and I split up. Again I was alone in my own personal misery. Any letup in partying and I’d feel like my world was crashing down all around me, so I continually medicated myself. I was alienated from the world, and the only person I saw regularly then was my finance guy, Josh Lieber, who later turned out to be a complete scumbag. The bastard had me trusting him for years. My mom and dad trusted him too, but he screwed us royally.

O
riginally, Lieber impressed us by discovering that the band’s accountant had stolen $80,000 from me. The woman who handled the band’s finances went from living in a small apartment with three kids to suddenly having a luxury car and a big extravagant house. He wrote a letter to her, which pretty much read, “If you don’t have this money on my desk by morning, you are going to jail.”

I felt secure with Josh and made him my adviser, even though he was charging me $20,000 a month. All he really had to do was pay my bills, and I paid him more per month than the total on all my bills combined. I didn’t even want to know about or be involved with finances, and he knew it. What a fucking idiot I was.