My Appetite For Destruction (8 page)

I kept hearing those drums and how great they were going to sound. Wait a minute, I mean how great
I
was going to sound. Finally, I saved up enough to get the drums, but I still needed another seven hundred to get the cymbals I wanted, and it wasn’t easy, because I tended to get fired from every job I ever had.

S
o my second set of drums was a Tama Rockstar. It had two twenty-six-inch bass drums; fifteen-, sixteen-, and eighteen-inch toms; one floor tom; and a wood snare drum. Now, if I could just get those damn cymbals. When I sat down, I looked over my drum set like it was my personal vehicle to the top. I knew I was going to be successful, never doubting that I would make it. I figured if Van Halen could do it, well . . . they eat, shit, drink, fuck, and jack off just like I do. So I guessed I could do it too.

Rock is like the blues in that you got to pay your dues. I reasoned that if I had one job, I’d be paying my dues; if I had two, even more. With four jobs, I figured, “God, I’ve really paid my dues in spades and that means I’m gonna make it one way or another.”

Sometimes, Saul and I worked together. When we were sixteen, we were hired at Business Card Clocks. They’d take a picture of a business card, blow it up, put it in a frame, and put a clock on it. I’d stain the wood and make the frames, and Saul would shellac the business cards after they were finished. Fact is, we were just hired as extras for the added orders that came in for Christmas presents. Nothing says “Merry Christmas” like a business card clock!

Saul also held down multiple jobs, working at a movie theater on Fairfax, a magazine stand at Fairfax and Santa Monica, and a music store. Saul never stayed with one job very long, but the difference between us was that Saul, and not his boss, was the one who decided to move on.

W
hen I finally got the cymbals, I had an entire professional drum set that inspired me to practice until I was pretty damn decent. Every second I wasn’t working I was practicing. Hours and hours of exercises mixed with mimicking the drum parts from every great song I loved—Ozzy to Aerosmith, Stones to the Crüe. I set the bar pretty high for myself; I wanted it all to sound perfect. Finally I built up the confidence to call Saul and say, “I’ve got it together.” We arranged a rendezvous, and I packed the drums into the Gremlin and drove to La Cienega Park just north of Olympic. It felt like the perfect spot, playing in the big wide-open in an area the size of four football fields. I had everything set up before Saul arrived around eight o’clock. With Saul and some of my other friends there, it almost felt like an audition. Hell, it was an audition, for my friends, for Saul, and for the gods of rock. They were all there that day.

I was never so happy. I had finally gotten my shit together, and I set it up for Saul to check me out and let him take it from there. I played a few beats, executed a few licks, then dove in, really giving it my all. After about a twenty-five-minute salvo, Saul was impressed enough to say, “Cool.” From that moment on, we really locked on to “the Dream.”

I started to reach out to successful musicians because I wanted to surround myself with performers who were not only inspirational but possessed talent and drive. I met Robbin Crosby, rhythm guitarist for Ratt, at the Rainbow. After an eight-year battle with
AIDS
brought on by drug abuse, he passed away in 2002. Great guy.
RIP
, Robbin.

Robbin was huge, six and a half feet tall, and good-looking. He took me under his wing and decided one night to take me over to Carlos Cavazo’s house. Carlos was the guitarist for Quiet Riot. QR was amazing. They had the largest-selling heavy metal debut album of all time, until my band took that honor a few years later.

Carlos lived in Laurel Canyon, right behind the elementary school there. Ratt’s vocalist and drummer, Stephen Pearcy and Bobby Blotzer, were also hanging out there. It was a hell of a night. Seeing all the platinum records on the walls was awesome, and I never doubted that I would soon have my own. We just drank and partied all night. There were always freshly cut lines on this shiny, slick wooden table in the living room. I was freaking the fuck out. This was the famous debauched rock ’n’ roll lifestyle, and it was awesome.

After a night of partying I totally lost track of the time. I asked the guys, and Carlos laughed and pointed at a clock. It was six in the morning. “Shit. I have to get to work!” At the time, I was working for a poster shop where I would spray the glue on the backboard and they would mount the poster onto it.

On my way to work I walked through a garage for an apartment building. I was so tired. I needed to rest for a moment. I just went down the rows, and after two or three cars, I found one that was open. I got in the backseat and fell fast asleep. Nice, ahhh . . . then . . . “What the hell are you doing!?” The owner of the car was pounding on his window and shouting at me. He was going to work in a suit and tie. I was shocked awake and asked the guy what time it was. And again he shouted: “What the hell are you doing!” Then he looked at his watch. “Seven fifty.”

If I hadn’t been so tired, I would have laughed; it was a pretty funny scene, Mr. Hangover meets Mr. Suit. “Shit, I’m late for work.” I got out of the car in front of the startled businessman and ran to my job, only to find that it wasn’t waiting for me. I tried to explain what had happened, that I was exhausted and very sorry to be so late, but they looked at me like they didn’t know me. I was fired, gone.

W
hile living at Big Lilly’s, I rarely saw my mom. Passover dinner was usually at my aunt Greta’s house. She was my mom’s sister and provided one of my few chances to be with the whole family each year. Visits with my relatives seldom lasted though. Some uncle would make a remark about my hair or my being fired recently, and I’d answer back with some over-the-top rude comment. They’d gang up on me, and soon I’d find myself being asked to leave. My relationship with my family continued to flounder, because I just wouldn’t shut up and take their abuse. I think that’s why I so enthusiastically embraced
GNR
as my family; they accepted me just the way I was.

If
GNR
was to be my family, then Saul was my brother. We were really getting into our music more and more, rehearsing all the time. We had been hanging out with a good friend of Saul’s, Matt Cassel. He lived on Sunset up by Carny’s Diner, the hot dog joint that looks like a train. His dad’s house was just above there. On his property stood this enormous tree, which grew out of the side of the hill facing Sunset. It had a makeshift swing, two ropes attached to a wooden seat. I would get stoned and fly right out, way above the Strip. It was awesome fun.

M
att’s father is a professional actor named Seymour Cassel. He’s been in some great movies, like
Colors,
Rushmore,
and
The Royal Tenenbaums.
Saul and Melissa spent a lot of time hanging out with these guys. When I would go over there, I noticed how Seymour would always call Saul “Slash.” It was just his personal nickname for Saul and for some reason, that really stuck with me. I couldn’t forget it because it just seemed to fit Saul so well. The name “Slash” must have resonated with a lot of people, including the man himself. After a while, Saul made it known that he had taken a keen liking to his new name and the rest is history. He told everyone, “Call me Slash.” We were like, “Slash? . . . Done.” From that day onward, that’s how I, and soon the world, would know him.

By the early eighties, I had already been living a rock ’n’ roll lifestyle for several years. I was running wild in the streets of Hollywood, partying with rock stars, fucking all kinds of hot, crazy girls. I was in and out of dozens of odd jobs during this time and spent all my free time either practicing or going to as many concerts as I could sneak into.

By this point I had met a shitload of people. I just kept networking, meeting the characters who were living the life I wanted. I always had a mind to see if they could help me with my music. It wasn’t like I was looking to use them, but if they knew a club owner, or could get me a deal in a studio, or knew a pawnshop where I could get a break on a cymbal or something, I put them on my short list.

Slowly but surely, I was moving up. Armed with my Tama kit, a positive attitude, and a “new do,” now cropped and spiked, doors were opening left and right for me. It was because of the presence I could bring into a room. I acted and looked the part, and I could back it up with the best drumming in town.

I
n December ’82, I found a room to rent in the home of my friend Brad Server. He was one of those surfer dudes who love Southern California, the epitome of the Jeff Spicoli character from the movie
Fast Times at Ridgemont High.
He lived with his mother down the street from my mom. She owned a big three-bedroom home. I would stay there a lot in the spare bedroom for only $125 a month. Brad’s mother was the daughter of Curly, my favorite of the Three Stooges. It was just the two of them there and I was allowed to set up my drums and jam. During the day, Brad would go to school, his mother would go to work, and I had the house to myself.

So I would just practice all the time. I remember I would play to Journey’s
Escape.
I loved that record. They had the greatest drum sound and Steve Smith was damn good. I had Ozzy’s “Over the Mountain” down by then too. This was the time that I made some of my greatest strides on drums. I stayed there for a few months and I appreciate Brad and his mom’s hospitality to this day. A rocker never forgets the people who help him out when he’s a nobody.

In January ’83, I took Lisa with me to the Rainbow. The Rainbow was to become our second home. It did not discriminate between big hair, short hair, rich, poor, famous, infamous, rock stars, roadies, drug dealers, record execs, wannabes, and hangers-on. The “Bow” welcomed us all.

Lisa was the closest thing I had to a steady girlfriend, but of course, I was fucking around a lot too. I had been going to the Rainbow for years, but never once had I brought a girl there. The Rainbow was a place to get girls, not bring girls. Lisa and I had the small booth in the back right corner. At one point I got up to go to the bathroom and I got stopped at every table. Chicks I knew and didn’t know all had me sit with them.

I was having a great time, just swinging from one table to the next. I literally made out with a different girl at every booth. So I didn’t get back to Lisa for a while. When I finally returned, Lisa was freaking out on me: “Where the fuck did you go? I’ve been sitting here for an hour.” Like I explained, I’d never once brought a girl to the Rainbow with me and now I realized why. It really cramped my style.

I’m thinking, “What? I was with some chicks.” I didn’t understand or even comprehend the idea of being in a serious relationship. She was upset and wanted to go right away. As we were leaving, she’s yelling at the top of her lungs. We’re walking out, and she’s screaming that I’m an asshole. I was pretty drunk, and I suddenly became very aggravated. I turned around and yelled, “Shut the fuck up.”

We were right at the main entrance by the cash register when all of a sudden some big-ass guy grabs me, turns me back around, and punches me right in the face. I don’t remember
anything
after that. But when I came to again, I had evidently gotten into my car and driven to Mom’s house.

Canoga Park is over twenty miles from the Rainbow and I had absolutely no recollection of the drive. The next morning, when I woke up, I was still in my car, which was parked in front of Mom’s place. As my mom was leaving for work that morning, she was shocked at the sight of me and started banging on the windows of the car, where I had passed out in the front seat.

There was blood all over the seat, my face, and my clothes. It was the first time I had had my nose broken and the feeling was terrible. I couldn’t breathe and at first I had difficulty focusing my eyes on anything close up. I looked like Marcia Brady in the
Brady Bunch
episode where she got hit square in the nose by a football.

My mother knew just what to do. She muttered something about needing to fix it right away, and I was damned lucky I was under eighteen years old, because her health insurance policy still covered me. She rushed me to the hospital and got the doctors to look at it right away. Within twenty-four hours they had operated, and somewhere there’s a photo of me smiling from my hospital bed with my nose all taped up. Mom should have gotten a twofer rate, because it wouldn’t be long before I’d whack my schnoz again and need another nose job. That was just one part of my body that would be mangled and fixed repeatedly over the next twenty years. I’d like to thank all of the doctors, nurses, family, and friends who have carried me off the battlefield and treated me a lot better than I ever treated myself. It’s a miracle that I’m alive, but in my early teens I believed I was indestructible and probably didn’t even notice the self-abuse until my first overdose.

G
ardner Park used to be a big empty storage warehouse where they held auto shows in the 1930s. I found a place to set up my drums there and would play for hours inside, where the acoustics produced a big John Bonham sound and the echo effect was like the intro to “Misty Mountain Hop,” massive, very awesome. The place had been deserted for years and grass had squeezed up through cracks in sections of the cement flooring. I could play, but the set would wobble; it was so unstable my cymbals would rock back and forth. I had two giant Asian gongs, more than three feet in diameter, an idea I ripped from Carmine Appice, who had the coolest setup when he played with Beck, Bogert, and Appice.