162. Unpublished Interview

Unpublished transcript by Craig Stenzer for short-lived official website www.imaxlroseandyourenotaxlrose.com, circa 2003.

CS: Hello Axl.
AR: Word up. Do you want a drink? Hey, Rico – get this kid a drink!

CS: Thanks man. I wanted to start by asking how you’re doing?
AR: I’m tickety-boo, thanks for asking. Wait…didn’t you use to be in my band?

CS: Your band?
AR: Yeah, man. I’m sure you sat in on bass in some Gunners sessions in ‘94. Your name is Robbie right?

CS: No, it’s Craig.
AR: Awesome. I’m with you 100% hundred on that.

CS: So, Axl, who are your Top 5 influences?
AR: Mr Jim Beam. Mr. Jack Daniels. Myself. Charles Manson. Manhatma (sic) Ghandhi. In that order.

CS: What song would you like played at your funeral?
AR: No music, just one minute’s silence. Maybe longer. Like….one hour’s silence? And I want a solitary black rose thrown in my coffin and my ashes scattered over John Lennon’s grave. He was definitely my favourite Rolling Stone.

CS: You want to be buried and cremated?
AR: We’ll work something out. Geffen can foot the bill.

CS: How’s Slash doing these days?
AR: Who?

CS: But you’re still friends with Izzy, aren’t you?
AR: Whatever. He helps around the house sometimes.

CS: What would you say to people who accuse you of being a megalomaniac?
AR: I’ve never stolen anything in my life. Except maybe a few hearts, right?

CS: How did you react to the recent events of 9/11?
AR: I had a full-body massage. Played a little golf. I’m thinking of maybe incorporating the imagery into the live set. Some people might say that’s crass, but I’m not so sure…

CS: Some people might deem it a little insensitive?
AR: Awesome. I’m with you 100% on that.

CS: What about Osama bin Laden?
AR: Word is he’s a big Guns N’ Roses fan.

CS: Really?
AR: Yeah, I’d say so. Most people are so…you do the math. And if he’s not then Saddam is, so either way I figure we’ve got a couple of dictators in our fan-club. It’s funny.

CS: Funny how?
AR: Huh?

CS: People have suggested you’re a control freak though – just because of the way the band has turned out.
AR: How do you mean?

CS: Like, how you sacked all the members and then bought the sole ownership of the name Guns N’ Roses, then kinda disappeared?
AR: I did? Right on. That rules. I think if I wasn’t me I think that I’d think me was cool for doing that, you know? I mean, you’ve got to have balls to survive in this business and all I can say about them other cats is, they were all sac and no scrotum. And it’s not even how big they are anyway, but how they hang that’s important.

CS: And how…how do your balls hang?
AR: I know we’re in West Hollywood, but don’t be a faggot, man.

CS: Do you believe in God?
AR: I believe in a universal spirit force that possesses each of us individually and selects some of us to be a genius and some of us to be less fortunate. Like cripples and stuff. I
think this God wears black and rides a Harley. But the twist is - get this - he’s a chick. Yeah, a black chick. Like Oprah!

CS: You think God looks like Oprah Winfrey?
AR: What are you talking about? Are you drunk?

CS: So do you believe in the afterlife?
AR: Maybe, but I believe in rock ‘n’ roll more.

CS: What’s your favourite joke?
AR: President Clinton. That guy’s a fucking joke.

CS: Well, I mean…he’s not actually president right now.
AR: Sure, but they’re all assholes right? Him and Nixon.

CS: What are your goals for the future?
AR: World peace. The way I see it, there’s only me and Bono capable of achieving that goal, and the little Irish fella ain’t fronting. I mean, has anyone actually heard of U2 these days anyway?

CS: Why is the new album [Chinese Democracy] taking so long to record?
AR: I’m done.

(kicks over chair, leaves).

159. Sculpture Of A Star

The rock star cast in marble
torso taut and biceps pumped
abdominals rippling, arms intact,
limbs not yet decapitated by time.

Genitalia ambiguously rounded
and unthreatening atop sturdy thighs;
hip confidently cocked like
Michelangelo’s boy David;

bare feet planted to a plinth
that announces nothing but
the presence of an Olympiad
demi-God of the modern arena.

(He himself prefers The Winged Victory that
he saw in the Louvre, Nike of Samothrace
headless, her back arched to the heavens,
wings poised dramatically, anticipating flight).

Byzantine in stature, his silence
speaks unwritten volumes -
an iconoclastic warning to
challengers, his form fills the room

and inspires gasps of awe, wonder
devotion and puzzlement, transcending
myth and concept to become a reality
in ways the real rock star never could.

157. Exit Buckethead

All this goes on without Axl.
I mean, the guy’s just not around.
He only shows up when he knows
he doesn’t have to deal with musicians
which is weird because he’s in a band
but whatever, I can be pretty wacky
myself, so, you know, people are people.

But then he shows up all pissed about
the “vibe” that my porn is having on
the album and he even tries to get
into the chicken coop. The dude crossed
a line, basically. Everyone in the camp
knew no-one goes in Bucket’s coop
so that was when things broke down.

Plus there was these puppies running
around the studio and one of them
took a dump in my coop and I was like
Ooh, I love the smell of dog poop, and
refused to let anyone come in the coop
to clean it up. It was my little world
and they – he - needed to respect that.

So Axl took me outside where it didn’t
smell of dog poop and had a word with
me, and I had had a few words back with
him, some of which may have included
“get” and “fucked” and not long after that
I packed up my straw and my porn and I
was, like, OK, thanks, my work here is done.