Showing posts with label Guns N' Roses. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Guns N' Roses. Show all posts

Monday, 23 February 2009

174. In The Studio


“You know if they dropped

the fucking bomb on the planet

and just levelled the place

and you were, like, the only survivor

and you’d be walking along

and at first you’d just see basic destruction,

like collapsed houses and sparking electrical cables

and shit, but as you keep on walking

you’d see, like bodies, scattered here and there,

and maybe they don’t look superficially damaged

but they’re dead alright, and you keep walking

and you see smoking shoes lying in the street,

and bodies, all bald and burnt and shit,

like charred down one side or something,

and everything would be

quiet except for the low whistle of a warm

nuclear wind blowing in from the east,

and then you start seeing more bodies,

piles of them, flesh ripped from their bones,

their eyeballs incinerated in their sockets,

their hands twisted and distorted, skulls

grimacing, rictus, the strangely sweet smell

of burning flesh everywhere, the sky dashed

with red hues, everything dead and useless,

gone and hollow, and you just stand there,

grabbing at our face, screaming, screaming

screaming into a void of nothingness.

OK? Well, that’s exactly how I want your

drum fill to sound, bro.”



Wednesday, 18 February 2009

172. Slash’s Lightbulb Moment


Fuck it.

I’ll just form Guns N’ Roses without that douchebag,

the drummer or that Keith Richards guitar guy.

Yeah, Izzy. Whatever.

I don’t need those guys.

Duff will be in, I know he will.

He’s been bored out of his skull since his pancreas exploded.

Duff’s cool, always was. A good guy to be around. A punk, you know?

I just need to find another douchebag singer.

Maybe someone from a grunge band who ain’t dead yet.

Maybe that dick from Stone Temple Pilots.

Yeah, and we’ll have a name that’s hard and soft, just like the Gunners.

Something like

Concrete Mittens or

Switchblades & Cotton Candy

or maybe Velvet Revolver.

Some shit like that.

We’ll do a record.

Tour the world.

Make a million.

Get the party started again, yo.


Tuesday, 17 February 2009

171. The One With The Hat


Oh, you're that guy.
The bassist? Yeah. Guitarist.

That's what I meant.

The one with the hat, right?
Sure. I remember you.


Sunday, 15 February 2009

169. 5.03am, Slash And Axl Reunited At Last. Briefly.


- Wake up, dude it’s me….I’m here to get the band back together.
- What. What’s happening?
- Sorry to wake you good buddy, It’s me, Slash.
- How…I mean, did Rico let you in? I’ll fire his ass back to whatever fucking island dictatorship he came from. Who are you anyway? I don’t have any money. I never handle it…
- It’s me man, Slash.
- Do I know you?
- Of course you do. We formed the Gunners, man. We ruled the world in ’89!
- Are you the guy with the hat?
- Yes, the guy with the hat.
- And the snakes?
- Yes, the snakes. Dude, quit fooling around. It’s me, your old bro.
- And the cigarette dangling from his mouth?
- Yes! Look, it’s still there, see? Marlboro Red. And the hat. And look, I’ve even bought a bottle of Jack for us to share, just like old times, like when we lived in that shit-pit on the Strip, remember?
- I’m afraid this space is drink and drugs free. I’m going to have to call my security.
- There’s no need to do that, dude. I just want to talk about putting the band back together.
- The band is still together, dude. Haven’t you heard? Chinese Democracy is in the bag, bro. And it’s the greatest fucking rock ‘n’ roll album ever made.
- What, better than Toys In the Attic? Or Exile? How about Zep IV?
- Yup. Way fucking better. This motherfucker shits on old those dinosaurs from a great height.
- Better than Hanoi Rocks?
- Don’t even insult me by mentioning those mincing Fins in the same sentence as my band.
- Don’t forget it was my band too…
- Whatever.
- Whatever, indeed.
- That’s what I said.
- I love you, man.
- Well, I don’t love you.
- That’s because you’re incapable of love.
- I love myself.
- And therein lies the problem. Anyway, dude, what the fuck? Are you wearing a hairnet?






Wednesday, 11 February 2009

167. Books (Axl In Exile)


All the lights are out

save for a halogen lamp;


I sit in its cast circle

a halo searching for


an angel, cross-legged and

straight-backed I read Napoleon


Machiavelli, Sun Tzu

and a Bette Davies biog.


Devoid of drugs, love,

chaos or a schedule


I find solace in books

for the first time in my life.


Here for the first time is

a semblance of routine


a welcome discipline and

a wealth of knowledge


an insight into great minds to

remind I’m not alone


in my militant thinking, my

desire to lead from the front


written confirmation that my

strength is my weakness and my


weakness is my greatest asset

for it is that which makes us human.


Here, in the pages, I search for

answers but forget the questions


I keep a dictionary by my side

and learn a new word every day.


I trace the words with my finger

and I know my lips are moving


but there is no-one here

to see them, no-one to


break the silence that

for a few moments at least


seems finite, only for the

sun to then rise again


whereupon I will close my books

conclude my studies, my meditations


and step out from the circle

of light to stretch like a cat


then slowly pad my way to the boudoir

clicking the lamp off on the way.



Monday, 9 February 2009

165. The Malibu Years Pts XXII – XXIX


XXII.

I’m thinking about entering this year’s Malibu Chili Cookoff

I’ve been working on my secret seasonings.

I’m thinking of entering it undercover.

I need to think of a false name.

Like maybe Steve or Andy.


XXIII.

Surfing is big here.

Bigger than in Indiana.


XXIV.

Golf is the last refuge of the living;

that bridge between life and death.


XXV.

Often when I’m sleeping I dream of the California State Highway.

I dream about how flat and smooth and silent it is.

I imagine its tarmac and asphalt top layer cracking open.

In my dream I pull over and get out of my car.

I step over to the crack and I peer into it.

It is deep, but not that deep.

Inside I see all my family and friends.

Ex-girlfriends too.

Everyone I’ve ever known is there.

They’re all smiling and having fun.

They wave and say “Come and join us, Bill. It’s great here in this crack in the highway!”

But I never do.

I always step back from the crack and turn towards my car.

Towards the open road.

Then I wake up feeling funny.

Out of sorts.


XXVI.

I don’t ‘do’ sun.

It turns my skin

pink and

tightens it

like a snare drum.


XXVII.

I heard they were going to offer me the keys

to the city but I guess they changed their minds.


XXVIII.

I can watch porn for up to ten

maybe twelve hours at a stretch

I have one of the biggest porno

collections in California.

And that’s not me showing off.

- that’s a fucking fact.


XXIX.

Like Steve or Andy,

I need to think of a false name.

I’m thinking of entering it undercover.

I’ve been working on my secret seasonings.

I’m thinking about entering this year’s Malibu Chili Cookoff.




Monday, 2 February 2009

161. The Malibu Years Pts I - IX


I.
I got Spears
to the left of me
Hanks to the right
here I am.

II.
I bought a pineapple tree from a man called Paco but when I got it home I discovered it was some crappy ornamental thing made from plastic.
I wanted to go back down there and carve Paco up but decided against it and watched a DVD instead.

IIII.
Malibu in three words:
wildfires
mudslides
titty.

IV.
There’s no sunset like a Malibu sunset;
Maybe one day I’ll get up early enough to see it.

V.
Running on the beach one Sunday I trip over a Chihuahua that is snapping at my heels.
It takes everything within my power not to punt it like a football into the sea.
Apart from a handful of groupies, I guess I’ve just never been a dog lover.

VI.
I got a new license plate. It reads WAX7 R0SE
Then underneath, it says Malibu: A Way Of Life
I wanted to get one that says W.AXL ROSE
but apparently some guy in Fresno beat me to it.

VII.
Why don’t homeless
people just get a job?

VIII.
My new juicer is rad. It looks like a tank.
It is smooth and silent and it collects the fruit pits in a little tray.
I collect them and now and again I plant them in my sea-side garden.
Maybe one day I’ll squeeze the juice of oranges that I’ve grown myself.
Maybe one day I’ll branch out into the lucrative fresh fruit juice market.

IX.
Malibu is 91.91% white but
that’s not why I moved here.





Thursday, 29 January 2009

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.





Wednesday, 28 January 2009

158. People Who’ve Been In This Fucking Band


Well now.
Lemme see
there was…

Izzy Stradlin
Duff MacKagen
Slash and
Steven Adler

That bit is easy.
Then details get
kinda fuzzy…

Tracii Guns
Gilby Clarke
Dizzy Reed
Matt Sorum
Robin Finck
Tommy Stinson
(he was in The Replacements,
who pretty much ruled)
Ole Beich
Rob Gardner
Brian ‘Brain’ Mantia

Um...

Chris Pitman
Ron Thal
Richard Fortus
Josh Freese
that dude Buckethead
Ron ‘Bumblefoot’ Thal
Sebastian Bach, kinda
Paul Tobias
Frank Ferrer
Teddy ‘Zig Zag’ Andreadis
and some other guys

Oh and me, Axl
- it’s my fucking band.

I bought the rights.



Tuesday, 27 January 2009

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.



Thursday, 22 January 2009

156. A Guitarist Called Buckethead


My mom’s a hen
my dad’s a rooster
I was raised in a
chicken coop;
consequently it’s
the only place
I feel comfortable.

So naturally when
you’re dealing with
the creative process
you gotta be at ease
you gotta be in your
comfort zone for
optimum creativity.

So I tell all this to
Tom Zutaut, who
they brought back
in to put the squeeze
on Axl and do
whatever it takes
to get the album done.

Zoot doesn’t laugh
he just makes some
notes, makes some
calls and two days
later I’m shredding in
a chicken coop happy
as a pig in a pig shed.

To his credit he did
a neat job of it: chicken
wire, chicken parts,
rubber chickens hanging
from the ceiling and a
DVD player for my porn.
Awesome. Just awesome.




Tuesday, 20 January 2009

154. The Reclusive Years


Daylight becomes the enemy
the room becomes a womb

silence is the reward for a
decade’s toil in combat.

Koons and Rothko on the wall
magnums of Dom on immortal ice

the lighting tempered just so
the weft of the carpet just right.

Yet riches and trinkets mean nothing
to the man who wanted everything;

that silence craved is only found
between the hours of 4 and 5am

and even then the sirens fill the sky
sounds to remind of riots gone by

curtains tacked to the walls to
kill the encroaching light that

fights its way through gaps and cracks
turning corners; enemy of the night.

They laughed at Jacko, wept for The King
now hermetically-sealed he idly wonders

what the future might bring. Death
or glory – or maybe the madhouse

trussed up, whacked-out and terminally
neutered, babbling riddles of gold discs

so beautiful and the women – the women! –
oh man, you should have seen them

but I guess you had to be there.
Is this what my destiny holds?

A padded cell and a nurse looming large:
“It’s time for your medication, Mr Rose.”


Monday, 19 January 2009

153. Sightings 1997 - 1999


Marrakech:
Axl in repose in the souk, hookah pipe in mouth.

New York:
Axl in the Guggenheim, considering a frieze.

Mecca:
Axl barefoot on a prayer mat, brow to the floor.

Laos:
Axl throwing fistfuls of rice at puzzled children.

Dublin:
Axl and Bono arm-in-arm, singing ‘Danny Boy’.

Athens:
Axl amongst the antiquities; Axl at the Parthenon.

Nassau:
Axl swimming with dolphins, microphone in hand.

Moscow:
Axl in Red Square, drunk on vodka.

Peru:
Axl in the Andes with poncho and pan-pipes.

Pakistan:
Axl dangling from the North Face of K2.

San Francisco:
Axl in a bath-house; Axl lost in the steam.

Buenos Aries:
Axl on the beach in Bermuda shorts, signing autographs.

Anchorage:
Axl in a cabin in Alaska; Axl fishing a snow-hole.

Tijuana:
Axl in a knife fight in a bar.

Jerusalem:
Axl in yarmelke at the wailing wall.

LA:
Axl in detox; Axl in Malibu, Axl in the studio.

Beijing:
Axl in China, Axl taking notes.






Friday, 16 January 2009

152. The Rock 'N' Roll President


When the
baby-boom
president
is talking

about his
weed-smoking
days and
getting as

many hot
blow-jobs
as the rock
stars are

you just know that
the world is
more fucked
up than ever.

But then I
guess you
knew that
already.

Tuesday, 13 January 2009

150. Duff’s Pancreas Explodes


May 10 1994.

The doc tells me
that at the time
of the explosion
my pancreas had
the texture of
a gin-soaked
coke-seasoned
foie gras and
that I should
probably never
even so much
as look at
another drink
again if I want to
live to see

May 11 1994.




Friday, 9 January 2009

148. November 1993: 'The Spaghetti Incident'


Slash: It wasn’t my idea.
Duff: It wasn’t my idea.
Dizzy: It wasn’t my idea.
Sorum: It wasn’t my idea.
Axl: It’s easily our greatest work.



Wednesday, 7 January 2009

147. 'Look At Your Game, Girl'


I think of Manson locked away,
an American idle who
said “no sense
makes sense”.

I think of the way
those kids must have had to
scoop up Sharon Tate’s blood
to do that writing

and what it must
have felt like when
the fork slid into
Leno LaBianca’s swollen belly.

I think of this when
I do the vocals for
our version of his
meandering poetry

I think of Manson
and I think:
that could
have been me.

Tuesday, 6 January 2009

146. Somewhere Over The Atlantic, Slash Has A Moment


So that’s it.
We’re done.

26 months
27 countries
192 shows
7,000,000 fans.

I hope I didn’t
leave the gas on.




Monday, 5 January 2009

145. Copenhagen, Denmark


“Let's see if I know where I am:
Am I in Sweden?”
[NO!]
“Am I in Holland?”
[NO!]
“Am I in Copenhagen?”
[YEAH!]
“Well, do you know where the fuck you are?
You’re in the jungle, baby…”

144. Tel Aviv


“Hello Israel
we are
Guns N’ Moses!”