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.

166. Slash (Remember Him?) Speaks

Axl who?
Oh yeah.
That guy.
The redhead right?
That asshole owes me money
Do I miss him?
Are you fucking crazy?
I miss him like a hole
in the cock.

But…I guess we did have
some good times together
back there.

And, yeah. I guess I do
kinda miss those high times
we had.

And I guess it would be
cool to charter our own
jet again.

135. Prague Gig.

“Okay you ex-Commie
bastards -
get ready to rock!”

130. Duff On Therapy

Axl’s therapist.
Yeah. That’s was another turning point.

I mean, the guy
has a lot of issues to work through.

Crazy shit
from his childhood. Violence, religion…

though it quickly
seemed like he had the monopoly on pain.

I don’t know
what his therapist said, but he got righteous

all of a sudden.
It was like we had to tread twice as carefully.

I thought
a therapist was meant to make things better?

But no.
that definitely wasn’t the case here.

It didn’t really matter
so much when we off the road because

back home
we were all doing our own things,

back home
we were living individual lives.

But when Axl
brought this therapist out on tour

questions were asked.
Like: who is this guy and why

does he want
us to go into these ridiculous group hugs?

If he knew
anything he’d know that Guns isn’t that band.

We’re not
touchy-feely, love-sharing type of guys.

We each
have our roles, we each cover our backs

That was
always the way, right from day one:

Play the show
and everything else beyond it is your call.

But no.
Axl’s therapy session increased.

Out there
We wouldn’t see him except for stage time

And we’d play
these shows with this therapist in the wings,

giving Axl
the thumbs up every time he looked his way.

Many jokes
were cracked about that, I tell you.

It was like
he substituted drugs with therapy

and sure enough
he got himself addicted to ‘sharing’.

We could hire
a thousand therapists and they’d still

be unravelling that
dude’s personality on his death-bed.

Axl talked
a lot about being ‘healed’ round that time.

Suddenly he was
talking about feelings and ‘bad energy’.

He talked
about getting to the core of his ‘id’,

he talked
about ego, childhood, sexuality and recovery.

None of which
we would have minded if it hadn’t

turned him
into an even bigger a-hole than he was before.

129. Just Another Vegas Breakdown

From the sky
it looks like an electric snake
undulating across the hot desert floor
the way it twinkles
and shimmers

I take over a floor at the Bellagio
and move my shit in.
I’m in total
‘ignore the band
at all costs’ mode

I just don’t
want to be around those assholes -
they sap my energy
misinterpret me
always want to party.

I seal the doors
order some food
run a bath,
meditate, but
the only mantra I can reach

is
fuckfuckfuck
in my head like a woodpecker
fuckfuckfuck
a drill deep inside.

Distracted
I drink some
honey tea
try and read some Hubbard.
That guy had

it going on, fucking started
a religion off of
his writing shit
(now there’s a
thought…ah, fuck it
rock ‘n’ roll is my racket
and I know it).

There’s
no place
else I can
go

fear, loathing
and so much more
fills me with anxiety.
On TV an infomercial plays
and I don’t know where
to put myself;

suppressing the urge to scream
even though my throat
is shot again
I lie back and make phone calls:

my management
my lawyer
my accountant
my realtor

no-one answers
I’m met by
a wall of voice-mail
to growl and snarl at
which I do
for an hour or so

fuckfuckfuck
in my head like a woodpecker
fuckfuckfuck
a drill deep inside

I take a bath
Vegas lies beneath me
sin city sanitised
fun for all the family
Disneyland with tits
and tips for
dawn brunch waitresses.

This place excited me once
but not any more
nothing excites me
the gamble is dead
the war can’t be won

Milestones become moments,
faded Polaroid pictures
to file away;
I find myself craving
some semblance of simplicity
in a life that is
inordinately complicated.

I guess I’m just burned
by night after night
of the fire fight
in the spotlight

fuckfuckfuck
in my head like a jackhammer
fuckfuckfuck
(just kill yourself,
silly).

It’s Vegas;
it steals your soul
at the entrance
and returns it at
the end-game
tattered and bloody

it fills your eyes
with dollar signs
as if they weren’t blinded already
it appeals to the basest appetite.

It’s sick
a cathedral for vulgarity
a celebration of obesity
a theme park for the living,
spending, farting,
dead.

I step out the bath
towel myself off
and wander naked
from pristine room
to pristine room,
four thousand of them
in all and I have
the best dozen.

I press my face to the
cool class of the window
and see nothing but casinos
cars and the thick black night
beyond the edge of town

fuckfuckfuck
in my head like a woodpecker
fuckfuckfuck
(just end it all,
asshole)

The desire to run into
the blackness engulfs me instantaneously,
the desire
to fill my nostrils with dust
to see the moon silent
and stars that weren’t glued
there by men

to escape The Strip,
the town, the tour
the trip
to run and just keep running
barefoot, wild like a coyote

out across the road
between headlights
down alley ways
through vacant lots
and beneath the
neon giants
that demarcate
the edge of town.

Soon they’ll
find me feral
unrecognisable and
hard-bitten from experiences
out there alone
in the night

they’ll find me snarling,
howling at the moon,
chasing my tail,
the gnarled leg of a lesser
animal wedged in my jaws,
my hair matted
my eyes a different shape
and colour.

I’ll no longer respond to
my birth name.

125. Pulling Teeth

Getting Izzy to do anything was like
pulling teeth.

When he showed up he’d decide to play
in another key;

we’d say “Play it again” and he’d say
“Why?”

He just wasn’t raising his game
enough for me.

He’d become this really selfish user,
a loser.

He was strung out and not exactly easy
with fame.

It was real, real shitty when he left.
My oldest friend

trying to turn my brothers against me
with a power-play.

The lies the guy came out with just aren’t
worth repeating.

He tried to divide and conquer but it
all backfired.

Suffice to say the band knew who really
holds the power.

And Homeboy found himself left out
in the cold.

The day he drove over to tell me he
was quitting

I wouldn’t even let him in my house.
I just knew.

Friends don’t do that. Friends don’t shit
on friends.

And that was that, Izzy was out. Because
no man

is bigger than this band, not even me.
Yeah. It sucked.

But what can you do? Cry over splilled milk?
Nah. We soldiered on.

So, another warrior fell but the world war
continued.

Guns N Roses lived to fight
another day.

121. Europe's Finest Hotel (1991 tour)

I don’t like this
wallpaper.

The view is
bullshit.

That’s not a
bed it’s

a fucking postage
stamp.

The air-con
sucks

or maybe it
blows

either way – lose
it.

There’s no
absinthe

in the mini
bar

I don’t like that
concierge

he looks like
a narc

there’s only two
jacuzzis

where’s the
third?

The ceilings are
too low

or maybe the
floor

is just too
high

either way – change
them.

You could only
fit four

people in that tub
at a squeeze

is this some sort
of joke?

I’m tired. I don’t
need this.

Is this place
east-facing?

I specifically asked
for east-facing.

What’s that
smell?

It smells
like ass – lose it.

No white truffle
omelettes?

This room service is
a joke.

Those curtains are
fag curtains,

the tap water is
too cold

the gym equipments is
useless

the elevator is
too small

I don’t like the
architect

can we
sue?

I guess I’ll do
what

I always
do:

suffer in silence
because

some asshole in the
organisation

couldn’t be bothered
to find

something more suited
to my tastes

because it’s too
late

to change, because
I’ve got

a show to
do.

I mean what
city are

we in
anyway?

114. A Succession Of Glances

Duff glances over at Izzy
and raises an eyebrow;
Izzy shrugs a thin shoulder
readjusts his guitar strap
cocks his hat; Slash takes
a shot, fiddles with his amp,
catches Sorum’s eye
who sighs and glances
at Duff who tips the faintest
of nods to their leader then,
with his back to the
audience, tucked behind
the speakers, he throws
a comical seig heil.
Suppressing laughter, they
lurch into another song:
“A-one, a-two,
a-one two three four…”

This nightly ritual
is the only thing that
still unites them;
the only thing that
makes them feel
like they are
still a band.

105. Slash Immortal

I don’t fear death.

Death is there to be ignored.
Death is there to be challenged, defeated.
Death is there to be beaten in an arm wrestle

a card game, Russian Roulette, a rusted needle,
whatever.

He’ll let you know when it’s your time sure enough.
In the meantime, why let it concern you?
No. I don’t let death bother me.

If anything I gently mock it.
I prod it and it feels pliable
I shake it between my teeth

I face it with bemusement
but I don’t fear it.

70. Slash vs Eddie

One night I was
so high I tried
to pick a fight
with Eddie from
Iron Maiden.

I thought he was hitting on my girl at the time.

Eddie is a
twenty foot tall
puppet Maiden use as
part of their show.
Suffice to say I lost

though not without getting a few good punches in first.

69. Oh, And One Other Thing

Last night

I lost somebody's car.

I borrowed it from a friend.

I was so drunk

that I parked it

some place

but I can't remember

where.

It's just gone - kaput!

I have the keys sitting here

on the table in my living room,

and I don't even know where it is.

Like, if you see it

can you call me?

I think it’s blue

and somewhere

in the greater

Los Angeles area.

You can’t miss it.

It’s full of snakes.

62. Slash Observes A Bar Fight

So five guys in suits in the
bar of the Hyatt Regency hotel
decide we are scumbags
and say so and even though they’re right
it doesn’t mean we have to take this shit.

Then this guy grabs Axl
calls him Bon Jovi
and Axl’s like
‘Bon Jovi can suck my dick
and so can you’
so this guy hits him.

That’s when Steven
cracks him in the head
with his cast because you never
hit one of the family.

Then this other guy tries to hit me
so our guitar tech Mike
lays him out in one punch
and they kick us out the bar,

but then the same five guys
clutching ice packs block us
off and Mike knocks the same
motherfucker out twice

then the cops come
and start arresting people
who aren’t even involved

and Axl tells one of the cops to fuck off
so this guy chases him for twenty feet
then throws him through the air
and Axl is taken off to jail.

The funny thing is
Axl tells this story the
next day on stage
while we jam

and soon enough
‘Axl’s Blues’ starts appearing
on bootleg albums;
we thought it was funny as shit.

Maybe funnier.

52. Bitching About Axl

- Hey man, do you think Axl is maybe talking too much shit on stage right now?
- How do you mean?
- You know, all this bitching and moaning between songs - like he’s always got a point to prove.
- I guess.
- You guess? Didn’t you hear him last night, cussing out the security and the promoter?
- The promoter was an asshole though.
- He was an asshole but that stuff he said about his deformed arm was way out of order.
- I guess.
- And the way he socked that kid in the Motley T-shirt with the mic stand. The poor kid had to have brow stapled. I don’t know, it just feels like we’re the backing band sometimes, like in the press it’s always ‘Axl Rose & Guns N Roses’, when it should just be – you know…
- Guns N Roses?
- Exactly. None of this would matter, if it wasn’t turning him into such a fuhrer. I mean, I like Kiss.
- So do I but what do you want me to say, he’s a redhead with issues – that aint nothing new!
- Yeah, but he used to be fun.
- Yeah, you’re right there. He’s definitely become an asshole. But we’re selling out shows aren’t we?
- I guess.
- You guess?
- And we’re selling records? Loads of fucking records.
- Yeah.
- And we’re getting our socks blown most nights?
- Most mornings too…
- Well, then.
- Well, then.
- So are you going to shut the fuck up and do this line?
- I still think he’s turned into an asshole.
- Me too. And life is fucking great ain’t it?
- I give us eighteen months.
- That long?

49. Various States Of Disrepair

Halifax, Nova Scotia
Montreal, Quebec
Kitchener, Ontario
Toronto, Ontario
Detroit, Michigan
Chicago, Illinois
Winnipeg, Manitoba
Edmonton, Alberta
Calgary, Alberta
Vancouver, British Columbia
Seattle, Washington
San Fancisco, California
Santa Cruz, California
San Diego California
Long Beach, California
San Antonio, Texas
Austin, Texas
Dallas, Texas
Houston, Texas
New Orleans, Lousiana.

39. Making The Album

I show up first, around five
enjoy the silence
with a coffee.

Duff follows soon after
a little drunk
but enthusiastic.

Adler arrives around nine
with a couple of skanks
but no kit.

I ball him out
and he flees
to the nearest dealer.

Izzy shows at midnight
corpse white and
on the nod.

Duff is re-stringing
his bass
and Adler’s still gone.

Slash turns up around two,
whispers conspiratorially
to Iz

and they disappear
to the bathroom
for an hour.

Duff is still re-stringing
his bass, stumbling about
breaking shit.

Port wine bottles. A painting
on the wall. This cool little amp
they used on Pet Sounds.

Slash and Iz return
“Are we ready yet or what?”
but Adler’s still gone

I launch a balalaika at their heads,
taking Slash’s top hat off;
hair spills down like a black waterfall.

Iz mumbles something incoherent
Slash retrieves his hat
Duff looks up: “We need more wine.”

It’s five AM
the sun is coming up
and so far

we have a bass with two strings
various comedowns
and a vortex opening up ahead.

The producer shows up at nine.
Turns out we were a day early anyway.
That’ll never happen again.

35. Let’s Get Tattoos!

So yeah I’m just sitting there
working on some new designs

when I get a call from some guy
says he ‘looks after’ the Gunners

and the guys wanna come down
for ink. I’m like, yeah, whatever.

But sure enough an hour later all
five of them mooch into the store.

They’re drunk, or high, or maybe
drunk and high and even though

I have a sign on the wall saying “the
mgmt. reserves the right to refuse to

tattoo anyone who it believes to be
intoxicated”, I make an exception.

Besides, everyone on The Strip is drunk or
high and if I turned them all away, I’d go bust.

So I spent all day working on those guys and
it was a cast-iron blast, a dream come true.

Truthfully, it was pretty standard stuff, easy
work - the usual array of skulls and flowers.

Axl went for this logo he designed himself
with the slogan ‘Victory or Death’ beneath it.

Slash had a caricature of his own face on his
right bicep; a mop of hair wearing a top hat.

Duff opted for some sort of barbed wire arm band
and Steven had some tangled rose and dagger thing.

Izzy just that there blank-faced, silent, smoking
and going to the bathroom every five minutes.

The guys were real cool though. They took a real interest
in the art form, gave me a few bumps of blow, then left.

24. Leather Pants

Duff had these pants
brown leather
epaulettes on
the hips
double-sewn
hand-stitched
lace-tied on
the gusset.

Said he found them
in a
garbage can.

Man
I wanted those pants
wanted them real bad
coveted those pants
until they turned green
beneath my envious gaze.

Then one day
the fucker gave
them away
to Slash
without him
even asking.

I could have
bitch-slapped
that drunk fool
there and then
knowing what
he knew
and doing what
he did and
considering
the repercussions.

Two weeks later
Slash caught a dose
of crabs from
those brown
leather pants
and even I had to laugh
like a hyena
like dirty water
down a storm drain

I recorded that laugh
sampled it
looped it
created a
symphony of hate
avarice envy
and revenge.

I’m saving it
for the box-set.

15. Slash

I’ve smoked
Marlboro Reds since
I was, like, four
or something.

I like them.
I guess I
just like the way
they taste.

Sometimes I would
break them up and
sprinkle them
on my cereal.