My Appetite For Destruction (10 page)

I remember seeing a Mentors concert where a chick was giving him a blow job onstage. And at parties he never failed to surprise us. El Duce was
the craziest.
Once, he drank a whole bottle of Jack Daniel’s right in front of us. He ripped the cap off a fresh bottle and downed it. He was chugging it like it was spring water. There were a few people around him with us, and we were like, “No way. He’s going down. He’s gonna fall flat on his face,” but he did not go down. Instead, after he drained it, he shattered the bottle over his head. I’ve never ever seen a crazier motherfucker, but the booze finally took its toll when he was fatally hit by a train while drunk. Some believe he was shoved onto the tracks, but we’ll never know.

For a brief period, Izzy left for what turned out to be a short stint in another band, L.A. Guns, and Hollywood Rose became me, Slash, Axl, a guitar player named Jeff, and another bass player, some French guy. Slash drew a cartoon of the new lineup for one of our flyers and it’s featured in the
Live Era
record. There was no drama when Izzy left, because we had hit a lull and were spending more time partying than playing. The development of the band worked out very slowly, off and on over months and months.

More than anything else, we were just good friends cruising the Strip to meet chicks. The conversation was just like that of any other group of guys hanging out. Where were the girls, the parties, the best places to score bud? Who had any money, who was holding (we were always holding and never admitting it), and what were we doing later? There would be some talk of music, but most of that dialogue took place only when we were actually jamming.

We were out a lot. We were always at someone’s place or at the studio. But most important, whether we were jacked in or not, and whether we had planned it or not, we were always
around one another.
When we weren’t together it was because we were with our girls. Slash started dating this beautiful dark-haired babe. And I met this chick named Loretta who lived across the street from the Whisky. Our relationship was consummated immediately.

Loretta and I had been together for about a week when one evening she had a surprise for me. She was driving up in the Hollywood Hills in her ’76 Dodge Pinto. “I know a fun dude who lives up here.”

I asked, “Who?”

“Bob Welch.”

“Bob Welch!” I excitedly shouted back. Welch was a member of Fleetwood Mac until 1974 and had a great solo career after
Heroes Are Hard to Find,
his last album with Mac. Two of his biggest hits were “Sentimental Lady” and “Ebony Eyes.” “Sentimental Lady” was actually a song he first recorded with Fleetwood Mac on their
Bare Trees
album. Both versions are gorgeous love songs and needless to say, I was stoked to meet this guy.

Poor Loretta had no idea that Bob had OD’d on heroin a few days before and was presently in the hospital. His friend Ted was staying at his house, and he invited us in. Bob had a very plush, stylish home. We were hanging out in the living room when Ted lifted a glass pipe off the table. It looked like a clear lightbulb with two stems protruding from it. He handed it to me, and I held it in my hand and looked in the bowl of the pipe, and there was a little white chunk. I just figured, “Oh, coke.” I lit it up and inhaled with no fear. It felt
amazing,
complete and utter euphoria. I thought it was the highest-quality blow I’d ever sampled. But it wasn’t. High-quality coke would have been a tender blessing compared to this curse. Had that pipe been a loaded revolver, it couldn’t have done more harm.

I had inhaled crack and exhaled my soon-to-be shattered soul. It was the first time I smoked the shit. As I sat there, an incredibly powerful urge came over me. I had never experienced such a dire need to get high again. Right away.
Now.
And this was only about ten seconds after that first incredible high. All I knew, all I cared about, was that I wanted the feeling to last longer. So I continued to hit the pipe. I didn’t know it then, but at that very moment I had tasted the beginning of the end.

J
ohn Lennon once said that cocaine was a dumb drug because the only reason you do it is to do it again. Coke makes you feel like a new man. Unfortunately the first thing that new man wants is more blow. Lennon was able to walk away from cocaine after his famous “lost weekend” with Harry Nilsson during 1974 in L.A. He came back to New York City, begged for Yoko’s forgiveness, and found happiness at the Dakota. John and Yoko’s love was stronger than coke. Yoko bore Sean the next year and John’s new high was being a “house husband,” raising his son for the next five years. That’s a perfect example of finding a natural high to supplant drugs. And to me, that’s one of the most beautiful power-of-love stories in the history of mankind. I wish Lennon’s example and willpower could have inspired me to quit blow right then and there. But I was weak and hungry for the elusive high.

Eventually, Loretta said she wanted to leave. I told her, “I’m not going nowhere.” I was smoking that shit and repeatedly inhaling it with a suicidal urgency to maintain the high. We went up to Ted’s bedroom, where he had a bottle of vintage Scotch. He broke the seal and poured each of us a glass. Loretta continued to pester me to leave. Finally I said, “Look, I’m having fun. If you wanna go, go.” She split and I never saw her again. She knew it was hopeless. She knew
I
was hopeless.

Meanwhile, I’m figuring, “This is great, I’m not spending a nickel of my own money.” Ted was hooking me up just to hang out. And misery loves company. Two miserable drug addicts stoking each other’s habits. Within a couple of weeks I had set my drums up on some carpeting in Welch’s garage and moved in.

R
ight after I set up my drums, Ted took me into Bob’s private home studio. It was a sweet setup with a beautiful board and perfect acoustics. Ted pointed to a big gelatinous black lump on a mixing console. He said, “This is the shit that put Bob in the hospital.”

I was like, “What the fuck is that?” I had no idea.

He said, “It’s heroin. You can shoot it up or smoke it.”

He pulled a little piece of this black goo off the lump and stuck it to a four-inch square of tinfoil. He had a plastic straw in his mouth. He held the foil and with his other hand he lit a lighter underneath it, heating it up until the black substance bubbled. Thick wisps of smoke appeared. He inhaled the smoke through the straw and he handed it to me.

I did the same thing with the wad of heroin and, of course, was fearless. I took a hit and exhaled a massive amount of smoke. It gave me a small rush, and I felt a little light-headed. I was taking another hit when my stomach suddenly flipped. I tossed the heroin and ran to the bathroom. I could hear Ted’s laughter fading out behind me. I knelt over the toilet and felt my head spinning. I was extremely nauseated and got so sick, I ended up puking all night. This shit did not appeal to me at all.

I had met a new girl a few days earlier and was seeing her from time to time. I called her, and she came over and played nurse. She really helped me out. She took care of me for the rest of the day in one of the bedrooms.

I talked to Izzy the next day and I was like, “Dude, I smoked this shit last night, I got so fucking sick.” He said, “Where is it?” I said, “I dunno, I threw it down next to my drums.” Before I could hang up the phone, Izzy was at the front door with some chick. “So where’s that shit?” he asked. I pointed to the garage. They just marched right in and found the chunk lying next to a cymbal stand.

A couple of minutes later, while leaving to pick up some cigarettes, I spotted Izzy dragging the girl outside. I stopped the car and rolled down the window. “What the fuck’s wrong with her?” I mean,
they
just got there
. Izzy told me, “She’ll be all right, she’ll be all right.” This chick was a rag doll, definitely not all right. She must’ve shot up and went out, like
bam.
He was dragging her out from the garage to get some air. That was the first time Izzy visited me at Bob’s.

Hi. Where’s the heroin? Bye.

A couple of days later, Izzy brought his gear over, and we jammed. I love Izzy. He defines cool and we really are good friends. He started coming by more often, and we played together all the time. He wasn’t hitting the crack pipe at the time, but he’d face that demon later. Whether it was the presence of drugs or a new place to jam, it didn’t matter to me. Izzy was just fun to hang with and I was happy to share this sweet situation.

A
few weeks after my setting up, Bob Welch was released from the hospital. When I met him he was a thin guy, bald on top. He had let what wispy hair he had grow long and fly freely. He wore a hat most of the time, flipped sideways, kind of French-beret style. I guess Ted had let him know about my staying at his house because Bob never had a problem with it and accepted me openly.

We would hang out and he would show me videos of some of his concerts, my own personal rock ’n’ roll lessons, and he’d share all of his crazy stories. We watched tapes of him playing at the Cal Jam Festival in ’74 where it’s clear he’s a fucking genius; he sang and played guitar brilliantly. Check out his stuff on Fleetwood Mac’s
Bare Trees
and
Mystery to Me
albums. This was when the band still flexed its blues roots, and Bob penned and sang some incredible lyrics, among them “Hypnotized” and the aforementioned track “Sentimental Lady.”

Although Bob had just gotten out of the hospital for overdosing, he was right back to smoking coke and heroin. To avoid these temptations and clear out my head a bit, I left for a day or two and couch-surfed on Sunset. It became clear what I had to do. I had gotten to that point (again) where I no longer recognized the guy in the mirror. When that happened, I knew it was time for a change of scenery. It was some internalized safety mechanism I benefited from at the time, but one day it would fail me when I needed it most.

I decided to get my stuff out of Bob’s place and take off. I realized I had been there for two months, partying, smoking coke every day, and doing little else even with a tricked-out studio on the premises. When I came back to move out, Izzy was there, hitting the foil with Bob. He just gave me a slightly pained look as I gathered up my stuff, but it was cool between us.

Izzy had nothing to do with my having to get out of there, just as I had nothing to do with Izzy staying. It was like that with Duff, Slash, and Axl too; we all lived completely independent lives. None of us ever tried to will an agenda on the others. We each occupied our own orbital, doing our own thing, and eventually if it was meant to be, the cosmic debris would line up again.

I
t was time to regroup at my grandmother’s place. That was always the spot where I could go to gather my sanity. It was my refuge, a simple place to take a shower and get something to eat. I had a backpack with some ratty clothes in it and I had my drums. That’s it. I didn’t wear underwear. I had three pairs of pants, some shirts. They were mostly concert T’s: Aerosmith, Kiss, and Queen shirts. It was easy for me to pack up and go anywhere, anytime. I’m still pretty much like that. Possessions are chains that, over time, shackle and crush you. My drums and the shirt on my back; any other shit just slows you down.

After a few days back at Grandma’s, I hooked up with the greatest job at a liquor store on Sunset and Doheney. I worked there for five months, earned six bucks an hour, and made great tips. The owner, Sid, was a fun guy. He was a freak, always partying hard. I had the Road Crew-zer car and would deliver alcohol, food, and cigarettes to his customers, mainly on large estates up in Beverly Hills.

Half the time I’d go inside and start making out with these older women. Often I’d end up drinking the booze that I brought them. We’d do coke and smoke bud. I’d have only three or four orders, which the average driver would knock out quickly, but not me. I’d usually find my way back to the store a couple of hours later.

I delivered to this one hot woman, Laurie, who had worked at the Rainbow for like twenty years. She was a classy lady, a real pretty blonde. She lived right behind the store. I brought stuff up to her nearly every night. She was a real sweetheart. Looking back, I became friendly with just about everyone on the delivery route.

I’d go to Sid’s house sometimes. It was a nice, big place, plastered with pictures of him with big stars like Frank Sinatra. He had this safe in the floor under his bed, concealed by a carpet. I remember he opened it one time and I saw a big bottle of quaaludes, a bag of what looked like kick-ass smoke, and a big wad of hundred-dollar bills. He liked boys, so he always had a few of his young fellows up there walking around in their little bathing suits.

He would tease me sexually, gentle come-ons, but no way I was going to ever be one of his playthings. And I was never offended by anything he said. He knew I didn’t swing that way and that was it. He was a real character, an aging bald guy who reminded me of the classic movie actor Edward G. Robinson, a fleshy round man who had done well and couldn’t have cared less about losing his looks and being out of shape. He worked hard in his early years, and that store meant he was set forever.

W
hen I got fired from there, I couldn’t believe it. I got back from a delivery on a sunny Sunday afternoon, when it wasn’t too busy. I was stoned as usual and totally parched. I went into the cooler, because as the delivery guy, I also stocked the store. While I was in there I poured a small amount of wine cooler into a plastic cup and drank it down. That made me feel better. I popped out of the cooler and walked up to the cashier. “Hey. Any calls, anything happening?”