It's So Easy: And Other Lies (30 page)

I was so used to being in hotels—and I acted like an animal in hotels—that I woke up in my own bedroom and spat on the floor and tried to call room service. During the break between that European leg and the launch of a co-headlining tour with Metallica in late July, I got married to Linda Johnson, a Penthouse Pet and an enthusiastic co-conspirator in drug use. At least I think it was then. I don’t remember the wedding. I think we got married on a boat at Lake Arrowhead, which was still party central—all about cocaine and debauchery. We were drinking with a bunch of friends; I woke up a few days later and we were married. I guess boat captains can marry people.

That I could do all my coke—even crack—in front of her was pretty much the basis of our bond. And now we were
married.

It was obvious even to me that my life was unraveling. I was married to a drug buddy. How much worse could it get?

In July 1992, we started a co-headlining tour with Metallica at RFK Stadium in Washington, D.C. In some cases, such bills are plagued by disputes over who gets to play second. Not this bill. Metallica graciously insisted on taking the stage first. It was smart: they wanted to play and get paid, whether or not Guns turned up on time.

Less than a month into the tour, on August 8, 1992, we stopped in Montreal. Metallica front man James Hetfield inadvertently stepped into the plume of one of his band’s pyrotechnics pots at the show and had to be rushed to the hospital with extensive burns. The other members of Metallica came back out onstage after James had been whisked away, explained what had happened, and apologized for suspending the show. We could have saved the day by going right on and playing a long set. It would have been a great gesture to the fans and to the guys in Metallica. It would have been the professional thing to do, the right thing to do. And we were capable of an epic set—we had played for four hours in L.A. the night we found out mixing was complete on the
Illusion
records.

But no.

The same shit happened in Montreal as elsewhere, us going on late—more than two hours after Hetfield was rushed to the hospital—playing to pissed-off fans. Our own fans, pissed off at us. I sat backstage monitoring the sounds drifting in from the arena, drink in hand, and could feel the crowd’s mood change. The rumble of tens of thousands of people beginning to get angry is a deep, low sound that penetrates walls and vibrates the fundaments of buildings, where dressing rooms are located. It’s a horrible sound, and the panic and embarrassment and frustration in my own head was compounded by that rumble. After letting the crowd reach its boiling point, we finally went out and started playing. Then, forty-five minutes into our set, a microphone stand hit Axl in the mouth. He threw down the mic and left.

This time the riot didn’t start near the stage. We didn’t even see it. The crowd blew up back at the concession areas and merchandise stands, and then spread outside into the streets. In fact, our crew did their normal teardown of the set, oblivious to the riot already raging out of view. Only when our buses pulled out of the parking enclosure did we see the full extent of the situation—cop cars turned over, vehicles on fire, lots of broken windows. Once again there looked to be a lot of injuries. Once again I felt anguished and heartbroken. This time I also felt deeply embarrassed, a feeling that managed inexorably to worm its way into my vodka-numbed psyche.

It didn’t have to be like this.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

It’s time.

Step up.

Fix this.

Let’s get everything out in the open. Get this weight off your chest.

It’s time for a band meeting.

This could get ugly.

Don’t worry. Slash and Matt and Gilby are in.

Still, could get ugly.

You can do this.

Where to start?
Listen, we’re drinking ourselves into oblivion …

These backstages all look the same, another drab locker room that the wardrobe people have draped with the same old tapestries they carry around in a trunk.
The vibe room.
That’s what the crew calls this. And the same old big-screen TV. Shit, did we pay for that? Is it always a new one, or do they tote around the same one to every venue?

Don’t lose focus.

Just stay cool. You can fix this.

Listen, none of us likes conflict, but there’s stuff we need to talk about. The lateness is a big problem for us. Personally. Hearing the chants. I mean, look, I’ll take responsibility for drinking too much, but … and, well, also, I know we’re not exactly businessmen, but I don’t think you have any idea what it’s costing us …

Okay, here comes Axl.

Close your eyes, take a deep breath, gather your thoughts.

Everything goes black.

I open my eyes and reflexively spit on the floor. Huh?

I grab for the vodka on the nightstand.

Fumble for the phone.

Room service: ice.

Okay, when’s this meeting?

Shit.

There is no band meeting.

Shit.

You’re not the man.

You’re a mess.

Pen.

Scrap paper.

Drink.

A couple of lines:

I have often wondered what my

Life really means to me

Wasted days and broken dreams

Let it all slip away from me …

And why’d this dream fade so fast

And why am I lookin’ toward

The past to set me free

I spit on the floor.

Refill my glass with vodka.

A couple of lines.

Jesus, that burns.

Shit, no band meeting.

No meeting.

No understanding.

No change.

Spit.

Drink.

Snort.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Truck and Earl still kept a close watch on me. So in San Francisco for a show in Oakland on September 24, 1992, I decided to arrange for a hooker to come to my room at the band’s swanky hotel. There was nothing wrong with that as far as management—and Truck and Earl—were concerned. If anything, a hooker might keep me in for the night, keeping me away from drug connections.

That’s exactly what I was betting they would think.

I had my L.A. friend Billy Nasty in town that night and planned to party. And I knew any hooker would have a coke connection—probably her own pimp. I found a number for an escort service and dialed it.

When the woman showed up, she took one look at me and my friend and I could see her doing calculations—how much for a double-back, or whatever they called that. When I explained to her that all I wanted was drugs, and that I would still pay her for her services all night, it was on. Her pimp was indeed a coke and pill dealer. Bingo!

The last date of the tour leg with Metallica, October 6, 1992, we played a homecoming show—for me, anyway—at the Seattle Kingdome. My brother Bruce was living back in Seattle at that point. He called me at the hotel the day of the show.

“What do you say tomorrow we go out for a round of golf—the McKagan brothers.”

“I don’t really know how to play,” I said, “but I’ll hang out with you guys, I’ll ride along and drink some beers.”

“Okay,” Bruce said. “I’ll pick you up.”

That night Axl was on time. It was out of respect—he knew the gig meant a lot to me.

The next day, Bruce picked me up at the hotel as planned.

“We’re going to stop by Mom’s place and pick up Jon,” he said as I climbed into the car. It made sense. I knew we would all be going there for dinner later, so my brother Jon was probably helping to get the place ready.

When we got there, Bruce had me come in with him. When we went inside, my whole family was there, all seven of my brothers and sisters, including Matt, who lived in L.A.

Wow,
I thought,
they’ve thrown me a fucking surprise party.

But nobody really made eye contact with me. Then the one person there I didn’t recognize stood up. Everyone else sat down. She introduced herself as Mary. She turned out to be a doctor.

“I’m from a rehab center,” she said. “There’s a van down the street that will take you to a facility where you can dry out.” Blah, blah, blah.

This is a fucking intervention!

“Sorry, Mary,” I said. “This just isn’t your business.”

Rage coursed through my body. Of course I had a drinking problem, but this wasn’t going to work.

This is bullshit!

“I love all of you,” I said, “but this isn’t any of your business. You can’t just spring something like this on me.”

The band had a bit of time off before we headed to Venezuela for a South American leg, but I would never abandon my band midtour, whether or not we had a few weeks to kill. This was not happening.

My brother Matt—who, it turned out, had not agreed with the idea in the first place—started talking.

“This isn’t the right way to do it,” he said, directing himself to the rest of the people in the room, rather than to me. “You don’t know what he’s dealing with.”

I edged toward the door. Jon was standing near the front door, anticipating that I might try to bail. He blocked my way. I made it clear things would get ugly if he didn’t move. Jon stood his ground.

“Dude, don’t fucking do it,” I said.

I knocked Jon out of the way. I ran out the door. Matt came after me. He pulled his rental car around and we hightailed it back to the Four Seasons, where the band was staying. From there we went to Sea-Tac and flew back to L.A.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Back in L.A., I called everyone in my family and said pretty much the same thing to each one.

“Look, I’ve been on the road and you can’t be certain what I’m doing. I’ll sit around and talk with you, but not like that.”

I assured them I was going to try to get better.

We kicked off the South American leg of the tour in Venezuela with an open-air show on November 25 in Caracas. The band left the next day for Colombia on the MGM 727. Cargo planes would follow us with the gear and crew once the teardown had been completed.

When we arrived in Bogotá, Guns N’ Roses was the lead story in all the local newspapers. When we asked what all the headlines were, someone translated for us. A fourteen-year-old Colombian girl had committed suicide after her father refused to let her attend our upcoming show.

Jesus. Another person whose life we touched … gone.

That night, more news: a coup had been launched in Venezuela. An air-force pilot named Luis Reyes Reyes and his co-conspirators were able to wrest control of most of the country’s air bases by the morning of November 27. Our cargo planes were grounded. McBob and the rest of the crew were stuck.

The next morning a bomb went off near our Bogotá hotel.

Then Colombian drug lord Pablo Escobar told the press that we were his friends and that he was supplying us with a bunch of cocaine. He was already in hiding then as a result of American pressure (we never met him), and I guess he was just sticking it to the U.S. government, using us to have some fun. I was already annoyed at the political questions fired at us at press conferences—just because we sold some records didn’t mean people should suddenly care what I thought about Bill Clinton or Boris Yeltsin. Now we had become inadvertent political pawns in a grand international game.