It's So Easy: And Other Lies (29 page)

In theory, we each absorbed our own costs. Axl’s posse would do things like rent helicopters to fly over this or that city. Fortunately nobody could touch the band’s money for that sort of thing. If anybody brought someone on the road—clairvoyant, porn star, whatever—it was all fine, but we each paid out of our own money, not the band’s. If I wanted a suite at the hotel instead of a room, I paid the difference. Guns was a partnership where people had to sign off on anything above the standard costs. But Axl couldn’t absorb the costs his lateness caused at a place like Madison Square Garden—overtime for cops, vendors, all the union dock loaders. We were going on at 2 a.m., racking up tens of thousands of dollars in overage fees. That came on top of the crew salaries, per diems for the staff, hotel rooms for everybody, and cuts for the agents and managers. The upshot was that we were paying to play MSG. This was not a part of the good ol’ days I longed to revisit. Paying-to-play sucked at the lowliest clubs and it sucked at the world’s most famous arena.

From New York we went to Philadelphia ahead of two shows on December 16 and 17, 1991. I had a jones going by the time we reached the Ritz-Carlton from our plane. I didn’t even bother going into the hotel to check in. Instead I told Truck I was going to the pizza place across the street. In my mind at that point, virtually everyone was doing drugs. Yeah, if I just asked some likely-looking hood at the pizzeria to help me score, I figured I’d surely get lucky. It must have been glaringly obvious that I was one of the guys in Guns N’ Roses—even if someone didn’t recognize me from one of our videos then monopolizing MTV, I had two GN’R tattoos to cement the deal. As luck would have it, I did indeed find a guy at the pizza joint.

Every major city had its shitty high-crime areas. In America, there were areas a white boy like me drew attention—not only from residents but from police patrolling the areas. I was always so fucked up during this era that those societal constraints seemed only for other people. Not for me. When our guy said he could get me some drugs out in West Philly, I didn’t think twice. We got in his car. As we drove farther west, I realized the streets were getting sketchier and the buildings lining them more dilapidated. At red lights, the dude driving merely slowed down for fear of a carjacking. Now, even in my benumbed state, the hatred-filled glares from the inhabitants of West Philly got my attention. I vaguely remembered this was the neighborhood where the police had dropped bombs on a house of black activists a few years prior, killing several children and destroying dozens of nearby buildings, but my need for drugs overcame any fear that may have welled up about my safety.

When we pulled up to the row of houses where my guy had a contact, eleven- and twelve-year-old kids were peddling and delivering drugs all along the street. I guessed their adult employers—perhaps even their own parents or relatives—were inside. There were kids with baseball bats and tire irons, and in an instant I suddenly realized I was in over my head. Then my guy just got out of the car—and took his keys, leaving me in the backseat, stranded and exposed. For a minute that seemed like a week, I thought this must be some sort of setup and that I would be robbed and killed. I could see the headline of the following day’s newspaper clearly in my head. I thought it was rather pathetic that I was going to die on a stupid drug run with some fucking scumbag I didn’t even know.

Stupid!

How could I be so fucking stupid!

Ah, but before I could make up my mind about what to do next, my man showed back up with a coat pocket full of drugs. In an instant, everything was suddenly okay. Great, in fact. I took out a cigarette, pulled some tobacco out of the end, and shoved in some coke. This was an invention I called “the smoker,” sort of a cross between a blunt and crack. I was proud of that technique—unlike crack, which necessitated a pipe and created a telltale scent, I could smoke one of these
anywhere.

When I got back to the comfy Ritz-Carlton, I knew I had been lucky. But I stood casually at the hotel bar and puffed on another smoker before heading up to my room to really dive into that bag of coke and gulp down some pills with a glass of vodka. Fuck, why not? It was a day off and the night was very young.

Truck was pissed off. What did I care? I got what I wanted and had a tale to tell. Rock and fucking roll. Guns N’ fucking Roses. After that, Truck and the rest of the security guys tried to keep a tighter leash on me and clamp down on my drug-scoring activities.

On New Year’s Eve, we had our first stadium headlining gig in the United States at Joe Robbie Stadium in Miami. I flew out Ernie C, the guitarist for Body Count. After the show, we went to a club owned by Luke Skyywalker of 2 Live Crew. I was the only white dude in the club, dancing with a bunch of girls. I must have looked too crazy for anybody to care.

The tour continued until early April, until we found out Axl would be arrested on charges stemming from the Riverport riot if he remained in the United States. So we canceled the last few U.S. dates and flew to Europe ahead of another leg of the tour there.

On April 20, 1992, we participated in a Freddie Mercury tribute show at Wembley Stadium. Guns played a couple songs, and the band sounded fiery and tight. Then there was a long break before all the performers united for a grand finale sing-along of “We Are the Champions.” Backstage I let it go too far—I was too drunk to talk, too drunk to walk. Elton John literally carried me to the side of the stage, propped me upright, and helped maneuver me out onto the stage where almost 100,000 fans awaited the showstopper. About fifty performers lined up in a chorus line with Liza Minnelli singing lead. I remained upright through the song—no doubt using the sets of shoulders on either side of me—then I had to be carried again back to my dressing room, unaware of what was happening around me.

We are the champions!
That’s right: Duff McKagan, king of beers, viscount of vodka, count of coke. Champion of the world. Asshole.

In May 1992, we had a gig at Slane Castle in Ireland. It was the first time I’d ever been to Ireland, and the day before the show about a hundred people from various branches of my family, people I’d never before met, threw a big barbecue for me. First they took me on a pub crawl—we stopped at every bar between my hotel and the family reunion, and there were apparently quite a few bars along that stretch.

At some point along the way, an old lady—a great-aunt or something—pulled me aside and grabbed my cheeks.

“You drink too much,” she rasped. “I’ve seen you on the TV, and you drink too much.”

I looked around. All these fuckers were drinking.

I drink too much compared to these folks? Really?

That would be bad. But it also seemed hard to believe. I only drank so much to get to the same place other people got off on one cocktail. I wasn’t falling down. I’d get too drunk sometimes, sure, and that’s when I would disappear and do a little coke to sober up. No problem.

Maybe she was onto something, though, as a few days later I woke up in Budapest, Hungary, and looked incredulously at my passport. In it was a stamp from the Czech Republic. We had played a gig in Prague. I couldn’t remember having been there at all.

Memory always amounts to a form of negation—you exclude most of what you experience and retain only the sensory impulses that your brain deems important, that help you make sense of the world, that allow you to track the plot of your own story. The situation on tour, however, had become so intolerable that I no longer had anything left after that process of negation—and I made sure of that with booze. There was no way to make sense of a situation in which we traveled the world antagonizing our fans with late starts or shows cut short. Very little else had any importance; the arc of my own story had been reduced to this single, painful plot line: my band was making the people who loved us most, hate us. Or so I thought.

Of course, blacking out also stemmed from fear. When it comes to your values and personality, you are what you do in adverse situations. My inability to alter this plot line did not fit with the way I defined myself. But of course, it defined me. No, I wasn’t “the guy.” I was a mess. The solution was to expunge those moments of fear and self-loathing from the record.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Because of the sheer scale of our stage set and the complexity of juggling open dates in such big venues, there were many weeks when we played only two or three shows. That gave me way too much time to fuck up. As a means to keep myself busy and push back the hard-core drinking for a few hours, I rented studios sporadically during the tour and recorded my own songs. I had a few I knew wouldn’t work stylistically for GN’R, and I figured maybe I could still make a record like Prince, playing all the instruments. Not that I pretended for a second I was anywhere near as gifted as Prince—I would play a sloppy, Johnny Thunders–style version of all the instruments. But still. I had recorded one song, called “The Majority,” just before we left on tour, with Lenny Kravitz on vocals. I had become friends with Lenny before he blew up—I’d had a demo tape of his first album that ill-fated summer in Chicago.

Since I recorded on the road, I was able to get some other guest spots from bands opening for us and from musicians who lived in towns where we played. Sebastian Bach, Snake Sabo, and Rob Affuso from Skid Row played on a few songs, Jerry Cantrell from Alice in Chains added a guitar track somewhere along the way. Slash, Gilby, and Matt helped me out. On June 6, 1992, GN’R performed a pay-per-view concert in Paris and lined up Steven Tyler and Joe Perry from Aerosmith, Lenny Kravitz, and Jeff Beck to make cameo appearances. In the end, Jeff had to cancel because his ears were damaged during rehearsals, but he offered to play on a couple of my songs. I couldn’t believe it.

After the Paris show, Guns had some days off in London and Jeff and I arranged to enter a studio there. I had invited my mom to meet me in London, too. She had never been to Europe. She had never really been much of anywhere, as she had been too busy and too broke raising eight kids. Mom was a huge Agatha Christie reader and loved all things quaintly English as a result. My mom also loved to be around me when I worked. I arranged for a friend of mine, drummer Slam Thunderhide of the band Zodiac Mindwarp, to have my mom over to his flat for a proper English tea and then to bring her down to the studio where Jeff and I were recording. Jeff had already been playing for a little while when my mom arrived. He’s a virtuoso, and watching him play is like seeing musical butter melt.

After Jeff had played some blistering passes at one song, my mom said, “Jeff, you play really nice guitar.”

My mom was not aware of Jeff Beck’s iconic status—she didn’t know about the Yardbirds or his influential albums like
Wired
and
Blow by Blow.

Unfazed, Jeff answered, “Oh, well, thank you so much, Marie. I thought I messed up that last pass pretty good. Did you like it, then?”

That guy will forever be my hero.

On June 21, 1992, Guns N’ Roses had to pay to keep the public-transport system open late in Basel, Switzerland. The only way back into town from the soccer stadium was a tram line that normally closed long before we finished—maybe before we even started.

Almost every night we heard the crowds get antsy and then ugly. After about an hour of waiting, kids would start to chant. Then they would start to throw beer bottles and rocks and whatever else they could find. Everyone on the crew knew not to walk around in front of the stage equipment—not to make themselves a target. From backstage it was difficult to know whether people had started or would soon start to try to scale the security fences or rigging—that is, break into full-on riot mode. But the thumps of flying objects and the angry chants sounded threatening enough to fill my soul with foreboding, dread, and embarrassment.
Know your exit.

We shared our plane with U2 on this leg of the tour, with the MGM 727 crisscrossing the skies over Europe to tote each band to its next location. Everything had scaled up. We often flew from our hotels to the venues in helicopters, plural—even massive double-prop Chinook helicopters. We rented yachts the size of oil tankers for outings on off days. We went on private shopping sprees at designer boutiques and spent entire days racing go-karts on tracks reserved exclusively for us. Everything had become outsized. Everything. When McBob and his brother started slugging each other at a club late one hazy night, Harry Connick Jr. pulled them apart. We had celebrities breaking up the fistfights between our crew members.

On Tuesday, June 23, in Rotterdam, I stewed backstage after the Dutch police told us power would be cut at 11:30 p.m.—fans had already waited two hours since opener Faith No More finished playing, and our set would not be finished by 11:30 p.m. I feared another riot. Onstage, Axl told the crowd about the police threat, and basically invited the audience to tear the place down if the show was stopped. The power stayed on. We closed out this leg of the tour about a week later in Lisbon, Portugal, then flew home.