Slash (48 page)

I called Tom right afterward. “Hey, Tom, it’s Slash,” I said.

“So what did you think?”

“I thought it
sucked.
I hated it,” I said.

“Oh.”

“Yeah. It was that bad. Tell the producers to license the Stones’ version because we’re not doing it.”

Axl, on the other hand, loved the movie; he thought it was brilliant and he wanted to do the song. I couldn’t have been more disappointed, pissed, frustrated, and confused. The only upside I saw to signing off on it was that it would accomplish what we’d been unable to do to any degree in the past seven months: it would actually get all of us into the studio.

We booked time at Rumbo; we did the basic tracks with Mike Clink over a few days. Duff, Matt, and I showed up together every day, basically going out of our way to do something that only Axl wanted to do, and not
once
did he show up to a session. From the basic tracks through to the final overdubs, we never saw or heard from Axl. We were already recording against our will, so his disregard for our time and commitment definitely inspired a
very
uninspired instrumental track. And needless to say, the level of bitterness and resentment reached an all-time high. It added insult to injury that after we’d completed our thoroughly average version of “Sympathy for the Devil,” it took him more than a week to even show up to the studio to do his vocals.

Once he got around to listening to the track, he had some constructive criticism. Via a lot of communications between middle people, I was told that I needed to rerecord my guitar solo so that it sounded more note for note like the Keith Richards original. Now that really pissed me off, most of all because the message reached me three times removed like we were playing a game of telephone.

My first reaction, of course, was “no.” I stood behind what I’d done, because why would I copy Keith if the song was supposed to be
our
version? The reply, through handlers, was: “If you don’t change it, I won’t sing.” I swallowed my pride—yet again—and went in to record a more Keith-like intro, though it was the last thing I wanted to do: Keith’s playing is so awesome on that song that I didn’t want to even come near it, but I did. And doing so left me feeling even more pissed off and put out than ever.

A week or so after that I heard that Axl had finally scheduled time to go in and record his vocal tracks, so I went down to see him in person. I waited for three hours. When he finally showed up, he came into the lounge and proceeded to talk to me from behind a magazine, without looking me in the eye, for about fifteen minutes…. I couldn’t deal with that at all, so I took off.

When I got a DAT of the song with Axl’s vocal on it, I noticed that there was another guitar layered on top of mine in the solo. Axl had gotten Paul Huge to double over me. In other words, that guy copied what I was playing on another track and they layered them. It was like really bad plagiarism.

That was it—having another guitar player record over me without telling me was as much disrespect as I was willing to handle. I washed my hands of that song, I washed my hands of Guns for the moment, and I focused my
energy on my own songs and my own project, Slash’s Snakepit’s debut,
It’s Five O’Clock Somewhere
.

ONCE THE SNAKEPIT GOT GOING, I WAS
completely content. For the first time in years, touring was easy, my bandmates were loads of fun and low on drama, and every gig was about playing rock and roll—not proving something or putting on a huge spectacle. Everything rolled on: the record sold, the tour was fine; I was on the road with no end in sight. We were in the midst of booking another leg when I was informed by Geffen that they’d sold a million copies of
It’s Five O’Clock Somewhere
and had turned a profit so they saw no reason for me to continue our tour. I was to return to L.A. because Axl was ready to begin working on the next Guns N’ Roses record. They’d thought it through: in case I objected, they made it clear that the financial tour support for Snakepit was over.

I returned to L.A. dreading what lay in store for me and I had good reason to; what lay in store was the beginning of the end—the conclusion of unfinished, unpleasant business. All things considered, the end had begun long ago; I was just coming home for the funeral. It’s funny, when fans ask me, as they do almost every day, whether Guns, in its original form, will ever reunite, it is hard to take them seriously. That question is so asinine to me; if they knew the real story, they’d already know the answer. But my response is always the same: “Take a look at what everyone is doing now. Duff and Matt and I are part of a really successful band. Izzy’s content doing his thing; Steven, too. And Axl is touring with the ‘new Guns.’ No one is making phone calls to see when we can get the band together again.”

That’s the lowdown of where we’re all at. Once you take that into consideration, the answer to the reunion question should be pretty clear, if you ask me. Are we cool?

Sometimes the truth lies is in front of your eyes and makes so little sense that you just don’t see it; it’s like confronting your reflection in a fun-house mirror—it’s hard to believe that the twisted figure staring back is you. Guns had become a similar monster; we were such a bizarre version of what we once were that I could barely recognize us. But unlike the fun house, I couldn’t escape; when I turned away from the glass, the reflection was still there.

I
was ordered to come back off the road; I was told to stop something that I was enjoying in every way. I was reluctant to do that. I wanted to keep the tour going beyond Japan; I wanted to take it to Australia, I wanted to finish what I’d set out to do. It might seem inconsistent, because Snakepit was seen as an in-between project and a bit of a party band, but I was ambitious about it. When I set my mind to achieving something, I put blinders on, I put my head down, and drive ahead until I get it. And I hadn’t quite gotten what I’d aimed for on that one.

I had been that single-minded and determined when I brought the record to Geffen. I didn’t consider and didn’t realize what was going on with the label in 1994 when I showed up for my meeting. The entire record business was on the verge of a massive shift; all of the majors would be combined, sold, or dissolved within the next few years. At the time I didn’t know or care. I played Snakepit for Zutaut, they agreed to put it out, and that was all I cared to hear. I didn’t sense the confusion that was going on up there or in the industry at large and I didn’t acknowledge the very obvious anxiety that was circulating about the next Guns N’ Roses album. I had no idea that David Geffen was about to sell the company, and that the prospect of a new Guns record might have changed that, but even if I did, there wasn’t much I could have done to deliver it “on time.”

Looking back, I realize that while they thought I was putting the future of Guns in jeopardy by pursuing Snakepit, they decided that it was more important to humor me, so they went the whole nine yards to let me get it out of my system. They were biting their nails the whole time but if Zutaut or anyone else had voiced their concerns, I would have told them the truth: I had no intention of quitting Guns N’ Roses. As pissed off as I was, I always thought that I’d go back, after some time off, when the time was right.

So Geffen released and supported
It’s Five O’Clock Somewhere
. They publicized it, and they gave us financial tour support…until they didn’t. As I mentioned, once Axl informed the label (or so I was told) that he was ready to begin writing sessions for the next Guns record, my leash was
yanked and I was ordered to come home because the way they saw it I’d sold one million records and they’d turned a profit and didn’t need me out there supporting it anymore. The funny thing was that even after all these years, I still never looked at touring as album promotion—to me it was still just an excuse to play.

I landed in L.A. and settled into the new home that Renee and I had rented above Sunset Plaza, in West Hollywood. I’d moved all of the snakes over there and we’d been there awhile, just renting month to month indefinitely. I might have been married but I didn’t have the married homeowner mentality at that point. I knew that I was “supposed to” own a house, but I really couldn’t get my head around the concept. I had leased a place for a decent price right above Sunset that had everything I needed. It was my hang pad: I had my snakes, I had Renee, I had my pinball machines—it was a great bachelor pad…for my wife and me.

So I got into town loathing what I had to do because in the back of my mind I knew it was going to be so many things, none of them easy. Doug had set us up at a studio called the Complex, which we later dubbed the Compound. I went down there and Axl had already set up shop. The place had a big rehearsal room and an insane amount of outboard gear—literally a room full of synths—as well as an arsenal of Pro Tools recording rigs that Axl had rented. Axl and I hadn’t spoken directly at all since my return, either by phone or face-to-face: I got my working orders from Doug. I showed up at the scheduled time and I found my tech, Adam Day; Duff ’s tech, McBob; Duff, Dizzy Reed, and Matt and Paul Huge. Axl was nowhere in sight. I got down there that first night around eight p.m.

My immediate thought was that this scene, which was supposed to be our band, reminded me way too much of recording for Michael Jackson on
Dangerous
. When I’d done those sessions for him, I was blown away by how much money was going down the toilet: there was rented equipment everywhere, and I was told that he had multiple studios identically set up around the country, booked, incurring day rates, in case he was inspired to record there at any given moment.

I’m a frugal guy, so that didn’t appeal to me at all. I found that kind of recording environment to be a waste and I found Michael’s scene to be way
out of control. When I showed up to record, the staff was as hospitable and robotic as a bunch of bellboys at a five-star hotel.

“So what would you like to play on?” I remember some guy asking me.

“What do you mean?”

“We have a wide selection of guitars here,” the guy said. “Which would you like to use?”

“I brought my own,” I said. “I’d like to play on that.”

That whole thing was a disjointed and cold musical scenario. The last place I ever expected to encounter that vibe again was at my band’s writing/rehearsing/recording sessions. I can put up with a million and one things, but the one thing I can’t stomach is a lack of integrity. At the first whiff of bullshit, I get wary. And what I walked into had me worried.

There were rows and rows of Pro Tools servers and gear. Which was a clear indication that Axl and I had very different ideas of how to do this record. I was open to using Pro Tools, to trying new things—but everyone had to be on the same page and in the same room to explore new ideas. The band managed to do a little bit of jamming and come up with some things. A couple of the ideas I had come up with Axl apparently liked and they were recorded onto Pro Tools and stored for him to work on later.

We’d show up at different times every evening, but by eight p.m. generally everyone in the band would be there. Then we’d wait for Axl, who, when he did come, arrived much, much later. That was the norm; it was a dark, miserable atmosphere that lacked direction of any kind. I hung out for a bit; but after a few days I chose to spend my evenings at the strip bar around the corner, with orders for the engineers to call me if Axl decided to arrive.

A DECADE AFTER WE’D FIRST GOTTEN
the band together, every single thing that I knew to be Guns N’ Roses had changed. We’d lost Steven, we’d lost Izzy, and while we’d gained Matt, we’d gained and lost Gilby. Duff was the only element of the original back line that remained the same; he was my friend, the only one I could count on. But he was sober now; in May 1994, he suffered a near-fatal episode when
his pancreas almost exploded. Years of heavy drinking had taken their toll, and if Duff didn’t get sober, he’d die. We were still tight, and things were basically the same, but we didn’t tip bottles together anymore. He was really striving to keep things together in a way, keeping Matt in the loop because, after all, Matt wasn’t sure how the process of songwriting to recording worked within GN’R. Duff was the only anchor at that point, while I was fraying at the seams.

Drinking to me was still a fun, recreational activity to be indulged in every day, though I had started to drink to medicate more than just for fun. There wasn’t much of a social scene for Guns outside of the studio anyway, so from the moment I reentered the band, I was pretty much on my own. My consumption was excessive, but I still functioned like a normal person—a normal person with a pure internal alcohol level diluted only by their blood. I had worked long and hard to get myself in shape that way. I’d had to, because drinking was the only thing that satisfied me and subdued all of the issues that I would have had to otherwise deal with, in the band and in my life, if I ever let myself get back to normal for a while.

Slash and Axl discussing something backstage on the
Illusion
tour. Note the half gallon of vodka stashed in Slash’s stomach.

All the focus was on trying to get things working again. Amid the least creative atmosphere I’d ever experienced in the history of the band, we somehow finally got stuff going. My memories of it are hazy at best because I did everything I could to forget. I do remember going down to the studio and rehearsing without direction. I just had too much animosity blocking my creativity. One of the few times I actually spoke with Axl about how it was going, it was pretty clear that we were coming from
very
different places. I was trying to get through to him once again about how working with Huge was a chore and a creative dead end in my opinion.

“You don’t have to be friends to make a record,” Axl said.

“Maybe not,” I said, “but you do need to have some kind of mutual respect, you know.”

We might as well have been talking about the two of us. The negativity was so all-consuming that I couldn’t concentrate and I couldn’t focus on writing. There was so much bitter stuff nagging at me that remaining calm and tranquil enough to enjoy playing was next to impossible. So I preoccupied myself with being drunk all the time and tried to push through whatever it was that we were doing.

Axl asked Zakk Wylde to come down to rehearse with us as well as Paul Huge. He probably thought I’d like that idea because Zakk was a friend of mine and I respected him as a guitarist, but that really didn’t seem like the answer to me. I brought up the option of rehiring Gilby, and that idea was flatly rejected. There were endless messages sent back and forth, through Doug Goldstein, about Axl’s wants, needs, and ideas on what we should be doing. The only way that I regularly “talked” to Axl was through Doug at that point. Axl would give Doug a message and Doug would have to massage the words in order to relate it to me. Then I’d give him a message and he’d pass it along to Axl after massaging it appropriately, and so it went, back and forth. At times I’d call Axl but most of the time he wouldn’t pick up or ever return my call. And when he did show up at rehearsal, he never sang. My memory of that time is so vague, because so little jamming happened. I must say, though, that the gear was set up
nice
. All things considered, those sessions cost too much for a lot of uneventful, depressing sitting around.

As pissed as I was to have been called home to do nothing, my respon
sible side kicked in and I was determined to get something out of it despite the fact that my heart was in my boots. I wasn’t sure what to expect from Zakk Wyld but I hoped for the best. He’s a great guy; I remember that I met him at the Sunset Marquis the night he got hired to be Ozzy’s guitar player years before. We hung out in his room celebrating until I left him passed out in the bathtub. Zakk’s personality is like Steven Adler’s times ten: he doesn’t mince words and isn’t scared of confrontation. I couldn’t see him and Axl lasting more than a week. But aside from that, when we jammed down at the Complex, it didn’t make any sense to me. It wasn’t the two-guitar-player team that GN’R really was. We were two lead-guitar players going at the songs on opposite sides of the stage and it was overbearing. I was used to working with and playing off of a more low-key rhythm player. If Zakk and I were to do this, it would be a whole new trip…more like Judas Priest or something. Even he felt that the concept was wrong.

“That was cool,” I told him after jamming for a bit. “It was different.”

“Listen, man,” he said. “That was all right. We could get this thing together, fuck it, that’s cool. But you and Axl have to get the fuckin’
band
going, man. Get yourselves together and fucking get it going again.”

It was all about Axl wanting control to the point that the rest of us were strangled.

BY THEN ALL “BAND” DECISIONS WERE
being made by Axl and Doug Goldstein. Duff and I and the other members were informed of what they’d decided by phone calls and faxes—Guns N’
Roses had officially become a dictatorship. The reality of what was happening was overwhelming; it was like quicksand. I couldn’t get any leverage in any direction to pull myself out of it. What we were supposed to be doing was simple: hire a new guitar player and make a new album. But the whole process was dictated by Axl, and although I know he wanted input from me, I was suffocated by the tension and I couldn’t think straight. I think at the end of the day it was a power struggle between him and me, with him wanting to control everything and me wanting to keep it more of a group effort. Oftentimes the public perception centered on Axl and me as the core of Guns N’ Roses, and I think Axl agreed, but the success GN’R had garnered up until that point was the result of five guys working together, where nobody was more important than anyone else as far as I was concerned. But that idea was becoming ancient history and it didn’t seem like there was anything I could do about it.

Even though I’d seen this coming for so long, when the reality stared me in the face, I still refused to believe that it was true. One of the things that had brought the five of us together in the first place was the fact that we would not be bossed around; based on that alone, we’d always had one another’s backs. Axl had always been a part of that team—at least in spirit when he wasn’t there in person. In our heart of hearts, even when he was being weird, the rest of us knew that he was part of the collective. Now, all of a sudden, he wasn’t. As much as we might have ignored it before this point, he’d made it pretty clear that we were “his” band and that he intended to tweak and torture us as he saw fit, and keep us at his beck and call. It seemed like he believed we’d welcome that opportunity.