My Appetite For Destruction (27 page)

That’s how I am with a lot of stuff. Pretty mellow when it comes to artistic interpretation. No ego with the drums. If they don’t belong, they don’t. Can you imagine the Stones’ Charlie Watts trying to wedge a drum part into “Lady Jane”? I was fine with not playing the drums on every track until
GNR
said I couldn’t play the drums on
any
track . . . ever. But more on that in a bit.

“One in a Million” featured the wildly controversial lyrics about “police and niggers” and “immigrants and faggots.” I thought that it was a great song that needed strong words. It expressed a heavy sentiment that had to be delivered with no punches pulled. I knew that the words weren’t directed to the majority of blacks, gays, or immigrants. It simply described the scumbags of the world. That’s what Lennon did when he wrote “Woman Is the Nigger of the World.” “Nigger” to him meant “slave.” And we meant “lowlife.” The song explained the shit that Axl, a naive hick from Indiana, had gone through.

Nobody thought twice about it, not even Slash, although I later learned that his mom was offended. I thought when Axl sang, “Immigrants . . . come to our country and think they’ll do as they please, like start a mini-Iran,” he meant, “Look how fucked up Iran is. Don’t bring that shit over here.” That was my interpretation. Also, because we loved that song, we wanted it to get a lot of attention, and this was the way to fan the flames.

The only shows played in support of
Lies
were in Japan and Australia. We had only had a ten-week break since our last concert opening for
INXS
at Texas Stadium outside Dallas. Japan was awesome. Especially for a blond like myself. I got the impression that they just worshipped blonds over there by paying them special attention. When we arrived at the hotel, I went straight to my room. I opened my bag and threw everything all over the bed like I always would. We went out on the town for a little while, and when I returned to my room, I was pleasantly surprised. I discovered that all my clothes had been folded so neatly, so perfectly. I didn’t even want to touch them and ruin the artistry. I went, “
What the hell?
”

Then I heard the cutest-sounding giggles. There was a petite Japanese hottie hiding behind the curtain. She had her hands over her mouth, suppressing her excitement. Then I heard laughter from within the bathroom. There, another young girl was hiding in the shower. Together, they welcomed me to their country in their own special way. Japan: Land of the Rising Buns.

The
man
in Japan, the top promoter and a formidable leader in numerous business ventures, was a distinguished gentleman named Mr. Udo. He would take our entire crew out for fabulous dinners. The lighting guys, the sound techs, everybody benefited from his extreme hospitality. On one such occasion, they brought us twenty entrées. They set a bowl of soup in front of me. I said, “
Domo arigato,
” which means “Thank you very much.” They all smiled and bowed respectfully. Even the band was impressed. This, however, was the extent of my grasp of the language. I learned it from the Styx song “Mr. Roboto” in which they sing, “
Domo arigato,
Mr. Roboto.” I looked at my dish, and I was taken by the sight of many tiny fish swimming around in the broth. It threw me for a loop, but I didn’t hesitate to indulge.

T
he absolute best meal I had there was Kobe beef. It was explained to me that Kobe beef was made from cows that were fed copious amounts of beer their entire lives. They were raised to have soft muscles by being massaged for hours a day. I was told that when they kill it, the cow is pretty out of it. This meat is so tender. It’s cut into little squares. They put a steaming hot rock in front of you, and you set a piece of meat on it, cook it, flip it over, and do the other side. It just melts in your mouth, definitely the best meat I’ve ever eaten.

We traveled on the famous bullet train, where they had the best food in their dining car. During our journey, I met the granddaughter of the Kawasaki motorcycle mogul. She was beautiful and nubile. I felt that when I was on the road, it was okay to play. So I charmed her and managed to get her to make out with me.

T
he fans in Japan were crazy. I have a picture of Dougie pulling me through a crowd of hundreds of young Asian girls. It looks like something right out of the Beatles’ movie
A Hard Day’s Night
. There’s one scene in that film where the guys are running down a street, chased by hundreds of fans. George Harrison trips, causing him and Ringo to fall. It was the funniest thing, but you could tell they really fell, no stunt bullshit.

Well, Duff and I experienced something similar. We walked out of the hotel one night, heading over to the Hard Rock for some dinner and drinks. We avoided the main exit and slipped out a side door. Walking around the block, from fifty yards away we could see about eighty kids waiting for the band, armed with records to be autographed. We had been signing shit all day, and I asked Duff, “You really wanna do this?” We just looked at each other and started running as fast as we could on the other side of the street, hoping not to be noticed. We were spotted, however, and every one of those kids started chasing us. We rushed into the Hard Rock and the security people there stopped the kids in their tracks. We sat down to food and drinks while the kids continued screaming for us outside. We waved at them through the restaurant window, not taunting, just friendly, and they went happily nuts. It was just another rock star experience.

We asked where the best nightclubs were in town. I wanted to go dancing and drinking. Many told us that the Lexington Queen was the place to be, so we took the advice and ended up there one evening. The owner of the establishment was a gay Asian guy who paid me special attention. It was a little embarrassing because he just
loved
me and treated us so well there. I was on the dance floor grooving with a few Asian girls, and I set my leather jacket down. After a minute or so, I went to collect my jacket, and it was gone. I ran over to the owner and said, “Hey, I was dancing here and someone swiped my jacket.”

He told me, “It must have been an American model. Asian people would not steal from you, Steven.” He said, “Wait here.” He came back with a brand-new jacket with the logo for the Lexington Queen embroidered on the back. Later, I gave that jacket to my dad, Mel, and he really loved it.

T
here were many American models hanging out in Japan. I learned that they would work there for a few weeks at a time. Their employers would put them up in their own little apartments. So naturally, I hooked up with one. A tall, thin blonde; nothing too special. She took me back to her place. We made love and I really thought nothing much of it. The very next day, Axl meets the same girl. She turns out to be a total troublemaking bitch. He fucks her and she starts telling him that I was talking all kinds of shit about him. Why would I share negative stuff about him with some random girl I didn’t even know? Axl was my brother and we were conquering the world together. If I had an issue with Axl I got in his face. That’s the way I rolled. Always.

So Axl comes up to me and says something like, “This here is my woman, and she told me that you said I’m an asshole.”

I said, “Your woman? You just met her, Axl. We fucked last night. That’s all. I didn’t say shit to that bitch.” The argument just kind of fizzled out at that point with Axl mumbling something as he walked off. He was usually okay as long as he got the last word, whether you could hear it or not. Unfortunately, incidents like this only served to weaken my relationship with Axl.

T
he shows in Japan were amazing, all sellouts. The Japanese created their own colorful posters announcing the concerts and the fans were great. Like the Germans, they knew all the lyrics to every song. On December 4 we played
NHK
Hall in Tokyo; the next day we played Festival Hall in Osaka, then went back to Tokyo for three shows starting on the seventh and wrapping up on the tenth. For that last show, we made a dream come true for the band. We played Budokan, a world-famous venue where everyone from Dylan to Clapton to Cheap Trick had played. Cheap Trick’s live album
At Budokan
was recorded there and we all loved that album. It was one of Slash’s and my first records. We must have listened to it a thousand times when we were kids. Axl even mentioned that it was an influence on us all during the performance. I just remember playing and looking out over the crowd thinking, “Wow, this is where all those great songs went down.”

We were exhausted, and Axl’s voice was raw, but we rallied because it was our final show. Axl had actually apologized for “playing like shit” the night before at
NHK
. I got to do an extended drum solo during “Rocket Queen,” and we closed with a fucking epic version of “Paradise City.”

Tours in Japan usually lead to Australia, and that’s what ours did. Three days after Budokan we performed the first of two shows at the Entertainment Center in Melbourne. It was a huge outdoor arena. The first performance was a sellout. The second was at about two-thirds capacity. I recall those shows fondly because I was able to hone my drum solo until it sounded really tight, light, and playful at first, and then very explosive. We never really planned stuff like that, and I think the solo just grew out of the middle of the song where Duff slapped a cool bass riff and I followed with a flurry of drumming. No one broke back in, so I kept playing, and each performance I’d carve out a little more solo time. It was a natural, totally spontaneous development, and I smiled ear to ear.

We also played in Sydney on the seventeenth and then were off to Auckland, New Zealand, for our last show of 1988. We performed that show in support of
Lies
and ten thousand screaming kiwis loved every minute of it.

I spotted the then eighteen-year-old supermodel Rachel Hunter hanging out with some friends on the side of the stage. Everyone was intimidated by her beauty, literally afraid to approach her, but I didn’t care. I had the smile and the charm and was armed with the fact that I was in the best rock ’n’ roll band in the world. I just went right up to her after the show and struck up a conversation. I knew I had to spend some time with this knockout, invest in some one-on-one chatting. We went back to the hotel together and talked all night. The next morning we had breakfast and then she showed me around some cool spots in Auckland. It was such a sweet, effortless time, and she was so gracious and hospitable. We never got past holding hands, hugging, and a little kissing, but that was just fine. I was in heaven and she was one helluva great kisser too.

W
hen we flew back to L.A., I noticed more than ever how popular we had become. At the airport we were mobbed for autographs. People recognized us everywhere. A lot of folks would just stare and whisper. I guess they felt weird or too shy to actually approach us. I got used to it quickly. Everywhere I went, someone knew my name. At my favorite hangout, the Rainbow, the guys treated me the way they always had, and that was great. This was a place where I had spent a lot of time. I had partied at each booth and in every chair, and I had slipped away to fuck everywhere in the place. Different chicks had ducked under every table to give me a blow job. After the band made it, I felt especially proud just hanging out there.

So many people who hung out at the Rainbow looked and acted the part. They all had the rock star thing going. But could they really play? Could they really make it happen? We proved ourselves. I would always hug and chat with the owners Michael, Mario, and Steady. I asked Michael, “Hey, if I brought something in, would you hang it on the wall?”

“Sure, Stevie. Of course.” I gave him a signed snare drum and a framed picture and felt honored to have something up on the walls with all the other pieces of rock star memorabilia. The Rainbow is like L.A.’s version of the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and to this day, my picture and drum hang on the ceiling.

After our last shows, we returned home for an indefinite period. We had no solid plans for the immediate future, no itinerary. Tama drums had signed me to an endorsement deal and they flew Cheryl and me out to Philadelphia, where I would make an appearance and do a photo shoot for drum advertisements. We spent a few days there with Cheryl’s family. They were just the most down-to-earth, caring, blue-collar folks, and I loved them.

W
hen we got back home, Cheryl and I retreated to my apartment, which was located by my grandparents’ place. I didn’t visit them much, it was just where I happened to be renting at the time. I was just partying, doing my own thing. I befriended this kid who lived across the street, a hippied-out stoner dude with shaggy hair, about twenty years old. I’d give him twenty or forty bucks and he’d pick up some heroin to smoke. At first, one run in the morning and one at night was fine. It was perfect. I had my waterbed in the living room, and I would just lie there all day watching TV. But after a couple of weeks I was shelling out $150 to $200 so he could make three or four runs a day. Hmmmm.

Cheryl was pretty oblivious to it all at first. She didn’t party with me. She’d often leave around noon to go out shopping or hang with her friends. She’d come back before dark and I’d be lying there stoned out, high and numb to the world. She’d give me this big smile and show off what she got at the shops. I’d pretend to be interested and give her my Stevie smile.

The descent happened so quickly. At first I hid my drug use from her. More out of shame than anything else. I just didn’t want her to know, because I didn’t want to discuss it, and keeping it from her was easy, because she wasn’t looking. She was naive to my ways, so as long as I was careful, it wasn’t hard to conceal. Maybe she was also looking the other way a little. We both loved each other a lot and when you’re in that phase of the relationship, you try to avoid any ugly confrontations.