Slash (5 page)

I took lessons from Robert on my worn-out flamenco guitar throughout the summer before ninth grade—with all six strings in place, which, of course, he taught me how to tune. I was always amazed when he put on a record that he didn’t know and learned it on the spot in a few minutes. I set about achieving that ability for myself: like every overeager beginner, I tried to jump to that level straightaway and, like every good teacher, Robert forced me to master the fundamentals. He taught me basic major, minor, and blues scales and all of the standard chord positions. He’d also sketch chord charts to my favorite songs, such as “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” and “Whole Lotta Love,” that I was to play as my reward once I’d done the week’s exercises. Usually I’d skip straight to the reward and when I showed up at the music school the next day, it was obvious to Robert that I hadn’t even touched my homework. Sometimes I liked to play as if I still had only one string. Every song I liked had a riff in it, so playing it all up and down one string was more fun until my fingers learned the proper form.

My BMX racing gear gathered dust in my closet. My friends wondered where I was at night. I saw Danny McCracken one day while I was riding back from music school, my guitar slung over my back. He asked me where I’d been and if I’d won any races lately. I told him that I was a guitar player now. He sized me up, looked at my worn-out six-string, and stared hard
right into my eyes. “Oh yeah?” He had a very confused look on his face, as if he wasn’t sure what to make of what I’d told him. We sat there awkwardly in silence for a minute on our bikes then said our good-byes. It was the last time I ever saw him.

I respected my guitar teacher, Robert, but I naively and impatiently failed to see the direct line between the fundamentals he was teaching me and the Rolling Stones and Led Zeppelin songs that I wanted to play. It all came to a head soon enough, once I discovered my personal instruction manual, so to speak; it was a used book I found in a guitar store bargain bin called
How to Play Rock Guitar.
This book had all of the chord charts, tablature, and sample solos from greats like Eric Clapton, Johnny Winter, and Jimi Hendrix. It even came with a little floppy 45 that demonstrated the proper way to play what was in the book. I took that thing home and devoured it, and once I was capable of mimicking the sounds on that little record, I was soon improvising on my own, and then I was
beside myself.
Once I’d heard myself lay down patterns that sounded like rock-and-roll lead guitar it was as if I’d found the Holy Grail. That book changed my life; I still have my worn-out copy in a trunk somewhere and I’ve never seen another one before or since. I’ve looked for it plenty of times to no avail. I feel like it was the only copy left in the world and that it was there that day waiting specifically for me. That book gave me the skills I sought and once I’d begun to master them I quit music school forever.

I was now a “rock guitar player,” as far as I was concerned, so out of necessity, I borrowed one hundred bucks from my grandmother and bought an electric guitar. It was a very cheap Les Paul copy made by a company called Memphis Guitars. I was attracted to the shape, because most of my favorite players played Les Pauls—it epitomized rock guitar to me. That said, I didn’t know enough to even know who Les Paul was; I wasn’t acquainted with his sublime jazz playing and had no idea that he had pioneered the development of electric instruments, effects, and recording techniques. I didn’t know that his brand of solid body guitar would soon become my primary choice of instrument. And I had no idea at all that I’d enjoy the honor of sharing a stage with him many times, many years later. Nope, that day it was pretty basic; in my mind, that shape visually represented the sound I wanted to make.

FINDING GUITAR WAS LIKE FINDING MYSELF;
it defined me, it gave me a purpose. It was a creative outlet that allowed me to understand myself. The turmoil of my adolescence was suddenly secondary; playing guitar gave me focus. I didn’t keep a journal; I couldn’t seem to vocalize my feelings in a constructive fashion, but the guitar gave me emotional clarity. I loved to draw; that was an activity that took my mind off things, but it wasn’t enough of a vehicle for me to completely express myself. I’ve always envied the artists who could express themselves through art, and only through the guitar have I come to understand what a wonderful release it is.

Practicing for hours wherever I found myself was liberating. Playing became a trance that soothed my soul: with my hands occupied and my mind engaged, I found peace. Once I got into a band, I found that the physical exertion of playing a show became my primary personal release; when I’m playing onstage I’m more at home in my own skin than at any other time in my life. There is a subconscious, emotional level that informs playing, and since I’m the kind of person who carries his baggage around internally, nothing has ever helped me tap into my feelings more.

Finding my voice through guitar at fifteen was, to me, revolutionary. It was a leap in my evolution; I can’t think of anything that made more of a difference in my life. The only moment that came close had occurred two years before when I first experienced the mystery of the opposite sex. Once I’d done it, I didn’t think that anything was better than sex…until I played guitar. And soon after that I found out that those two pursuits couldn’t coexist peacefully in my teenage world.

My first girlfriend was named Melissa. She was a cute, kind of chubby girl with great tits, who was one year younger than me. She was twelve and I was thirteen when we lost our virginity to each other. That isn’t shocking by today’s standards, when teens engage in very adult practices earlier than ever, but in 1978, she and I were ahead of the curve: most of our peers were still French kissing. We both inherently knew not to mess with a good thing, so we stayed together, on and off, for years. The first time we did anything was in the laundry room of her apartment building, which was on the first floor, in the back of the building. She jerked me
off; it was a first for both of us. Eventually we moved it to the one-bedroom apartment that she shared with her mom, Carolyn. Unfortunately, the first time we did, Carolyn came home early, so I had to crawl through Melissa’s bedroom window with my pants around my ankles. Luckily the bushes were forgiving.

Things got hot and heavy between us pretty quickly; when her mom wasn’t home, we did it in Melissa’s bed, and when she was home, we did it on the couch after Carolyn passed out on Valium, hoping she wouldn’t wake up and catch us. Of course, trying to wait for Carolyn’s Valium to kick in wasn’t always easy. It was soon after Melissa and Carolyn moved upstairs to a two-bedroom that her mother resigned herself to what we were up to. She decided that it was better that we do it in her home than elsewhere and told us as much. According to Melissa and me, from our sexually ravenous, adolescent point of view, her mom was
the coolest
.

Caroyln smoked a ton of pot and was very open about it; she would roll us perfect joints and allowed me to stay with them, sleeping in Melissa’s room, for weeks at a time. Since we got together during the summer, my mom didn’t mind. Her mother didn’t work; she had a very nice, much older drug-dealer boyfriend who sold coke, pot, and acid, all of which he would give to us freely, provided we enjoyed it all in-house.

Their apartment building was on Edinburgh and Willoughby, about two blocks west of Fairfax and half a block south of Santa Monica Boulevard. The location was perfect—the Laurel Elementary School that my friends and I frequented was just down the street. That’s where Melissa and I met, actually. The playground was as much of a community as Melissa’s block was. Her neighborhood was an interesting cultural mishmash: young gay guys, older Jewish families, Russians, Armenians, and Middle Easterners lived alongside one another. There was a quaint,
Leave It to Beaver
quality to it, with everyone smiling and waving and saying hello, but there was also a very tangible tension.

On an average night, Melissa and I would get high and listen to music with her mom, then head across the street to visit Wes and Nate, the two gay guys who lived in the only house among the apartment buildings to be found in a six-block radius. They had a huge yard, probably about an acre, and a tall oak tree with a swing hanging from it on their lot. We’d smoke
a joint with them, then proceed to the backyard, where we’d lie under the oak tree, staring at the stars.

I discovered so much contemporary music during that period, too. I mentioned that my parents played music all the time; it’s my fondest memory of childhood. I listen to all of it still, from the classical composers my dad favored to the sixties and early-seventies legends they both loved. That period was rock and roll’s most creative time. I’m constantly looking and rarely finding music that’s better. When I think I have, a closer inspection reveals it to be just another rehash of the originators. And then I find that I’d rather just listen to the Stones or Aerosmith or whatever it’s based on than listen any further.

But when I was thirteen, I wasn’t satisfied with my parents’ collection anymore. I sought out new sounds, and found an endless supply at Melissa’s house. That is where I was first exposed to Supertramp, Journey, Styx, April Wine, Foghat, and Genesis—none of which really suited my taste. But Melissa’s mom listened to a ton of Pink Floyd, which I knew from my mom, but given that Carolyn had such good pot, their music suddenly took on a whole new meaning. That apartment was paradise for a budding guitar player: getting stoned for free, discovering new tunes, and having sex with my girlfriend all night, all before I graduated junior high.

I dont't think there's anything better than hearing your favorite band live

I SPENT THE REST OF EIGHTH GRADE
and all of ninth grade touring Hollywood with Steven by day, playing guitar in my room, and sleeping with Melissa. I stole a chunky, Panasonic top-loading tape player at some point and carried it everywhere, soaking up music like Ted Nugent, Cheap Trick, Queen, Cream, and Edgar and Johnny Winter. I stole more cassettes each day, absorbing one band at a time. I would start with a band’s live album, because I believe that is the only way to determine whether or not any band is worth your attention. If they sounded good enough live, I’d steal their entire catalog. I also used live records to hear their greatest hits before I embarked on stealing their entire catalog—I was frugal. I still love live records; as a fan of rock music—and I still feel like a fan first—I don’t think there’s anything better than hearing your favorite band live. I still believe that the best representations of my favorite bands were captured on their live albums, whether we’re talking about Aerosmith’s
Live Bootleg,
the Who’s
Live at Leeds,
the Rolling Stones’
Get Your Ya Ya’s Out,
or the Kinks’
Give the People What They Want.
Much later, I was very proud when Guns N’ Roses put out
Live Era;
I think it captures some great moments.

ASIDE FROM MELISSA AND STEVEN, MY
friends were much older than I was. I had met many of them through my bike gang and made many more along the way because I always had pot from one source or another. My mom was a pot smoker who was very liberal in her rearing: she preferred that I smoke pot under her supervision, rather than experiment out in the world. With all due respect to her, she had my best intentions in mind, but she didn’t realize that not only did I smoke at home under her watchful eye, but I also pinched a little of her weed (sometimes just the seeds) to smoke or sell when I went out. It was, without fail, the best way to ingratiate myself and I thank her for it.

The kids in the older circles I ran in had apartments, sold drugs, threw parties, and clearly thought nothing of entertaining minors. Aside from the obvious benefits, such an environment also allowed me to discover bands of the day that I would have otherwise missed. There were a bunch of surfer and skater guys I hung out with who turned me on to Devo, the Police,
999, and a few more radio-friendly New Wave bands. Among another clique that I hung with, a lanky black guy in his twenties named Kevin turned me on to the first Cars album during one of his parties.

Kevin was the older brother of one of my bike buddies, a guy named Keith who’d nicknamed me Solomon Grundy. I looked up to Keith because he always had the hottest girls from Fairfax High School chasing him around. When I was thirteen and fourteen and really into BMX, this guy was in the scene, but so cool that he always seemed to be about one step away from ditching it altogether for more sophisticated, adult pursuits. I’m still not sure why Keith called me Solomon Grundy.

In any case, Kevin’s musical taste was questionable. He was into disco, which was an interest we did not share, though I now realize that he was so inclined because it afforded him the opportunity to get as much trim as possible—so I respect him more for it now. It worked, too, because the girls in his circle and at his parties were hot and promiscuous, which was especially intriguing to me. That said, I didn’t expect to like the “cool new band” Kevin was going to play for me while we smoked a joint in his room at his party that night. I changed my mind midway through the first song, and by the time the second song was over I was a lifelong fan of Elliot Easton. Elliot was the soul of the Cars, and that first record of theirs won me over. In my opinion, the Cars were one of the few impactful groups that came along when New Wave took over the airwaves.

Just before I left the party that night, I heard a snippet of music that seriously grabbed my attention. Someone had put Aerosmith’s
Rocks
on the stereo and I caught only two songs, but that was enough. It had this really nasty alley cat vibe to it that I had never heard before. If lead guitar was the undiscovered voice that had resided within me, this was the record I’d waited my whole life to hear. I made sure to check out the album cover before I took off, so I’d know who it was. I remembered the name Aerosmith; four years before, in 1975, they had their only AM radio hit at the time with “Walk This Way.” I ran into the
Rocks
record again a week or two later…but at the most inopportune moment.