Slash (52 page)

I was without an attorney at that point, when one night I was at home with Perla and there was a knock at the door. It was the police, who had a warrant for her arrest for violating probation. She was cuffed and stuffed. Perla had recently gotten a DUI and wasn’t supposed to be driving, but she had been. While she did fifty-six days in the county jail, Jerry got me to sign that contract when I wasn’t in the right frame of mind. I was drinking insane amounts of vodka from morning to night, and I can’t imagine that I was clearheaded enough to make rational business decisions.

It was way back on the Mötley Crüe tour that I first noticed the shakes as a result of having the DT’s in the morning. I started drinking early in the day not so much cure a hangover as to control the DT’s. It was a subtle change that would continue and get worse later. When Perla was in jail, I would go to sleep with a cocktail next to my head on the nightstand and would finish it in the morning just to be able to get out of bed to get to the kitchen to make a fresh one to start my day. Often the police wouldn’t let me into the county jail to visit her because I had been drinking. I was a real mess: aside from close to a gallon of vodka a day at home, I’d drink shots of whiskey with beer chasers all night when I would go out to clubs. The future didn’t look bright for me health-wise but nobody could have told me that back then.

AFTER THE AC/DC TOUR, WE DID A HEAD-
lining tour of theaters. It was actually costing me money, personally, but I didn’t care. After two months Koch ditched us: they pulled our tour support and didn’t promote the thing at all. We’d show up to signings and the record wouldn’t be in the stores. I’d have to make a call to get a box of them sent out that day—it was way too
Spinal Tap.

As the tour wore on, I remember progressively not feeling well. In Pittsburgh, I remember thinking that I should go to the hospital before sound check. My next memory is waking up two weeks later in a hospital bed with Perla sitting there, looking very worried. I had suffered cardiac myopathy. Years of overdrinking had swollen my heart to the point of rupture, to the point where it was barely strong enough to circulate my blood properly. I couldn’t get it through my head that I was out of commission, but I was. The doctors gave me six days to six weeks to live but not much more. Once I was well enough to fly back to L.A., I was on bed rest and forbidden from drinking or any kind of strenuous physical activity.

The doctors installed a defibrillator to keep my heart from stopping and to keep my heart rate steady. After a time I began therapy, starting with very minimal exercise and working my way up. Miraculously, my heart started to heal, and the doctors could not believe that my condition was improving. Eventually I was able to play again and I was determined to finish up our club tour. I had been out of circulation for about four months and I was totally sober. When I saw the band again, this time through clear eyes, I realized how dysfunctional it was.

Between the junkie singer who was on the verge of withdrawal at any moment and the bass player, they seemed like they wanted nothing but to live the whole lifestyle that I had a reputation for. But in my new, clear-minded state, it appeared to me that the whole thing was very unprofessional and all over the place. A couple of the guys seemed less committed than guys in my in high school bands had been: they were treating this whole thing like a free ride, and no one was carrying their weight. I spent the rest of those dates when I wasn’t onstage in my bunk. When we got back to L.A. after the last gig, I stayed up there until everyone was gone, and that was the last I spoke to any of them for quite some time. I am good friends with Johnny and Matt again, now that enough time has passed.

SOBRIETY ALSO CONFIRMED THE FEELING
that Jerry Heller was draining my life and needed to go…but I had signed that contract and was bound by it. I finally got a break when Jerry made a mistake that Perla and I discovered after some thorough investigating. Early
in our partnership, Jerry got me to record a guitar part for Rod Stewart on the song “Human” from the album of the same name. He had booked that recording gig for me, which was a material breach of our contract—a manager can’t book something like that and take a commission, which he had. In the end, his own actions gave me the legal out I needed to be rid of him. I felt lucky.

This particular period, from 1999 to 2001, was easily the darkest period of my existence on this planet. Recreational drinking had morphed into
severe
alcoholism. I allowed myself to be thrown to the wolves…all these people were taking advantage of me when all I really wanted to do was play and not deal with it all. It was a huge reality check.

I figure I paid my dues after Guns. It was tough going, but I guess it was something I had to go through to be able to focus and see how tenacious and resilient I really am. And to rediscover how badly I still wanted it.

BY NOW PERLA AND I HAD MOVED INTO
a new house up in Nichols Canyon, determined to relax and make a new start. We settled into a nice pseudo-domestic life together, as best we could, as I continued to jam wherever I chose to and waited for inspiration to lead me to my next band situation. In 2001, I agreed to play at Michael Jackson’s fortieth birthday celebration at Madison Square Garden and Perla and I flew out for it. This was my first gig since my operation, so I was looking forward to it, and it turned out to be memorable…to say the least.

I did a couple days of rehearsal to prepare to perform on September 8 and 10. It promised to be a huge event; Michael had everyone from Jamie Foxx to Liza Minnelli to Marlon Brando, the Jackson Five, and Gloria Estefan on the bill, among others. It was a great show, and everyone in the Michael Jackson entourage was rocking out, though I was doing the best I could to stay away from alcohol. After all, I now had a pacemaker, which made things interesting.

When the doctors put in the defibrillator, it was for maintaining a normal heart rate. For most people, this isn’t a problem, but I neglected to tell the specialists that once I get up onstage my heart rate skyrockets. When I took the stage with Michael and got into it, I was suddenly hit in the chest
by a shock, and my vision was flooded with electric blue light. This happened about four times during each song and I had no idea what was going on—I thought I had a short in my guitar cable or a photographer’s flash had popped in my eyes. And each time it happened, I had to stand there and make it look like everything was status quo. I saw it later on TV and you couldn’t tell, so I guess I pulled it off. It was all extremely disconcerting, however, until I finally figured out what was what.

On the morning of 9/11, we were woken up at 8:15 by David Williams, Michael’s house guitar player.

“Slash, turn on the TV,” he told me.

“It’s already on,” I said.

“Is it on the news?” he asked, looking at me kind of oddly.

“No, it’s on the E! channel,” I told him.

“Well, put on the news!” I saw that a plane had hit the Twin Towers, and moments later the second one hit while I was actually watching. The windows were open in my room, so I could see what was going on in the distance. That was probably one of the most unnerving events I’d ever experienced. As you can imagine, the whole hotel was in pandemonium. There were people running around the hallway as if it were the end of the civilized world. And Perla was still asleep. I had to wake her up and try to explain what was happening. I think it took a few minutes before it sank in. Michael and his immediate entourage had left the building and were safely on a plane out of the country, I believe. But we were stuck there in a city turned upside down.

I thought the safest place to be was where we were, but Perla thought differently. She wanted out of there. She was convinced that the air was filled with toxins, but we couldn’t get a ride out. And for some reason, a lot of Michael’s dancers and background singers had convened in our room, because everyone was trapped in Manhattan with no way out. Perla really wanted to get home, so she was in an intense state trying to figure out a way to get us across the country.

Eventually we found a limo that took us across the only bridge that was open at that point, the George Washington Bridge. We continued across New Jersey to the Poconos, which is a resort area in Pennsylvania. Perla found us a room in the Pocono Palace, this love-theme hotel that she knew about—I didn’t ask how. When we finally got there, it was like something
I’d only seen in magazines. This place had a champagne glass for a bathtub, satin sheets and velvet blankets on a rotating bed, tacky red carpets, and mirrors on the ceiling. By the time we got there, we were dead tired.

We collected our dinner tickets from the front desk—because that’s the kind of place this was—and headed to the smorgasboard-style dinner. Like every other couple there, we were assigned a number and had designated seats at a big round table filled with other couples. We were sitting there with old folks from New Jersey who had renewed their vows, nerdy people who’d just gotten married, and a few couples who should have known better. There was nothing beautiful or romantic about that place at all. Everyone we interacted with was clearly scared of us, but what scared us most about them was that no one was aware of the tragedy that had just occurred a hundred miles away.

There was a shitty band and a stand-up comic booked as dinner entertainment, there was miniature golf, horseback riding, couples riding, and every clichéd romantic activity imaingable. Love was the Pied Piper for all of those fucking misfits. When we got to talking to any of them who knew about the attack, they didn’t seem to care. They were there wallowing in love, and were so into it that 9/11 wasn’t an issue worth discussing. We were stuck there, strangers in a strange land, for three days. Then we bunny-hopped, flight by flight, back to L.A.

I HAD ONE RUN-IN WITH HEROIN DURING
this period of my life. I’d stayed away and lost interest in it for so long that I actually believed my own bullshit when I told myself I’d never touch it again. Even as I began to hang around where it might be or as I made plans to hook up with people who probably had it, I still believed myself. I assured myself and I assured Perla that I was done with it, but I should have known—or at least admitted it to myself—where it was going.

One night I got some and went back to the Hyatt on Sunset and got so high that I nodded out and fell asleep with all of my weight on one leg. When I woke up I couldn’t feel it at all. I couldn’t bend it, I couldn’t stand up, and it didn’t seem to get any better once I stretched it out. Junkies do that all the time; some of them cut off their circulation so badly that gangrene sets in.

I had to call 911 and I was taken to Cedars-Sinai, which was completely full at the time. So they put me in a holding room until they could find me a permanent room. As I lay there smoking cigarettes, which they weren’t too happy about, they got in touch with Perla and she came down and I told her what had happened. The whole episode scared her and she threatened to leave me if I continued down this road. I was in there for a week and it was a great chance to get some peace and quiet…and watch the History Channel.

Slash and Ray Charles recording at Ray’s legendary studio in Los Angeles.

Seeing her there only confirmed for me that she was the one. I asked her to get married and luckily she agreed. We had a beautiful little ceremony
in Maui, and spent a week together, enjoying each other. Things were definitely looking up.

Before the honeymoon, I carried my guitar around and constantly set up sessions, though everything around me remained chaotic. With my black book and cell phone, I tried to keep things going musically. I lacked focus, but I was committed, and sometimes my efforts lead to a lucky break. One was working with the legendary Ray Charles. The day after Perla and I returned from our honeymoon, I went to South Central L.A. to record “God Bless America Again” with him. I used my ’54 Telly and it was one of the more amazing sessions I’ve ever participated in it was, a huge honor and a humbling experience. I didn’t think Ray had even heard of me, but there we were playing together.

Ray was involved with a benefit for underpriviledged kids with an interest in music—he’d let them record in his studio and use his equipment, and sometimes Ray even played with them. They’d work on songs, techniques, and arrangements while he coached them. I’d go down there at times to play some tracks with the kids. Helping them out was an incredible feeling.

I also contributed to certain parts of the
Ray
movie tracks; I played with guys
way
out of my league, big-band old-time blues jazz players. I played guitar on “Sorry Is the Hardest Word” on his
Ray and Friends
album, but after Ray died, the executive producer used a friend of his instead and took my part off, even though Ray thought I was more bluesy.

My period of rootlessness in the musical sense was about to come to an end. I had wandered and I had learned. I was ready to come back to my center and make a new start. It was time. I got together with Pete Angelus, who had managed the Black Crowes and had wanted to manage me. He got me together with Steve Gorman, the Crowes’ drummer, and Alan Niven turned me on to a bass player. We started to write and came up with the music for what became “Fall to Pieces.” All we needed was a singer—again. But then my good friend Randy Castillo passed away and I went to his funeral, and out of his death came a rebirth I could have never imagined.