by Lonn Friend
When Slash returned to the sofa and I flipped the tape recorder on again, he could barely move his lips to speak. His voice was so soft, I had to hold my tape recorder two inches from his mouth to capture the words. I asked him if he wanted to stop, but he insisted on continuing the interview.
“No, man,” he whispered. “I’m cool.” What is most remarkable is how coherent and concise Slash’s responses to my questions were, despite how completely wasted he was.
“Nothing in what I got out of Guns N’ Roses, monetarily or fame-wise, I could really give a shit about,” he said. “It was, and is always, the band. If my ability to play guitar suddenly left me, or if something happened to Axl, Duff, Izzy, or Steven, and GN’R suddenly ended, I’d be in serious fucking trouble because I depend on them. I depend on them to be part of the group that makes us special… that keeps my life going.”
Slash loved the “Black Hat” cover story. It strengthened our friendship. I didn’t agree with the way he lived his life, but I accepted him and never judged him for his aberrant behavior. When we hung out, he didn’t force me to do anything I didn’t want to. He knew I was a lightweight when it came to controlled substances and even teased me about it.
One night he went on till dawn and I tried to keep up. I was sick the entire next day, stumbling around the office in a daze, wearing my white badge of honor for having partied with the rock star. I wasn’t thinking about the consequences of my own actions because I’d come from a place where one couldn’t see the forest for the sleaze. Whether they were reptilian pornographers or wild-eyed rock stars, I used the illusion that they dug me to get the job done.
Truth was, Slash liked me and I liked him. We’d come from similar roots. His father was Jewish; he’d grown up in Los Angeles and was weaned on the Beatles and Bowie. His mom even dated the Thin White Duke when he was a kid. One night, we listened to Hunky Dory together, my favorite Bowie record, and he said, “I’ll introduce you to him some time. He’s like an uncle.” He made true on that promise after a Jeff Beck/Stevie Ray Vaughan show at the L.A. Sports Arena. Slash counted Stevie Ray as a hero, slicing a spicy piece of “Voodoo Chile” into his Illusion tour guitar solo.
“David, this is my friend Lonn. He runs RIP magazine.”
Ziggy Stardust had me in his headlights. “RIP? I’ve seen your magazine,” he grinned. “It’s quite a good read.”
I thought to myself, Oh, Lord, there is life on Mars!
I had memorable encounters with Axl, but I never really knew or felt completely comfortable with him. But Slash was right here on earth, close enough that I could feel his sincerity and comprehend his character. Our friendship manifested in my proudest journalistic moment, when I saw my byline in rock ‘n’ roll’s most revered publication.
Jeffrey Ressner started his career like I did, as associate editor of Hustler. He’d left the company a year before I got there. We met in ‘87 while he was working at the industry trade magazine Cash Box, and struck up a friendship. When Jeff got the gig as staff writer for Rolling Stone in 1988, I was excited for him. He called me midsummer 1990 and said that Jann Wenner wanted another cover story on GN’R. They’d already done three, including the Axl Rose interview penned by Del and photographed by Robert.
“Slash seems the obvious choice,” he said. “I was thinking, maybe you’d like to write it with me, since you know him so well. He might feel more comfortable going into the subjects he hasn’t commented on publicly yet with you there. I talked to my editor and they’re hip to the idea.” I was blown away and immediately called Slash to get his take. “Yeah, man. I know. I told them I wanted you to be involved. I trust you.”
We met Slash at a restaurant on Melrose Avenue. I watched Jeff do his thing. A brilliant interviewer with a knack for getting to the point without fanfare or emotion, he asked Slash about his relationship with Axl, the band, the new Illusion records, and ultimately, about his heroin use. Slash came clean on all fronts. I peppered the conversation with comments here and there, mostly softening the atmosphere if the dialogue got too touchy.
Jeff wrote the first draft and I gave it a once-over. A gorgeous headshot taken by Stone staff photographer Mark Seliger graced the cover of the January 24, 1991, issue. On the inside, the headline read “Slash: The Rolling Stone Interview, by Jeffrey Ressner and Lonn M. Friend.” When I got my copy, I felt like jumping on a stage in my underwear and screaming, “Fuck yeahhhhh!”
2
Full Metal Jacket
THE LAW OF SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST IS NOT BASED ON CRUELTY, IT IS BASED ON JUSTICE; IT IS ONE ASPECT OF THAT DIVINE EQUITY WHICH EVERYWHERE PREVAILS.
—James Allen, The Mastery of Destiny
The Whisky on Sunset hadn’t been that crowded since the Doors played the legendary venue in 1967. Seven hundred human sardines (the capacity is five hundred) packed in sweaty oil were oblivious to their collective discomfort because they had come to celebrate the sound and fury of metal and throw roses at the feet of its greatest unsung hero. It was December 14, 1995, and the chaotic cause célèbre was the fiftieth birthday of one Ian Fraser “Lemmy” Kilmister. Though he was actually born on December 24, the party was starting early for the leader of the immortal English speed band Motörhead, who for twenty years had rocked harder and truer than any other of his kind.
A rumor had been spreading around Hollywood that some special guests were poised to perform, though as of 9 P.M. there had been no confirmation of the heavyweights. As the audience grumbled with anticipation, I was upstairs, drinking Jack Daniel’s in the dressing room, with my old friend, who despite the hoopla maintained his traditional unaffected demeanor.
“Are you sure they’re coming, Lem?” I asked.
“Well, if they don’t show up,” he replied in his nonchalant British whine, “we’ll just play a longer set.”
Suddenly, a monstrous roar filled the building. “About fucking time!” he grinned. We marched out to the VIP balcony railing as comic actor Tom Arnold, the emcee of the evening, introduced four figures that’d just emerged through the alley door left of the stage. They all were wearing black wigs, black moustaches, leather jackets open down the middle to expose the gut, and upon closer examination, two large moles on their left cheek.
As the quartet of faux Lemmys grabbed their instruments, I leaned over and said, “Happy birthday, Lem.”
He shook my hand and turned his gaze to the stage. “Fucking brilliant! I can’t believe they actually made it.”
For the next thirty minutes, James Hetfield, Lars Ulrich, Kirk Hammett, and Jason Newsted, known collectively as Metallica, cranked through a flaming set of Motörhead staples that brought the fans to a frenzy and the evening’s honoree to near tears. Motörhead—the Ramones of metal—never sold a ton of records, but their lore is authentic. Metallica left a Bay Area garage to become the most popular hard rock band in history. They are connected by the unified field of the metal culture, a loyal, globally galvanized gang of high-volume, high-octane fans that just won’t go away.
A wise man once told me the difference between fate and destiny is this: fate is what you’re given; destiny is what you do with what you’re given. I was given a last name, a window of opportunity a moment in rock history, and a whole lotta serendipity. Which brings us to that chilly January night in 1988, five months into the RIP gig, when destiny reared its hairy head. Or should I say “heads”?
I was standing in front of the Roxy box office, next door to the Rainbow, waiting to see a band I really didn’t care to see. That’s when I recognized them. “Hey, you’re James and Lars from Metallica,” I said. “I’m Lonn Friend from RIP magazine.”
James, long on giggles but short on words, said, “Hey, what’s up?” But his shorter, more animated partner chimed in instantly. “Lonn Friend? Hey, are you the guy from Hustler who wrote that article about porn stars in Paris? Amber Lynn, right?”
“Yeah, dude!” I responded gleefully. “That’s me.”
“Fuck, that was a great stor
y, man,” he exclaimed. “I like the part where Sharon Mitchell blows that guy in his seat on the plane ride over.”
The next three hours, James, Lars, and I held court at the ‘Bow. And even though I’d never owned a Metallica record, common ground was revealed. I gave them some sordid behind-the-scenes outtakes from the “French Flicking” feature that Lars had found so entertaining. The porn-rock connection was in play. I had instant cred because I came from the skin world. “We started tracking our new album,” said Lars. “We’ll be in town for months. Maybe we’ll hang out.” The album in production was called … And Justice for All, and Metallica fans were waiting for its arrival like expectant parents.
I felt an instant connection to Lars, perhaps because after only three LP campaigns—Kill ‘Em All, Ride the Lightning, and Master of Puppets—he had become a master at manipulating the metal media. He was the tireless spokesperson for the band, the appointed and anointed expert at articulating the Metallica mission statement, which was, in essence, to rock harder and faster than any other band on the planet, because that’s what the fans wanted and deserved.
Lars would talk to anyone and everyone who showed Metallica the least bit of true, passionate interest. They ranged from underground fanzines, local newspapers, metal radio stations like Long Beach’s KNAC 105.5 to foreign and domestic rock publications. And he had just met the newest kid on the metal-media block. I wasn’t aware of it then, but Lars Ulrich and Metallica were my first real professors of hard rock.
My premier “hang” with the band came when I was invited to their publicity photo shoot for … And Justice for All that summer. Jason Newsted was still wet under the Metalli-ears and proved the shy one in the band. Lead guitarist Kirk Hammett and I connected instantly. James was funny, sarcastic, and detached from the supposed importance of photographer Ross Halfin’s assignment to capture the new configuration of the group since losing bassist Cliff Burton. Burton died in a tragic tour-bus accident near Stockholm, Sweden, in the early morning of September 27, 1986. He was only twenty-four years old. Many say that Cliff was the true spirit of Metallica. His machine-gun bottom-slapping style, flopping wild hair, and reefer-driven don’t-give-a-shit attitude embodied the ethos of the garage quartet that originally initiated home jam sessions to let off steam and entertain some of the kids in the neighborhood.
It was at that photo shoot where the first goofy outtake of “Lonn with rock stars” was captured. I don’t know which shot was better: band mooning the editor or the editor stripped down to his boxers while the guys laughed hysterically. As obnoxious as he was, Ross gave RIP some of its most exhilarating images and me some of my best scrapbook material.
It was around this time that I stopped shaving and began to wear a beard that got burlier as my life got crazier. The more hair I had on my face and head, the better chance I had of fitting in with the folks who actually lived the lifestyle and embodied the metal persona.
Metallica had taken the punishing instrumental prowess of the first three LPs, honed a time-honored rock message (“Power to the people,” or in more metal vernacular, “Fuck the man”), and prepared for the next step in their ascension to rock god-hood. Time to hit the road to reconnect with the flesh-and-blood fans, the human coal fueling this bonfire. Arena gigs were being booked, but to warm up the chops, Metallica jumped on an interesting “festival” opportunity. They were early in the set, but when they got off the stage, no one cared about the acts that hadn’t played yet.
It was billed as the 1988 Monsters of Rock, featuring Van Halen (with Sammy Hagar up front), Scorpions, Dokken, Metallica, and a Led Zeppelin clone called Kingdom Come. The British-born festival was the brainchild of Ozzy Osbourne’s enterprising wife, Sharon. The formula had worked brilliantly overseas. Mass gatherings of longhaired punters spending twelve hours on their feet to be pummeled into submission by a half dozen acts had become part of the European rock culture. Sharon felt it was time to experiment on the American metal populace.
At the Los Angeles Memorial Coliseum, the bands lined up to crush a half-filled stadium. Ticket sales were not as brisk as promoters had hoped. It seemed what worked on the Continent didn’t quite translate stateside. It was cultural. They lived and died for these massive musical gatherings of the tribes. U.S. crowds were more lethargic and individualistic; less connected by the event than by the loyalty they felt for specific favorite bands.
Metallica played second on the bill at the Monsters, and that’s when all hell broke loose. Fans on the stadium floor began hurling their metal folding chairs in riotous reaction to the intoxicating strains of “Whiplash,” “Creeping Death,” “For Whom the Bell Tolls,” and “Blackened.” I watched from the soundboard. So these were my people now, huh?
A few weeks later, Joyce and I flew to Kansas City to catch another Monsters gig. Arrowhead Stadium was the site of the carnage. Again, Metallica completely stole the show with their short but uncompromising set. We watched from the stage. It was the first time I’d ever been eye level with the artist. Looking out over the sea of fans was surreal. I’d eventually have to muster the courage to venture down into the valley of mosh, or the pit, and experience Metallica shoulder to shoulder with the fans that were making them rulers of the hard-rock kingdom.
I hit the pit on my first official Metallica feature assignment at the Veterans Memorial Coliseum in Phoenix. It was December 4, 1988, and bassist Jason Newsted was playing his debut hometown gig with his new band on their first headline tour of America, quite a step up from his last outfit, the local thrashers Flotsam and Jetsam. With my all-access laminate dangling from my neck, I left the safe confines of the backstage as the arena went black, and I watched the first three songs amidst a throng of frenetic fans.
Metal is physical music. Sitting passively in your seat with your toe tapping and head bobbing works for an Eagles or Elton John concert but not a Metallica show. Motion and contact are required to truly feel the power of the songs. And so the mosh pit—a swirling whirlpool of human bodies crashing into one another—spontaneously evolved at metal shows in clubs and theaters and eventually to arenas and stadiums. The zeitgeist of metal in perfect, unchoreographed chaos. The more intense the strains, the faster you moved. Volume and fury inspired bumps and bruises and a hell of a good time.
I floated back to the soundboard for the final, spectacular sequence. I loved watching from there, sitting next to Big Mick, Metallica’s 250-pound scrubby-faced Englishman. The architect and manipulator of the group’s bloodcurdling audio assault, Mick looked intimidating, but he was really a gentle giant. “Now watch closely, Lonn,” he advised, “and cover your ears.”
A giant blindfolded statue—the Lady of Justice from the album cover of… And Justice for All—crumbled onstage as gunfire and bomb blasts married with the pyrotechnic flashes of fire and light while the band played on with bravura precision. The Justice tour illustrated Metallica’s commitment to their fans by giving them more than just the riffs from the record to titillate their senses.
After the Justice tour ended on October 7, 1989, in São Paolo, Brazil, James and Lars began writing the record that would knock Planet Rock off its axis. They kept their chops sharp by performing a dozen one-off festivals in Europe. They also did two special North American gigs opening for Aerosmith. One was in Toronto on June 29, 1990. I happened to be in New York on assignment with Mötley Crüe when the rare ‘Smith/Metallica double bill was taking place. We had a day off, so I pitched the overnighter idea to Tommy Lee, who endorsed the plan immediately. He and I flew to Canada on an afternoon flight, played nine holes of golf in the rain at Glen Abbey Golf Club when we landed, hustled over to the concert, hung out the entire night, and were back in Manhattan by noon the next day.
Being out there, on the road, living the life with these bands—this is where the bonds were formed, the trust between rocker and writer. Whenever I was pitched a story that involved travel, I’d go. That’s when the job began to blind me to what else was happening in my life.
My daughter was born on March 24, 1990. Three months later, she was still being breast-fed, and I was on a jet with Mötley Crüe, observing the decadence up close and personal.
On June 27, 1990—in the throes of their Dr. Feelgood tour at the Capital Centre in Landover, Maryland, just outside of Washington, D.C.—bassist Nikki Sixx announced backstage that I was in charge of backstage passes that night. In other words, it was my job to scope the crowd and find girls who wanted to meet the band.
Tommy had devised this captivating twenty-minute drum solo in which he’d soar across the roof of the arena on a track while banging his kit to samples of Cheap Trick and Led Zeppelin. Nikki took this time to rest in his bass tent; Vince walked around behind the riser. Mick Mars sat quietly in his tent. I walked by Sixx and he said, “Lonn, go find some girls! Tommy will up be up there for a while!” The dutiful editor and friend obeyed like a good soldier and marched into the audience with a string of VIP laminates hanging around his neck. It wasn’t five minutes before two girls caught my eye, bouncing up and down in their seats like a pair of jill-in-the-boxes. One was blonde, the other brunette. I gave ‘em an acknowledging nod, whereupon they dashed from their seats to my side, hugging me like I was about to hand them winning lottery tickets. “You guys wanna go backstage?” I asked rhetorically. They let out a wail you could hear across the Potomac. A moment later, I deposited the brunette in Nikki’s tent and handed the blonde over to the front man. I didn’t personally witness what transpired next, but you don’t have to be a brain surgeon to figure it out.
When Tommy returned to his main onstage kit, Vince and Nikki both greeted their flying friend by placing their fingers underneath his nose, where he instantly caught a whiff that affirmed his bandmates had been doing anything but tuning up during the drum solo.
I would not wear the hat of groupie gatherer again, but throughout the RIP years, I bore occasional witness to the carnal cliché. One night in Fort Lauderdale, Florida, while on the road with Great White, I stood in awe as lead singer Jack Russell had his back-of-the-bus way with not one, not two, but three local ladies before his Plant-like pipes soared into song number one of the band’s set. I even wrote about it in my feature “Back to the Bone Age,” much to the elation of the insatiable singer.
