by Duff McKagan
Stiff Little Fingers, Inflammable Material: Real unpolished OG punk with a message.
Sweet, Desolation Boulevard: The blueprint of rock fantasy.
The Temptations, Greatest Hits: Do I really need to say anything about the Temps?
Thin Lizzy, Dedication: The Very Best of Thin Lizzy: Oh, Rosalie! I really, really love this band. A few years ago when I was in Dublin, on tour with VR, I stumbled out of my hotel one morning in search of some coffee. As I took a sleepy turn to my left, I ran smack into a life-size bronze statue of singer Phil Lynott. When I got back to the hotel lobby, the desk manager asked me if I saw the statue of “de goy prom Tin Lizzy?” Indeed, I had.
Johnny Thunders and the Heartbreakers, L.A.M.F.: A whole generation of us learned to play guitar the right way from this record. We also learned to tuck our pants inside our boots.
The Time, Ice Cream Castle: Back when Prince had at least three different musical projects going at one time (Vanity 6, too), the Time was almost as big as the almighty Purple One. “Ice Cream Castles” is a lost gem and a cool summer jam. Enjoy!
U2, Joshua Tree: This record was not just the soundtrack to my summer of ’87 but it got me through all of the craziness that was surrounding Guns N’ Roses that year. My best friend died that summer, and U2 seemed to speak to me and only me, steeling my sorrow and tempering my sadness. This record still holds an important place in my heart.
Van Halen, Van Halen: Game changer.
The Vibrators, Pure Mania: With songs like “Petrol,” “You Broke My Heart,” and “Yeah, Yeah, Yeah,” Pure Mania was a favorite record to put on just before we wrecked a house or played beer curling at a punk-rock house party. Punk, for sure, but also consider this one of the best pop records ever written.
Tom Waits, Mule Variations: What the hell is he doing in there?
Jack White, Blunderbuss: Creativity knows no bounds with Jack White. And while the rest of us may think that the guy just can’t sit still (what, eight different band projects in the last dozen years?), success is pretty much all that he does. Jack’s first true solo venture is one of those records that makes you feel like you are in the same room as the players. The sounds and riffs are authentic and hearken back to some Levon Helm/the Band-isms, sounding current and urgent at the same time. If you delve into the word choices, rhyme schemes, and subject matter of the lyrics for Blunderbuss, you will find a smart, dark, and hip trip into the blackness of love found, lost, and finally disposed of.
The Who, Who’s Next: Another band that is kind of stupid to pick one record, but this one has “Baba O’Riley,” soooo . . .
X, Los Angeles: Sometimes a record comes out that just sends everything into a new direction. Rock changed after Los Angeles came out.
XTC, Drums and Wires: The beginning of postpunk was this record.
The Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Fever to Tell: Great songwriting, production, and Karen fucking O!
Zeke, Flat Tracker: I had just left GN’R and returned to Seattle when this record came out. I felt delirious that OG punk rock had come back in the form of Zeke.
ZZ Top, Tres Hombres: Kick-ass American blues from down Texas way.
OK, so, that’s a few more than a hundred, but, come on, you try choosing between Lou Reed and Queen!
8
CHAPTER
SET GOALS (AND BOUNDARIES)
Or, How to Survive in Close Quarters on a Land-Sea Voyage
AS I’VE GONE TO GREAT PAINS TO EXPLAIN, I DON’T mind leaving the luxury accommodations of the St. Regis and Kings of Chaos for the splitter van and cheap hotels of the Walking Papers. I am, and always will be, a punk-rock road dog. I don’t necessarily love spending 350 miles in a van, but it’s something I’m used to. Through all the changes of scenery with various bands, there has been one constant: I’ve had my own hotel room. If I wasn’t sharing a room with my wife, I wasn’t sharing it at all.
That all changed on this Walking Papers tour. For the first time since 1988, I shared a room with a bandmate. The last time I had a roommate, I bunked up with Slash back when I was twenty-four years old, and neither of us really slept—we certainly weren’t looking to our hotel room as a place to get, um, rest.
As GN’R became more popular and fans started showing up at our hotels, we, like many musicians, started staying under assumed names. Assumed names can be anything really, as long as it’s not your name, so that a fan or fans can’t just keep calling the hotel and asking, “Can I talk to Duff McKagan please?
Slash and I dubbed ourselves the Likesheet brothers; he was Phil and I was Luke. So, of course, we were “Phil Likesheet” (get it?) and “Luke Likesheet” (right!?!??!). The names kind of mimicked the lifestyles we were living at the time. Now, at fifty, I’m very far removed from that party-til-you-drop-what-kind-of-drugs-do-we-got-where’s-the-girls dude. Today I’m the read-my-book-where’s-the-gym-and-coffee-phone-home person.
From what I can remember, we had some fun as the Likesheet brothers. We did kid things like trashing our hotel room. We were so naïve that we thought we could totally destroy our room and then just walk away and try to claim that someone broke in and caused trouble. One time we completely decimated our mattresses and bed frames and walls and lamps and that little desk and chair. Two of our guitar techs, who were much more seasoned than Slash and I, just watched us and laughed, thinking how moronic we were for sure.
I think that trashing of the room cost us something like three grand. Even then, neither of us were holding that kind of dough, so our manager had to loan us the bread, and we slowly paid him back . . . which took months out of the weekly $125 salary we gave ourselves back then. I never trashed a hotel room again.
Having not shared a room with a bandmate in so long, I just assumed that everyone knew all of the rules of sharing a room. But no. Sometimes a band member forgets the golden rule of sharing a hotel room: poo in the lobby, not in the room.
This rule applies any time you are sharing a room. Wife. Girlfriend. Boyfriend. Grandma. Whatever. Be cool when you are together in a small space.
Unless your shit don’t stink or you have a book of matches, pooing first thing in a shared room is one of the most offensive things to do to your roommate. Remember: he or she must now try to fall asleep with your poo-scent molecules swimming around his or her nose. Hotel lobbies always have restrooms. Use them to take care of #2. Is that so hard?
This has happened to me a few times lately, and it’s hard on a traveling guy. I just sit there in my room sort of dumbfounded, before I go downstairs “to make a phone call.” I’m not really making a phone call. I’m downstairs in the lobby waiting for the smell in the room to go away, as I popped the window just before I left the room.
I’m pretty sure I do myriad things that annoy others on the road. So, in this respect, I am quite sure that my shit surely does stink from time to time.
Now that I think about it, I don’t remember Slash and me eating food in those early days. That probably had a lot to do with why we never butted heads on the shared-room-poo dilemma. Here are a few other pieces of traveling wisdom that I hope will be of service to all men who find themselves traveling in close quarters with one another:
Maintain personal hygiene. This is key. Crap breath and stank butt can lower morale and kill an appetite. A band needs to eat. Stinky body odor from an orifice or two can kill one’s will for nourishment.
Respect off-limits places. For example, when you draw the curtains to your bunk on the bus, no one should be allowed to fuck with you. No punching in the dick, even. Each other’s girlfriends/wives/husbands/boyfriends are also off-limits. Usually.
Share everything. Clothes, chocolate, drugs, whatever. If it’s expendable, it is a “band” item.
Don’t be serious. You will be ganged up on in no time and be the butt of every tour joke. Join in on the fun. Be the river flowing downstream, not the rock trying to hold it back.
Know some history. When you’re on the road, it’s always cool to know something about
where you are. For instance, Dublin is in Ireland. Belfast is in Northern Ireland. Do not fuck this up (broken fingers aren’t good for guitar playing). History is good tour bus conversation material, too.
Have a look around. Go out and take a walk. People and different cultures are so damned interesting. And remember: know where you are going. Getting mugged with tour-float dough ain’t good for the bottom line.
Don’t get stuck. If you are having a pint or five after the show, it is always a good idea to grab a card from your hotel. You don’t want to go through the old “I have no idea where I am staying, Mr. Cab Driver” debacle. It’s an expensive ride.
Have your shit sorted. Put all your vitamins in one bottle. Don’t forget your passport, and always have a high-res photo of your band in your phone just in case there is a last-minute request from the press or a promoter. Have a kick-ass backpack for your day bag. Know where your shit is in your day bag so that you aren’t the one holding up the show when everyone else is ready to leave in the hotel lobby.
Hair conditioner makes good shaving cream. So don’t bring both.
Get used to being away from cozy shit and the safety of home. Bring your teddy bear if you need to. And get Skype.
Don’t roam. Holy hell! Turn the data off on your phone if you are going international. Just turning on your phone when you land in, say, London can cost you like 30 British pounds (that is, like, US$10.072) when your e-mails load. Either get some cheap phone when you land at that airport or wait for Wi-Fi at the venue you are playing.
Sleep, little baby. Sleep. If one of you is sleeping, then everything is off limits. If you are that guy who wakes up a sleeper, the rule of the road is that you must get kicked squarely in the nards. No ifs, ands, or butts.
Don’t poo in the same room that someone else is eating in. Unless of course said eater gives the “poo OK.” If a “poo OK” is granted, you have a band that will NEVER break up, your turnover will be low, and your shareholders will earn a healthy rate of return.
If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times: “Ass to ass, dog!” Years back, a huge security guy got ruffled when a band member passed him crotch to ass in a tight space. This security guy did not exactly dig the fact that his manhood had been compromised. He dressed down the young rocker right then and there: “Man, it’s always ass to ass, dog . . . ASS TO ASS!” Whether it’s a city bus or a private plane, it’s always ass to ass, dog.
9
CHAPTER
BE SMART WITH YOUR MONEY (AND YOUR TALENTS)
IT’S NOT THAT I CAN’T AFFORD A BUS OR A FEW PLANE tickets.
As you’ve no doubt noticed, my “work week” can just as easily be spent sleeping in the front of a jet as it can in the back of a van. I’m a regular resident at both the St. Regis and Motel 6.
I didn’t get into this for the complimentary shampoo or the plush white robes. When I started playing music, the idea of traveling around the country in a van with a band was the most glamorous and successful experience I could imagine. If only I could be so fortunate. And I have been.
I’ve spent my adult life making records and traveling the world in search of an audience. This is the professional life I dreamed of before I knew this could be a profession. The van is what I aspired to. It’s where I live. The jets, the hotel butler, the fancy dinners—this isn’t the norm; it’s an aberration and a privilege.
When we have success, it’s easy—and human—to believe that the high times will last forever. It’s easy to get used to the comfort. And it’s tempting to give those things to ourselves, even when our circumstances do not organically provide them. This is how people go broke.
As an ardent sports fan, this is something I think about during free-agent season, when players sign contracts for hundreds of millions of dollars. We all dream that one day a whole windfall of cash just comes cascading in. Like winning the lottery. Like finding a suitcase bulging with dollars. Or getting a pro athlete–size signing bonus and contract. The day comes that we can suddenly afford anything we want. At least for a little while.
Allen Iverson reportedly made $154 million in the NBA. He was later sued by a jeweler for $375,000 worth of unpaid bills. Terrell Owens told GQ that nearly all of the $80 million he made in his career is gone. Even superstar agent Leigh Steinberg filed for bankruptcy.
Going broke isn’t just a problem for musicians and athletes, obviously, but for anyone who doesn’t take the time to look at the big picture.
Here are some factors that are not often discussed or considered:
•When you come into a box of money for the first time, words like “investment,” “risk,” “reward,” and “money retention” are likely foreign to you. They sure were for me.
•The taxman takes half.
•Your agent takes 10–15 percent.
•Your lawyer gets 5 percent.
Suddenly $10 million looks more like $2.5 million. Still not a bad payday, eh? It’s not.
But put yourself in that situation. You’ve got some of your boys you wanna take care of, right? Maybe put some of your buddies on a payroll? And you gotta take care of your family, and especially your mom, right? OK, so buy her a house.
And what about a car and house for yourself? You might as well get that Mercedes AMG for $200K. The house on the water on the good side of town will work . . . and you need a condo in the city that you are playing in, too.
All of a sudden, that $10 million is gone, and you are signing playing cards at a convention just to pay down that car that is now six years old, dented, and worth about thirty grand. And now maybe the real estate market has taken a nosedive.
But everyone expects you to be flush with cash, and so, to stave off embarrassment for a while, you still try to look like you are living like a king. Until you are in debt and filing for Chapter 11.
Those be the grim and cold hard unpleasantness. Those things we don’t think of when we blankly daydream of a bag of signing-day cash.
I can relate. I’d love to put my bands up in the finest hotels and hire limos to shuttle them between the hotel and the gigs. They do deserve it. They do work hard for little or no money.
But, like I said, it’s a good way to go broke.
REAPPLY YOUR TALENTS
Since we’re talking about sports . . . when I read about the death of Junior Seau, I thought: we just lost a giant of a football player, but we also lost a guy who was good outside of football, too. He was a mentor, a philanthropist, and a good human being. At forty-three years of age, he was also just getting started.
Of course, none of us can be certain of the reasons for a person’s suicide. Once in a while there is a note. Once in a while, there are clear-cut reasons that will inform us. But in Seau’s case, there is just the blank emptiness of sudden loss, with no real answers.
It’s a far stretch for me as a writer to try to bring anything more than assumption into this conversation. At this point, I would never want to try anything so base. Seau had a pristine reputation that he earned in his short life by being a stand-up man—both on and off the field.
But something that really must be paid attention to now is how a player is supposed to transition into “normal” civilian life after the weekly rush of the game, and perhaps even undiagnosed brain trauma.
I can speak a little bit to the former.
I had to get out of the game for a minute back in the ’90s. In my case, drugs and the devil’s juice were destroying me, body and soul. It was time for me to make a change, and so I sobered up and went to school.
But, as I soon found—even in the very positive environment of a college campus and having a brand-new daughter and excellent wife—you can’t suddenly stop doing that thing you have such a passion for. That thing you get such a rush from (I’m talking about playing music . . . not the drugs and drink bit).
But musicians only really need to keep their musical chops up. We don’t need to be in the best physical shape of our lives. Our careers can go on for a l
ong, long time. And even if you are not playing the biggest places anymore, a musician can still get that rush and contact with an audience.
For pro athletes—and for other professions that favor youth—it’s another story. When the game is done for them, it also ends a lifetime of being the top dog. From Little League to high school, and college to the pros, these guys were always the best, and they were touted as such. It has to be unthinkably tough to suddenly get cut or be put on an indefinite injured reserve list or just simply retire. There is no NFL for old guys.
And even though many pro athletes have a college degree, it is not so easy to have a second successful career, especially one with any hope of near parity in pay or lifestyle. No more free trainers and support staff. No more weekly rush of the game and urgency in life.
According to a 2006 USA Today article, there is more bad news:
Experts say a high percentage of those men will be thrust into the so-called real world with few marketable skills to increase their wealth and serious self-identity issues that often make the transition from the game a perilous one.
In fact, 78 percent of all NFL players are divorced, bankrupt or unemployed two years after leaving the game, according to Ken Ruettgers, a former player and current advocate for NFL players transitioning from professional sports.
We should all hope for a better way to ease our players into the afterlife of pro sports. But it’s not just athletes who transition. We all do. We lose our jobs, we become unfit for the work that has defined us, or we retire. It’s in times like these that we all need to consider our gifts and find ways to reapply our talents.
Even as I continued a successful and satisfying career in the music business, my years spent at Seattle University reignited my love for writing. After I was hired to write a weekly column for Seattle Weekly, other opportunities popped up as well: Playboy.com offered me a regular gig and later so did ESPN.com. At one point, I decided it was time to write my first book.
