18 and Life on Skid Row

by Sebastian Bach

I had been drinking Jack Daniel’s steadily throughout the evening. Rick Rubin had an idea. To take Axl and me to the Rainbow. David Lee Roth said, “Hey!!!! I’ll meet you guys there.” This was going to be an interesting night for sure.

  Axl and I got in the backseat of Rick Rubin’s insect-like automobile. I don’t remember exactly what kind of sports car it was, but it was some sort of small, extremely fast contraption that I was in the back of, with Axl.

  We sped away from the Forum, the car as well as the Jack Daniel’s starting to kick into overdrive. As we weaved our way to the Rainbow, at high speed, through the streets of Hollywood, I opened up the door of Rick’s car. Axl holds me, by the collar, on the back of my jacket, as I vomit all over the pavement zooming by. We were all laughing, as I was retching, with my face mere inches from the street below.

  Speeding down Sunset Boulevard, Axl pulled me back into the car. Now, I was definitely ready to party. We were off to a good start!

  We pulled into the parking lot between the Roxy and the Rainbow, and out of the car. Rick Rubin and I discussed how he would like to make a record with me. This was around twenty-five years ago. I’m still waiting, Rick. For God sakes, let’s get on with it now. Call me! I promise I won’t puke in your car.

  We sat down at the center, main large table in the middle of the revered rock ’n’ roll establishment. Myself in the middle, Axl to my left, and David Lee to my right. It was absolute bedlam. It was so packed in there, that the only way I could walk to another table in the room was to stand up on our table, and walk onto the other table, like a giant, fucked-up alien spider. As I continued to pound the Jack with Dave and Axl, someone would shout to me from across the room. I would place myself up on our table, extend my pointy-tip heeled boot to the table opposite ours, plant my foot on top of some stranger’s table, and walk around the Rainbow.

  Instant alcohol. What an asshole!

  Tony, an amazing guy and the manager of the Rainbow, flipped the fuck out. I was banned from the Rainbow for a long time after that night. Tony called Doc the day after and informed him that I was not allowed back in, due to me walking around the establishment on top of everybody’s dinner rolls.

  I sat down again between Dave and Axl and we let the shots fly. Bret Michaels walked over to our table. He asked if he could sit down with us. We all looked at each other, laughed, and turned to him and said, “No.” What a bunch of dicks! It was nothing personal against Bret. It was what Poison represented at that time. Somehow, it felt appropriate to deny Poison from the table where Van Halen, Guns N’ Roses, and Skid Row sat. This was 1989. The whole music industry was about to change. A move away from pop, and more into the dark side of rock. I have toured with Poison since then. Bret is an extremely nice guy. Maybe a little too nice to sit with the three of us that night, so many years ago.

  David Lee downed shot after shot of the Jack. I cannot handle Jack Daniel’s. It always makes me violent in some way. Either towards others, or in my stomach, violently retching, as it had earlier in the evening. The Jack seemed to be taking the same sort of effect on our hero, David Lee Roth.

  Axl, to my left, sat mostly quiet. Brooding. Intense. It was somewhat poignant to sit between the two. Axl talked in a quiet, understated tone, whereas David Lee was the over-the-top ultimate front man, as we all love him to be. But as we knocked back the Jack, Dave’s mood began to sour.

  “Well.” He slammed down the shot glass. “It looks like I got a couple pretenders to mah throne sittin’ right here, I said, I said, ahhh . . .”

  Axl turned his head and stared straight at me in disbelief. “What the fuck did he just say?”

  “I said, it looks like I got a couple pretenders to mah THRONE sittin’ right here!!” Dave was talking to us.

  This came as a shock, yet not really surprising. After all, David Lee Roth had set the standard for what Axl and I did. Not specifically, but nobody was cooler than David Lee Roth onstage, in interviews, on television, on record. David was the coolest. He certainly sat at the “throne” of rock ’n’ roll. I myself was completely stoked to be sitting at whatever table it was that David Lee Roth was sitting at. Maybe it was just the booze talking. But Axl cut him no quarter.

  “I’m not a fucking pretender to anybody’s fucking throne. What the fuck are you talking about?” Axl leaned across my chest and let David know exactly how he felt. I leaned back into the red leather couch and braced myself for two of the most intense personalities in music history to go at it. On my lap.

  The storied establishment known as The Rainbow was writing itself yet another story.

  “Well, you know the way I see it???” Dave shot back. “You two are the pretenders and I’m on mah throne and that’s the way I see it! I said, I said ahhhh . . .” Dave slammed the shot glass down and turn to the waitress, and implored with thirst, “Medic???”

  Axl was cool, yet quite clear.

  “I ain’t no pretender to nobody’s fucking throne. I’m not influenced by you or anybody else. I don’t give a shit about your fucking throne. I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about, but this night is fucking over.”

  It felt as if Axl was about to fight Dave. Dave was a kung fu master. Axl was a street urchin. Living under the street. So the song says. I did not want to know who would win this battle. I loved both these guys.

  The old guard facing down the new, this night was indicative of both their personalities. Dave was always the flamboyant, ego-charged, ultimate front man of all time. Whereas Axl was coming from a much darker place, lyrically and musically.

  Axl got up and split, leaving me and Dave there to get more and more soused.

  A couple days later, I was back in Florida recording the Slave to the Grind record. David Lee Roth had faxed me a letter explaining his behavior that evening at The Rainbow. It said, “Sebastian. When I hear your voice on the radio, it reminds me of everything I like about music. I love your voice. The way you sing. You remind me of the reasons why I got into music in the first place. What you guys saw the other night was my love of rock ’n’ roll, my pride talking. My bravado. My fighting spirit. None of that was meant personally against you guys.” I kept the letter for years but after Hurricane Irene, I don’t know where it is now. I hope to find it again someday.

  I talked to Axl on the phone from New River Studios in Fort Lauderdale, Florida.

  “Oh my God, dude. David Lee Roth sent me a letter.”

  “He sent me a letter too.”

  As I described the contents of my letter, Axl related that he got pretty much the same letter. We were both blown away that David Lee Roth would send us each a handwritten note like this. He was an inspiration to both of us. Probably to myself more than Axl. Dave obviously had one of those “Oh my God, what happened last night” morning moments that made me quit drinking whiskey myself. Jack Daniel’s will do that.

  I was banned from the Rainbow for a long time after that. After I quit drinking whiskey, and switched to wine, I was let back in.

  “Hey Baz. Will you be ready to go on tour in two months?” Axl asked me on the phone. We were still in the studio, recording Slave to the Grind. We would not be done with our second record in time. But I said “Yes” anyway.

  We accepted the offer. For us to tour the United States, and Europe, with Guns N’ Roses.

  Let the Mayhem Begin

  By the time the first album’s touring cycle was over, our lives had changed immeasurably. We had come to the stark realization that we had been ripped off royally. Fucked up the ass. Taken down the Hershey highway. Screwed, blued, and tattooed. As far as the business went? It sucked to be us.

  The same goes for the name of the band. It happened at rehearsal in Toms River, New Jersey. In Rachel’s garage. Dave “The Snake” Sabo burst through the door.

  “Oh my God, you’re not gonna believe this. Gary Moore, from the band Skid Row in Ireland, won’t let us use the name unless we give them some money.”

  There was in fact a band from Ireland calle
d Skid Row that featured members of Thin Lizzy, before Thin Lizzy. They had released albums in the early 1970s. They still release CDs (Greatest Hits compilations and the like) today.

  We all looked around the room.

  “Oh my God that sucks,” we all said.

  Skid Row was a band from Ireland in the early ’70s, with the legendary guitar player Gary Moore, and Brush Shiels on drums, who started the band. Snake explained to us that Gary Moore’s lawyers had contacted ours and we needed to pay Gary money for use of the name Skid Row. The exact figure was US $35,000.

  Rob Affuso, the drummer from Skid Row, remembers this exactly the same way as I remember it.

  All five of us looked around at each other and said, “Oh fuck, we got to pay him.” So $35,000 was taken out of the band account.

  9

  BUNCH OF BOOZE,

  MOUNTAIN OF BLOW,

  QUAALUDES, AND TENNIS:

  MY TIME WITH METALLICA

  Moondance

  Ontario, Canada

  The record store. My happy place.

  I can spend hours in a record store. More than happily. It’s always been that way. I purchased my first album at Sam The Record Man on George Street in Peterborough. A compilation record containing the song “Convoy,” which I thought was the coolest song of all time. Breaker Breaker 1-9 . . . We got ourselves a convoy.

  Something about a record store has always felt like the womb to me. Flipping through the racks, the feel of cellophane wrap opened with your fingernail. The smell of the inner sleeve packaging and fresh wax. When I go to a record store, I literally look at every single record in the store. It makes me feel good. Even now, thank the Lord I live blocks away from the formidable Amoeba Music on Sunset Boulevard in Los Angeles. There are many great record stores in Los Angeles. I frequent them all.

  My first favorite record store in the world was Moondance Records and Tapes. Run by my friend Mike Moon, who was close to my mom and dad. When we first moved to Peterborough, this was the store that made sense to us. They even had long hair in there. They sold hippie-esque fashion. Smoking supplies on one side of the store. Records on the other. I love the store. Incredibly, it’s still in operation here in 2016. Thankfully, some things never change.

  I would ride my bike down to Moondance, having saved up five or six bucks over the course of the week with my paper route or whatever odd jobs my dad could cobble together for me. I would sweep up the art gallery, paste ads for art shows all over telephone poles and foyers of local businesses in Peterborough. My dad would give me a stack of flyers with a couple rolls of tape. I go into a store and implore, “Can I please put this poster up in your window, ma’am?” Some would say yeah, some would say no.

  I learned to sell art at an extremely young age.

  One day at Moondance I was looking for anything Cheap Trick, Van Halen, Rush, whatever I didn’t have in my collection yet. As I got to the back of the M section, past Moxy, Boney M., Motörhead, and Melissa Manchester, came an album by a band I had never seen nor heard of before. The band was called Metallica. The album, Kill ’Em All.

  Turned over the album jacket. Looked at the back. Shocked at what I saw.

  In the age of super glam, KISS, Rush in silk kimonos, in the era of Van Halen with bandanas tied from the knee down to the ankle, tight spandex pants, light shows, laser shows, everything looked cool.

  Not this band.

  Quite simply put, they were the ugliest rock band I had ever seen in my whole life.

  The picture puzzled me. How the fuck did they put this picture on the back of the record? Lars had a wart on his face. True, Lemmy did too, but at least Lemmy wore black flared pants with conchos down the side, with tassels, and white pointy-heeled boots. Lemmy dressed like a rock star. Metallica dressed like bums.

  Collecting music was my hobby. Anything interesting, anything that caught my eye, I collected. Here was an album by the worst-looking musicians on the planet. I had to have it!

  When I put it on at home, I freaked. This was the heaviest shit in the world.

  “Seek and Destroy,” “Hit the Lights,” “Metal Militia,” “Jump in the Fire.” I totally loved these songs. We would smoke pot and crank “Phantom Lord.” Metallica were heavy and sleazy and cool. I went to see them live at the Masonic Temple with Armored Saint in the front row. I was a Metallica fan from the first second they came on the scene.

  The first time I met Alcoholica, as they were fondly referred to in those days, was when we opened for Aerosmith at the Cow Palace in San Francisco 1990. After our set, there was a knock at the door. “Hey guys! Metallica want to meet you.” Wow, this is crazy. I loved the band and I couldn’t wait to party with these wild motherfuckers.

  The door opens. James Hetfield walks right up to me. He grabs me by both sides of the head and stares into my face. He is an inch away from my nose, staring deep into my eyes. I am scared shitless. “Holy fucking goddamn shit!!” he says. “You really do look like that.” It was then he let me go, and started laughing. I was already digging these guys.

  We started the night partying with Alcoholica. They lived up to their name.

  Kirk Hammett I had known about since I was a little kid. He had worked at the Record Exchange in Walnut Creek, California. The exact store that was blocks away from my grandma’s house on Creekside Drive. I would just hang out in there for hours on a summer day. This is where I got my first Mötley Crüe record, first Kerrang! magazine. W.A.S.P.’s “Animal (Fuck Like a Beast)” single. Twisted Sister’s “I Am (I’m Me),” with the iconic Dee Snider stage raps on the B-side. I heard Twisted’s live “It’s Only Rock ’n’ Roll” playing as I was going through the racks. What the fuck is this? I never laughed so hard in my life.

  I also got my first marijuana joint there.

  One night playing in the Bay Area, possibly in Sacramento, Kirk came to the show with a bag full of mushrooms. I split it with him after the gig and we ended up laughing, uncontrollably. Unable to find his car in the parking lot after the show, we stumbled around, incapable of speech due to our laughter-induced paralysis. I don’t know how, but it was just me and Kirk, looking for his car in the dark, after some huge show, walking around with the audience. Through tears of hilarity, we asked the fans if they might know where Kirk’s car was. Not knowing where the fuck we were, I don’t even remember what concert this was.

  1990

  Canadian National Exhibition Stadium, Toronto

  Ring! It’s Tommy Lee on the phone.

  “Hey doooooood!!!! Are you going to see Aerosmith tonight????”

  We are in town hanging out with family. Aerosmith is in town tonight with the Black Crowes and Metallica on the bill. Yes we are going to the show.

  We agreed to meet Tommy down at the CNE Grandstand. Aerosmith had been so generous, giving me as many guest passes I want, backstage, including my mom, brothers, sisters, my whole family. It was great being friends with the Bad Boys of Boston after our tour together. At this time, I could indeed say we were friends.

  We drove down the Don Valley Parkway in my Camaro IROC-Z. Upon arriving backstage, we had agreed that we were going to jam that night. I realized that Steven and Joe wanted me to warm up with them vocally. I couldn’t believe it. I went into a tiny closet-sized room. Joe Perry was in there with his guitar and Steven Tyler was next to the piano. We started doing scales together in preparation for the show. We had agreed to do the song “Last Child” together, in my hometown. What an honor!

  Stood on the side of the stage next to Tommy. Ian Astbury and his girlfriend Renée were there. I asked Ian, why did they still live in Toronto?

  “Because it’s civilized,” came his reply.

  And then it came time. It was kinda cold that night, so Tommy Lee gave me his Dr. Feelgood tour jacket to keep warm. He was freaking out, dancing and jumping up and down on the side of the stage.

  Steven Tyler uttered the immortal phrase, “Hey TORONTO!!!! Put your hands together for your hometown boy!” He welcomed me
onto the stage. One of the highlights of my whole life.

  After the gig, we all went up to the Four Seasons hotel, where Aerosmith and Tommy Lee were staying. I had a big bag of weed and we ended up in Tom Hamilton’s room. It was great to see him again. He sat on the bed, and me and Tommy were having a great time, laughing. I’m freaking out because we are hanging with Aerosmith. I pulled out the bag of weed. Tom Hamilton said, “Hey, Sebastian.” And I look at this dude. I was being a complete jerk, and insensitive to his sobriety.

  “Come on, man, it’s not big deal, it’s just weed!”

  “But Sebastian, you don’t understand. If you pull that out, I’ll have to leave the room.” And it was his room.

  So I put it away.

  The next day we decided to go to hang out with our good buddy Lars Ulrich. The first thing he did was tell me that he filmed my jam with Aerosmith the night before. He promised me a copy. This was in 1990. Hey Lars! It’s twenty-six years after the gig. Can I please have my copy now? I cannot think of anything I’d rather see, to be honest. Seriously.

  We started our day going down to the CN Tower and getting drunk. Lars was in tourist mode that day, and being European, probably felt the Canadian vibe. Up to the top restaurant we went, to the bar of course, for brunch. Drank a bunch of booze, and then decided to leave. The restaurant was the “spinning” kind, revolving 360 views around the city of Toronto. I don’t think we realized it was motorized. Any room would’ve been spinning in the state we were achieving.

  We made it down to the bottom of the CN Tower and drunkenly bought trinkets at the gift shop. Into the cab, up Yonge Street, to the Gasworks. My old haunt. It felt great to strut in there with the drummer of Metallica on a hot summer day. We proceeded in the Canadian national pastime. Sit on the patio and drink beers.

  In my experience, partying with Lars, decades ago, he was never content with only drinking beers. There was the time at the top of Le Mondrian in West Hollywood, after doing mountains of cocaine, Lars and I challenged each other to an early morning tennis match. We went up on the roof of the hotel, after partying all night, and had our own little mini-Wimbledon up there. A bunch of booze, mountain of blow, and tennis. That’s how we rolled back in 1990.