Slash

by Slash

  A DECADE AFTER WE’D FIRST GOTTEN the band together, every single thing that I knew to be Guns N’ Roses had changed. We’d lost Steven, we’d lost Izzy, and while we’d gained Matt, we’d gained and lost Gilby. Duff was the only element of the original back line that remained the same; he was my friend, the only one I could count on. But he was sober now; in May 1994, he suffered a near-fatal episode when his pancreas almost exploded. Years of heavy drinking had taken their toll, and if Duff didn’t get sober, he’d die. We were still tight, and things were basically the same, but we didn’t tip bottles together anymore. He was really striving to keep things together in a way, keeping Matt in the loop because, after all, Matt wasn’t sure how the process of songwriting to recording worked within GN’R. Duff was the only anchor at that point, while I was fraying at the seams.

  Drinking to me was still a fun, recreational activity to be indulged in every day, though I had started to drink to medicate more than just for fun. There wasn’t much of a social scene for Guns outside of the studio anyway, so from the moment I reentered the band, I was pretty much on my own. My consumption was excessive, but I still functioned like a normal person—a normal person with a pure internal alcohol level diluted only by their blood. I had worked long and hard to get myself in shape that way. I’d had to, because drinking was the only thing that satisfied me and subdued all of the issues that I would have had to otherwise deal with, in the band and in my life, if I ever let myself get back to normal for a while.

  Slash and Axl discussing something backstage on the Illusion tour. Note the half gallon of vodka stashed in Slash’s stomach.

  All the focus was on trying to get things working again. Amid the least creative atmosphere I’d ever experienced in the history of the band, we somehow finally got stuff going. My memories of it are hazy at best because I did everything I could to forget. I do remember going down to the studio and rehearsing without direction. I just had too much animosity blocking my creativity. One of the few times I actually spoke with Axl about how it was going, it was pretty clear that we were coming from very different places. I was trying to get through to him once again about how working with Huge was a chore and a creative dead end in my opinion.

  “You don’t have to be friends to make a record,” Axl said.

  “Maybe not,” I said, “but you do need to have some kind of mutual respect, you know.”

  We might as well have been talking about the two of us. The negativity was so all-consuming that I couldn’t concentrate and I couldn’t focus on writing. There was so much bitter stuff nagging at me that remaining calm and tranquil enough to enjoy playing was next to impossible. So I preoccupied myself with being drunk all the time and tried to push through whatever it was that we were doing.

  Axl asked Zakk Wylde to come down to rehearse with us as well as Paul Huge. He probably thought I’d like that idea because Zakk was a friend of mine and I respected him as a guitarist, but that really didn’t seem like the answer to me. I brought up the option of rehiring Gilby, and that idea was flatly rejected. There were endless messages sent back and forth, through Doug Goldstein, about Axl’s wants, needs, and ideas on what we should be doing. The only way that I regularly “talked” to Axl was through Doug at that point. Axl would give Doug a message and Doug would have to massage the words in order to relate it to me. Then I’d give him a message and he’d pass it along to Axl after massaging it appropriately, and so it went, back and forth. At times I’d call Axl but most of the time he wouldn’t pick up or ever return my call. And when he did show up at rehearsal, he never sang. My memory of that time is so vague, because so little jamming happened. I must say, though, that the gear was set up nice. All things considered, those sessions cost too much for a lot of uneventful, depressing sitting around.

  As pissed as I was to have been called home to do nothing, my responsible side kicked in and I was determined to get something out of it despite the fact that my heart was in my boots. I wasn’t sure what to expect from Zakk Wyld but I hoped for the best. He’s a great guy; I remember that I met him at the Sunset Marquis the night he got hired to be Ozzy’s guitar player years before. We hung out in his room celebrating until I left him passed out in the bathtub. Zakk’s personality is like Steven Adler’s times ten: he doesn’t mince words and isn’t scared of confrontation. I couldn’t see him and Axl lasting more than a week. But aside from that, when we jammed down at the Complex, it didn’t make any sense to me. It wasn’t the two-guitar-player team that GN’R really was. We were two lead-guitar players going at the songs on opposite sides of the stage and it was overbearing. I was used to working with and playing off of a more low-key rhythm player. If Zakk and I were to do this, it would be a whole new trip…more like Judas Priest or something. Even he felt that the concept was wrong.

  “That was cool,” I told him after jamming for a bit. “It was different.”

  “Listen, man,” he said. “That was all right. We could get this thing together, fuck it, that’s cool. But you and Axl have to get the fuckin’ band going, man. Get yourselves together and fucking get it going again.”

  It was all about Axl wanting control to the point that the rest of us were strangled.

  BY THEN ALL “BAND” DECISIONS WERE being made by Axl and Doug Goldstein. Duff and I and the other members were informed of what they’d decided by phone calls and faxes—Guns N’ Roses had officially become a dictatorship. The reality of what was happening was overwhelming; it was like quicksand. I couldn’t get any leverage in any direction to pull myself out of it. What we were supposed to be doing was simple: hire a new guitar player and make a new album. But the whole process was dictated by Axl, and although I know he wanted input from me, I was suffocated by the tension and I couldn’t think straight. I think at the end of the day it was a power struggle between him and me, with him wanting to control everything and me wanting to keep it more of a group effort. Oftentimes the public perception centered on Axl and me as the core of Guns N’ Roses, and I think Axl agreed, but the success GN’R had garnered up until that point was the result of five guys working together, where nobody was more important than anyone else as far as I was concerned. But that idea was becoming ancient history and it didn’t seem like there was anything I could do about it.

  Even though I’d seen this coming for so long, when the reality stared me in the face, I still refused to believe that it was true. One of the things that had brought the five of us together in the first place was the fact that we would not be bossed around; based on that alone, we’d always had one another’s backs. Axl had always been a part of that team—at least in spirit when he wasn’t there in person. In our heart of hearts, even when he was being weird, the rest of us knew that he was part of the collective. Now, all of a sudden, he wasn’t. As much as we might have ignored it before this point, he’d made it pretty clear that we were “his” band and that he intended to tweak and torture us as he saw fit, and keep us at his beck and call. It seemed like he believed we’d welcome that opportunity.

  For the time being, we all hung around, and in our ample downtime we all talked shit. It was so negative. After a while, I could barely show up because the animosity became crippling. We’d spend each night in the studio maybe writing music or jamming…most nights we’d sit around frustrated, waiting to see if Axl would show—which he did, usually after most of us had left for the night—all under the guise that we were writing music for the next Guns record. On top of it all, a new contract issue further disrupted an already volatile situation.

  This time it was directed at Duff and me—the only two remaining original members of Guns N’ Roses. And it was very strategically presented: the contract stated that Axl would retain rights to the band name and was allowed to start a new band that he could call Guns N’ Roses. Of course Duff and I could be members…but only on his terms, which felt to us like we were being defined as hired hands. Axl had hired an attorney to push this through, so Duff and I did as well, and the three of them
started haggling, having those attorney fests that do nothing but cost their clients money. Doug Goldstein was also there helping “facilitate” the whole thing.

  That situation chipped away at the stone that is me; my patience, my dedication, my determination—all of it finally began to give way. It’s been the focus of so much speculation: What actually did Guns N’ Roses in? Was it artistic differences? Was it Slash’s ego? Was it Axl’s attitude? It was all about Axl wanting control to the point that the rest of us were strangled.

  I didn’t really know what else to do after Axl sent a letter on August 31, 1995, saying that he was leaving the band and taking the name with him under the terms of the contract. After that we tried to put it back together. He pushed this contract issue on us with so much pressure to the point that Duff and I just gave in. We signed some document that we’d agreed to have put in escrow for a certain amount of time to see if we could work things out. But if we didn’t agree to put the terms into effect by a certain point, the contract would be null and void, so I signed it and let it go. I just wanted to move forward if we had anywhere left to go together.

  Needless to say, my trust in Axl was gone. That entire contract situation was the antithesis of Guns N’ Roses in my mind. I was forced into a secondary role, while Axl was now officially at the helm if I officially let the escrowed contract become effective. One time he called me for a private meeting at his favorite Italian restaurant in Brentwood. I showed up and he wasn’t there, so I sat at the bar waiting for him. After he arrived, we moved and sat in the back in a dark booth as if we were in the Mafia. As far as I can remember, the meeting was basically an attempt to coerce me into accepting the arrangement he and his lawyers were pushing, but in a lot less heavy-handed manner. Axl treated the situation as if he and I were the two most important factors in this whole thing. He tried to convince me that it was all good, that it was something he and I were doing as partners.

  At that point, he was trying to draw me into his world, to show me his version of things in his way, which is a very nice way, but I just didn’t go for it. I sat there and listened, not giving too much feedback. There was too much tension and too many unaddressed issues. It became increasingly obvious to me that there was nothing I was going to say that was going to change his mind. And he already knew how I felt. He and I continued this way until it all boiled over later.

  It had become no fun. It had become depressing. It was almost amazing to me that this band had taken such a turn; we, the band, had allowed Axl the freedom, over all those years, to transform what we had into some morbid reality that existed only in his head.

  There were another couple meetings like that in Doug Goldstein’s office. Then, of course, there were endless meetings with the attorneys going over and over this thing. It was exhausting. I couldn’t even understand what the fuck I was doing there. No matter what we might eventually put out as far as a record was concerned, none of this was worth it.

  THE STONES WERE IN TOWN DURING this period; they were staying at the Sunset Marquis and recording at Don Was’s house, working on Bridges to Babylon. I went over and checked out a few sessions, and watching them work, watching them do their thing, made me feel even worse about my situation. They had a chemistry that encompassed all of their very distinct personalities but never lacked respect. Keith would roll in and pick on Ronnie relentlessly but Ronnie is such a nice, amiable guy that it was all okay. It had to be because Keith is pretty sinister and such a profound narcissist that he has to take it out on someone. He can’t take it out on Mick or Charlie…though he tries. They’re so resilient that it doesn’t work, so Ronnie gets it all. As Ronnie says, “Keith has these tyrannical moods.” But as harsh as it ever gets, it is all within the parameters of mutual respect.

  One particular evening, after they were done for the day, I went back to Ronnie’s hotel room and hung out for a while. He asked me if I knew Keith. I said I didn’t, and had never met him one-on-one, so he took me over to his room, introduced us, and left me there. It was dark, with some old blues playing on the stereo. The one lamp that was lit dimly illuminated Keith’s face with this sort of creepy glow as he sat on the couch. I sat in a chair by the coffee table while he sized me up. He talked for a few minutes, then suddenly pulled out a butterfly knife and flipped it around a few times to show me who’s boss. He slammed it down on the table between us.

  “Um…Okay,” I said.

  Later that night we went to dinner at Chasen’s. Keith and I stood at the bar, talking about dope and jail, and I could tell that he was just putting up with me by that point. I’d been at the studio rehearsing all day, so when the conversation swung around to my band, I let it all out.

  Keith took it all in, and then looked me deep in the eye. “Listen,” he said. “There’s only one thing you never do—you never leave.”

  I knew where he was coming from; if you never leave, no matter what they say, you were there. If you are always the one to show up at rehearsal and stay until the end, even when times are tough and not everyone is getting along, the one thing that your bandmates will never be able to hold over your head is the fact that you walked out. It’s true: if you show up early to rehearsal or recording and you’re the last one there, you are the guy who can’t be fucked with. A perfect example was the great Rolling Stones song “Happy,” from their Exile on Main St. album. As legend has it, while Keith was waiting for the rest of the band to show up, he wrote the whole song by himself. When they arrived, he presented it to them as if to say “What took you so long?” I definitely wanted to be that guy who could overcome all these obstacles and produce music. When you’re always there, you’re the one that holds all the cards.

  Keith inspired me; I felt like I had to try harder. The next day I tried to refocus my outlook and I showed up at the Complex ready to make it work at all costs. And that’s when I got slapped in the face once again: Axl never showed up to rehearse, and the attorneys’ negotiation of our “employment contracts” had taken a really insulting turn. God bless Keith for trying, but there was nothing I could do—I had to go.

  Our “rehearsals” always went really late; even later by the time Axl showed up. Whenever he did, it was usually around one or two; we’d play for an hour or more and then finally get bored and go home, leaving him in the studio. I didn’t hear him sing the whole time we were at the Complex; I’m not sure I’d heard him sing since the last show in 1993, and at this point it was 1996. So I didn’t even know what we were working on. We were supposed to jam and jam until he said, “I like this,” or, “I like that.” Nobody was having a good time, so nobody was inspired. Generally I’d get home about three a.m. And it was one of those nights that prompted me to get out.

  I got in bed and went to sleep. Two hours later, about five a.m., I woke up with cold sweats and in the blackest of moods and felt really suicidal. I wanted to end it; I was so miserable that I wanted it all to disappear. I’d never felt that way before, I’d never wanted to snuff myself—I’d gotten really close a few times but never intentionally. For a half hour, I looked around my bedroom; I had nothing to do it with; I wanted to kill myself quickly; I didn’t want to go on. If there had been any dope lying around, I would’ve done it all in one hit and that would have been that.

  For the next hour I stared at the ceiling and thought about my life from start to finish. I was weighing whether or not it was worth living, sorting out how I’d gotten where I was and deciding what I could do about it all. By six a.m. I was exhausted and fell back asleep. Two hours later I woke up with one crystal-clear thought in my head: That’s it. Other than that, my mind was silent.

  Up until that moment, one part of me wanted to push on; the other part saw no future. In the early-morning light, I went over all of the angles once again and every single one of them pointed to the same conclusion. The band wasn’t what it had once been and I didn’t want to be there anymore. Once I said that to myself, there was nothing else to think about.

  I got out of
bed and called our management office, BFD, and told Doug that I wouldn’t be coming back.

  “That’s it,” I told Doug. “I’m done. I quit.”

  I hung up before he could say anything.

  IN RETROSPECT I WAS NAIVE ABOUT THE whole thing: I didn’t protect myself legally because I didn’t think I had to. In my mind, what was the name without the players? I didn’t think I had given Axl anything, because to me, what could he do with the name and nothing else to show for it?

  I didn’t have my attorneys get on that situation as well as I should have; I was so over it and so worn down that I just couldn’t be bothered. I didn’t want to do a press release, I didn’t want to raise a brouhaha or stir up a lot of fanfare. I wanted to go quietly. I didn’t want it to be one of those situations where you have two guys bickering at each other through the press. I didn’t see any reason why something so simple should turn into a big legal battle either. I thought I’d take my share and go.

  In the short run, no one in the Guns corporation actually believed that I was done. Axl contacted those closest to me, telling them that I should change my mind. He called my dad, my security guard, my wife, Renee, and told each of them that I was making the biggest mistake of my life. He said that I was pissing away so much money because of my decision. But none of that mattered to me. I was done. The camel’s back had been broken and there was no going back.

  To tell you the truth, none of the people in Axl’s camp believed I was really gone for the next couple years. I was kind of taken aback by their deep sense of denial: I never behaved as if I intended to return, but that didn’t matter to them. They just didn’t believe that I would rather not be in Guns N’ Roses than deal with the reality of being in Guns N’ Roses.