Slash

by Slash

  I set about putting together a new band; I wanted to do something like Snakepit, but different. Teddy Zig Zag started getting me out on Tuesday nights to jam down at the Baked Potato in Hollywood. I sat in with a lot of blues players and did a lot of classic songs, some of which I’d never played before and I loved every bit of it. Then I got this call from a promoter to do this show, all expenses paid, in Budapest, headlining the jazz festival there. I agreed immediately; it was the kick in the ass that I needed to go out and form a band. I got Johnny Griparic, Alvino Bennett, and Bobby Schneck on rhythm guitar. We put together a cover set that included everything from B.B. King to Steppenwolf to Otis Redding to a few other R&B and blues standards. Then we went off to Budapest to headline and it was great. After that, the calls rolled in for us to do more gigs, and before we knew it, we became a touring band, doing whatever gig we were offered as much for the money as for the beer. We became the most extreme gigs-for-beer touring band I’d ever seen and we had a great time doing it. We’d travel with a huge entourage and generally take over wherever it was that we showed up. I was having a really good time playing in clubs with a great bunch of guys who were just in it for the music.

  When our tour was done, I approached Johnny Griparic about forming a new version of Snakepit. We put the word out on the street that we were looking for a new singer. At one point I had some guy get in touch with me who said that he was the singer for Jellyfish. Since I’d worked with Eric Dover on the last record, I decided to meet him. What a strange trip that turned out to be.

  This guy met me over at Perla’s house, and the moment I laid eyes on him I had my doubts. He didn’t look the part; he had no rock-and-roll fashion sense at all—he looked more like a construction worker. I invited him in and we sat down in the living room and I pulled out a guitar. Perla was in the bedroom upstairs while this guy started telling me about some song he wrote about this girl. I asked him to sing it while I played the music, and found that the guy couldn’t sing particularly well, so I was suspicious of his being in a band that did perfect five-part harmonies. And the lyrics were pretty naff as well. So I tried to be polite and saw him to the door.

  After the guy left, Perla told me that everything he claimed to be and said was bullshit—and she knew the girl he was singing about. I was skeptical; I thought she was jumping to conclusions or being paranoid. I wasn’t all that interested in working with him but I had him over once again just to see if Perla was right. She confronted the guy and every single thing she said turned out to be true. It was at that moment that I realized that Perla was a lot more astute than I gave her credit for. And, as much as I’d hate to admit it, this was one of many times that she saved me from potential disaster. In any case, the guy was a fraud and had lied to me, so I did the appropriate thing: me and Ronnie went to the guy’s houseboat and scared the shit out of him. Ronnie threatened to put a hole in the boat with the guy’s head, and told him to never call or contact me again.

  Before, I alluded to how Ronnie became the Single White Female in my life; well, it was right about now when that happened. Over time, Ronnie became my shadow, and he seemed almost possessive of me. He did a great job helping move shit into my new house, and he was always loyal, but when Perla and I started hanging out together, it was as if he were listening in on our conversations. The last straw came when I discovered that he’d spun out in my car and totaled it without telling me. I realized that in a weird way he was both living vicariously through me and wanted to be me in a way. It all came to a head, and thankfully, he left quietly. I’ve since discovered that all the stuff I ever gave him—the gold records, awards, all that shit—he has sold on eBay. Nice.

  Anyway, I continued my quest for a singer. When Johnny played me a tape of Rod Jackson, I knew we’d found him. I’d made demos of three or four songs for these different guys to audition with, and Rod did amazing vocals on a demo track called “All Things Considered.” His voice was incredible. It was rock and roll, but it was more like acid R&B delivered at high velocity. So I said, “Let’s meet this guy.” Rod was a perfect misfit: he was tall, half black and half white, always wore shades, and he had dreads. Being from Virginia, he also had a real southern attitude and accent. And when he sings, he can belt out soul like Otis Redding or hit a higher range like Sly Stone, but he also has a softer blues voice like Teddy Pendergrass or Marvin Gaye. It was a different kind of voice than any I’d ever worked with before, but I had nothing to lose, so I went with my heart on that.

  We wrote a bunch of bitchin’ stuff over at Mates—Johnny G., Matt Laug, Regan Roxies—everyone together, then I moved the band into my house in Beverly Hills and we rehearsed and recorded in my brand-new studio. We worked hard and we played hard and we’d written an album’s worth of material in no time.

  DURING THIS PERIOD I KEPT A CLOSE relationship with Tom Maher, who was the guy who’d been most on my side over at BFD management. When I left Guns, he led me to believe that he’d stopped working over there and would manage me, but I’m not so sure that was really the case. It is possible that he was a mole, letting Doug know my every move. But at this point he was acting as my manager.

  At the time, in 1998, the music industry underwent a major change. Black Friday happened, the day that hundreds of music executives were fired; they literally walked down Sunset with their boxes of stuff. Most of the labels were consolidated, one of them being Geffen, which was folded into Interscope. It was the beginning of the end of the music business as I’d known it.

  Once Geffen was restructured, I had to make the acquaintance of a handful of people I’d never worked with. I was working on a band that had nothing to do with the grunge sound or whatever you want to call what it was that happened in the mid-nineties: it was a very cool but short-lived moment. And it had been replaced by rap-rock limp crap and boy bands…and Interscope was more or less all gangsta rap. I had no interest in any of that, so I was completely unaware about the shifts within the business.

  A new breed of executives had become the norm as well; they were much more bland, much more PC corporate-guy types than any of the characters I’d worked with. My typical loaded charm wasn’t going to get me far. The only person that was a familiar face at the label anymore was Lori Earle, who’d worked publicity with me since Guns was signed.

  The guy assigned to deal with me was Jordan Schur and I remember coming home from my meeting with him thinking that I did not trust him one bit. He promised me the world and I’d only known him for twenty minutes. His was a kind of whitewashing bullshit: “We’re going to sell millions of records, get new cars,” all that crap. I knew right away that the guy was not for real. But he was Interscope head Jimmy Iovine’s boy, so I had to deal with it. I played him five demos from my next Snakepit record and he told me he loved them and couldn’t wait to put it out. I then met with Jimmy Iovine, and he suggested that I have Jack Douglas produce my album, which I thought was a great idea because Jack had produced Aerosmith’s Rocks and worked with John Lennon and other great artists in the seventies. Jimmy also commented that he had his doubts about my singer because his voice was too soulful, but I stood up for Rod and I told him, “Rod’s got an amazing voice. It’s just not what you’d expect.”

  At this point Izzy had been dropped by the label, as had Duff; so I had my doubts, but Jordan appeared to be genuinely excited. Jordan scheduled another meeting, then bailed on it, and then suddenly did an about-face, claiming that Snakepit wasn’t the kind of music that his label produced. I wasn’t shocked; I felt, “Now, that’s more like it”—I could tell from the first time I met him that he was completely two-faced. With that, I decided to leave the label, and having already dumped a lot of money into recording the album myself, I offered to buy it back. In my mind, I had the house, I had the studio, I’d just record it all there and sell it elsewhere. I was very stubborn about the whole thing.

  At the same time, Tom Maher hadn’t done anything to help me in the situation, so I decided to look for a new manag
er and I was introduced to Sam Frankel by Jack Douglas, who in turn introduced me to Jerry Heller. The idea was that Heller would manage me while Frankel would be my day-to-day guy. I was meeting a few people, but when I get my mind locked into accomplishing something, I’ll do whatever it takes with whoever can do it to get things done—right away. Jerry was that guy, but a very suspicious character, and I’m still unsure of that whole arrangement, Considering that I was a full-blown alcoholic, and not exercising clear judgement anyway, I didn’t care—I just wanted to get things moving forward. I had a handshake deal with Jerry and Sam, and Jack Douglas commenced producing my record.

  I felt like I was back in the early days of Guns, trying to get a band off the ground while working with subpar players: Jack was great but he hadn’t done anything recently, and while Jerry Heller had made his home in the hip-hop world, he hadn’t done anything of merit in the rock world; Sam was a nice Jewish attorney from the East Coast who visited his mom regularly and seemed to know nothing about the music business whatsoever. It was the carnival all over again, amid a music industry that was completely alien to me.

  As far as the band went, it was no better: the singer, Rod Jackson, turned out to be unmotivated and a junkie, Johnny Griparic was and is a great bass player but didn’t have the touring experience he really needed for the long haul, and Ryan Roxie, whom I met from Alice Cooper’s band and hired as a second guitarist, was only interested in getting as much of the publishing as possible. The drummer, Matt Laug, was the most experienced and even-keeled of the bunch, and, of course, there was me, playing the role of boss, which wasn’t a role I was comfortable with. I split all of the publishing and advance equally with everyone, so it seemed more like a team effort than it really was, so in the end it was just a mess. All I wanted to do was get the record done and get back on the road. I took a deal with Koch Records because they made the most solid offer, which was a huge mistake due to the fact that they dropped the ball soon after the record was released, which did nothing to help the situation at all.

  Jerry Heller proved to be a true cannibal manager; he tried to take me for everything given the chance. I’ve since heard stories to that effect from others in the business as well. The only thing that Jerry did do was get us the opening slot on the AC/DC tour for Stiff Upper Lip. And that is how he bought my confidence as a manager.

  Meanwhile, Jerry tried to get me to sign a contract that granted him 20 percent of all the money I’d make with Snakepit plus 20 percent of my future earnings from Guns…for eternity. Perla didn’t trust him and suggested I shouldn’t sign it, and when I showed the contract to my new attorney, David Codikow, he told me it was suicidal. He got into it with Jerry and straight up called him an asshole, so Jerry fired him, which was surreal because he had no authority to do so—my manager can’t fire my attorney—but not wanting to give him the pleasure regardless, David quit anyway. In hindsight, it’s all pretty laughable, but at the time it was tranmatic—it was all I could do to keep it together.

  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.