The outstanding Ian Gillian, of Deep Purple fame, banded together with Black Sabbath to put out a kick-ass metal record, Born Again. A few weeks into 1984, Mike and me went to enjoy that evil shit live at the Long Beach Arena. While waiting at the elevator, we ran into Mike’s buddy and fellow vocalist, Vinni Stiletto, owner of a louder-than-life New York rock ‘n’ roll attitude. He had a laminate or looked like he belonged, so instead of going up in that elevator, we got a security escort all the way down to the front row. My first arena show viewed from that vantage point.
Minutes after we arrived at the high-dollar seats, amidst eerie keyboard tones emanating from a stage engulfed in prop smoke and horror-movie lighting, Sabbath kicked me in the face with the booming thunder of “Neon Knights.” While Tony Iommi shredded, Geezer Butler thumped in time with Bev Bevan slamming. Soon after the sonic onslaught began, Ian Gillan, hidden in hair, got to wailing like a magnificent metal siren. After my decade of frenzied and flamboyant air-guitar accompaniment to iconic metal tunes such as “Into the Void,” I was almost dumbfounded by Iommi’s feet welded to the stage behind his effect pedals. Despite that boringness, he rocked a great show, and I would gladly watch that dude play for hours on end. After four songs up front, I escaped to my usual seats upstairs to enjoy a better stage view and superior sound mix.
When I asked what happened to Izzy, Dave said, “He quit, told me he ‘hates playing bass,’” and was “playing guitar in some punk rock band.”
A month later, I went to see Shire at Troubadour. And because Stryper played right before them, the place was packed, with even more fans lined up outside. I went mainly to see Izzy, but Shire had a new bass player. Just like Izzy before him, the new bassist, Mick, was the only band member who wasn’t affixed to a singular spot on the stage. Plus, he was a charismatic, solid player, and a blast-to-drink-with, boisterous, fun-loving dude. When I asked what happened to Izzy, Dave said, “He quit, told me he ‘hates playing bass,’” and was “playing guitar in some punk rock band.” It turned out Izzy’s band, Rose, were sharing Shire’s drummer, Johnny. Best news of all, those two bands had a gig together in the coming weeks.
That Shire and Rose gig happened on the downstairs stage at Madame Wong’s West in Santa Monica, California. Upstairs, on the main stage, was the Sandy West band, featuring one of the best chic drummers of all time and former member of legendary band, The Runaways. I helped Shire truck some gear, so I could go to sound check and hopefully persuade Ms. West to fall deeply in love with me for a few hours. When I ran into Izzy, we chatted a bit, and then he introduced me to his singer, Axl. Izzy then departed for the stage, a small two-inch riser no more than twelve feet wide and eight feet deep.
As Axl thanked me for coming down, our small talk got interrupted when his band began the cacophony racket common to early stages of sound check. Axl then got busy breaking apart a microphone stand. Once done, all that remained was the upper portion’s three-foot length of chrome pipe with a clip on the end, on which he secured microphone and cable with black duct tape. With the task complete, Axl nodded a ready-to-go. Izzy then waved an arm, signaling the boys to cease their din. But Johnny pounded away until Axl halted him with a yell through the PA. The band that night was just plain Rose, no Hollywood nothing. Axl Rose up front, Izzy Stradlin on guitar, Chris Webber second guitar, Johnny Kreis on drums, and the baby-faced, constantly smiling Andre Troxx on bass.
Axl took hold of the reconfigured microphone stand with clenched fists as Johnny clicked sticks to count them in. At four, a tidal wave of sound crashed off the walls, engulfing the empty showroom in a sonic sea. For a moment, I sat slack-jawed, mesmerized by the frenetic action occurring before my very eyes. Ten feet away from me, upon the stage, Axl crouch-leaned backward while drawing a deep breath, muscles tensed like a big cat readying to pounce, then began wailing lungs full of lyrics stacked together tighter than Mother Superior’s bunghole. The power and soulful passion with which he spat out those lines was like nothing I had ever heard. Not even the spawn of Tina Turner, Dan McCafferty, and Satan’s torrid three-way could have topped those pipes. Unable to remain still, I rocked out and headbanged along with Rose while trying to absorb every watt of energy the band sent crunching forth. A song and a half later, it was over, and the guys were headed off to get dressed, poof up their hair, and pre-buzz for the show.
