There's an old saying amongst poker players, "If you can't spot the fish, you are the fish."
My freelance music-business school courses depleted my settlement funds at a pace comparable to lighting up blunts using hundred dollar bills. I invested in the wind and blew through eighty-five grand in six months. Plus, when there’s a dude selling killer blow right upstairs, withdrawing two hundred bucks daily from an ATM is a recipe for financial ruin. By the start of 85, I had a little over ten grand remaining, the bulk of it securing a loan for Ma, of which I could only get a little bit at a time as she paid down her note.
If the six-month-older Raz possessed a time machine, he surely would have returned to the previous summer, smacked a gimp, and said, “Tell Tracii he doesn’t actually have a band to invest in.”
When I informed the guys of their benefactor being broke, at first everyone refused to believe it. They mostly shrugged it off whenever I said, “My money is all gone.” But when the rehearsal space didn’t get paid, and all the gear got relocated to my apartment, they began to think it might not be a bluff. Soon I was evicted from there, too. Likely the biggest shock to the boys in the band, we started driving by McDonald’s instead of hitting the drive-thru. It was official – no free lunch.
Besides being a coke dealer, Liberty was a guitar player in the beginning phase of an axe-to-axe man-crush on Tracii.
I pooled funds with Liberty, the coke dealer from upstairs, and we rented a house near Laurel Canyon and Vanowen in North Hollywood. Before moving in, he and I agreed it would be just us and no roommates. So when Tracii asked if the third bedroom was for rent, I thought myself slick when I said, “If it’s alright with Liberty.” Upon Liberty’s return, he agreed without hesitation when Tracii asked to rent a room. Besides being a coke dealer, Liberty was a guitar player in the beginning phase of an axe-to-axe man-crush on Tracii.
Cokeheads didn’t feel like traveling ten miles away from Hollywood to score blow from Liberty, so he snorted more than he sold. He must have believed his rent would be funded by selling shit to me and the guys. I’m weird; if I don’t have money, I don’t party. And low-budget Raz could only spare funds for a quarter g once in a blow moon. Because I refuse to do shitty drugs, when Liberty began stepping hard on his shit, I scored elsewhere. He went broke so fast that the very first time rent was due, I ate the whole enchilada, minus the paltry hundred bucks Tracii coughed up.
As soon as Liberty’s belongings were relocated to the curb, Tracii kind of sort of soundproofed the vacated room and set up L.A. Guns’ gear. But he was the only one jamming in there, due to Ole and Robbie off attending to their girlfriends’ needs while waiting for L.A. Guns to find its newest vocalist.
In retrospect, I firmly believe Tracii blew up L.A. Guns the second he got a chance to jam with someone he perceived as big time, in the form of bassist Don Costa. Early on, Don dropped by the house a few times so those two could discuss dream-plans. When there’s a guy sitting there describing the sight of eighty thousand fans cheering for his band, it’s tempting to take perceived shortcuts to experience. But it wasn’t Ozzy schmoozing Tracii, plus more than a few folks warned us Don was a flake.
Once Don disappeared, I figured Tracii had gotten it out of his system, and we’d get Mike back so L.A. Guns could hit the road to sell records
Tracii had it in his head he would persuade Axl to sing for a brand-new band, with Tracii, Don, and Tony Richards from W.A.S.P. on drums. I didn’t have to worry about it very long, because after the first few weeks, I never saw Don again. Maybe he cut out upon realizing Tracii did not come in a package deal with a deep-pocketed gimp-manager. Once Don disappeared, I figured Tracii had gotten it out of his system, and we’d get Mike back so L.A. Guns could hit the road to sell records. Tracii remained a steadfast “No Mike.”
I was dismayed and pissed. After months of devoting my every effort toward furthering Tracii Guns’ career, and his band L.A. Guns, all the while sinking several grand into McDonald’s and gear and promotion and studio and drinks and parties and an EP, the band disintegrated before ever hitting the road. I had foolishly believed it possible to secure a percentage of an entity that could be dissolved on the whim of a disloyal prick.
I now know the best way to guarantee promised compensation for one’s effort, and recoup money invested, is to lock an artist into a personal services contract while simultaneously securing as much publishing as their desperate asses will surrender. Had I been willing to contractually ass-rape and manipulate the chemically impaired, ultra-talented musician types I encountered while in the biz, I surely could have made major bucks employing my platinum rule: “Fuck them before they fuck me.”
Less than two months after being pressed, I sat wondering if those boxes of EPs stacked in the living room were relics, if an “L.A. Guns” would ever hit the road to help pay me back while they got famous. To figure out my “what’s next,” I took the Pontiac on a hell ride through the hills, carving up Mulholland, top down, howling along with Aerosmith. About to make a right turn onto Beverly Glen and head back to the valley, I had déjà vu. It was 1979 all over again, with me at that same crossroads behind the wheel of Ma’s Chevy wagon, hearing the commitment I made to myself six years earlier: “In this town, if you want something, you got to take it.”
I realized during the previous few months, I was the one who got taken. I didn’t like it, so I decided right there and then I would try to make it in the music business by being open and honest. – Pause for laughter! – If I couldn’t make it that way, I wasn’t going to make it.
Part of the appeal was the challenge it presented. Lying and manipulating people was far too easy. My stack of cash made me so lazy I almost lost my hustle, but nearing bankruptcy reignited my fire and reawakened my wheeling and dealing chops. I’ve described the previous six months as “business school,” and it truly was a crash course. With my lifelong curiosity of how things work, I had learned tons and made many helpful contacts, all the while building long-lasting relationships. One major insight, alluded to earlier, was that a new band of unknown talent/artists does not require management or investment. First, they must prove themselves as a stable entity with a marketable product; meaning songs people are willing to pay to hear.
READ MORE
