After months of relentless touring, G N’ R earned themselves a little time off. At the start of 1988, they returned to Hollywood as conquering heroes and were without a doubt the new band with the biggest buzz in the business. But in a flash, they were on the road again for most of February, headlining large theaters and earning far more money than opening for arena acts.
But in those days, a band’s real goal was selling records, and so newer bands opened up for arena headliners. Sure, they got raped on cash, stage size, and PA usage, but they were exposed to maybe ten thousand people per show who otherwise might not have ever heard the band. To that end, in the spring, G N’ R hit the road with Iron Maiden. I’m a huge Maiden fan, but they were old and tired by 1988, and I’d bet what remains of my left nut that Guns N’ Roses blew Maiden off the stage four out of every five shows. The grueling pace caught up with Axl, and because of an injury to his vocal cords, he wisely shut it down before doing any further career-threatening damage. But there’s an old saying about journalists: “They never report that a plane landed safely.” The truth is, “If it bleeds, it leads,” so those highly ethical rock “journalists” had a field day conjuring up several contradictory “real reasons” G N’ R had departed the Iron Maiden tour early.
Each week, I’d free-read Billboard the moment it hit the newsstand, so I remained keenly aware of AFD’s chart position. Over the course of a week or two, it slipped a few notches. I figured it had peaked and would creep its way back down the charts. Which led me to conclude that G N’ R’s support of their debut album was likely done. It just seemed the normal course of business for the guys to get back to writing tunes, then head into the motherfucking studio to record another motherfucking album and keep their motherfucking momentum mounting. That’s how new bands did it; they opened for big acts, left a good impression, then hurried back into the studio to get a second record in stores before people forgot about them or the next big thing came along to squash yesterday’s news. All the while getting schmoozed along the road by promoters who knew they needed to build a good relationship with the up-and-comers.
Unlike other bands posing as outlaws, Guns N’ Roses were the real deal and proudly practiced without pretentious preaching.
AFD’s late-winter chart reversal was slight, and even shorter lived. Week after week, all through spring, it steadily climbed up the Billboard Charts. The release of their single “Sweet Child,” days before their support of Iron Maiden abruptly ended, quickly accelerated that chart rise. For every schoolgirl, choirboy, outcast, reject, or delinquent, the siren’s song of Appetite for Destruction was far too compelling to ignore. Until gangster rap arrived a few years later, G N’ R was the only truly dangerous band accurately reporting from the streets. Grand Master Flash had told the world, “It’s like a jungle,” but G N’ R rolled out the welcome mat. Unlike other bands posing as outlaws, Guns N’ Roses were the real deal and proudly practiced without pretentious preaching. I do love me some alliterations.
One of the coolest things about gaining popularity and respect was the opportunity it provided to perform with one’s heroes. Not long after Guns N’ Roses inked the contract to join Aerosmith on tour, Axl called to let me know the long-hoped-for pairing would actually happen. Such a compelling bill was a dream tour for me, and most likely two or three other true rock fans. Sidetrack: I just thought of something. If I were Axl Rose, back in 83, I would have gone with “Compelling Bill” as my chosen stage name.
A few days later, I called W. Axl Rose – man, he’s got the best initials, W.A.R. – to tell him I heard Deep Purple on “Rockline.” During the interview, Purple mentioned a concert in New York, with Aerosmith and Guns N’ Roses at Giants Stadium, sometime later that summer. I told Axl the only thing better would be having Ted Nugent’s original band on the show. But more importantly, I hadn’t caught the exact date. It was news to Axl, so he said he’d find out the details and let me know.
When I didn’t hear back from Axl for a month, I figured he forgot and the show had passed. But within days of that thought, he rang me up. After chatting for a while, he told me that indeed they would play a show with Deep Purple at Giants Stadium a few weeks down the line. I told him I’d call him back after checking on hotels and flights, so he could put me on the guest list if need be. I hadn’t realized he was calling me from Cincinnati. I was even more surprised when he gave me their travel agent’s number so I could pick up my complimentary plane tickets. Five days, later Appetite for Destruction hit # 1 on the Billboard charts for the first time.
I was super stoked when I packed way too much shit for a three-day trip. Ma drove me to LAX and, as customary, we smoked pot along the way. She usually scored mediocre to low-grade Mexican, requiring hours of laborious deseeding just to cobble a joint’s worth of headache, but that evening it was some bomb-shit. Me likey. So we burned a couple doobies along the way. There was only one problem – that dope got me way too fucking paranoid. Upon arrival to the terminal of impending doom, several emergency vehicles parked curbside with red lights flashing had me conjuring up worst-case scenarios. I mentally braced for the coming firestorm.
Rolling toward my gate, I couldn’t have worried more. Even if I were about to hop the red eye aboard a solar-powered airplane overloaded with obese folks. But I’m a professional – worry and weed are kissin’ cousins – so I motored ahead, confident my wholly justifiable paranoia would wear off shortly. Instead, it became five hours of terrifying terror while high in the sky. Seemingly every ten minutes, the plane’s captain abruptly banked that fucking death-jet hard left. Which every damn time freaked me the fuck out, while I thought to myself “Oh fuck, this is it.”
Because you’re reading this, you might have figured out – and I’m happy to report – the plane landed safely in Newark, New Jersey. Just before seven in the morning, as we taxied to the terminal, our stunt-pilot came over the intercom and I heard the day’s weather forecast for 85 degrees with 85 percent humidity. As soon as the muggy smacked me in the face while deplaning, I realized the pilot meant “right now.” That shit just ain’t right!
As mentioned above, I brought a stupid amount of luggage. It teetered high on my lap, requiring me to peek around it as I slow-rolled my way through the terminal in search of the rental car counter. I asked several passersby for directions, but was repeatedly ignored. After the fifth ignorant fuck gave me the brush off, I yelled, “Fuck you!”
He stopped abruptly, spun around to face me, and then very politely said, “Oh, I’m sorry. Did you need some help?”
I thought to myself, “Got to love New Jersey, fuck you is hello.”
I headed out on the highway toward Teaneck and a room at the Lowes Glenpointe ready and waiting for me. The guys were still aboard a tour bus, with its busted air conditioner, motoring their sticky, sweaty way from Detroit. After a long nap, I drove my rental car to grab a bite and then took in the sites around Jersey, the whole time keeping my eyes peeled for a good place to catch some air in a car I’d never see again. After dinner, I checked my messages and found out the guys were in a downstairs conference room readying for a photo shoot. I hurried down, eager to find Steven because it’d been hours since I smoked pot.
Axl was there with road manager Doug, who eventually became their business manager. When we were introduced, he said to me, “Raz, good to finally meet you.” He paused momentarily, seemingly pondering something, and then said, “You know who was asking about you the other day?” I perked up, feeling important about him knowing who I was, and that folks were talking about me. But he just chuckled and said, “No one.” At some point during my trip, Doug pointed out something that ruined some of my most cherished private moments. He said, “You know what I hate most? Those phone sex ads in the back of Hustler – the little ones with thirty on the page – I hate that they always sneak in one or two gay phone sex ads.”
I had never noticed that before. Now, I can’t not notice.
I sat in a conference room at the Lowes Glenpointe in Teaneck, New Jersey, sipping cocktails while my buddies posed for the cover of Rolling Stone.
The rest of the band began meandering into the conference room about a half an hour after I got there. I think their minds were blown, as was mine, upon hearing the photo shoot was for the “Cover of the Rolling Stone.” The magazine was still relevant, and everyone was fully aware of how big a deal the cover was. Naturally, we were all thrilled, and goofed around while sporadically singing Dr. Hook. After me and Steven returned from upstairs, photographer Timothy White fine-tuned his lighting by having G N’ R pose for a few Polaroid test shots. A little more than four years after seeing Izzy and Axl’s band at Madame Wong’s West, I sat in a conference room at the Lowes Glenpointe in Teaneck, New Jersey, sipping cocktails while my buddies posed for the cover of Rolling Stone.
