Slash

absolutely nothing about. I could fake my way through explaining the ins and outs of bass amps, but when it came to drum sets, drumheads, drumsticks, and the wide array of percussion instruments I sold, I’m still impressed by my ability to put a shine on a pile of bullshit.

I liked my job in the music store, but it was a voyeuristic purgatory. I’d spend every idle moment staring through the front windows at Cherokee Studios across the street. Cherokee was a bit of a recording destination in the early eighties: not that I was a huge admirer, but every time I’d see the Doobie Brothers roll in there to cut a song, I can’t say that I wasn’t totally fucking envious. I was, however, totally fucking starstruck the day that I happened to gaze out the window to see Ric Ocasek walking down the street, heading to Cherokee.

Around this time Steven Adler returned from his exile in the Valley and we picked up precisely where we left off. Each of us had girls in our lives and the four of us became an inseparable unit. My girlfriend Yvonne was a senior in high school when we met; she was a disciplined student by day and a rock chick by night, and she managed those dual identities very well. Yvonne was an amazing girl: she was very smart, very sexy, very outspoken, and very ambitious—today she is a high-powered lawyer in L.A. After she graduated, she enrolled as a psychology major at UCLA, and since by that point I had begun to more or less live with her, on my days off she’d somehow talk me into accompanying her to school at something like eight a.m. I’d spend the morning at the UCLA campus, sitting outside, smoking cigarettes, and watching the yuppies go by. Some days, whenever I found the course or professor interesting, I’d sit in on her larger lecture classes.

I don’t even remember her name anymore, but Steven’s girl at the time and Yvonne became fast friends because the four of us went out every single night. I didn’t even want to most of the time, but there we were, out there hitting the Strip—and I didn’t even like the music of the day at all, though I tried to be positive. The coup de grace came when a very hyped, overrated “innovation” known as MTV first aired. I expected it to be like Don Kirshner’s Rock Concert, the live, hour-long program that ran on Saturday nights from 1973 to 1981. That show spotlighted an artist a week and aired amazing performances by everyone from the Stones to the Eagles to the Sex Pistols to Sly and the Family Stone to comedians like Steve Martin.

MTV couldn’t have been more of a polar opposite: they showed Thomas Dolby’s “She Blinded Me with Science,” the Police, and Pat Benatar over and over. I would literally wait for hours to see a good song; and usually it would be either Prince or Van Halen. I felt the same way when I explored Sunset at night: I saw a lot, I liked very little, and I was fucking bored the entire time.

Steven, on the other hand, was in his element. He was all about what was going down on the Strip, because it was his chance to realize his rock-star dreams. He’d never exhibited such ambition before: he did whatever it took to get into a club, to meet people, to make connections, and be in the mix to whatever degree possible. Steven posted up in the Rainbow parking lot every Friday and Saturday night, and he kept tabs on every band that ever played as often as he did everything but give his balls to get himself inside.

I rarely cared to go along, because I could never do what most often needed to be done: I was incapable of humiliating myself to go that extra mile. I don’t know why but I had a problem hanging around parking lots and stage doors, looking for any way in that might present itself. As a result I was so infrequently present that Steven’s never-ending morning-after tales of incredible bands and hot chicks eventually got to me. But I never saw any of those mythical creatures when I decided to accompany him (against my better judgment). I witnessed nothing but a string of evenings that never achieved epic status.

I thought to myself just how hard it must be to be a girl.

One night that stands out started with Steven and me borrowing my mom’s car (I was seventeen at the time, I believe) to go the Rainbow to mix it up.

We drove down to Hollywood and walked up to the club, and discovered that it was ladies’ night.

“That’s fuckin’ awesome!” Steven shouted.

I had gotten into the Rainbow for years, thanks to my fake ID and Steady, the club’s bouncer. He’s still there, and he still recognizes me. For whatever reason, though, Steady wasn’t having it on this particular night: he let Steven in and sent me packing.

“Naw, not you,” he said. “Not tonight, go home.”

“What?” I asked. I had no right to be indignant but I was anyway. “What do you mean? I’m here all the time, man.”

“Yeah, I don’t give a shit,” he said. “Get out of here, you’re not coming in tonight.”

I was so fucking pissed off. I had nowhere else to go, so I followed Steady’s orders and went home. I drowned my embarrassment in alcohol, and once I was good and drunk, I came up with the crazy idea to return to the Rainbow dressed as a girl. It made complete sense in that special way that drunken plans do: I’d show Steady—I’d get in the club for free thanks to ladies’ night, and then I’d fuck with Steven. Adler hit on every girl in sight, so I was sure that he’d hit on me long before he realized who I was.

My mom thought my plan was hilarious: she outfitted me with a skirt and fishnets, piled my hair up under a black beret, and did my makeup. I couldn’t wear her shoes, but the outfit worked—I looked like a chick… no—

I looked like a Rainbow chick. I drove back up to West Hollywood in my outfit; I parked a few blocks away on Doheny and walked to the club. I was both drunk and on a mission, so my inhibitions were nonexistent. I sauntered up to Steady and nearly laughed in his face when he waved me in with no pause for ID.

I was on top of the world; I had won—until I realized that Steven was nowhere to be found. It was like reaching the end of the roller coaster before the car had even gone over the first hill. The reality of the situation hit me square in the face: I was dressed as a girl, in the middle of the Rainbow. Once I saw the light, I did the only sensible thing—I left. On the long walk back to my mom’s car, I thought that every shout was directed at me, I thought every laugh was at my expense; I thought to myself just how hard it must be to be a girl.

STEVEN’S GIRLFRIEND RAN INTO TOMMY Lee out on the town one night and Tommy invited her down to Cherokee Studios to hang out and watch Motley record Theatre of Pain, the follow-up to their breakthrough album, Shout at the Devil. Steve’s girl thought nothing of inviting Yvonne, Steven, and me; I guess she figured that Tommy’s invitation included a “plus three.” Steven and I should have known better. The four of us headed down there, all ready to hang out and watch the proceedings; when we arrived, we were informed, in no uncertain terms, that the girls could go inside—which they did—but Steven and I could not. It was suggested that we go home. We were fuming: we watched our girlfriends head into the studio, and spent the night in the two lounge chairs in the lobby trying to be cool while we discussed what they might be doing in there. It was not a good scene.

I’m not sure how, but somehow that experience didn’t scar me enough to desert the notion of getting a job at Cherokee. I had been pestering the studio’s day manager to hire me for an entire year. I’d stop by daily, like clockwork, during my lunch break at Hollywood Music across the street. I continued to do so, business as usual, but a few weeks later he finally gave in and offered me a job. In my mind, it was a milestone; I was now just one step away from becoming a professional musician. I was very wrong, but my plan was that once I worked in a studio, I would make connections because I would meet musicians and producers every single day. In my mind, a studio was the place to meet other players who took it seriously and by working there at the very least I’d get free recording time once I got a band together. With that kind of bullshit in my head, I quit Hollywood Music feeling like I’d just won the lottery.

I was hired at Cherokee to be a gofer to the engineers, no more no less. I didn’t care; I showed up to my first day, ready to run errands, take out the trash, whatever, whenever. Or so I thought: I visibly wilted when I discovered that my job for the week was to fetch whatever Motley Crue might need, day or night. Just over a week before, these same guys had refused to let me into the studio and might have had my girlfriend (I believed her when she said nothing happened, but still…), and now I would have to spend the next few weeks as their errand boy. Great…

The studio manager gave me one hundred bucks to fill Motley’s first order, which I was sure was just the first of many: a magnum of Jack Daniel’s, a magnum of vodka, a few bags of chips, and a couple of cartons of cigarettes. I looked down at the money as I walked outside into the sunlight, debating the pros and cons of swallowing my pride. It was a really nice day. I stopped when I got to the liquor store to think about this for a minute.

I squinted up at the sky; I stared at the sidewalk, and then I started walking again—toward home. That was all she wrote for Cherokee and me: considering how many hours I’ve spent in professional recording facilities over the years since, it’s almost ridiculous that I’ve never again set foot in Cherokee Studios. At this point I have no