drove down there in Danny’s Oldsmobile and were unloading our gear in the designated band parking lot when we noticed a sea of people running our way. We continued to unload as people sprinted past us, literally as fast as they could—from what, we had no idea. It was as if Godzilla was coming or a guy had set off a shotgun behind them. We couldn’t see what the problem was until we finally got close enough to the stage to realize there was no stage; Fear’s fans had overzealously rioted and torn it down before the band even went on.
Our manager, Vicky, and I wandered around this huge mess in an attempt to find us a slot somewhere on the day-long bill. We pushed our way from stage to stage talking to the organizers, looking for an opening until we found one—playing after Social Distortion. It didn’t sound like the best idea, following a loyally beloved local punk band, but it actually turned out to be one of the greatest gigs we ever did.
The audience was full on punk and still bloodthirsty after just having seen Social Distortion. We got up there and ripped into our set, and within the first thirty seconds, the show became a spitting contest between us and the first five rows: their fans fucking spit on us, so we just spit on them back. It was hilarious and memorably sickening: I remember going over to Izzy’s side of the stage and standing there beside him spitting back and forth with these people because that’s the kind of band we were. We were very tenacious, so no matter what any crowd ever did, we always turned it on them. By the end of our set, this disgusting war of the wills became fucking fun. We ended up with green phlegm all over us, and considering that it was warm out, not only was I shirtless, but the heat cooked the spit and made it start to smell pretty bad. It didn’t matter, I was impenetrable: in the moment the energy of it all took over.
The next time we played the Street Scene was memorable, too, on a much different level. That go-round we were scheduled to open for Poison, who were headlining one of the bigger stages. It was going to be our biggest high-profile gig to date, and we were very ready to blow Poison off the stage. In the end we didn’t even have to: we got up there and played, and everybody went nuts, climbing the scaffolding and pushing the stage to and fro in excitement. By the time we were done, the fire marshals decided to close the place down. I remember seeing Poison roll up in all their glitter, ready to go on but unable to. I was quite pleased to see them all dressed up with no stage to play.
SO… BACK TO HEROIN. IN THE WEEKS that followed that first time with Izzy when we’d spent the afternoon in that pink bedroom of that girl from Fairfax High, I developed a new interest. And I was dead-set to enjoy the honeymoon phase.
Yvonne was the only one who showed any real concern for my well-being at that point because she was from another world entirely. From her point of view it was easy to see that I was taking a casual stroll into the abyss. Our relationship had been on and off for a while, but she called me one day and asked me to meet her for lunch at Mel’s on Sunset. I could tell that she was suspicious; as soon as we sat down, she started interrogating me in a subtle way, trying to figure out where I was at, what I was up to, who I was hanging with, what I was doing. The band was doing great, but in her mind we were still a little L.A. club thing—she didn’t see what I saw at all. At the same time, Yvonne knew me very well, and she knew how ambitious I was, so I’m sure she had faith in what I had planned. What she couldn’t put her finger on was why I wasn’t my usual self—and that answer was obvious, but I wasn’t going to tell her.
I remember her dropping me off on the corner of Clark and Sunset and going up to Vicky’s apartment, where I was still crashing on the floor. I didn’t turn around but I felt like she was looking at me; I felt like she knew something was up. A week or so later she called me over at Vicky’s place, which was way out of line. She said it was important, she said that her grandfather had died and that she was so upset that she needed to see me. She asked me to come over that afternoon. Being the compassionate ex-boyfriend that I was, I didn’t think twice—she picked me up and we went back to her house, all the while talking about the recently departed.
When we got there, it was probably about six p.m. and we went into her bedroom. I took my usual position at the corner of her bed, just watching TV and taking my cues from her. The doorbell rang suddenly.
“It’s probably my mom,” she said, and left the room.
Ten minutes went by, then the door opened again. When it did I saw two people I’d not seen in the same room in ten years: my parents. My attention was captured.
Yvonne came in and started feeding my mom and dad her interpretation of what was going on with me, which was very overdramatic; if anything, she sounded like the narrator in one of the antidrug films I’d seen in school, or at least the main character in an after-school special whose best friend is out of control. My parents were listening and studying me as well, just taking in the whole scene. I have two of the most liberal parents in the world, so once they didn’t see anything wrong—I wasn’t missing an eye or a limb and I seemed to be sitting up straight—they assumed that I was okay.
“So,” my dad said, looking me in the eye, “is this true? Are you doing heroin, as Yvonne here has claimed?”
I didn’t say no but I didn’t quite say yes. I was loaded but hiding it as best I could, so there was no visible evidence of Yvonne’s accusations—as far as I was concerned.
“It’s really nice to see you guys in the same room,” I said, grinning. “It’s been a long time.”
I went over and gave my mom a kiss, and that is when the entire mood shifted. Suddenly Yvonne’s strategized intervention became a family reunion. I could feel her fuming as my parents and I spent the next half hour getting reacquainted. I kept up appearances while they were there, but the minute they left, I demanded that Yvonne take me home. Midway through the ride, I changed my mind; I asked her to drop me off at the Whisky. I didn’t say a word to her the whole way over there. While I knew she meant well, we didn’t speak to each other again for quite a while.
THIS PERIOD WAS PRETTY INTENSE AS we made a name for ourselves, waded through the puddle of shady characters gathering at our ankles all while becoming the best band we could be. Eventually we found someone we could count on named Bridget, who was a lot like Vicky Hamilton but with slightly deeper pockets. Bridget wanted to sign us, but we never signed with anybody, so she was content just “working with us.” Bridget was managing a band called Jetboy from San Francisco that was pretty popular on the club circuit, so we rented a van and drove up there to open for them. We stayed at their house for a few days and got a glimpse of how a functional band, with a group apartment and a real roadie, actually lived. They were playing gigs all the time, and though we didn’t dig the band very much, we respected their professionalism.
The coolest guy in the band by far was their bass player, Todd Crew, who became one of my best friends and a friend of the band for years—often to the chagrin of his bandmates. Todd had the best style: he was well over six feet tall, had this long straggly brown hair. He had a perpetual look of bemusement on his face, full-sleeve tattoos on both arms, and always wore some variation of a sleeveless leather vest, holey blue jeans tucked into his beat-up cowboy boots, and a cigarette between his lips at all times. Todd stood out from his band because he was classic rock and roll while the other Jetboys were typical glam poseurs. The singer did have a green Mohawk, though, which helped them seem a bit less transparent than Poison.
It was a great trip for us; our gig at this club called the Stone was great, and Todd’s roommate was a reptile collector, so I was entirely occupied. I was really envious of his collection: he had snakes, a bunch of exotic monitor lizards, and a variety of crocodilians. On that trip we saw what was possible on a local level and realized that it was very much within our grasp.
The ride home was memorable, too. We were in our rental van, drinking and playing acoustic guitars, when I came up with the jangly intro to what became “Paradise City.” Duff and Izzy picked it up and started playing it while I came up with the chord changes. I started humming a melody and played it over and over. Then Axl chimed in.
“Take me down to the Paradise City…”
I kept playing and tossed off some impromptu lyrics. “Where the grass is green and girls are pretty,” I sang. I thought that sounded totally gay.
“Take me down to the Paradise City,” Axl sang again.
“Where the girls are fat and they’ve got big titties!” I shouted.
“Take… me… home!” Axl sang.
It was decided that the “grass is green” line worked a bit better, and though I preferred my alternate take, I was overruled.
I expanded on the basic structure of the song as everyone improvised lyrics in rounds as if we were on a bus
