heading off to rock-and-roll summer camp, which, as the L.A. skyline came into view, I suppose we were. After we got that whole chorus rolling, that’s when I slammed into the big heavy riff that anchors the song. And that’s the moment that “Paradise City” became my favorite Guns N’ Roses song.
As atypically happy and gay as this all sounds for Guns N’ Roses, it definitely went down that way; and it was sort of that kind of experience.
OUR NEW MANAGER, BRIDGET, HELPED us succeed in taking our act to the next level, at least within the confines of the L.A. club circuit. The fact that we had played in San Francisco helped generate a bit of a buzz because the fact that we were able to play there meant that word of mouth was starting to spread; we had a fan base. Afterward we were able to book gigs with a more seasoned attitude, because those little things went a long way. We became one of the most-talked-about bands in L.A. at the time, which started to generate interest from the labels. The word was starting to get around, so much so that when Tom Zutaut of Geffen Records first saw us play at the Troubadour, he deliberately left after two songs, telling every A&R guy he saw on the way out that we sucked because he intended to sign us immediately.
Tom had become a legend after signing Motley Crue—he was the guy that every other rep in the industry watched because his instincts usually sifted the gold from the mud in the Sunset scene. The next time we played the Troubadour, Tom came backstage and introduced himself and I remember the whole band thinking that he was the only A&R rep that we’d met who deserved our respect, because his accomplishments spoke for themselves. His enthusiasm was also so real; he told us that we were the best band he’d seen since AC/DC and when he spoke about our music we could tell that he related to the songs more truthfully than anyone else had. We’ve been through years of ups and downs, but Tom still knows how to get my attention; when he really wants me to come out to check out a band he’s thinking of signing, all he needs to say is: “I haven’t seen a band rock this hard since I saw you guys that first time.” There was something keenly sincere about Tom that night in the dressing room, and although we never told him so at the time, we had no intention of signing with anybody else.
Tom tried to fake out the competition, but it didn’t work; word got around that he was interested in us and overnight every other label in town was trying to contact us. Bridget was still our kind-of manager, but since Vicky Hamilton was much better connected in L.A., all the A&R reps were calling her to get in touch with us. And that was enough to rekindle our relationship with Vicky.
It was a great time: we enjoyed as many free lunches, dinners, drinks, and whatever else came included from the major labels for as long as we could before signing. For the better part of the next two months, we were courted by Chrysalis, Elektra, Warner Bros., and a few others. We’d roll into these nice restaurants and order these extravagant liquid lunches, then sit there and just play the game. The only thing that we’d agree on was that we needed to meet again for lunch to discuss things further before we agreed on anything.
On and on it went until the day we decided to go down to meet David Geffen and Ed Rosenblatt and sign with Geffen Records. I sat there the entire time during our negotiations looking at David, whom I hadn’t seen since I was about eight years old, thinking about all of the times I’d gone back and forth to his office with my dad when he was dropping off artwork, and wondering if David had any idea at all who I was. He didn’t, of course, as my mom found out later. I made a point to visit the bathroom at Geffen, whose walls, as I remembered from my childhood, were a hippy collage, done very nicely in a very sixties style, of pictures from old rock magazines. I was happy to see that it was exactly the same.
The negotiations were quick: we demanded six figures, among other things, which was an unheard-of advance for a new, unknown artist in 1986. They accepted; Vicky Hamilton was our acting manager, so she hooked us up with Peter Paterno, who became the band’s attorney. Peter wrote up our contracts and it was a done deal.
So Guns N’ Roses was finally signed, but once we were, our new label didn’t want us to play gigs anymore. They wanted us to lay low, build our mystique, and get our business in order: they insisted we find a
As we all came to find out, back then and again and again, the worst thing that ever befell this band was having nothing to do and some money to spend.
7. Appetite for Dysfunction
Restlessness is a fickle catalyst; it can drive you to achieve or it can coax your demise, and sometimes the choice isn’t yours. My restless nature is what earned me my nickname and it’s kept me looking for the next thrill, the next gig, and the next mountain to climb for as long as I can remember. It’s not the kind of thing that takes days off.
Before Guns got signed, I had no job and was living in a vomit-stained garage that was about as charming as a South American jail. All of my energy went into day-to-day survival and working to further the band, one show at a time. Once Guns was signed I didn’t have to worry about money, food, or shelter. This minor sense of stability was unfamiliar to me; I had no concern for acquiring any of the trappings of normal life, so what seemed to be a blessing to me was almost a curse.
We were signed for something like $250,000, and our signing advance was around $37,000, of which my cut was about $7,500. I translated it into American Express traveler’s checks that I kept in the right front pocket of my jeans, thanks to my trouble with the IRS. Saving my share wasn’t an option, but I didn’t celebrate by buying myself a new guitar or anything—I spent almost all of it on heroin. Each of us learned the same lesson in our own individual way before we got ourselves in line to do what we’d set out to do. It wouldn’t be the last time that we’d need to rally against our instincts: whenever we earned ourselves some peace of mind, the same restlessness that fueled our success threatened to destroy it all.
It was obvious to everyone in our camp that Vicky Hamilton wasn’t going to cut it as a manager once our operation increased in scale. It was also time to get a real crew: Joe wasn’t a tech in any way, and Danny was a drug bud (whom I continued to hang out with in that capacity for years) but not any kind of road manager. We weren’t entirely happy about making those changes, but it had to be done. It was the end of an era; we were no longer scrappy with nothing to lose: now we were scrappy with corporate backing.
Tom Zutaut arranged a few meetings with potential managers, the first of them being Cliff Bernstein and Peter Mensch of Q Prime, who managed Metallica, Def Leppard, and others, then as they do today. I went to Tom’s office and they were late, so I passed out on Tom’s couch waiting for them. For the record, I’m not sure if I was high or not. What I do remember is that the meeting didn’t go well.
“Guns N’ Roses just doesn’t have a musical enough sound to be a band that we’d consider representing,” one of them, I’m not sure which, said.
I sat there, pretty dumbfounded.
Basically, I took that insult lying down, because actually I was lying down, and that was the end of it. I didn’t say anything, but my face must have registered a look of disdain or at least some skeptical confusion.
“You know those guitar solos you do?” the other one, I’m not sure which, said.
“Yeah,” I mumbled.
“They just sound like noise to me, whereas if you listen to Metallica, their playing sounds really melodic.”
“Okay, man,” I said.
The whole time Tom did his best to mediate a potentially explosive situation by chiming in with comments meant to cheer things up and keep it positive.
