and were so sincere and devoted that you could not fault them for it—and Nikki embodied all of that in my mind. On that tour Duff and I could usually be found in close proximity to Nikki because we knew that he was always holding a huge bag of blow.
Those guys were very generous with us; they took us in like proud parents, and like proud parents, they showed off the house that their hard work had built. This was their third big headlining world tour, so they had their entire stage show going: a full arsenal of pyrotechnics, a huge crew, months of sold-out arenas to play—the full rock-and-roll dream. They had developed this convenient system of communication involving walkie-talkies and numeric codes: everyone in the band’s production had a walkie-talkie with a key taped to the back of it explaining what the various numbers represented. There were codes strictly for the crew relating to gear, lighting equipment, load-in, etc. Then there were the band’s walkie-talkie codes, which covered their day-to-day needs. For example, “1” stood for blow, which was listed under a nickname; “2” was a code word for chicks; “3” stood for booze, and so on. It was great, at any given time, as the situation required, they’d just get on the line and say, “Hey, it’s Tommy, I need a number one, a number three, and if you see a few good number twos along the way, bring all of that to my dressing room. And, uh, please hurry. Thank you very much!”
We hung out with those guys a lot during the tour, but Nikki was always very aware of how much he was showing off their success and making the band’s status known to us. He and Tommy were the only ones inviting us over to enjoy their spoils: we never saw Vince and for that whole tour I never met Mick Mars. To this
Motley were traveling by private plane as often as possible at that point, and for one of the longer travel legs between gigs, Nikki invited us to join them on the plane. It was more than most headliners would have done and flying Motley Air was enjoyable; the trip came complete with drinks, lines, and aisle surfing during takeoff and landing—a sport that involves standing sideways in the aisle and riding the plane’s momentum. If you get the chance, do it; I highly recommend it.
At the time, there wasn’t a more debauched double bill than Guns and Motley; and as much as we lived up to it, that reality quickly became business as usual. That gig was my first exposure to first-class professional touring, which, unlike Steven, had never been something I coveted, although it’s become a regular part of my life. To me, those moments onstage, playing guitar before a crowd, is what it’s all about. That is what has always mattered to me; that is what makes all of the boredom and drama that comes with being in a touring rock band worth it.
So I did everything possible to put distance between yesterday and the present.
Although I’d been around show business all of my life, on the Motley tour I finally realized, firsthand, that entertainment was equal parts tedium for each moment of magic—it demanded commitment. Even in the best of situations, life on the road is monotonous: you get up at whatever time; you pass the time until the gig; you do the gig; and you party, usually while traveling to the next one, where you do it all again. Touring becomes one big blur of a very intense moment.
That said, it has never become cliche to me; I’ve always known where I am. Touring, to this day, is still not a cliche to me; every room is not the same. Back then as now, I’ve always made a point to do a sound check to get the vibe of the venue. I wasn’t always able to do so when we were an opening band, but what I could do was learn a bit about the city we were in. I never cared about what was going on in any given city culturally, but I did care to learn what I could about our audience and what they were like.
Unfortunately whatever conclusions I’d drawn about the people who’d come to see us wherever we were would most often be left in the urinal of whatever bar I went to after the gig. In my mind I’d have these moments of enlightenment that would be forgotten entirely en route to the next city only to be relearned on the next tour. I had a finite amount of memory, and since I eagerly awaited the next moment, the past faded fast. If anything touring to me is like the Stephen King story “The Tommyknockers,” where the past is eagerly munching away at your heels as you desperately try to stay one step ahead.
When you are that gung ho to get where you’re going, there is never enough time in a day. I don’t remember sleeping or resting at all during this period; there was a fever pitch to everything and I didn’t want to miss a thing. It felt like if I slowed down, time would catch up and then all of it would stop.
So I did everything possible to put distance between yesterday and the present. I’ve always been that way and I still am. It is why I don’t have any memorabilia to speak of: I don’t have gold and platinum records, only the guitars that mean something to me. My wife, Perla, was so shocked by that fact that she recently had the record company remake me platinum copies of all of my records. She hung them on the wall leading up the stairs in our house. I think they lasted a week; they drove me so nuts I took them down one night and put them in storage. I don’t need accolades on the wall to remind me who I am.
MY ONLY TANGIBLE CONNECTIONS TO the past outside of my memories are the meticulous day planners I’ve maintained for most of my life—until I gave up on them after having too many stolen or lost. But I have saved all of those that survived and a few have come in pretty handy when ugly legal situations or something like this book have popped up and I’ve needed to recall specifics. It was how I kept track of my life and I did note every significant event. That said, unfortunately, this tour with Motley is a black hole because, for the first time in my life, someone stole that day planner, along with all of the very few clothes I had with me on tour. It wasn’t hard for them to do—all of it was stuffed into the pillowcase that doubled as my luggage. Our security guard Ron Stalnaker would always handle our bags—he was one of those kind of guys who against all rhyme or reason had this need to carry things and exert himself. His mind-set was robotic, “I must pick up and carry…” It was fine with us because we never used bellboys or porters anyway because back then we couldn’t afford the tips.
So Ronnie had set our bags up against the side of the bus and gone back into the hotel wherever we were to get more bags from the lobby. Some kid had been waiting there and grabbed the first two bags set down—which were Duff’s and my pillowcases. We hardly did laundry; we didn’t have anyone to take care of our shit. On occasion—and I mean on occasion—we’d go to a coin-op laundry and clean our clothes. We wore what we had and just kept getting new T-shirts whenever possible. Basically, once my jeans were worn out, I wore my leather pants for the rest of the tour. Duff, Izzy, and I definitely lived by the seat of our pants (pun intended) clotheswise; we’d throw our shit in one laundry bag or pillowcase, both the clean and dirty all together. That bag that was stolen contained everything I needed that day: socks, a new T-shirt, my day planner, plus everything else that I had to wear. We meant enough at that point for someone to want to steal my “luggage,” as if it were a prize. I guess that’s cool. At the time it was a drag because I had no other clothes and I was late for a radio interview. I had to do it in person, live on the air, in a towel, since I’d told Ronnie that it was okay to take my “luggage” to the bus while I took a shower—I’d planned to get dressed en route. At least I got a T-shirt from the radio station.
MOTLEY WAS THE ONLY BAND FROM THE L.A. scene that we came upon that we ever worked with on a national, professional level. It made sense; they were the only band we respected, the only one with whom we could share a camaraderie. I was still convinced that no one knew who we were, but apparently they did because it was quite the ticket and the shows were amazing. It was the ultimate “bad boy” bill and we behaved accordingly.
There was the night that Nikki Sixx and I got into a drinking contest. Depending on whom you ask, either I started it, claiming that I could drink both Tommy and Nikki under the table, or Nikki dared me to outdrink him. In any case, he and I ended up sitting at the hotel bar wherever we were and getting into a shot contest. Nikki had a system. He would order four shots and I’d down my two right away, while he’d down one of his and leave his second lingering, which I’d end up downing because it was just sitting there as kind of a community thing. I was aware of what he was doing, but I was still slamming quickly, and whether it was the conversation or whatever, I started to lose track. Soon enough, the more shots that were there, the more I’d drink. In the heat of the moment I’d do mine, while he’d be nursing his, and there was that extra one so down it went. I’d never drink like that alone and I wasn’t fooled; I was totally aware of what he was doing… to a point.
In theory, we were going shot for shot, but since I was drinking half of Nikki’s rounds, I’d say that by the end of it I downed twenty shots of Jack Daniel’s to his ten. I got so drunk that I’ve been told that I barfed right there at
