LITMIR.BIZ

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locked on to “the Dream.”

      I started to reach out to successful musicians because I wanted to surround myself with performers who were not only inspirational but possessed talent and drive. I met Robbin Crosby, rhythm guitarist for Ratt, at the Rainbow. After an eight-year battle with AIDS brought on by drug abuse, he passed away in 2002. Great guy. RIP, Robbin.

      Robbin was huge, six and a half feet tall, and good-looking. He took me under his wing and decided one night to take me over to Carlos Cavazo’s house. Carlos was the guitarist for Quiet Riot. QR was amazing. They had the largest-selling heavy metal debut album of all time, until my band took that honor a few years later.

      Carlos lived in Laurel Canyon, right behind the elementary school there. Ratt’s vocalist and drummer, Stephen Pearcy and Bobby Blotzer, were also hanging out there. It was a hell of a night. Seeing all the platinum records on the walls was awesome, and I never doubted that I would soon have my own. We just drank and partied all night. There were always freshly cut lines on this shiny, slick wooden table in the living room. I was freaking the fuck out. This was the famous debauched rock ’n’ roll lifestyle, and it was awesome.

      After a night of partying I totally lost track of the time. I asked the guys, and Carlos laughed and pointed at a clock. It was six in the morning. “Shit. I have to get to work!” At the time, I was working for a poster shop where I would spray the glue on the backboard and they would mount the poster onto it.

      On my way to work I walked through a garage for an apartment building. I was so tired. I needed to rest for a moment. I just went down the rows, and after two or three cars, I found one that was open. I got in the backseat and fell fast asleep. Nice, ahhh…then…“What the hell are you doing!?” The owner of the car was pounding on his window and shouting at me. He was going to work in a suit and tie. I was shocked awake and asked the guy what time it was. And again he shouted: “What the hell are you doing!” Then he looked at his watch. “Seven fifty.”

      If I hadn’t been so tired, I would have laughed; it was a pretty funny scene, Mr. Hangover meets Mr. Suit. “Shit, I’m late for work.” I got out of the car in front of the startled businessman and ran to my job, only to find that it wasn’t waiting for me. I tried to explain what had happened, that I was exhausted and very sorry to be so late, but they looked at me like they didn’t know me. I was fired, gone.

      OH WELL

      While living at Big Lilly’s, I rarely saw my mom. Passover dinner was usually at my aunt Greta’s house. She was my mom’s sister and provided one of my few chances to be with the whole family each year. Visits with my relatives seldom lasted though. Some uncle would make a remark about my hair or my being fired recently, and I’d answer back with some over-the-top rude comment. They’d gang up on me, and soon I’d find myself being asked to leave. My relationship with my family continued to flounder, because I just wouldn’t shut up and take their abuse. I think that’s why I so enthusiastically embraced GNR as my family; they accepted me just the way I was.

      If GNR was to be my family, then Saul was my brother. We were really getting into our music more and more, rehearsing all the time. We had been hanging out with a good friend of Saul’s, Matt Cassel. He lived on Sunset up by Carny’s Diner, the hot dog joint that looks like a train. His dad’s house was just above there. On his property stood this enormous tree, which grew out of the side of the hill facing Sunset. It had a makeshift swing, two ropes attached to a wooden seat. I would get stoned and fly right out, way above the Strip. It was awesome fun.

      THE BIRTH OF “SLASH”

      Matt’s father is a professional actor named Seymour Cassel. He’s been in some great movies, like Colors, Rushmore, and The Royal Tenenbaums. Saul and Melissa spent a lot of time hanging out with these guys. When I would go over there, I noticed how Seymour would always call Saul “Slash.” It was just his personal nickname for Saul and for some reason, that really stuck with me. I couldn’t forget it because it just seemed to fit Saul so well. The name “Slash” must have resonated with a lot of people, including the man himself. After a while, Saul made it known that he had taken a keen liking to his new name and the rest is history. He told everyone, “Call me Slash.” We were like, “Slash?…Done.” From that day onward, that’s how I, and soon the world, would know him.

      By the early eighties, I had already been living a rock ’n’ roll lifestyle for several years. I was running wild in the streets of Hollywood, partying with rock stars, fucking all kinds of hot, crazy girls. I was in and out of dozens of odd jobs during this time and spent all my free time either practicing or going to as many concerts as I could sneak into.

      By this point I had met a shitload of people. I just kept networking, meeting the characters who were living the life I wanted. I always had a mind to see if they could help me with my music. It wasn’t like I was looking to use them, but if they knew a club owner, or could get me a deal in a studio, or knew a pawnshop where I could get a break on a cymbal or something, I put them on my short list.

      Slowly but surely, I was moving up. Armed with my Tama kit, a positive attitude, and a “new do,” now cropped and spiked, doors were opening left and right for me. It was because of the presence I could bring into a room. I acted and looked the part, and I could back it up with the best drumming in town.

      WORKING ON THE DRUMS

      In December ’82, I found a room to rent in the home of my friend Brad Server. He was one of those surfer dudes who love Southern California, the epitome of the Jeff Spicoli character from the movie Fast Times at Ridgemont High. He lived with his mother down the street from my mom. She owned a big three-bedroom home. I would stay there a lot in the spare bedroom for only $125 a month. Brad’s mother was the daughter of Curly, my favorite of the Three Stooges. It was just the two of them there and I was allowed to set up my drums and jam. During the day, Brad would go to school, his mother would go to work, and I had the house to myself.

      So I would just practice all the time. I remember I would play to Journey’s Escape. I loved that record. They had the greatest drum sound and Steve Smith was damn good. I had Ozzy’s “Over the Mountain” down by then too. This was the time that I made some of my greatest strides on drums. I stayed there for a few months and I appreciate Brad and his mom’s hospitality to this day. A rocker never forgets the people who help him out when he’s a nobody.

      In January ’83, I took Lisa with me to the Rainbow. The Rainbow was to become our second home. It did not discriminate between big hair, short hair, rich, poor, famous, infamous, rock stars, roadies, drug dealers, record execs, wannabes, and hangers-on. The “Bow” welcomed us all.

      Lisa was the closest thing I had to a steady girlfriend, but of course, I was fucking around a lot too. I had been going to the Rainbow for years, but never once had I brought a girl there. The Rainbow was a place to get girls, not bring girls. Lisa and I had the small booth in the back right corner. At one point I got up to go to the bathroom and I got stopped at every table. Chicks I knew and didn’t know all had me sit with them.

      I was having a great time, just swinging from one table to the next. I literally made out with a different girl at every booth. So I didn’t get back to Lisa for a while. When I finally returned, Lisa was freaking out on me: “Where the fuck did you go? I’ve been sitting here for an hour.” Like I explained, I’d never once brought a girl to the Rainbow with me and now I realized why. It really cramped my style.

      I’m thinking, “What? I was with some chicks.” I didn’t understand or even comprehend the idea of being in a serious relationship. She was upset and wanted to go right away. As we were leaving, she’s yelling at the top of her lungs. We’re walking out, and she’s screaming that I’m an asshole. I was pretty drunk, and I suddenly became very aggravated. I turned around and yelled, “Shut the fuck up.”

      We were right at the main entrance by the cash register when all of a sudden some big-ass guy grabs me, turns me back around, and punches me right in the face. I don’t remember anything

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