

The following is an excerpt from Duff McKagan's memoir, It's So Easy: And Other Lies, out now via Simon & Schuster. McKagan is a weekly columnist at our sister paper, seattleweekly.com/reverb. He's be signing books at the Barnes & Noble at South Coast Plaza at 2 p.m. on Saturday (901 B South Coast Drive, Costa Mesa). In the meantime, here's a bit of the highly readable, riveting book by the former Guns N' Roses bassist.

On Thursday, June 6, 1985, we played our first live show with the Appetite for Destruction lineup. The bill at the Troubadour in West Hollywood included Fineline, Mistreater, and, at the very bottom, Guns N' Roses. Slash's high school friend Marc Canter–he turned out to be part of the family that ran Canter's Deli–came and shot pictures. He made prints of each of us the next day so we'd have head shots to put up in the places we played on our tour. That was Friday.

On Saturday, June 8, Izzy Stradlin, Axl Rose, Slash, Steven Adler, and I got together to set out for Seattle, a happy bunch of malcontents about to hit the road in search of rock & roll glory, ready to live by our wits in order to prove ourselves and our musical vision–or not. At the very least we thought we had real musical chemistry. That much was obvious even before the tour started.

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A friend of ours named Danny had a huge Buick LeSabre with a powerful

455 big-block V-8 engine and a trailer hitch. Seven of us crammed into

the car that Saturday afternoon: the five of us in the band, plus Danny

and another friend, Joe-Joe, who had signed up to serve as roadies.

These guys would go to the mat for us, really solid friends, and we were

glad they, too, had not blinked an eye in the face of the uncertainties

of a no-budget road trip. We rented a U-Haul trailer to carry our gear

behind the LeSabre. Our plan was to drive straight through to

Seattle–it would take something like twenty-one hours–and arrive there

at some point on Sunday. My buddy Donner was going to let us crash at

his house the first few nights before our show that Wednesday.

As we

rose up out of the “Grapevine,” a writhing section of Interstate 5 just

south of Bakersfield, California, the car started to hiccup and cough

and rebel against the weight it had to shoulder in the blazing

late-afternoon heat of the San Joaquin Valley. By the time we passed

Bakersfield, a mere 105 miles out of L.A., Danny's car up and died. A

passing motorist stopped and tried to help, but the best he could do for

us was to go to the next gas station and call AAA. The hope of grilling

burgers the next evening in Donner's backyard quickly faded with the

realization that Danny's car was going nowhere at all until it had some

major work.

We were broke, hungry, and sweltering, hunkered down on

the side of the highway. Dusk slowly descended but the heat didn't

break. When the tow truck showed up, the mechanic was a bit put off to

find a whole gang of sweaty, skinny rock guys who wanted to ride in his

truck. We ended up walking to the next off-ramp, where there was a truck

stop and gas station.

At that point, removed from the whizzing cars,

we took stock of the situation. It was the middle of the night. We had

thirty-seven dollars between us. If we went back to L.A., we would

obviously not be doing this tour. That was not an option, regardless of

our current dilemma. We decided that the five of us–along with three

guitars–should hitchhike, continuing north while Danny and Joe tried to

get the car fixed. They could then catch up, uniting us with our gear

either along the way or in Seattle.

I called Kim Warnick of the

Fastbacks from the gas station. Our first gig in Seattle was opening for

them. I began to explain the situation. Actually I had to go back

further and fill her in on the lineup change that had taken place since I

set up the show.

“So Izzy, Axl, and I convinced Slash–“

“Izzy, Axl, Slash–and Duff,” she said. “What kind of names are those?”

“Well, there is a guy named Steven.”

She

said it would be no problem for us to use the Fastbacks' gear if Danny

wasn't able to get up there in time. Okay, that part was taken care of

and now it was time to find a ride, someone willing to transport five

guys and their guitars–a tall order for sure.

We knew it was going

to be tough to hitchhike in such a big group. To make clear the

magnitude of the task at hand, I should add that even though I was in my

full-length leather pimp coat, I was not the most menacing-looking

among us. Even someone who'd be willing to stop for one bedraggled

rocker would never take us all. So we decided to try to catch a ride

with a northbound trucker. Truckers had those big empty sleeper cabs and

would surely love to have some company, right? Someone to talk to on

that long and lonely stretch of I-5 that runs up through California's

agricultural outback.

We approached several truck drivers and finally

found one willing to give us a lift as far as Medford, Oregon, in

exchange for our pooled cash. That was his end destination, and for us

it was six hundred miles closer to our first out-of-town gig. It was a

win for both parties: he would get thirty-seven bucks and we would be

heading north at highway speeds.

It was obvious right from the start

that this particular trucker was a speed-freak, and that our

thirty-seven dollars would be used to supplement his habit. He had

probably already been up for a few days, and riding with him in that

state in a huge semi truck was a risky endeavor. Fuck it. We were on a

mission. Do or die, we were going to make it to Seattle.

I was hoping

Kim would spread the word in Seattle that we had broken down and were

on the road without a car. Maybe someone would be willing to come down

to Portland to pick us up if we made it that far on our own. For now, we

piled into the eighteen-wheeler, guitars and all. The other four guys

climbed into the sleeper cab. It was tight. I rode shotgun in the

passenger seat up front.

The guy couldn't believe our story.

“Let me get this straight,” he said. “You guys are fucking hitchhiking to a gig–a thousand miles away?”

“Yep,” I said.

“And you don't have any equipment–or even any food?”

“Well, yeah, but our equipment . . . ”

“I don't mean to sound like a prick, but, I mean, can't you play anywhere in Los Angeles?”

I

tried to explain the swashbuckling magic of playing to strangers, in

strange places, us-against-them, us-against-the-world . . . winning over

listeners a few at a time.

He shrugged.

The drug-induced sleep

deprivation started to take its toll on our driver about two hundred

miles into the drive. By the time we hit Sacramento in the morning, he

said he needed to rest his eyes and clear his head of the speed demons.

It was okay with me. I had been talking with the dude for this first

part of the ride and noticed that he kept looking into his sideview

mirrors and sort of jumping around in his seat. This kind of stuff

happens when you don't sleep for several days. I had a little bit of

experience with speed from my teenage years, enough to know what was

happening to the driver.

Sacramento sits at the top of the arid

central California valley–the area became a center of agriculture only

with the aid of intense irrigation. When it's hot in the valley,

Sacramento always has the highest temperatures. Our venture into the

valley coincided with an absolutely scorching heat wave. Now, for some

reason, the driver stopped in front of the state capitol building.

“All

right, boys, I'm going to need you to hop out here.” We didn't know

what to say, and were in no position to argue anyway. “I've got to take

care of something,” said the driver. “But I'll be back for you, don't

worry.” Yeah, right. I was convinced our driver had just tricked us and

left us behind. I'm sure the rest of the guys shared the same suspicion.

We were left sitting on the curb.

No one said a word. No one even made a face, sighed, or raised an eyebrow.

As

we sat there in front of the capitol, wilting in the heat, exposed to

the intense sun, it became clear: as of this moment, Guns N' Roses was

no longer a band, but the band–our band. These are my fucking boys–

they're willing to fight through anything. I already knew this trip had

set a new benchmark for what we were capable of, what we could and would

put ourselves through to achieve our goals as a band. This band became a

brotherhood under that oppressive Sacramento sun. Fuck yeah!

Then,

as I sat there silently rhapsodizing about my friends and our collective

determination, the eighteen-wheeler suddenly pulled up and the driver

nodded.

“Let's roll, boys,” he said. He had actually come back to

pick us up. Unbelievable. “You have a fucking show to get to!” he said. I

hopped back in the passenger seat. He was cranked out of his mind.

He

must have dropped us off to go score some more speed, and to this day I

have no idea how, in that state, he remembered to come back for us.

That afternoon, just after Redding, I cautiously suggested we pull over

at the next rest stop and take a break. I could see it was getting even

more dangerous being in a huge moving vehicle with him. He had huge

black circles under his eyes and he was sweating profusely. By some

miracle, he agreed–and he actually slept there for a few hours while we

just hung out nearby, trying to be as quiet as possible. We had no

money for booze or food. I'm not sure what Izzy had with him, but he

wasn't showing any signs of withdrawal yet. After the driver came to, he

took us the final hundred and fifty miles up to Medford. “I'm actually

sorry I can't take you any farther,” he said. “Shit, I might even try to

make it up there myself on Wednesday for your show.”

It was now

Sunday evening. We found a pay phone to check in with our contact person

in L.A., who Danny was supposed to call with an update on the

broken-down car. Danny hadn't been able to get the car fixed yet. The

replacement part would have to be shipped down to Bakersfield from San

Francisco on a business day.

With no money left, our only hope now

was to straight-up hitchhike on the side of the freeway. From a less

determined perspective, it would have seemed a hopeless long shot that

anyone would pick up five fucked-up-looking guys with their guitars–if

anyone even had enough space. But we didn't see it that way at all then.

We just had no alternative.

After only about forty-five minutes, a

Mexican farmworker in a Datsun compact pickup pulled over to give us a

ride. In broken English, he made us understand that he was going only as

far as Eugene, Oregon, but that we were welcome to pile into the back.

After only a few miles, it became painfully obvious to us that this ride

would not last. The little pickup couldn't bear the weight; the wheel

wells kept pressing down on the back tires and began to take rubber

right off of them. Our victorious feeling from just moments earlier sank

as the man pulled over to drop us off. I will never forget how

apologetic he was. I hope to this day he realized how grateful we were

to him for at least trying to help us.

Back on the side of the road,

we started to walk while we thumbed. I knew how far it was to the next

town because I had driven back and forth from Seattle to San Francisco

more than a few times on tours; it was too far to walk, that's for sure.

But as driven as we were at that point, we thought at least we would be

making headway. So we walked.

Eventually we found ourselves in the

middle of an onion field. When you're hungry and don't know where and

when your next meal is coming, you can eat almost anything. Those were

the best damn onions I've ever eaten. At that moment they tasted as

sweet as apples.

After a few more hours of walking, I was only

slightly aware of the passing cars. No one was going to pick us up, I

thought to myself. My hope was that maybe we would come to a farmhouse

with a phone and I could call Donner or Kim up in Seattle. Maybe someone

would be able to come get us.

By morning, I was so fucking hungry

and thirsty. We all were. Just then, a full-size pickup swerved to the

side of the road and stopped in front of us. Two women in their

mid-thirties told us to get in the back. They were sorry, they said, and

explained they had passed us without picking us up when they first saw

us. They were scared. But then they had talked about the way they, too,

had been passed so many times on the roadside as hippies back in the

early 1970s; they scolded each other, turned around at the next exit,

and came back for us.

They asked us if we were hungry. We were. They

asked us if we were thirsty. We were. They asked us if we were broke. We

were. They pulled over at the next gas station, bought us sandwiches

and beer, and told us they could take us all the way up to Portland.

Almost three hundred miles! These women were like angels sent from

heaven. Food and drink never tasted so fucking good. Friendship from

strangers couldn't have come at a better time.

I tried Donner's number from a pay phone at the gas station and he actually answered.

“Dude,

here's the deal. We broke down in Bakersfield and we've been

hitchhiking for a day and a half. We're in Medford now and some girls

are going to drive us as far as Portland. We'll be there early this

afternoon.”

Donner grew pot. He had grow operations going in a couple

of unused buildings. He always had dough. And he had already met some

of the other members of the band–Donner had visited me in L.A.

I asked him, “Can you help us out somehow?”

So

we started talking: could he arrange bus tickets maybe? Then he blurted

out, “Fuck that, I'll pick you up. We're going to have a party at my

house tonight, we'll have a feast, there'll be girls, it's going to be a

Seattle welcome.”

We made it to Portland on Monday afternoon, and

Donner was there. By the time we arrived in Seattle, it seemed everyone I

knew had apparently heard of our trials. They welcomed us with open

arms, open liquor bottles, and open drug stashes. People in Seattle knew

me as a drinker–they knew that as a result of my panic attacks I was

not into drugs back then. For this reason, I guess, nobody offered

anything hard. I think Izzy was a bit disappointed by this, and by then

perhaps a tad sick from withdrawal.

Donner had, however, baked a

batch of pot brownies. I think they were intended for people who would

be coming over to the party later that night–people familiar with the

potency of local weed.

Izzy just needed to catch a buzz off

something, and I guess he thought pot brownies would be a lightweight

short-term fix. Axl followed suit so Izzy wouldn't be alone.

“This shit is strong,” Donner warned them. They ignored him.

In

the 1980s, Seattle led the nation in the fine art of hydroponic pot

growing. I'm not sure why the city excelled at it so, but the weed up

there was getting potent. Really potent. Around 1982, a new strain of

weed was developed for the basement water growers–the luckiest and most

deep-pocketed started to cultivate what would be known as “a-strain”

and later as “chronic.” Up in the Northwest, we knew the strength of

this shit, and also knew it was nothing to trifle with. It was like a

mix between a strong muscle relaxer and LSD. Until you knew what was

right for you, the best thing to do was to take just the tiniest puff

and see where that got you; you had to build up a sort of tolerance.

Next

thing I knew, Axl and Izzy went and curled up on Donner's couch with

wide, scared eyes. I went over to make sure they were all right.

“What

the fuck did they put in these brownies?” Izzy asked me. Nothing, I

assured them, it was just very strong weed. “No way, man,” he said. “I

think there's acid in here.” They were completely paranoid. I told them

not to worry. I felt horrible. I was hyper-sensitive to what my new

bandmates were experiencing that first day in Seattle. They were a

curiosity to my friends, that's for sure. But we were all dead tired and

hungry, and I wanted to make sure that Axl, Izzy, Slash, and Steven

were well taken care of. I was proud of my city and my friends and

wanted to cast them in the best light. It took Izzy and Axl hours and

hours and a lot of beers to come down off of their first a-strain high.

Fortunately, by the time the party started to get into full swing, they

were returning to earth. But to this day, I am sure, they still think

they were dosed with something.

Donner threw a barn-burner that night: barbecue, beer, girls. Life was suddenly really, really good.

Danny,

Joe-Joe, and our gear still hadn't arrived when we played the show on

Wednesday night at Gorilla Garden. We were sloppy on borrowed gear,

though on the plus side only about a dozen people were subjected to our

set. Kurt Bloch of the Fastbacks is always nice, and made a point of

telling all the guys we had played great. We knew we were better than

the actual gig–or at least we now knew we would be. The important thing

for us was that we had made it there at all. Together.

After the

Fastbacks set, we helped pack up their gear then hung out for a while

with the crowd at the club–which was pretty much just old friends of

mine at that point. Hanging out, of course, meant drinking, and drinking

heavily.

One of the people I was most glad to see was Big Jim

Norris. He was a tough guy from the wrong side of the tracks who had

finally found a comfort zone in our little Seattle punk-rock scene. Jim

had always had his struggles with drugs and drink, but he was one of

those guys who had the spirit of life in his eyes. Jim was a leader. And

when I left for Los Angeles, he made it a point to keep in touch. Once I

got my apartment, he sent me letters, and we talked on the phone when

we could afford to. Our friendship had actually deepened since I left.

Finally,

as the place cleared out, the members of Guns went back to the club

owner's office to pick up our gig money, no doubt looking like a pack of

hungry wolves. When I had booked the show, I somehow managed to finagle

a $200 guarantee out of the venue. Of course, I hadn't gotten a

contract–not for this show or for any of the others. But then again,

I'd never gotten a contract. Back in the day, punk shows were always

handshake deals–and often the handshake part was just implicit because

you had to come to terms over the phone. Our plan now was to wire this

first $200 to Danny and Joe-Joe the next day and continue the tour.

English was not the owner's first language, but he quickly made it clear that he wasn't going to pay us.

We

were stunned. I tried to reason with the guy. Then I played the

sympathy card, telling him of our plight and our long journey, of the

sunburn and hunger, of onion fields and tweaking truckers. But the club

owner didn't give a shit.

“You not bring any people to show,” he said. “How I pay when I no have money from ticket?”

We

made vague–and then probably more explicit–threats of violence. He

held the office phone in his hand ready to speed-dial the police, and

made sure we understood this.

Eventually we left his office and went back into what was now a deserted club.

“Fuck that asshole,” said Axl. “We went through HELL to get here and play this show. And he treats us like scum?”

Suddenly there was just one thought in my head. It was the only solution I could see. The only way to get justice.

“Let's burn this fucking place down!”

The members of the band looked around the empty club and at one another. There were no objections.

“Let's burn it the fuck down,” I said again.

Axl and I threw matches into a garbage can full of paper toweling, and we all hauled ass outside.

Nothing happened.

We

had failed as arsonists, but the mere attempt was enough to exorcise

our ill will for the night. And it may have saved us a stint in the

slammer.

After running out of the Gorilla Garden, we went out to see a

local band called Soundgarden. The initial rumblings of what would

become the Seattle sound were just starting to happen then. Buzzing on

our newly solidified camaraderie–and plenty of booze–we stormed the

stage when they were done and asked to play a few songs on their gear.

They looked at us blankly and explained in the nerdy kind of way a kid

on a playground might respond to a request to share his toys, “Um, no,

that's our gear.”

It didn't matter. Nothing could bring us down that night: we had played an out-of-town show.

The

next day we found out we had also played our last out-of-town show for a

while. Danny and Joe-Joe weren't going to make it. That didn't matter

either. The shake-out tour had already accomplished everything I had

hoped and more.

One of Donner's friends drove us all the way back to

L.A. a few days later, and we arrived home a genuine band–a gang with

the shared experience of a road trip gone wrong, an out-of-town gig, and

the knowledge that we were all fully committed to Guns N' Roses.