Slash: What GunsNRoses Did Years Ago Wouldve Gotten Us Canceled, We wouldn't have fared well in this environment: 'glad we didn't have internet then!'

[basquebromance]

not just G'N'R but all decadent rock bands from yesteryear from Motley Crue to Poison through Hanoi Rocks and Ratt would've been cancelled

Slash - 'Most of' What GN’R Did Back in the Day 'Would’ve Gotten Us Canceled'

'I'm just glad that we didn't have the internet back then!'

loudwire.com

 

[basquebromance]

LET'S PARTY! MAKE AMERICA FUN AGAIN!

 

[shockedcanadian]

Yep, most rock bands would have been finished just for their videos alone. I may be more of a prude than I once was, but I don't believe people should be restricted in thirr chosen outlet of joy as long as they aren't hurtiing anyone. Axl was an idiot in his early years though.

 

[basquebromance]

"Made up my heart to make a new start
Going to California with an ache in my heart" - Led Zeppelin

 

[basquebromance]

"Nothing focuses me or gets me going like chasing tail. Money, fame, status, power. nothing comes close to the pursuit of pussy" - Guns N Roses drummer Steven Adler

Review: Steven Adler’s "My Appetite for Destruction: Sex & Drugs & Guns N’ Roses" - Icon Vs. Icon

Every misunderstood celebrity should write a tell-all book. I’m not being sarcastic. It’s a great way to give their fans and enemies a chance to see their side of the story with no interruptions. It’s also an inside look at the life of the celebrity/rockstar, with horny groupies, screaming...

www.iconvsicon.com

 

[Moonglow]

LET'S PARTY! MAKE AMERICA FUN AGAIN!

Bad hair club for men.

 

[shockedcanadian]

Bad hair club for men.

They weren't my favourite band but they produced some epic songs.

 

[Moonglow]

They weren't my favourite band but they produced some epic songs.

What was the name of Trump's band?

 

[whitehall]

There seems to be worse stuff today than there was during the hey day of the hair bands. Is Guns/Roses confessing to a freaking felony they kept secret?

 

[basquebromance]

There seems to be worse stuff today than there was during the hey day of the hair bands. Is Guns/Roses confessing to a freaking felony they kept secret?

well, Guns N Roses drummer Steven Adler got away with petty juvenile crime a bunch of times. he once stole money from kids' camp and initially bought a lot of candy then he gave the rest of it to his friends before getting caught. he admitted in his bio this is "the kind of thing that brings lawsuits nowadays"...he was also known to sleep with a switchblade on his person as a kid to "protect" his younger brother, who slept nearby. petty stuff like that.

Adler as he grew up got wasted all the time and jugged down copious amounts of alcohol to "impress" musicians he "admired" (how about impressing them with your musical talent?)...he did get involved in a drunk driving accident once, but only hurt himself, and no one else

 

[Dekster]

They more or less did get cancelled when Izzy quit in part because of all the shit that was going on. Left the band and cleaned up his act.

 

[basquebromance]

‘Give up all hope, all illusion, all desire … I’ve tried and still I desire, I still desire not to desire and hope to be without hope and have the illusion I can be without illusions. Give up, I say. Give up everything, including the desire to be saved.’ - Luke Rhinehart, The Dice Man

 

[whitehall]

well, Guns N Roses drummer Steven Adler got away with petty juvenile crime a bunch of times. he once stole money from kids' camp and initially bought a lot of candy then he gave the rest of it to his friends before getting caught. he admitted in his bio this is "the kind of thing that brings lawsuits nowadays"...he was also known to sleep with a switchblade on his person as a kid to "protect" his younger brother, who slept nearby. petty stuff like that.

Adler as he grew up got wasted all the time and jugged down copious amounts of alcohol to "impress" musicians he "admired" (how about impressing them with your musical talent?)...he did get involved in a drunk driving accident once, but only hurt himself, and no one else

That's an insulting response. The claim is "what we did".

 

[basquebromance]

That's an insulting response. The claim is "what we did".

are you seriously challenging me? let me raise my game then!

Los Angeles is full of ghosts.

Take a drive through West Hollywood, along Sunset Boulevard and its many tributaries, and names and places from the past return, some urgent, some distant, all able to conjure those ghosts by their mere mention. Tower Records, bankrupt since 2006; the Hyatt on Sunset, once known and feared as the ‘Riot House’, now a sanitised boutique hotel called the Andaz West Hollywood; the Roxy, the Rainbow Bar and Grill, the Whisky a Go-Go, the Troubadour … all still standing, but existing on the fumes of their shared, impossible to replicate pasts; nasty joints like the Coconut Teaszer and Gazzarri’s, now long gone; Sunset Strip Tattoo, relocated from its ramshackle shop opposite the Hyatt some way further down Sunset; the buildings that once housed the Starwood and the Tropicana and the Cathouse and the Seventh Veil now rebranded and reused; the 24-hour Ralphs supermarket that had so many aspiring musos walking its aisles it was known as ‘Rock’n’roll Ralphs’; the Capitol Records building, the Geffen Records building, each monuments to a vanished industry.

And the side streets with their stories: North Clark, where once both Mötley Crüe and Guns N’ Roses lived in the cheap apartments that lined it; Alto Loma, where the ‘hidden oasis’ of the Sunset Marquis hotel lay – Hunter S. Thompson used to call that place ‘the Loser’s Hilton’, so many and varied were the touring bands and LA rich that partied in the cabanas by the rippling pool …

West Hollywood is a different place now, and ironically, given the turbo-charged, try-hard heterosexuality of the late 1980s, one of the city’s best-known LGBT districts. But for anyone who remembers its ghosts and who saw the place in its 1980s heyday, this is the town where anything that could happen did happen. Where everything was coooool, baby, one minute, then out of control the next.

Imagine arriving here, as W. Axl Rose and many thousands of others did, from the Greyhound Bus terminal in North Hollywood and seeing the Strip for the first time at night. The atmosphere of the place came at you like a bullet in the back, a supercharged mix of ambition and abandon, hedonism and desperation: it was like a permanent first night away from home, no responsibility, no tomorrow, no fucker telling you what to do or what to wear or where to go, a heady blast of freedom, intoxicating and scary. The levels of bullshit and testosterone were off the charts. Everyone was in a band, or starting a band or thinking about it, or else they were a budding promoter or a DJ or a VJ or a manager. In a pre-internet age, cheap photocopied flyers were the best form of communicating who you were and when you were playing – by the end of the night, discarded A5s would be blowing down Sunset like tumbleweed.

Bands formed and broke up and reformed again with this guy replacing that guy, this name instead of that one, one crazy dude after another. Loose collectives looking for the magic formula, the glory moment at which the touchpaper would ignite and they could begin their climb from a paid-for slot on the bottom of the bill.

It could happen, and it did: look around and you could even see the people that it had happened to – David Lee Roth, singer with LA’s biggest home-grown band, Van Halen, ligging with his manager, Pete Angelus, in the Rainbow; Vince Neil, a Mexican kid from the wrong side of town now somehow singing his way to platinum heaven with Mötley Crüe, dragging the mud-wrestling girls from the Tropicana back to his house to party; Robbin Crosby, Ratt’s blond bombshell of a guitarist, propping up the bar at the Troubadour, surrounded by chicks and chicks-with-dicks … and until the gods pointed their fingers and decided that this was your fate, there was an itinerant life of cheap places to crash, sofas to surf, rehearsal space to find. There was some movie doing the rounds saying ‘lunch is for wimps’ … well, so were breakfast and dinner out in Hollyweird, California. Any spare dollars – and who had those? – were allocated to booze, partying and flyers long before loose change was scraped up for fast food or whatever cheap shit was left on the shelves after midnight at Ralphs. The true Hollywood vampires knew girls who would buy their groceries and offer up their beds while they were busy trying to climb the greasy KY pole …
This was a very particular life in a very particular time and place and it was being projected outwards from these few neon streets to the rest of the world.

Rock rags like Hit Parader, Circus, RIP, Spin and Kerrang! helped build the myth. Video clips that began on Headbangers Ball then crept onto mainstream, daytime MTV. Radio stations like KNAC – blasting out Poison, W.A.S.P., Ozzy Osbourne – saw their playlists picked up across America. People saw and people heard and they came in their thousands to be part of it. Axl stayed only a few weeks, freaked out by the place and its people, walking around with ‘a can of mace in one hand, a piece of steel in the other’ like the hayseed Indiana boy he was, but somehow he knew that he had to come back …

 

[whitehall]

are you seriously challenging me? let me raise my game then!

Los Angeles is full of ghosts.

Take a drive through West Hollywood, along Sunset Boulevard and its many tributaries, and names and places from the past return, some urgent, some distant, all able to conjure those ghosts by their mere mention. Tower Records, bankrupt since 2006; the Hyatt on Sunset, once known and feared as the ‘Riot House’, now a sanitised boutique hotel called the Andaz West Hollywood; the Roxy, the Rainbow Bar and Grill, the Whisky a Go-Go, the Troubadour … all still standing, but existing on the fumes of their shared, impossible to replicate pasts; nasty joints like the Coconut Teaszer and Gazzarri’s, now long gone; Sunset Strip Tattoo, relocated from its ramshackle shop opposite the Hyatt some way further down Sunset; the buildings that once housed the Starwood and the Tropicana and the Cathouse and the Seventh Veil now rebranded and reused; the 24-hour Ralphs supermarket that had so many aspiring musos walking its aisles it was known as ‘Rock’n’roll Ralphs’; the Capitol Records building, the Geffen Records building, each monuments to a vanished industry.

And the side streets with their stories: North Clark, where once both Mötley Crüe and Guns N’ Roses lived in the cheap apartments that lined it; Alto Loma, where the ‘hidden oasis’ of the Sunset Marquis hotel lay – Hunter S. Thompson used to call that place ‘the Loser’s Hilton’, so many and varied were the touring bands and LA rich that partied in the cabanas by the rippling pool …

West Hollywood is a different place now, and ironically, given the turbo-charged, try-hard heterosexuality of the late 1980s, one of the city’s best-known LGBT districts. But for anyone who remembers its ghosts and who saw the place in its 1980s heyday, this is the town where anything that could happen did happen. Where everything was coooool, baby, one minute, then out of control the next.

Imagine arriving here, as W. Axl Rose and many thousands of others did, from the Greyhound Bus terminal in North Hollywood and seeing the Strip for the first time at night. The atmosphere of the place came at you like a bullet in the back, a supercharged mix of ambition and abandon, hedonism and desperation: it was like a permanent first night away from home, no responsibility, no tomorrow, no fucker telling you what to do or what to wear or where to go, a heady blast of freedom, intoxicating and scary. The levels of bullshit and testosterone were off the charts. Everyone was in a band, or starting a band or thinking about it, or else they were a budding promoter or a DJ or a VJ or a manager. In a pre-internet age, cheap photocopied flyers were the best form of communicating who you were and when you were playing – by the end of the night, discarded A5s would be blowing down Sunset like tumbleweed.

Bands formed and broke up and reformed again with this guy replacing that guy, this name instead of that one, one crazy dude after another. Loose collectives looking for the magic formula, the glory moment at which the touchpaper would ignite and they could begin their climb from a paid-for slot on the bottom of the bill.

It could happen, and it did: look around and you could even see the people that it had happened to – David Lee Roth, singer with LA’s biggest home-grown band, Van Halen, ligging with his manager, Pete Angelus, in the Rainbow; Vince Neil, a Mexican kid from the wrong side of town now somehow singing his way to platinum heaven with Mötley Crüe, dragging the mud-wrestling girls from the Tropicana back to his house to party; Robbin Crosby, Ratt’s blond bombshell of a guitarist, propping up the bar at the Troubadour, surrounded by chicks and chicks-with-dicks … and until the gods pointed their fingers and decided that this was your fate, there was an itinerant life of cheap places to crash, sofas to surf, rehearsal space to find. There was some movie doing the rounds saying ‘lunch is for wimps’ … well, so were breakfast and dinner out in Hollyweird, California. Any spare dollars – and who had those? – were allocated to booze, partying and flyers long before loose change was scraped up for fast food or whatever cheap shit was left on the shelves after midnight at Ralphs. The true Hollywood vampires knew girls who would buy their groceries and offer up their beds while they were busy trying to climb the greasy KY pole …
This was a very particular life in a very particular time and place and it was being projected outwards from these few neon streets to the rest of the world.

Rock rags like Hit Parader, Circus, RIP, Spin and Kerrang! helped build the myth. Video clips that began on Headbangers Ball then crept onto mainstream, daytime MTV. Radio stations like KNAC – blasting out Poison, W.A.S.P., Ozzy Osbourne – saw their playlists picked up across America. People saw and people heard and they came in their thousands to be part of it. Axl stayed only a few weeks, freaked out by the place and its people, walking around with ‘a can of mace in one hand, a piece of steel in the other’ like the hayseed Indiana boy he was, but somehow he knew that he had to come back …

You opened the thread. What the hell did they do that was so bad?

 

[basquebromance]

You opened the thread. What the hell did they do that was so bad?

ok ok i'll spill the beans!

Young Bill Bailey, just turned 18 years old and not yet W. Axl Rose, was a smalltown cop’s nightmare. In Lafayette, Indiana, in the late 1970s, most of the teenage troublemakers were of the usual sort: bored, drunk, pumped full of hormones and not particularly bright. It didn’t take the FBI to catch them. Bill Bailey was different. He was bright – very, in fact – and his rebellion had both a root and a reason. It wasn’t that they couldn’t arrest him. It was that they couldn’t stop him, couldn’t make him respect their authority, or anyone else’s. He ran up 20 arrests by his estimate (‘I was guilty on five’), although Tippecanoe County Court records state that he spent a total of ten days in the county jail as an adult over a period from July 1980 through September 1982, on charges of battery, contributing to the delinquency of a minor, public intoxication, criminal trespass and mischief. When he finally hitchhiked out of town, back to LA and away from the torture of his early years, he was technically skipping judge’s bail. He would not return for a very long time.

If Axl Rose is the last great rock star, then Bill Bailey is the sad, sweet, clever, abused and angry child that Axl left behind in Lafayette. Yet he lives on in every onstage meltdown and backstage bust-up, in every act of intransigence and temper. And he surfaces in the untold moments of kindness and vulnerability, in the love songs with which he lays himself open and protects so fiercely. He’s there in the lyric to ‘One in a Million’ – ‘Police and ******* that’s right / Get out of my way’ – and to ‘Sweet Child o’ Mine’ – ‘She’s got a smile that it seems to me / Reminds me of childhood memories …’. He’s there in his choice to cover a Charles Manson song on the Spaghetti Incident? album, and he’s there again in his need to emulate the songwriting of Elton John and Freddie Mercury. He’s there in the desire to control every element of Guns N’ Roses, from the ownership of the name to the safeguarding of the musical legacy. It’s easy enough to make the link between a young Bill Bailey dreaming of one day having the freedom to sing somewhere other than the bathroom of his family home out of earshot of his religious zealot father, and the glistening edifice of Chinese Democracy, a record so singular and out of time that it could only have been the work of a reclusive rock star taking the chance to offer his version of a perfectly realised artwork to the world, uninterrupted by anyone.

It began on 6 February 1962, when he was born William Bruce Rose to a pretty 17-year-old single mother named Sharon Lintner, who was still in high school, and a Lafayette bad boy, also called William Rose, who definitely wasn’t. Before Bill was two years old and with any certain memory of what happened, William and Sharon may or may not have legally married, and, when they split in 1964, he may or may not have been abducted, briefly, by his natural father, and sexually abused by him, too. When, many years later, he bought into ‘regression therapy’, Axl would claim that ‘I didn’t like the way he treated me before I was born, so when I came out I was just wishing that the motherfucker was dead …’ And also that William Rose had ‘fucked me up the ass … I remember a needle. I remember getting a shot. And I remember being sexually abused by this man and watching something horrible happen to my mother when she came to get me.’