It's So Easy - Duff Mckagan [83]
Oh, no. Fuck, no. Fans hurt—again. Please don’t let anyone die.
The van took us to our hotel, we ran in and grabbed our bags, and then we got back in and headed across the state line into Illinois to avoid any legal difficulties. We drove all the way to Chicago—management figured the cops would go straight to our plane if they were going to try to arrest us.
Every gig after Riverport, the threat of violence hung in the air—or at least it felt that way to me as I sat around stewing, waiting for our singer to turn up each night, listening nervously for the festive noise of the arena to transform into the low rumble of a big, angry crowd. A crowd could turn and you could hear it. I knew that sound now. I knew that if you were at the wrong end of that, it was scary. And I knew it meant more than a bit of property damage. It meant casualties.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Once the crew was able to take stock of our gear in the wake of the riot, we canceled three shows. We flew to Irving, Texas, to put things back together, hoping to restart the tour with two shows in Dallas. The stage set itself was pretty strong and for the most part survived. Our crew called sound and lighting companies to try to reassemble the gear and we waited for things to come in. We also had to replace the two pianos.
We looked at venues differently now. In fact, a crew catchphrase came out of the Riverport riot: Know your exits.
We continued the tour the second week of July, in Dallas. The first night back, Axl wouldn’t go on until two hours after we were supposed to start. But it’s not as if I went to him and said, “Come on, buddy, let’s go.” I just grabbed another plastic cup filled with vodka and a tiny splash of cranberry juice. And another. And another. And so it went.
At the very end of July, we had a four-night home stand at the Great Western Forum in L.A. We also finally completed the mixing of the two Use Your Illusion albums at the same time we arrived back in L.A. We celebrated with a four-hour show the last night of the Great Western Forum run, August 3, 1991.
It felt awesome for a change. The records were a band accomplishment. We were moving forward together—even if only on vinyl.
The rest of the band took off for Europe after the L.A. shows. I stayed behind for my brother Matt’s wedding. Robert John, our photographer, agreed to stick with me and help me make it through the flights, since I would have to fly commercial to catch up with our band jet in Europe. I needed to fly with a bro, someone who knew about my panic attacks. I gave the best man’s toast and then had to leave.
Robert and I flew first to Paris and then had to take a smaller flight from Paris to Helsinki, Finland, where we were kicking off the first European leg of the tour. When we went to board the plane to Helsinki, the entire flight was full of schoolkids. Apparently in Europe whole school classes took field trips to other countries. So there we were—me and Robert, and a huge metal tube full of French schoolkids staring at us. I was so fucked up by the time we took that flight that Robert just put a coat over my head.
The fog cleared a bit as we drove from the Helsinki airport toward the band hotel.
Ugh.
So beat.
Stiff. I groan.
Where am I again?
The echo of all those kids’ voices: Là-bas! Oui, c’est lui!
Starting to shake.
Drink, just need a drink. A drink. A big one.
Room service: a half gallon of vodka, please.
Uh, large bottle, extra-large bottle—any bottle.
And ice.
Off to a club. The Black Crowes? Why not.
Vodka.
Surely someone has lined up a coke connection here.
More vodka.
Too tired to sleep.
But then again.
Rehearsal tomorrow.
Pill.
The next night Axl walked offstage just as we started playing “Welcome to the Jungle” and disappeared for twenty-five minutes or so. That was the first show of this leg of the tour. At the fourth show, in Stockholm, Sweden, he went to a street festival and watched fireworks before turning up to the gig three hours late. When you are an alcoholic, you need your intake or you get the shakes. You time your