It's So Easy - Duff Mckagan [87]
When we pulled up to the row of houses where my guy had a contact, eleven- and twelve-year-old kids were peddling and delivering drugs all along the street. I guessed their adult employers—perhaps even their own parents or relatives—were inside. There were kids with baseball bats and tire irons, and in an instant I suddenly realized I was in over my head. Then my guy just got out of the car—and took his keys, leaving me in the backseat, stranded and exposed. For a minute that seemed like a week, I thought this must be some sort of setup and that I would be robbed and killed. I could see the headline of the following day’s newspaper clearly in my head. I thought it was rather pathetic that I was going to die on a stupid drug run with some fucking scumbag I didn’t even know.
Stupid!
How could I be so fucking stupid!
Ah, but before I could make up my mind about what to do next, my man showed back up with a coat pocket full of drugs. In an instant, everything was suddenly okay. Great, in fact. I took out a cigarette, pulled some tobacco out of the end, and shoved in some coke. This was an invention I called “the smoker,” sort of a cross between a blunt and crack. I was proud of that technique—unlike crack, which necessitated a pipe and created a telltale scent, I could smoke one of these anywhere.
When I got back to the comfy Ritz-Carlton, I knew I had been lucky. But I stood casually at the hotel bar and puffed on another smoker before heading up to my room to really dive into that bag of coke and gulp down some pills with a glass of vodka. Fuck, why not? It was a day off and the night was very young.
Truck was pissed off. What did I care? I got what I wanted and had a tale to tell. Rock and fucking roll. Guns N’ fucking Roses. After that, Truck and the rest of the security guys tried to keep a tighter leash on me and clamp down on my drug-scoring activities.
On New Year’s Eve, we had our first stadium headlining gig in the United States at Joe Robbie Stadium in Miami. I flew out Ernie C, the guitarist for Body Count. After the show, we went to a club owned by Luke Skyywalker of 2 Live Crew. I was the only white dude in the club, dancing with a bunch of girls. I must have looked too crazy for anybody to care.
The tour continued until early April, until we found out Axl would be arrested on charges stemming from the Riverport riot if he remained in the United States. So we canceled the last few U.S. dates and flew to Europe ahead of another leg of the tour there.
On April 20, 1992, we participated in a Freddie Mercury tribute show at Wembley Stadium. Guns played a couple songs, and the band sounded fiery and tight. Then there was a long break before all the performers united for a grand finale sing-along of “We Are the Champions.” Backstage I let it go too far—I was too drunk to talk, too drunk to walk. Elton John literally carried me to the side of the stage, propped me upright, and helped maneuver me out onto the stage where almost 100,000 fans awaited the showstopper. About fifty performers lined up in a chorus line with Liza Minnelli singing lead. I remained upright through the song—no doubt using the sets of shoulders on either side of me—then I had to be carried again back to my dressing room, unaware of what was happening around me.
We are the champions! That’s right: Duff McKagan, king of beers, viscount of vodka, count of coke. Champion of the world. Asshole.
In May 1992, we had a gig at Slane Castle in Ireland. It was the first time I’d ever been to Ireland, and the day before the show about a hundred people from various branches of my family, people I’d never before met, threw a big barbecue for me. First they took me on a pub crawl—we stopped at every