It's So Easy - Duff Mckagan [90]
Less than a month into the tour, on August 8, 1992, we stopped in Montreal. Metallica front man James Hetfield inadvertently stepped into the plume of one of his band’s pyrotechnics pots at the show and had to be rushed to the hospital with extensive burns. The other members of Metallica came back out onstage after James had been whisked away, explained what had happened, and apologized for suspending the show. We could have saved the day by going right on and playing a long set. It would have been a great gesture to the fans and to the guys in Metallica. It would have been the professional thing to do, the right thing to do. And we were capable of an epic set—we had played for four hours in L.A. the night we found out mixing was complete on the Illusion records.
But no.
The same shit happened in Montreal as elsewhere, us going on late—more than two hours after Hetfield was rushed to the hospital—playing to pissed-off fans. Our own fans, pissed off at us. I sat backstage monitoring the sounds drifting in from the arena, drink in hand, and could feel the crowd’s mood change. The rumble of tens of thousands of people beginning to get angry is a deep, low sound that penetrates walls and vibrates the fundaments of buildings, where dressing rooms are located. It’s a horrible sound, and the panic and embarrassment and frustration in my own head was compounded by that rumble. After letting the crowd reach its boiling point, we finally went out and started playing. Then, forty-five minutes into our set, a microphone stand hit Axl in the mouth. He threw down the mic and left.
This time the riot didn’t start near the stage. We didn’t even see it. The crowd blew up back at the concession areas and merchandise stands, and then spread outside into the streets. In fact, our crew did their normal teardown of the set, oblivious to the riot already raging out of view. Only when our buses pulled out of the parking enclosure did we see the full extent of the situation—cop cars turned over, vehicles on fire, lots of broken windows. Once again there looked to be a lot of injuries. Once again I felt anguished and heartbroken. This time I also felt deeply embarrassed, a feeling that managed inexorably to worm its way into my vodka-numbed psyche.
It didn’t have to be like this.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
It’s time.
Step up.
Fix this.
Let’s get everything out in the open. Get this weight off your chest.
It’s time for a band meeting.
This could get ugly.
Don’t worry. Slash and Matt and Gilby are in.
Still, could get ugly.
You can do this.
Where to start? Listen, we’re drinking ourselves into oblivion …
These backstages all look the same, another drab locker room that the wardrobe people have draped with the same old tapestries they carry around in a trunk. The vibe room. That’s what the crew calls this. And the same old big-screen TV. Shit, did we pay for that? Is it always a new one, or do they tote around the same one to every venue?
Don’t lose focus.
Just stay cool. You can fix this.
Listen, none of us likes conflict, but there’s stuff we need to talk about. The lateness is a big problem for us. Personally. Hearing the chants. I mean, look, I’ll take responsibility for drinking too much, but … and, well, also, I know we’re not exactly businessmen, but I don’t think you have any idea what it’s costing us …
Okay, here comes Axl.
Close your eyes, take a deep breath, gather your thoughts.
Everything goes black.
I open my eyes and reflexively spit on the floor. Huh?
I grab for the vodka on the nightstand.
Fumble for the phone.
Room service: ice.
Okay, when’s this meeting?
Shit.
There is no band meeting.
Shit.
You’re not the man.
You’re a mess.
Pen.
Scrap paper.
Drink.
A couple of lines:
I have often wondered what my
Life really means to me
Wasted days and broken dreams
Let it all slip away from me …
And why’d this dream fade so fast
And why am I lookin’ toward
The past to set me free
I spit on the floor.
Refill my glass with vodka.
A couple of lines.