Читать книгу My Appetite for Destruction: Sex & Drugs & Guns ‘N’ Roses - Steven Adler - Страница 49

When I finally got the cymbals, I had an entire professional drum set that inspired me to practice until I was pretty damn decent. Every second I wasn’t working I was practicing. Hours and hours of exercises mixed with mimicking the drum parts from every great song I loved—Ozzy to Aerosmith, Stones to the Crüe. I set the bar pretty high for myself; I wanted it all to sound perfect. Finally I built up the confidence to call Saul and say, “I’ve got it together.” We arranged a rendezvous, and I packed the drums into the Gremlin and drove to La Cienega Park just north of Olympic. It felt like the perfect spot, playing in the big wide-open in an area the size of four football fields. I had everything set up before Saul arrived around eight o’clock. With Saul and some of my other friends there, it almost felt like an audition. Hell, it was an audition, for my friends, for Saul, and for the gods of rock. They were all there that day.

I was never so happy. I had finally gotten my shit together, and I set it up for Saul to check me out and let him take it from there. I played a few beats, executed a few licks, then dove in, really giving it my all. After about a twenty-five-minute salvo, Saul was impressed enough to say, “Cool.” From that moment on, we really locked on to “the Dream.”

I started to reach out to successful musicians because I wanted to surround myself with performers who were not only inspirational but possessed talent and drive. I met Robbin Crosby, rhythm guitarist for Ratt, at the Rainbow. After an eight-year battle with AIDS brought on by drug abuse, he passed away in 2002. Great guy. RIP, Robbin.

Robbin was huge, six and a half feet tall, and good-looking. He took me under his wing and decided one night to take me over to Carlos Cavazo’s house. Carlos was the guitarist for Quiet Riot. QR was amazing. They had the largest-selling heavy metal debut album of all time, until my band took that honor a few years later.

Carlos lived in Laurel Canyon, right behind the elementary school there. Ratt’s vocalist and drummer, Stephen Pearcy and Bobby Blotzer, were also hanging out there. It was a hell of a night. Seeing all the platinum records on the walls was awesome, and I never doubted that I would soon have my own. We just drank and partied all night. There were always freshly cut lines on this shiny, slick wooden table in the living room. I was freaking the fuck out. This was the famous debauched rock ’n’ roll lifestyle, and it was awesome.

After a night of partying I totally lost track of the time. I asked the guys, and Carlos laughed and pointed at a clock. It was six in the morning. “Shit. I have to get to work!” At the time, I was working for a poster shop where I would spray the glue on the backboard and they would mount the poster onto it.

On my way to work I walked through a garage for an apartment building. I was so tired. I needed to rest for a moment. I just went down the rows, and after two or three cars, I found one that was open. I got in the backseat and fell fast asleep. Nice, ahhh…then…“What the hell are you doing!?” The owner of the car was pounding on his window and shouting at me. He was going to work in a suit and tie. I was shocked awake and asked the guy what time it was. And again he shouted: “What the hell are you doing!” Then he looked at his watch. “Seven fifty.”

If I hadn’t been so tired, I would have laughed; it was a pretty funny scene, Mr. Hangover meets Mr. Suit. “Shit, I’m late for work.” I got out of the car in front of the startled businessman and ran to my job, only to find that it wasn’t waiting for me. I tried to explain what had happened, that I was exhausted and very sorry to be so late, but they looked at me like they didn’t know me. I was fired, gone.