Maybe I'll Get It Right Next Time...

Chapter 3: Paradise City

"Take me down to the paradise city, where the grass is green and the girls are pretty..."

Los Angeles, California – May 1985

The drive from Palo Alto to Los Angeles is just over 5 hours, less if you speed. I had to stop half way at a gas station payphone to call my parents and let them know I was okay. If I didn't, my dad would worry. I hung up with him, promising to call again when I got to my Aunt Ola's. Slash didn't live at home anymore ever since his mom started charging him rent, he didn't really seem to have a regular address, he stayed with girlfriends and couch surfed a lot. Last I spoke to him, he said he had been living in a storage unit at Sunset and Gardner that his current band was using as rehearsal space. But, when I came to visit, he would come back to his mother's and stay with me in his old bedroom.

With a nickname like "Slash" you are probably assuming he is a pretty scary dude. That couldn't be further from the truth. Slash is the kindest, most gentle human being I've ever met. He has a huge heart and would do absolutely anything for the people he loves. He has protected me all my life and is the big brother I never had. His nickname was given to him by a family friend who felt it embodied his sense of hustle and the fact that he couldn't stand still for longer than five minutes. My parents and Slash's parents came over to California from England together to start their families. When they got here, they were all alone in a brand new place and only had each other to rely on. As a result, my mom and Slash's mom, Ola, are really close. Before my dad's job relocated him to Palo Alto, we lived in Glendale, a suburb of Los Angeles. Our families spent a lot of time together growing up. Slash, his younger brother Albionn, my younger brother Nick, and I became more like siblings than cousins. When we were still pretty young, Slash's parents split up and he would stay with us a lot when his mom had to travel for her job as a costume designer. Our parents would often leave Slash and I in charge of our younger brothers while our parents went out to parties in L.A. I remember those times well. My Aunt Ola had a flawless record collection. I remember spending nights home alone with Slash at their house on Rangley Drive sitting in front the speaker as he carefully placed records on the turn table and placed the needle. I got my entire Rock & Roll education right there on that green shag carpet: The Doors, Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix, The Stones, Deep Purple, The Beatles. I soaked it all up like a sponge. To me, Slash was the personification of 'cool'. Everywhere he went, I went, everything he did, I wanted to do, everything he liked, I liked too. Growing up, I worshiped him, and I worship him still.

These days, my Aunt Ola and Albionn were living in a house just off Laurel Canyon Boulevard. When I pulled into the driveway, Slash was already standing in the doorway. I hadn't seen him all winter. He was tall and lean. The blending of his white father's genes with his black mother's blessed Slash with coffee colored skin, full pouting lips, and wild black hair. His long, black, curls were down to his shoulders now. I got out of the car and ran to him. He surrounded me in a big extended hug.

"Missed you cous," he said in my ear.

"I missed you more," I replied.

Once inside, I greeted my Aunt and younger cousin. The house smelled faintly of incense and marijuana smoke. It felt so good to be there. My aunt served us herbal tea as we caught up: How's school? Are you excited to graduate next year? Have you applied to college yet? The same old stuff. Slash sat across from me at the kitchen table and tapped his foot against the table leg impatiently. He had had enough small talk.

                "We gotta go get ready," he said, darting up from the table. "We're going out tonight."

                I ran up the carpeted stairs after Slash. When we reached his old room, I plopped down on the double bed. The walls of the small room were covered in rock band posters and various pictures and articles saved over the years from music magazines. The room was pretty sparse, just containing the bed, an empty dresser, and Slash's guitar case. On top of the guitar case was something I had never seen before. It was a large black top hat with what looked like a concho belt, just like the one Jim Morrison always wore, wrapped around the hat band. "What's the plan tonight?" I asked. Slash handed me an 11 x 17 sheet of paper, it was a flyer, the kind they hand out in the streets to advertise rock shows. It read:

GUNS N' ROSES

LIVE AT THE WHISKI A GO-GO

FRIDAY, MAY 24, 1985

DOORS AT 8PM – SHOW AT 10PM

TICKETS AT THE DOOR

                "Slash!" I exclaimed, "This is like... legit!"

                "I know," Slash grinned. "Wait till you see the show. It's really coming together. We are fucking killing it every night we play."

                "How am I going to get into this place? I'm underage."

                "Don't worry, you're with the band."