boots, strong legs, got style
My baby knows the walk, you see her come from miles
Modern lover, modern kind
When we close the door, we’re never out of time
Mary, Mary on my mind
… want to find out what you’re saying
Want to play the games you’re playing
Michael, alone
Michael with his wife
Me and Michael
I WAS RUNNING WILD during the second Velvet Revolver tour. At the beginning of the tour, I was okay, but then a single line of coke in England did the trick. I snorted it. And soon the demons were back. Thus began another decline. That was 2007.
With my “Mary, Mary” obsession pulling me apart, and the grief from losing my brother breaking my heart, this little line of cocaine looked good. For me it was the same as stepping in quicksand. Before long, I was smoking the shit. After years of not doing street drugs—of not doing any kind of drugs—I was out there again, going to dangerous places to buy substances. All this was done in secret; the other guys in Velvet Revolver—all of whom except one, by the way, had suffered their own slips since the band formed—didn’t know I was using.
Only my manager, Dana Dufine, knew of my decision to go into rehab. I had to. I couldn’t live with myself; couldn’t stomach the cold fact that I was back on the fuckin’ pipe, doing what I had sworn I would never do again. When I told the guys that we’d have to miss a couple of gigs because I needed treatment, their reaction shocked me. They told me I’d have to pay them for those cancellations—in full. I reminded some of them that when they had relapsed and needed rehab, I had supported them completely. It made no difference to them. They wanted compensation from me, but this time, no deal. Fuck me once, shame me twice … well, just fuck off.
There had been other Velvet Revolver problems. Slash’s wife, Perla, had inserted herself into the band business to the point of participating in band meetings. Beyond that, Velvet Revolver was essentially a manufactured product. For all our hits—“Fall to Pieces,” “Slither,” “Set Me Free”—we came together out of necessity, not artistic purpose.
The breaking point came when, after the tour for Libertad started up again, Matt wrote scathing things about me on the Internet. Our fragile brotherhood was permanently smashed. From a stage in England I told the crowd—along with my fellow bandmates—that they were witnessing a special event, Velvet Revolver’s last tour. It didn’t matter that Velvet Revolver had sold some five or six million records. I was out.
I NEEDED TO GET AWAY. I had traveled my entire adult life, but always with an entourage—assistants, tour managers, security. My life was driving me crazy, and I needed time alone.
My idea was simple: go to Paris, book a room in Montmartre, my favorite part of the city, and chill. Write a little. Read a little. Relax for a week or two, hanging out in the bistros and soaking in the arty European vibe. I saw Paris as a city of quietude, beauty, and peace. It was the last place on earth I anticipated violence.
On the flight over, I remembered two violent encounters that had nearly done me in during the years when I was running the streets. In 1997, I was attacked at a downtown L.A. crack house by a crazy man with a homemade prison-style shank that struck me in the breastbone and fortunately broke off. A year later, during an STP tour, I was assaulted in Washington, D.C., when I tried to buy drugs in the projects. Again, I was lucky to have avoided serious injury. But that was all behind me. Paris was where I could chill out and find shelter from the emotional storms.
I arrived in early December. The hotel was cool; the nights were cold; and my head started to clear. I went down to Pigalle, with its tourist traps and fake “live” sex shows, and just wandered around. I was feeling free. Dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and a plain North Face jacket, I was just another guy, not a rock star. I
My baby knows the walk, you see her come from miles
Modern lover, modern kind
When we close the door, we’re never out of time
Mary, Mary on my mind
… want to find out what you’re saying
Want to play the games you’re playing
Michael, alone
Michael with his wife
Me and Michael
I WAS RUNNING WILD during the second Velvet Revolver tour. At the beginning of the tour, I was okay, but then a single line of coke in England did the trick. I snorted it. And soon the demons were back. Thus began another decline. That was 2007.
With my “Mary, Mary” obsession pulling me apart, and the grief from losing my brother breaking my heart, this little line of cocaine looked good. For me it was the same as stepping in quicksand. Before long, I was smoking the shit. After years of not doing street drugs—of not doing any kind of drugs—I was out there again, going to dangerous places to buy substances. All this was done in secret; the other guys in Velvet Revolver—all of whom except one, by the way, had suffered their own slips since the band formed—didn’t know I was using.
Only my manager, Dana Dufine, knew of my decision to go into rehab. I had to. I couldn’t live with myself; couldn’t stomach the cold fact that I was back on the fuckin’ pipe, doing what I had sworn I would never do again. When I told the guys that we’d have to miss a couple of gigs because I needed treatment, their reaction shocked me. They told me I’d have to pay them for those cancellations—in full. I reminded some of them that when they had relapsed and needed rehab, I had supported them completely. It made no difference to them. They wanted compensation from me, but this time, no deal. Fuck me once, shame me twice … well, just fuck off.
There had been other Velvet Revolver problems. Slash’s wife, Perla, had inserted herself into the band business to the point of participating in band meetings. Beyond that, Velvet Revolver was essentially a manufactured product. For all our hits—“Fall to Pieces,” “Slither,” “Set Me Free”—we came together out of necessity, not artistic purpose.
The breaking point came when, after the tour for Libertad started up again, Matt wrote scathing things about me on the Internet. Our fragile brotherhood was permanently smashed. From a stage in England I told the crowd—along with my fellow bandmates—that they were witnessing a special event, Velvet Revolver’s last tour. It didn’t matter that Velvet Revolver had sold some five or six million records. I was out.
I NEEDED TO GET AWAY. I had traveled my entire adult life, but always with an entourage—assistants, tour managers, security. My life was driving me crazy, and I needed time alone.
My idea was simple: go to Paris, book a room in Montmartre, my favorite part of the city, and chill. Write a little. Read a little. Relax for a week or two, hanging out in the bistros and soaking in the arty European vibe. I saw Paris as a city of quietude, beauty, and peace. It was the last place on earth I anticipated violence.
On the flight over, I remembered two violent encounters that had nearly done me in during the years when I was running the streets. In 1997, I was attacked at a downtown L.A. crack house by a crazy man with a homemade prison-style shank that struck me in the breastbone and fortunately broke off. A year later, during an STP tour, I was assaulted in Washington, D.C., when I tried to buy drugs in the projects. Again, I was lucky to have avoided serious injury. But that was all behind me. Paris was where I could chill out and find shelter from the emotional storms.
I arrived in early December. The hotel was cool; the nights were cold; and my head started to clear. I went down to Pigalle, with its tourist traps and fake “live” sex shows, and just wandered around. I was feeling free. Dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and a plain North Face jacket, I was just another guy, not a rock star. I
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