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After a couple of days of after-partying at Donner’s house, we hopped back in the car with his friend, whom we’ll call Jane. She was either crazy or just liked us enough to drive us all the way back to L.A.. I’m still not sure which. We drove through to Sacramento, which is about seven hundred fifty miles, before we made our first pit stop. By that point, we had to pause: Jane wasn’t the type to have a car with functioning air-conditioning, and considering the summertime heat, it might have been lethal to keep going by that point.

We parked and spent the afternoon wandering around the state-capitol area begging for change to get something to eat. After a few hours, we took our earnings and hit the McDonald’s and we barely had enough food to share among the six of us. Afterward, we lay down under the shade of a few oak trees in the park across from the capitol in search of some relief from the heat. It got so unbearable that we jumped the fence and took refuge in some convalescent home’s pool. We didn’t give a fuck that we were trespassing; actually, if we’d gotten arrested, it probably would have been an improvement—at least there would be food and better air-conditioning than Jane’s car. Once the sun went down and it finally cooled off enough to get back in that thing, we got back on the road.

I didn’t realize it until years later, but that trip cemented us as a band more than we knew; our commitments were tested on that journey. We’d partied, we’d played, we’d survived, we’d endured, and we racked up a lifetime’s worth of stories in just two weeks. Or was it one week… I think it was one week… what do I know?

IT MAKES SENSE THAT GUNS’ FIRST SHOW took place in Seattle because as much as L.A. was our address, we had as much in common with the average “L.A.” band as Seattle’s weather has with Southern California’s. Our main influences were Aerosmith, especially for me, and then there was T. Rex, Hanoi Rocks, and the New York Dolls. I guess you could even say that Axl was a version of Michael Monroe.

So we were back in L.A. with our first-ever gig as a band behind us. We were all set to get back to rehearsing and keep the momentum focused. We got together out at this space in Silverlake and were all packed into Duff’s little Toyota Celica driving home after rehearsal. As we pulled into an intersection to make a left turn, we were broadsided by some guy doing about sixty miles an hour. Steven broke his ankle because his legs were stretched out between the two front seats, and everyone got pretty banged up, myself least of all—I walked away unscathed. It was a pretty gnarly little accident; Duff’s car was totaled and we could have been, too. That would have been a sick twist of fate: the band dying together after we’d just gotten together.

WE STARTED HANGING AROUND WITH A few of the seedier rock-and-roll people in the L.A. scene; they were part of an underbelly that the typical Sunset Strip rock fan didn’t know about. One of the characters was Nicky Beat, who was the drummer for L.A. Guns for a minute, but mostly spent his time playing in lesser-known glam bands like the Joneses. Nicky wasn’t necessarily seedy but he had a lot of seedy friends. He also had a rehearsal studio in his house in Silverlake where we’d go, set up our gear, and jam, and that is where the whole band really came together. Izzy had something called “Think About You” that we liked, and we revisited “Don’t Cry,” which was the first song I’d ever worked on with Izzy. Izzy had another riff for a song called “Out Ta Get Me” that clicked with me immediately when I first heard it—we had that one done in no time. Axl remembered a riff that I’d played him when he was living over at my mom’s house, which was ages ago at this point: it was the introduction and the main riff to “Welcome to the Jungle.” That song, if anything, was the first real tune that the band wrote together. We were sitting around rehearsal looking to write something new when that riff came to Axl’s mind.

“Hey, what about that riff you played me a while ago?” he asked.

“When you were staying with me?” I asked.

“Yeah. It was good. Let’s hear it.”

I started playing it and instantly Steve came up with a beat, Duff joined in with a bass line, and away we went. I kept throwing parts out to build on it: the chorus part, the solo, as Axl came up with the lyrics.

Duff was the glue on that song—he came up with the breakdown, that wild rumbling bass line, and Izzy provided the texture. In about three hours, the song was complete. The arrangement is virtually the same as it appears on the album.

We needed an intro and I came up with one that day using the digital delay on my cheap Boss guitar pedal board. I got my money’s worth out of that thing, because as crappy as it was, that pedal provided the tense echo effect that set the mood for that song and eventually the kickoff for our debut album.

A lot of our earliest songs came to us almost too easy. “Out Ta Get Me” came to be in an afternoon, even faster than “Jungle.” Izzy showed up with the riff and the basic idea for the song and the second he played it, the notes hit my ear and inspired me. That one happened so quickly, I think that even the most complicated section—the dual guitar parts—were written in under twenty minutes.

I had never been in a band where pieces of music that I found so inspiring came so fluidly. I can’t speak for the other guys, but judging by the speed at which our collective creativity came together I assume they felt something similar. We seemed to share this common knowledge and a kind of secret language back then; it was as if we all already knew what the other guy was going to bring into rehearsal and had already written the perfect part to move the song along. When we were all on the same page, it really was that easy.

WE BORROWED SHIT FROM CHICKS AND initially we had that trashy glam look, though a lot more rough-edged. Very quickly, though, we got too lazy to do the makeup and all that so our glam phase was short-lived. Plus the clothes were a problem because we were always changing girlfriends, and you never knew what the next “she” was going to have. Besides, I don’t think that look ever really suited me—I didn’t have the emaciated white-boy long-haired physique. Ditching the whole idea worked to our advantage in the end: we were grittier, more traditional, and more genuine; more a product of Hollywood itself than the L.A. glam scene.

We were also the lunatic-fringe rock-and-roll band. We thrived on being out of place and took every gig we were offered. We practiced every day, and new songs came quickly; we’d test them in front of bawdy crowds at venues like Madame Wong’s West, the Troubadour, and the Whisky. I looked at whatever we did each day as the next step along a path to where everything was possible. In my mind it was simple: if we focused on nothing but surmounting the nearest obstacle, we’d make our way from Point A to Point C in no time no matter how great the distance.

With every show that we played, we made more fans—and usually a few new enemies. It didn’t matter; as we drew bigger crowds, it was easier to get gigs. Our fans, from the start, were always a mixed bag: we had punks, we had metalheads, we had stoners, we had psychos, the odd weirdo, and a few lost souls. They were never an easily identified or quantifiable commodity… in fact, after all of these years, I am still at a loss for a simple phrase that puts a bow on them—which is fine by me. Guns’ die-hard fans were, I suppose, kindred spirits; misfits who’d made their outcast status their stance.