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The Cathouse became our haven during the final stages of making the record. I got to know Nikki Sixx really well at the Cathouse, because he was there a lot. I ran into Yvonne on occasion over there, too. It was such a spot for us that Axl even went, which always brought us added attention—even we’d get excited because he didn’t often hang out with us at the clubs and bars. Duff, Izzy, and I were gutter rats, but Axl was more sophisticated, and always brought a different edge to the proceedings. At the very least, he usually wasn’t passing out like we were.

Almost every night after leaving the Cathouse, I ended up at someone’s house—usually someone I didn’t know. Most often, they were girls, and if I was fortunate, they’d let me shower there in the morning before I headed out in the rental van to pick up Duff on my way to the studio to work on the next song. That’s the way it went—I had no money at the time but I got by. I got lunch on the studio budget—it was always Taco Bell. Duff and I were so broke that before we headed to the Cathouse to scam free drinks all night, we’d head to McDonald’s for dinner, where we’d use these game coupons to cobble together a meal. If you bought anything you’d get one of these scratch-off tickets and receive free fries or a free Coke or a hamburger. There was some kind of McRib promotion called Mac the Knife, so I developed a taste for those. We’d pool our resources into a meal, then whip back over the hill into Hollywood.

Another pastime of mine was taking my frustrations out on the rental vans that Alan provided for us. There was no rhyme or reason, I’d just kick the windows out, break the mirrors—anything glass was in danger. I drove one of them through an industrial-strength fence and destroyed both the fence and the van’s front end. I treated those things as if they were battering rams. I would walk up to a brand-new one and smash the headlights out before I even got behind the wheel. One night I drove this girl home, all the way up to Edinburgh and Santa Monica, thinking I was getting some for sure. The next thing I knew it was eight a.m. and I was double-parked, slumped over the wheel, with the lights on and the passenger door wide open. Apparently she’d left me there passed out at the wheel. It was hilarious—only because I didn’t get caught. I remember waking up, taking stock of the situation, and hightailing it out of there. I can’t imagine how the fuck I got away with that.

One of those vans is immortalized in a great picture that Robert John took of me. It features the one other guitar that I used on Appetite —a 1960-something Gibson SG that I managed to borrow from Howie at Guitars R Us, that sounded great once I got it in the studio. It was really heavy-sounding, so I used it on “My Michelle.” Anyway, that afternoon I decided to stick it through the hole I’d kicked in the windshield (from the inside) of the van I was driving at the time strictly for Robert’s entertainment.

My van abuse demanded that we became familiar with a few different rental companies and a few different locations; Hertz, Budget, Avis, we knew every franchise within a five-mile radius. What I would do is pick up the van, destroy it over the course of two or more days, then return it in the middle of the night—I’d just leave it in the parking lot with the keys in the ignition. Then I’d go to a different location and pick up a new one. Eventually Alan had to take me aside.

“I got a call from Budget,” he said. He was pissed off. “The manager of the location insisted that I come down there. I kept asking why and he said that I needed to see the damage that had been done to the van to understand the scope of the problem. And I have to say that he was right.”

“Oh yeah?” I said, almost proud. “Was it really bad?”

“It was but that wasn’t all,” he said. “The manager chewed me out for an hour as he showed me every inch of damage that had been done to the van. Then he asked me if I had any idea what kind of psychopathic horrible people I was involved with. After seeing that, I’m not sure that I do.”

What can I say? Those vans were mobile hotel rooms—they got a lot of wear and tear. At the time I didn’t even have a hotel room: all of my belongings were in an empty storage room at Take 1. Every day when I’d return from whatever I’d gotten into in Hollywood the night before, I’d head in there to change my clothes; I’d be happier if I’d managed to get a shower wherever I’d crashed. That place was the biggest closet I’ve ever had—it is actually where we took the photo on the back cover of Appetite . I loved it in there; it was all nice and quiet and the only sanctuary I had then. The studio wouldn’t let me sleep there, unfortunately. They said that it was an insurance issue, but you know what? I never believed them.

There were only two things that I found difficult while recording my overdubs for Appetite . The first was the solo at the end of “Paradise City,” which was always easy live but wasn’t in the studio. In concert, it could last anywhere from one to two minutes, but on the album version of the song, it was designed to be exactly thirty seconds. So it wasn’t easy for me to focus the same narrative and emotion into thirty seconds, and when the red light came on, it threw me for a loop—I actually got gun-shy. I remember going at it a few times and getting so frustrated that I just left the studio completely disappointed; the next day, though, I came in fresh and nailed it.

My other issue was recording “Sweet Child o’ Mine.” Steven watched my foot to keep time; and for that song I’d count him in because my riff kicked off the proceedings. There was no high hat through the beginning and we hadn’t recorded a click track for it, so when I went in to do the overdubs it was a guessing game: I’d be sitting there anticipating the start of the song, hoping that in my mind I’d timed it right so that when I started playing, my timing was right. This was years before digital recording, so there was no signifier to guide me in any way. It took a while, it took many takes, but we got it in the end. Other than that, the album came together so quickly and naturally that it felt like it was meant to be. Obviously it was.

Once I was done at Take 1, I had to find somewhere else to stash my shit, and theoretically myself, so I shacked up with my friend Todd Crew of Jetboy, who had moved down to L.A. from San Francisco. He was living with his girlfriend, Girl—that was her name—and their roommate Samantha, who had the biggest set of tits that I’ve ever seen on a petite girl like herself; that was enough to inspire me to be a one-girl guy for a minute. The four of us had a blast and were a complete and utter spectacle: we went to the Cathouse every single night, just carousing and making a general nuisance of ourselves during the few weeks that Axl took to finish up his vocals.

ONCE THE RECORDING WAS DONE IT was time to get it mixed. Tom Zutaut took me to New York—it was my first time there—to introduce me to a few candidates as well as some East Coast industry folk. Tom loved to show off: he liked showing his talent the luxury of business class, and showing his talent how important he was in the industry—that was the motivation behind this trip as much as finding us a mixing team. I met Rick Rubin, who was just hitting it big with Run-DMC and Def Jam and his new signing, the Beastie Boys. Rick took us out to his favorite spot to eat, White Castle in Queens. Rick was great; we talked about all kinds of records that we liked, and just shot the shit, because he’d already passed on mixing us. A lot of people passed on mixing us, and once again—all of them regretted it later.