FINDING GUITAR WAS LIKE FINDING MYSELF; it defined me, it gave me a purpose. It was a creative outlet that allowed me to understand myself. The turmoil of my adolescence was suddenly secondary; playing guitar gave me focus. I didn’t keep a journal; I couldn’t seem to vocalize my feelings in a constructive fashion, but the guitar gave me emotional clarity. I loved to draw; that was an activity that took my mind off things, but it wasn’t enough of a vehicle for me to completely express myself. I’ve always envied the artists who could express themselves through art, and only through the guitar have I come to understand what a wonderful release it is.
Practicing for hours wherever I found myself was liberating. Playing became a trance that soothed my soul: with my hands occupied and my mind engaged, I found peace. Once I got into a band, I found that the physical exertion of playing a show became my primary personal release; when I’m playing onstage I’m more at home in my own skin than at any other time in my life. There is a subconscious, emotional level that informs playing, and since I’m the kind of person who carries his baggage around internally, nothing has ever helped me tap into my feelings more.
Finding my voice through guitar at fifteen was, to me, revolutionary. It was a leap in my evolution; I can’t think of anything that made more of a difference in my life. The only moment that came close had occurred two years before when I first experienced the mystery of the opposite sex. Once I’d done it, I didn’t think that anything was better than sex …until I played guitar. And soon after that I found out that those two pursuits couldn’t coexist peacefully in my teenage world.
My first girlfriend was named Melissa. She was a cute, kind of chubby girl with great tits, who was one year younger than me. She was twelve and I was thirteen when we lost our virginity to each other. That isn’t shocking by today’s standards, when teens engage in very adult practices earlier than ever, but in 1978, she and I were ahead of the curve: most of our peers were still French kissing. We both inherently knew not to mess with a good thing, so we stayed together, on and off, for years. The first time we did anything was in the laundry room of her apartment building, which was on the first floor, in the back of the building. She jerked me off; it was a first for both of us. Eventually we moved it to the one-bedroom apartment that she shared with her mom, Carolyn. Unfortunately, the first time we did, Carolyn came home early, so I had to crawl through Melissa’s bedroom window with my pants around my ankles. Luckily the bushes were forgiving.
Things got hot and heavy between us pretty quickly; when her mom wasn’t home, we did it in Melissa’s bed, and when she was home, we did it on the couch after Carolyn passed out on Valium, hoping she wouldn’t wake up and catch us. Of course, trying to wait for Carolyn’s Valium to kick in wasn’t always easy. It was soon after Melissa and Carolyn moved upstairs to a two-bedroom that her mother resigned herself to what we were up to. She decided that it was better that we do it in her home than elsewhere and told us as much. According to Melissa and me, from our sexually ravenous, adolescent point of view, her mom was the coolest.
Caroyln smoked a ton of pot and was very open about it; she would roll us perfect joints and allowed me to stay with them, sleeping in Melissa’s room, for weeks at a time. Since we got together during the summer, my mom didn’t mind. Her mother didn’t work; she had a very nice, much older drug-dealer boyfriend who sold coke, pot, and acid, all of which he would give to us freely, provided we enjoyed it all in-house.
Their apartment building was on Edinburgh and Willoughby, about two blocks west of Fairfax and half a block south of Santa Monica Boulevard. The location was perfect—the Laurel Elementary School that my friends and I frequented was just down the street. That’s where Melissa and I met, actually. The playground was as much of a community as Melissa’s block was. Her neighborhood was an interesting cultural mishmash: young gay guys, older Jewish families, Russians, Armenians, and Middle Easterners lived alongside one another. There was a quaint, Leave It to Beaver quality to it, with everyone smiling and waving and saying hello, but there was also a very tangible tension.
On an average night, Melissa and I would get high and listen to music with her mom, then head across the street to visit Wes and Nate, the two gay guys who lived in the only house among the apartment buildings to be found in a six-block radius. They had a huge yard, probably about an acre, and a tall oak tree with a swing hanging from it on their lot. We’d smoke a joint with them, then proceed to the backyard, where we’d lie under the oak tree, staring at the stars.
I discovered so much contemporary music during that period, too. I mentioned that my parents played music all the time; it’s my fondest memory of childhood. I listen to all of it still, from the classical composers my dad favored to the sixties and early-seventies legends they both loved. That period was rock and roll’s most creative time. I’m constantly looking and rarely finding music that’s better. When I think I have, a closer inspection reveals it to be just another rehash of the originators. And then I find that I’d rather just listen to the Stones or Aerosmith or whatever it’s based on than listen any further.
But when I was thirteen, I wasn’t satisfied with my parents’ collection anymore. I sought out new sounds, and found an endless supply at Melissa’s house. That is where I was first exposed to Supertramp, Journey, Styx, April Wine, Foghat, and Genesis—none of which really suited my taste. But Melissa’s mom listened to a ton of Pink Floyd, which I knew from my mom, but given that Carolyn had such good pot, their music suddenly took on a whole new meaning. That apartment was paradise for a budding guitar player: getting stoned for free, discovering new tunes, and having sex with my girlfriend all night, all before I graduated junior high.
I don't think there's anything better than hearing your favorite band live
I SPENT THE REST OF EIGHTH GRADE and all of ninth grade touring Hollywood with Steven by day, playing guitar in my room, and sleeping with Melissa. I stole a chunky, Panasonic top-loading tape player at some point and carried it everywhere, soaking up music like Ted Nugent, Cheap Trick, Queen, Cream, and Edgar and Johnny Winter. I stole more cassettes each day, absorbing one band at a time. I would start with a band’s live album, because I believe that is the only way to determine whether or not any band is worth your attention. If they sounded good enough live, I’d steal their entire catalog. I also used live records to hear their greatest hits before I embarked on stealing their entire catalog—I was frugal. I still love live records; as a fan of rock music—and I still feel like a fan first—I don’t think there’s anything better than hearing your favorite band live. I still believe that the best representations of my favorite bands were captured on their live albums, whether we’re talking about Aerosmith’s Live Bootleg, the Who’s Live at Leeds, the Rolling Stones’ Get Your Ya Ya’s Out, or the Kinks’ Give the People What They Want. Much later, I was very proud when Guns N’ Roses put out Live Era; I think it captures some great moments.
ASIDE FROM MELISSA AND STEVEN, MY friends were much older than I was. I had met many of them through my bike gang and made many more along the way because I always had pot from one source or another. My mom was a pot smoker who was very liberal in her rearing: she preferred that I smoke pot under her supervision, rather than experiment out in the world. With all due respect to her, she had my best intentions in mind, but she didn’t realize that not only did I smoke at home under her watchful eye, but I also pinched a little of her weed (sometimes just the seeds) to smoke or sell when I went out. It was, without fail, the best way to ingratiate myself and I thank her for it.
The kids in the older circles I ran in had apartments, sold drugs, threw parties, and clearly thought nothing of entertaining minors. Aside from the obvious benefits, such an environment also allowed me to discover bands of the day that I would have otherwise missed. There were a bunch of surfer and skater guys I hung out with who turned me on to Devo, the Police, 999, and a few more radio-friendly New Wave bands. Among another clique that I hung with, a lanky black guy in his twenties named Kevin turned me on to the first Cars album