My name is Alan Niven. I am going to tell you some stories. Random rock’n’roll stories. Populated by an interesting cavalcade of characters. Among them are Guns N’ Roses.
I took them from the gutters of Sunset Boulevard to Wembley Stadium. I took Great White from the backwater clubs of Orange County to Wembley Arena. Along the way we all joined the parade of misfits and madmen that strut and fret their hour upon their stage.
Every story paints a picture. Of personality. Of an event. I hope that at least they will amuse. At best they might contain the germ of wisdom’s insight.
In the old Bradley building at LAX you used to be able to stand on a glass VIP mezzanine and watch all the international passengers below, scuttling for their planes.
I was watching for Axl. We were about to leave for the first Guns N’ Roses tour of Japan. He was, at this point, late. Phone calls back and forth had assured me he was on his way. Maybe he was repacking. I’ve seen him pack, unpack, repack, unpack, repack and unpack, every item meticulously folded, while sitting with him in a hotel room holding a relatively short conversation.
Izzy materialised next to me.
“Where’s Ax?” he asked. “Is he comin’ Niv?”
“I think he’s on his way.”
“Well, whatever. I don’t care. I’m set. I’ve got my stash.”
He held his small boom box up for me to view.
“What do you mean, ‘stash’?”
Dear God, please tell me he means his stash of preferred tunes.
“My gear,” he chuckled, fiddling with the casing. He undid the back of the player.
“See, here, it’s under the battery compartment. No one will ever find it there.”
Pleased with himself, he pointed at a lump of crumpled foil under the battery.
“Izz, you do realise that we still have to pass through security here and there will be real heavy security at Narita?”
“Really Niv?”
“Izz, they’ve got dogs and all kinds of electronic sniffing devices. The Japanese are way ahead with that kind of tech,” I said, intending to inspire maximum paranoia. “You can’t take that with you. You’ll get nailed for sure. Go flush it now. You’ll be able to score there.”
“Really? You sure?”
“Yeah Izzy, I am very sure. Go flush it.”
“Well that’s a fuckin’ waste of good smack.”
Let me make it clear, I had reiterated the rules of the road many, many times. I had often made it plain to all of the Gunners that the ultimate law of a tour is ‘Never buy, never carry and never cross an international boundary while holding.’ You have techs and local production people for the buying, and no one should ever attempt to import their stash into another country. Jail. Refusal of work visas. Arrest is a disaster.
Izz sidled off. He should’ve been excited to be going to Japan for the first time. He was, however, waiting on Axl. Again. Dope helps deal with that stress. Perhaps he also had the premonition that Axl would inspire yet another riot at the very first gig. Izz had been conditioned to have such intuition. Slash came out of the airline VIP lounge. He stood with me and watched the world chase its connections below us. Watched for a sign of Axl.
“Tell me you’re not carryin’,” I demanded.
“Why?” He was defensive. Maybe he was guilty and maybe, in those days, I spent half my conversations with Slash asking accusatory questions. I told Slash about the Stradlin boom box. I made sure he understood how much Izzy was in denial to think that airport security doesn’t look for that shit every moment of every day, in every nook and cranny you have. That they relish the prospect of nailing some fucked-up, longhaired musician.
“Money for nothing and chicks for free? Try these cuffs on for size, sucker.”
“Aw shit. Really?”
“Yes really, Slash. Whatever you’ve got, go get rid of it. Now.”
Slash wandered off in the direction of the bathrooms. Izz returned.
“Gone?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he mumbled reluctantly. He stood for a moment, wavering slightly, and then his knees buckled. Down he went. Izz had indeed gotten rid of his stash – he’d swallowed it. He was “out”.
Slash managed to make it to his seat on the 747 on his own feet, but only just. He too employed the ethic of waste not, want not. On arrival in Japan Izzy had to be loaded into a baggage cart to be wheeled through Customs and Immigration. He had been out of it for the entire flight. When he came to in his hotel room he had no idea of where he was. He called Steven on the hotel phone.
“Stevie, where the fuck are we?”
“Dude, we’re in Japan. Isn’t that fuckin’ great?” Stevie knew where he was and he couldn’t wait to get at the Asian girls.
“Nah. Really?”
“Go look out of your window,” enthused Adler. “That sure as hell ain’t America.”
Izzy, well-motivated, learned how to read the signs and ride the Tokyo metro. To find out where he could score.
Adjusted, he later came by my Roppongi room to show me a video of a group of Japanese girls tying another one up and leaving her – a fine example of shibari – as a tribute in his bathroom tub. He found his groove quickly.
It took me a day longer to get to Tokyo. Axl decided he couldn’t make the flight. Consequently, I had to have my bags pulled off the 747, which made me very popular with the airline. I had to reschedule for a flight alone with Axl the next day. On a different airline.
Copyright © Alan Niven, 2025. Published by ECW Press, republished with permission. Sound N' Fury: Rock N' Roll Stories will be published on July 24.
