Slash with Anthony Bozza
’Tis the season when publishers load our holiday-gift plates with rock ’n’ roll autobiographies like Marianne Faithfull’s (this one’s too cold) and Ron Wood’s (too old). As far as salacious, dirty stories go, Slash is just right. I don’t want to read how the Crüe lads degraded legions of female groupies; I will poo-pooh any words that come out of Axl Rose’s ghost writer (you know it’s coming), but something about one of the world’s best guitarists is so darn likeable.
Sure, pre-sober Slash pees his leather pants. Drinks gallons of vodka a day. Hides in his basement bathroom to snort and inject drugs. He chooses crack over Traci Lords. And one day, he shadowboxes monsters in his hotel’s glass shower stall, then is chased, bloody and naked, out of the room by tiny dreadlocked Predator-like creatures, into the lobby, where he grabs a businessman as a shield. And he writes about it in the same casual way you might discuss a family trip to Disneyland.
Seemingly destined for fame or the morgue, Slash is the son of an LA costume designer who dated David Bowie. The film, like documentaries American Hardcore and Dogtown and Z-Boys, paints a romantic-urban picture of aimlessly growing up in Hollywood. Candid and cliched, but loads of fun.
Sue Carter Flinn