The Music Issue

"We want you to write about some of your greatest moments as a rock journalist," said editor Dickensheets. "So far." So far, eh? How long is far, how soon is now? Where am I? Who am I? Oh yeah, I'm the guy who ran that metal magazine (RIP) when, as VH1 proclaims, metal ruled the world. Excuse me, folks, but metal never ruled the world. Nothing rules the world. We rule ourselves, and we are the world (cue Quincy Jones), and anyone who tells you otherwise is drowning in the big lie that's brought civilization to the brink on the raven wings of reality TV, Britney videos and eye-for-an-eye politics.

But let's keep this lighthearted, shall we? The man wanted stories 'cause he knows I've got a shitload of 'em. I'll save the philosophy for my book, which I've been working on for many years: Rock a Mile: Adventures of a Music Journalist, or Rock a Mile: From Cacophony to Consciousness, or Rock a Mile: Lonn Friend's F--ked Up Journeys with F--ked Up Rock Stars. Hey, that last one's not bad. It's a work in progress. For now, here are some snapshots from the journey. Pull up a chair, draw a nice, diaphragm-deep breath and let's see where this train rolls.

RIP is soaring in '92. There isn't any band in the hard-rock genre, no matter how commercially successful or personally eccentric, that we can't cover from the inside out. A phone call and I am on a plane to do a story, full access, no barriers. That summer, Skid Row is out with Pantera and Soundgarden. I open up a map, toss a dart and it hits Denver, Colorado.

When I arrive at the arena, everyone is in an excellent mood. Soundgarden and Pantera play smokin' sets, whipping the crowd into a classic, moshin' frenzy. It's two minutes till Skid Row's opening riff when lead singer Sebastian Bach pulls me onto the riser. "Dude," he says, "stand right here! When the lights go down, you'll see something f--king righteous!" I have no idea that this metallic madman has planted me next to the pyro blast canister. The lights go out and BOOM! The clueless journalist is deaf, dumb and blind for a good 60 seconds.

I'm fully recovered and stalking about the audience when the encore begins. "We've got a special treat," Sebastian tells the crowd. He brings Pantera singer Phil Anselmo and Soundgarden frontman Chris Cornell onstage to sing, Nazareth's "Hair of the Dog." Later, they start wrestling each other onstage. The crowd is losing its mind.

So now the gig is over and I'm in Soundgarden's bus, talking to Chris. The rest of the band is nowhere to be found, and Chris is anxious to go. The band's tour manager says that the guys are hanging with some fans inside, and they'll be out soon. Chris is not happy. So I get this crazy idea.

"Dude, why don't we go out in the parking lot and find a fan to drive us back to the hotel?" I expect him to tell me I'm out of my tree, but instead he pauses and says, "F--k it. Let's go."

We come upon three teens getting ready to climb into their mid-'70s Toyota Corolla.

"Hi dudes," I say. "How's it going?" They say hello, taking a split second to realize who I am with: "Dude, you're Chris Cornell!" says one of the boys.

"Yeah," I respond. "This is Chris and I'm Lonn, and we're looking for a ride to the Embassy Suites hotel. Think you guys could accommodate us?" We're immediately introduced to the guy's brother and his girlfriend.

"We really appreciate this," Chris says as we jump into the backseat on either side of the girlfriend.

The next half hour defines why this is one of my greatest moments. These are real fans; they ask real questions about Chris' music, and they know that this can't really be happening but is. The driver's brother gives Chris a demo tape of his songs. I am not speaking much but rather letting the fans have their blessed way with the rock star. When we arrive at the hotel, autographs are signed, hands are shaken and a story is forever etched into hearts and minds of three young kids from Colorado.

On July 29, 1990, Axl, Skid Row frontman Sebastian Bach, the Cult's Ian Astbury and an entourage descend unannounced on my Culver City house to help me celebrate my 34th birthday. Axl has the rough mixes to Use Your Illusion on a cassette, no vocals, just music. He pulls his BMW onto my rear carport and pops the tape in. It's "November Rain": instrumental, massive. Axl moves his mouth to my right ear and sings the lyrics as the music blasts out to my elderly neighbors. An audience of one, but he's giving it his all.

"The story is actually two parts," he says. He smiles and fast-forwards the tape. "Two songs. This is part two." It's called "Estranged," a breathtaking ballad. Hearing Axl croon the words to "Estranged" over the mesmerizing chords blaring from the stereo is no illusion. It is surreal, as is the rest of the evening. My childhood pal, Peter, is snapping photos of the iconoclastic trio. There's a shot of Axl holding my daughter, who's only 4 months old. It's absolutely priceless, for it illustrates the true gentle nature of rock's most maligned and misunderstood artist. So does what I'm going to tell you next.

Around 7 p.m., everyone is gathered in our tiny kitchen, drinking beer, eating chips. Out of nowhere, Sebastian breaks into "Amazing Grace"; his supercharged metallic pipes shake the wood beams. Second verse begins, and Axl joins in, a hellish duet in heavenly song. Everyone is frozen by the sight of these two magnificent maniacs delivering one of the world's most divine compositions with heartfelt passion. By the time verse three commences, we're all singing. Absolutely amazing.

• GN'R and Skid Row are playing the Forum the following year—on my birthday! I'm in the dressing room before the show. Slash says, "Hey, Lonn, you wanna bring us onstage tonight?" I'm already bouncing off the walls. It's my birthday, and I'm with Guns N' F--king Roses.

"You mean, introduce you?" I ask.

Slash sips his Jack and Coke and fires back, "Yeah, man! But there's one catch. You have to do it in your underwear! And you have to wear my hat and boots!" An hour later, I'm standing in front of 20,000 screaming fans in my boxer shorts with a top hat and leather boots. "I'm Lonn Friend from RIP magazine, and I'd do anything for this f--king band. And tonight, they're going to do everything for you. Ladies and gentlemen, Guns N' F--king Roses!"

"So, why are you going to England again?" they ask in unison on the eve of my departure. Points two and three of the Friend family triangle know they are asking a rhetorical question, but I reiterate—after six months of unemployment and a bank account resembling the southward movement of Nasdaq, they deserve an explanation.

"I had $500 credit on British Airways," I explain. "I found a $60-a-night flat in Paddington." But those are just logistics. I swallow hard and cough up the real reason. "I'm going to see the Who," I confess. "They're doing warm-up shows in a small venue in Portsmouth, on the southwest coast of England." When you get the cosmic call, you go. You find a way.

The damp wind blew cold off the channel as we disembark at Portsmouth. It is 4 p.m. We—Elaine, a pen pal, and her boyfriend, Jamie, and myself—don't know what time the show starts, where the venue is, where we'll be staying for the night or even if my contact at Sanctuary Music in London is able to procure the tickets at the last minute. As the Brits say, No worries.

We ask a cabbie where the Who might be playing that night. "Only one place, the Guardian," he says. Take us there. We get out of the taxi in front of a hotel boasting "single room 36 pounds per night"—about 55 bucks U.S. We secure two rooms.

The Guardian is a glorious old Gothic building in the town's main square. It looks like a place where politicians rather than rock bands would perform. The steps in front are now scattered with early fans. At the guest window, an envelope with just my first name on it awaits. Never a doubt, right? My friends are important and dependable. Tenth row. Dead center. The inside décor is slightly '70s drab and drafty, completely anathema to the gothic, glorious external architecture.

"This looks like the place where my mum and dad used to go dancing when I was a kid," Elaine observes. I glance at the stage. I see the instruments laid out across the smallish platform. The weapon of doom catches my eye first: the immortal John Entwistle's four-string, Goth-shaped machete. Look, the axe of the prophet Pete Townsend! And on the kit, Zach Starkey, son of Ringo. I'm so excited I feel the Guinness rising in my bladder.

The lights are dimming and the crowd is wailing. Riff-born memories are so close we can detect the psychic vibrations. "I Can't Explain" starts it off. I don't need to elaborate on the set list. It is wondrous. The triumphant return of Pete's arm-swinging "windmill," the single most significant demarcation of the rebirth, in full accompaniment. Hallowed be thy Who.

Pete and Roger Daltrey play with the audience, for it's not really an audience but a bunch of neighbors hanging out at a rehearsal. They jam, kid, jam some more. And here I am, drowning in time, place and experience. How did I get here? Los Angeles, where on Earth is that? From my seat, in the presence of rock divinity, I only perceive the here and now. I can see for miles and miles.

Still vibrating from the two-hour dream sequence, Elaine, Jamie and I drift around to the back door of the venue, where fans wait for the band to emerge. A time machine scene, 25 years past, the rock stars in early development, signing a ticket stub for the locals. They are so friendly, chatty, warm with the kids, who were no longer kids, but still very much all right.

Townsend is the last to exit. As he gently traverses the small crowd, I sense a moment approaching. One of your icons is here, Lonn, within reach, comes the familiar inner voice. Don't blow it. Make the connection or forever hold your peace. (Hey, that's how my inner voice talks.)

His back is to me, six inches away, as he signed the last photograph for a fan. The car door was open. Townsend the magnificent, a breath away, in a brick alley in Portsmouth, England, on a cold, damp night in January.

"Pete," I say softly. "I came from Los Angeles." He stops, turns around.

"Well, you came further for this gig than I did, mate," he grins. Then he takes my hand, shakes it, and I feel the calloused strength of a million windmills. And it is good. A soft drizzle begins to fall as the chariot of the rock god speeds away into the English night. Love, reign o'er me.

Jon Bon Jovi is drunk. Or let's just say, nicely buzzed. It's 1 a.m. We're in Venice, Italy, strolling through San Marcos Square after a long and scrumptious dinner at one of the concrete island's finest eateries. It's the end of a much-needed day off. Last night was Zurich, and the show was a difficult one. Jon was exhausted; his knees came close to giving out; his voice was trashed. Three stadium gigs in a row without a break. That's a lot for a band that puts out live as hard as Bon Jovi. This is the other side of the world. And it's late. But I'm the journalist ... on a mission.

Flash back three months: I'm backstage at the MGM Grand Pavillion. Spring 2001. I can feel the end coming to another gig. Knac.com and its parent, Enigma Digital, had just been acquired by Clear Channel Communications. Enigma was fun, small, a family of streaming media, tech and content freaks who loved music. But I feel my Internet days coming to an end, because the minute Clear Channel buys us, the spirit starts to leave the building. We've become just another bottom-line exercise. I began wondering what would be next for me—a book, maybe, or a TV show I had an idea for.

So here I am backstage in Vegas. I'd recently written a short bio of Bon Jovi to accompany its new live LP, One Wild Night. I haven't heard whether Jon likes my bio or not until he shows me the comp of One Wild Night's inner sleeve in the dressing room. I start reading the words and I realize ... they're MINE!

"Liner notes?" I ask.

"Too good to be a bio, Lonn," he says. "You nailed us like no one ever did. Had to go in the package. I owe you. If there's anything you need from me, just ask."

That's when I just barf it out: "Well, Jon, I have an idea for a TV show. Rock a Mile with Lonn Friend. Inside the lives of rockers. Personal, intimate, high-spirited. I wanna make a demo for VH1."

He says come to Europe with the band in June, bring a digital video camera and I can shoot whatever I want. So, on my own dime, which is about to get a lot thinner, I spend a week on the road with Bon Jovi. Which brings us back to Venice and the wee hours—the journalist wants his interview.

"I get a feeling, Jon," I say as we approach our palatial hotel, "that this is gonna be like William Miller in Almost Famous. I'm not gonna get you alone until you visit me at home at the end of the production."

He laughs. "Oh yeah? Well, wise guy, you got your camera?" Affirmative. Moments later, I'm cruising on a boat through the canals of Venice en route to the Chipriani Hotel. Just Jon and I. Waves crash the sides of our water limo. "They have a nice quiet bar here," he says. "It'll be empty at this hour."

Imagine, if you will, two slightly inebriated men marching into a Venice canal bar in the middle of the night. That hour with Jon is the most honest we've ever shared within the context of writer/artist. The footage is poorly lit and the sound bad, but it becomes the centerpiece of the 28-minute Rock a Mile demo. It would take another 2,000 words to explain why Rock a Mile never got its shot on VH1, so I won't. Everything happens for a reason. No wine is served before its time. Choose your allusion. Point is, I've still got the demo, but more importantly, I've got the memory. Can a writer ask for more?

In the fall of 2000, I am in Phoenix playing golf with Alice Cooper. We've been friends since 1989. I put Alice on the cover in support of his comeback LP, Trash, when no other rock magazine would. The album went double platinum, but that isn't the foundation of our relationship. It began on the golf course. Back then, there were two things Alice kept in the closet: golf and Christ. There were fears that these, uh, passions might damage his credibility as a rock icon. But all truths eventually emerge. By 2000, the world is hip to Alice the golfer. He is playing in celebrity tournaments and has a Callaway endorsement.

After 18 holes and a day of uplifting conversation, Alice takes me to his restaurant. We'e joined by his wife and daughter. The food and company are splendid. Post-meal, Alice drives me back to my hotel. As editor in chief of the most trafficked hard-rock streaming website in the world, knac.com, I never have a map for my journalistic missions. I just get into the space of the artist and let the personality and environment dictate the process.

On this day, the magic of connection and trust manifests a most extraordinary event. For the first time, Alice Cooper speaks on the record, with unfettered honesty, about his Christianity. He reveals his faith to a friend. And having been on my own spiritual path for the past few years, the comfort zone is, shall I say, ecumenical.

In the hotel parking lot, the Coop and I sit in the desert darkness and talk about God. Time stands still as words are shared and tape rolls. When the piece, "Alice Cooper: Prince of Darkness/Lord of Light," goes up a couple days later, it ignites more response that any other feature in the history of the website. But the day with Alice takes our friendship to a higher place. I consider him not just one of my heroes, but a kindred spirit.

It's called The Monsters of Rock, an annual festival of rock 'n' thunder held adjacent to an old speedway about four hours east of London. They call it Castle Donington, but I don't remember any castle. What I do remember is a bus ride, perhaps the most surreal of my career.

It's summer 1990. Whitesnake and Aerosmith are headlining. Both fall under the A&R eye of one John David Kalodner, a highly eccentric, immensely gifted music industry player who co-founded Geffen Records. He and I have become friends.

Kalodner is staying at some high-priced hotel in London. I'm on the other side of town with the grunts. He calls me the morning of the festival. "Come on over and say hi to the guys. I have a surprise for you." When I get to their hotel, the crew is loading up two buses. I'm standing in front on the sidewalk, waiting for Kalodner.

"Lonn Friend!"

I turn around, and it's Steven Tyler, Joe Perry and ... Jimmy Page! I know Steven and Joe but haven't met the Zeppelin axe. They introduce me. I am shaking. Just then, Kalodner emerges from the lobby. "See the surprise?" he says with a wrinkled grin.

"Jimmy Page? Oh man!"

"He's jamming with Aerosmith tonight," Kalodner says.

"That's awesome!" I respond. "I better get my ass back to the hotel or I'll miss the journalist bus." Steven quips, "F--k that! You're going with us. Hop onboard." Ten minutes later, we're pulling out of London on a bus that could hold 50, but the passenger manifest has only six names: Steven Tyler, Joe Perry, Jimmy Page, Brian Goode (Jimmy's manager), John Kalodner and Lonn Friend. Oh, if Cameron Crowe could see me now.

For three hours, I watch these icons rap about everything from the mystery of blues legend Robert Johnson to the idiosyncrasies of Robert Plant to chicks, cash, corruption and creation.

At some point, Steven says, "Lonn, don't you have any stories to tell? C'mon!" Everyone's looking at me. Jimmy Page is staring at me. If I don't deliver, I'll never get invited to the Executive Cabin again.

"Well," I sigh. "I do have a story about Chuck Berry, but it's pretty gross." All eyebrows rise.

"Chuck Berry?" Joe inquires softly.

"Uh, yeah. Better hold on, fellas. It's a wild one." For the next 15 minutes, I tell the tale of the day that a man walked into Hustler magazine during my final days there with what he alleged were "sex tapes" of Sir Chuck. A fellow editor and I took the meeting with the man and his attorney in my office and watched videotapes of Chuck Berry doing the most unsavory things to young girls. Now, keep in mind, I'm recounting this on the bus in vivid, scatological detail, especially the payoff, because that's where it just gets too extreme to believe. Berry secretly videotaped women at his property, Berry Park, in the bathroom, alone and with him. Having sex with him. But not just run-of-the-mill, hop-on-pop sex. Oh no.

Now, as I'm telling this story, I can see I've got everyone's attention. Then I get to the payoff. I want to be careful here, because my daughter reads my stuff. So let me just say this: We watched Chuck epoxy his lips to the read end of a young girl as she did her business ... and he swallowed every peanut. As I deliver this nugget to the boys, the bus explodes with laughter, most of it coming from, of all people, the quiet and reserved Jimmy Page! He is absolutely roaring.

As the bus pulls into the massive backstage enclave at Donington, we're starting to unload and Jimmy taps me on the shoulder. "Lonn, you wanna carry my guitar in? Chuck Berry! F--king brilliant!" Moments later, I'm toting the axe that birthed the rock riff in its vintage, beaten-up Hammer of the Gods case, two steps behind Jimmy. As we glide pass the mass of punkers, poseurs, metalheads and assorted maniacs gazing through fence, I'm floating on the wings of a perfect, impossible moment. When we hit the dressing room, Brian Goode says, "I've never seen Jimmy laugh like that, not ever. Well done, man." Page and Smith shred Donington that night. You can hear the Les Pauls crying all the way back to Piccadilly.

I got onto interview Jimmy in June 1993. The day we met to roll tape, he gives me a brand-new, 30th-anniversary Gibson Les Paul Custom signed, "Lonn ... Rock On! Jimmy Page!" That sits proudly on my living room floor, right next to a photograph of the two of us at Donington, inscribed, "Lonn, Give my Regards to Chuck! Jimmy."

I'm surfing Pollstar.com one sunny afternoon and notice Aerosmith is playing in San Diego, two hours south of Los Angeles. That night. It's 3 in the afternoon, and I get that spontaneous twinge of wanderlust that's long been part of my being. I call a friend. "TC, it's Lonn," I say. "What are you doing?"

Within an hour, TC Conroy, journalist, veteran girl-about-town, former wife of Depeche Mode singer David Gahan and fellow survivor currently navigating the winds of change, is in the passenger seat of my Accord, sharing the ride to who knows where.

"We have no tix and no passes, TC," I say, giggling. "We have nothing but a burning desire to behold the rock 'n' roll wonder of the almighty Aerosmith—oh, yes, and Steven Tyler's cell phone number."

"Dude, no worries," she laughs.

We arrive at the arena at 7:30 p.m., a full hour before the headliner hits the stage. Sidling up to the rear gate, I see the man with the list. When you're a security guy in charge of backstage entrance at a big rock show, you forget about the $5 an hour you're getting paid. In this moment, you are king. Your power is supreme. No one can f--k with you.

"Hi, um, I'm a friend of the band's," I say politely. "If you could call Jimmy, the band's tour manager, and tell him Lonn Friend is at the back gate, I believe we'll be cool." For the next half-hour, nothing gets done. I turn to TC. "Time for plan B."

The phone rings twice before I hear the voice: "Hello?" It's unmistakable. I don't even return the greeting. "Lonn Friend" is all I say.

"Lonn F--king Friend!" Our problems are now over. Minutes later, we're in Steven's dressing room. It looks and smells like ... Steven. Cosmic, sexy, sweet, organic, alive. Incense burns, soft music plays, candles project an aroma of light throughout the lair. Tyler is having his fake tattoos applied.

"Is that your war or peace paint?" I ask.

"Both," he says, "and neither." He greets TC with the pair of lips that launched a million kisses and nearly as many songs. He moves over and embraces the old friend. "Wow," he smiles. "You're here. Beautiful.

"Have I ever shown you the preshow ritual?" he asks. I've never heard of this, not in the 30 times I've seen the band perform on three continents. "Come over here. I can't believe you've never witnessed this, Lonn. TC, this is very important. Pay close attention."

We stand over Steven's dressing table, where a tiny cauldron of viscous liquid rests in a clay pot. In the middle of the goo, we can see something small sticking up from the bottom. "When I was very young, at the beginning of my career, I met a soothsayer," he begins. "This seer told me to perform this ritual before I took the stage. He said to do this every night, and I would have all the success I could possibly imagine. The ritual was for me to fill a pot with honey and place in the middle of the honey a rat's tail, and before every performance, remove the tail from the liquid and bite off the end of it. Like this."

Steven reaches into the liquid and pulls up the curly twig, put it in his mouth, bites off the end and swallows. Then he replaces the piece into the honey. "And that's it. I've done that before every show for the past 30 years."

TC and I stare at each other for a second, after which I blurt out, "That's folklore!" He looks me in the eye, raises his eyebrows an inch and responds, "OK, it's ginger root. But it's a great story, isn't it?"

That night, TC and I sit right on the stage, two feet from the ramp that Steven prances upon like a cat the entire two-plus hours. Aerosmith destroys the San Diego faithful. It is the best I've ever seen them.

Last night, my brother, who shared the afterschool air-guitar stage with me way back when, brought over his son's copy of the Rush in Rio DVD.

"This is beyond," says the 44-year-old man who still wakes his kids with the roar of Blue Oyster Cult's Tyranny and Mutation. For two hours, I stand slackjawed, held captive by 80,000 fans paying homage to three homely Canadians who held absolute mastery over their instruments, their message, their mission and their moment. This is rock eternal in sound incarnation.

Red Rock outside my window is also eternal. What's the difference? Nothing. They both ... rock. Wow. Kate Bush wrote a song called "Wow." The chorus: "Wow, wow, wow, wow, wow, wow, unbelievable."

That about sums up my take on everything.

As Geddy Lee says, "I believe in the spirit of music." Moreover, I believe in the spirit of man. He rocks. That's really what I want to say. Sorry it took me so much time to get here. Some miles are longer than others ...