Duff McKagan of Guns N' Roses Remembers a Bittersweet Super Bowl Weekend in NYC

Renee McMahon

The following is an adapted excerpt from Duff McKagan's new memoir, How to Be a Man.

I didn't dare bring up the words "SUPER" or "BOWL" during the season, but the moment the clock ticked to 00:00 during the 2014 NFC championship game in Seattle, I knew I was headed to New York, and that I was going to be at the game in New Jersey with my beloved Seahawks. As an added bonus, I was going to be turning 50 that week, and would have a chance to celebrate my first half-century with my team and Jerry Cantrell, my good friend and Seahawks buddy — you know him as the guitarist in Alice in Chains.

At the time, an old friend of mine in New York City was just about to move into a new place in the West Village and he offered it up to me and Jerry and my buddy Ed to crash during the Super Bowl. Thankfully, we wouldn't have to compete with the other tourists in town for the big game. We were all set.

New York has always been an important place for me, somewhere I've passed some of life's milestones and made memories that I'll never forget.

My first visit was in early 1987 when Guns N' Roses were mixing Appetite for Destruction. I had toured some of the U.S. and Canada with my earlier Seattle punk rock bands, but never made it all the way to New York. For a guy who grew up on bands like the Ramones, Dead Boys, the Dolls, and Johnny Thunders and the Heartbreakers, just landing at JFK was enough to get my heart pounding.

My first cab ride into the city was nothing short of astounding. Izzy Stradlin and I checked into the Gramercy Park Hotel, which was pretty much a shit hole at the time, and went for a walk around the East Village. The further down into the alphabetized streets we got, the more familiar the populace got to us (read: users and pushers). It's a good thing that I really didn't have the money yet to support a habit.

One of my more surreal New York moments happened when Guns played a run of shows at the Garden in 1991. Donald Trump sauntered backstage one night, made himself at home, and regaled me with his Donald-ness. Next, Billy Joel came looking for some Jack Daniel's that he must have smelled all the way from uptown. A few minutes later, the parents of the recently passed Johnny Thunders came backstage with their grandson — a carbon copy of his dad. It was a sobering, perspective-sharpening moment that I will always remember.

The shows were famous for not starting until 1 a.m. or so. I remember people telling me that they would watch the opening band, leave, go to some bar in the Village, get hammered, come back to the Garden, and we still would not be onstage. We paid an untold amount in quadruple overtime to the police officers those nights. That is most likely the reason that to this day, NYPD cops stop me in the street, vigorously shake my hand, and ask me how I'm doing.

In those days the Scrap Bar was my home away from home when I was in the city — a safely tucked-away hole in the wall for all things debaucherous. I'm pretty sure I lost my in-public virginity there. Anything went at the Scrap Bar and cops just seemed to stay away. I don't blame them, as they would've probably had to take away the whole lot of us, not to mention the staff. I miss places like that.

And I miss CBGB.

CBGB was a safe haven for new ideas to live. Not all of the ideas took root, but a lot of them did, and many of the bands that were given an early chance at the club went on to absolutely revolutionize rock and roll in the late Seventies — a time when change really did need to happen — when rock and roll was at risk of becoming Spinal Tap–ish. It was getting vanilla and somewhat ridiculous. It wasn't speaking to a large swath of kids, people my age, who felt left out. So we started punk rock bands.

Punk rock was all about being an individual. There was no dress code. You didn't have to wear the coolest clothes, own the best record collection, or play some name-brand guitar. As long as you were doing something that you believed in and were honest about, other bands and audiences would back you. We shared riffs and clothes and records, and we protected each other from the jocks and bigger kids who wanted to beat you up simply because you were different.

In GN'R, we carried forth the tenets set by our punk rock forefathers in our music. It was music for the people, by the people. We returned to New York later in 1987 to play CBGB. My knees sort of buckled as we rounded the corner in the then-still-seedy Lower East Side street that the infamous CBGB sat. I wasn't scared because of the shady environs of that street. I felt that I had somehow finally made it to my Mecca. The proving ground. The church and school and protectorate for all of the things in rock and roll that I believed in.

When people talk about Guns N' Roses these days, punk rock is a term that's rarely used. But in truth, we were those kids who benefited directly from early groundbreaking bands who played CBGB in the mid-to-late Seventies — those bands, and that club, tore down walls, both musically and socially. Without the Ramones and Johnny Thunders and CBGB, I would have not had the career that I have.

I got a CBGB shirt on that first visit and I wore that thing every day as our band started to break. There's an entire GN'R era, captured in photos, in which I'm rarely seen without my trusty CBGB shirt. I even wore it when we shot the video for "Sweet Child O' Mine." It wasn't like I chose some costume for the video, it was just the shirt that I was wearing every day.

Because that song and video sort of catapulted our band, I've been forever attached to CB's. In truth, that shirt was a security blanket for me in those early, chaotic days. It was my daily reminder of what rock and roll was all about. The punk spirit that CBGB to me had inspired would live on through me, if I could help it.

I met Dead Boy Cheetah Chrome sometime around that first CBGB gig. That Dead Boys live recording of "Hey Little Girl" at CBGB has always been one of my favorite live recordings. To me, playing CBGB and befriending Mr. Chrome was as big as anything that would follow in our rising career. I'd compare that moment with selling out the Garden or signing any record deal. I was only a few years removed from my teenage self, and suddenly felt accepted into an inner circle that made the soundtrack of my life.

A few months before the Super Bowl, I was scheduled to give the keynote address at the CBGB Music and Film Festival. I got a call from the festival booker, who had recently learned that my oldest daughter, Grace, was in a rock band of her own called the Pink Slips. Would they, perhaps, be interested in playing the festival? I told him I'd ask her. The conversation with Grace went something like this:

Me: "Hey, Grace! You want to play your first gig in New York for the CBGB Festival? You know, CBGB, where Blondie and Iggy and the Ramones played?"

Grace: "WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT!!!! OHHHHH MMMMMMYYYYYYY GAAAAAAAAWD!"

That was a yes.

Watching my daughter play at the CBGB Festival is another New York memory that I will cherish the rest of my life.

On the next page: Meeting a very famous actor.