UNICORN BATTLEGROUND

The number one rule to living in Los Angeles is: “It’s not what you know. It’s who you know.”

And apparently everyone in town knows Axl Rose’s assistant’s friend’s cousin who works at 31 Flavors.

Late Thursday night (April Fool’s Day Eve) I received a text from a longtime friend.

Guns N’ Roses play the Whisky tomorrow. Ticket sales are in-person only, 8am. Don’t tell anyone. 

After some back and forth, he sent a screen shot with the intel he received from his source connected to Axl’s assistant to prove that this was not an elaborate April Fool’s prank and establish his true motive.

If you get more than one ticket I can be your +1 since I told you about this : )

Sounds fair to me. 

Screen shot from my source’s source.

At 6:29am the following morning, my phone started blasting Welcome to the Jungle, a handy reminder of why I was waking up two hours earlier than usual. I fell out of bed, showered, had a little breakfast, and hopped on my bike to pedal the four miles over to the Whisky a Go Go.

Grinding up San Vicente Blvd towards the Whisky, I couldn’t help but feel more than a little smug. All these people scurrying to work and I’m the only one who knows what’s about to go down. As I crested the steep hill to bring the Sunset Strip into view, I expected to see hundreds of people already lined up because in LA secret shows are the world’s worst kept secret.

My eyes about popped out of my head when I saw the only person there was the blind guy who’s always standing on that corner yelling at the sun. Holy Clark W. Griswold. I was the first one there. I was half an hour early but a 30 minute wait to get tickets to see Axl and Slash together on-stage for the first time since 1993 would be totes worth it.  

Rumor was Hollywood Roses was a code name for GnR. 

A couple minutes later, common sense kicked in. Something wasn't right.

I checked Twitter for any clues. The first thing I saw was a seconds-old Tweet from a buddy from my Nebraska hometown who lived in the neighborhood. The real line was a couple blocks away at the old Tower Records building and was growing by the second. He confirmed this when I ran into him as he was strolling home from his long night out.

I slid into the back of the line which was well over a 100 people deep and continued to multiply. The first 50 or so had been there since the night before. Things were mostly quiet but as the sun took its place in the sky, people began getting to know each other. The big topic of conversation was how everyone knew what was supposed to be a bigger secret than who really shot Kennedy.

Keanu watches over the line.

“I can’t say how but I got a buddy who knows a bartender who knows someone who’s connected to Slash. He told me everything. The show will be right here at Tower tonight. I’d show you his text but he made me delete it.”

“Oh yeah? My guy told me it’s at the Roxy.”

“I still think it’s gonna be at the Whisky. Hollywood Roses playing tonight is dead giveaway. Plus, they mysteriously refunded everyone’s tickets just so they could sell them at the door? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“But did you see the marquee down at the Troub? They changed it to say ‘Not in this lifetime.’ That’s a pretty obvious clue, man.”

No one’s story of how they were tipped off was identical to anyone else’s yet, somehow, we all managed to show up at the right place.

And just in time too.

By the time the “official” announcement was made at 10am (my source’s source was only off by two hours) that tickets would be on-sale at noon, the line was several hundred people deep. Those who showed up at noon were way out of luck.

As the hours of ticked by, the vibe of the line was like Heavy Metal Parking Lot: AM Edition. While the backbone of LA is a population base ready to blow off responsibility and obligation at a moment’s notice, many attempts were made to be productive members of society. Everyone guarded each other’s spot and fended off any would-be line cutters. Calls to bosses were made. Appointments were rescheduled. Cars were moved to avoid getting towed. A communal bottle of sunscreen was passed down the line. I was responding to emails as fast as they were coming in to give the illusion that I was hard at work. Someone even offered to make a Jamba Juice run for the West Hollywood Sheriffs Deputies monitoring the line. We were utopian society living on the sidewalk.

At 11am security started moving fans into the Tower Records parking lot ten at a time. Once they received a lime green wristband that ensured their golden ticket, they were free to hit the Border Grill or Dogtown trucks for complimentary tacos and hot dogs or buy some hot-off-the-press Guns N’ Roses merch. A DJ cranked some tunes.

In total, 180 people received a magic green wristband. Mine was number 175. Another couple minutes of loitering at the Whisky and I would have been out of luck. As it was wrapped around my wrist, I was given some simple instructions.

“This wristband guarantees you one ticket and one ticket only. $10 cash. If you tamper with it or take it off you won’t get a ticket. Look around and grab some food. Just be in queue to buy by noon. Go have fun.”

The go have fun part killed me. It was a gorgeous (even by LA standards) spring Friday and I was ditching out on real-life to score a Guns N’ Roses ticket for $10 AND I was getting free tacos? This was already the greatest day ever.

Our little society that was established out on the sidewalk continued on the inside. Anyone who was short on cash was taken of by their new friends. At noon, the gates were opened to everyone who’d be missing out on a ticket so they could buy some stuff and get a consolation taco. They rushed in like caddies going for dip in the Bushwood Country Club swimming pool. Many of them tried scamming or bribing their way into our hallowed line but were turned away. A small platoon of stripper chicks tried their best but were rebuffed too. Their stunned expressions made it pretty obvious this was the first time they were ever hearing the word no.

The lucky ones who got tickets & those trying to slide in.

The line to get the golden tickets moved quickly. Once we were inside, the green wristband was snipped off and replaced with a cloth wristband that was physically locked in place. The spiel stayed the same. “You tamper with this and you won’t be getting in. Doors open at 10. Show will start sometime after 11.” 

The interior of the old Tower Records had been transformed into a seedy night club with GnR projected onto the wall. It was half museum, half art installation. 

Inside the old Tower Records.

Tables were littered with beer bottles so I connected the dots and found the bar. A cold beer would really hit the spot before strolling into my office four hours late.  “I have whatever’s on tap, please.”

“Sorry but we’re not serving anything. This is all fake,” the bartender said as she gestured to the array of empty bottles behind her. “We’re only selling t-shirts.”

“Oh. You mean the t-shirts hanging from the ceiling where nobody can see them?”

“Yep.” 

“I wasn’t the only one who tried to order a drink am I?”

“Nope. Everyone has. This wasn’t the smartest idea.” 

Mission accomplished. 

For the next 11 hours or so, the only thing on my agenda was to not lose my right arm or the wristband attached to it. The closest I came to bricking that plan was when I nearly killed myself in the shower trying to bathe one handed. I had my arm draped over the shower curtain rod to keep the wristband from getting wet and the whole thing came crashing down with me following close behind.

I left the house around 7:45 just to play it safe. We live three miles from the Troubadour and I wasn’t about to take any chances. I could crawl there by 11 if I had to. On the way out, my lovely wife asked if she’d be able to buy a ticket at the door. I nearly fainted when I realized she wasn’t kidding. “There are people on craigslist offering to pay $3,000 for a wristband. Sorry but I don’t think there will be any extras.”

Twenty minutes later, that price had jumped up to a confirmed $4,000 with rumors of someone offering up to $5k. Deep pocketed sharks were circling the line outside the Troubadour but weren’t able to bite. Even Houdini wouldn’t be able to slink off a wristband without damaging it.

The line was long hours before the doors even opened. 

The final hours went by quick. The energy in the line was equal parts exhausted and excited. It had been a long day for everyone. I stood in line with a couple from Vegas who drove out on a hunch early Thursday night and hadn’t slept since. It didn’t matter that they had tickets to see Guns N’ Roses play next Friday back home in Vegas, they were going to see their FIRST show. Even after securing their tickets, they were too nervous to nap back at their hotel so they did the next best thing and went for beers at the Rainbow Room before walking down.

On the way in, our wristband got a wristband and then our wristband’s wristband got one for good measure. All phones were literally locked away and wouldn’t be unlocked until after the show. That measure would prove to the be the best part of the night. After a full-service pat down by security (I maybe could have sneaked in a GoPro duct taped to the backside of my hairy coin purse), the final gauntlet before stepping into hallowed ground was a security guard tugging your wristband to make sure everything was legit.

I’ve been to the Troubadour dozens of times and suddenly it looked smaller than ever. You could hear first-timers gasping at how tiny it was. The GnR banner and drum kit already overpowered the place and the band wouldn’t be hitting the stage for at least another hour.

Unless of course, this was still just an extraordinarily well-planned and cruel April Fool’s Day prank.

Without phones to be distracted by, the home stretch to showtime was full of strangers talking to each other (just like in the 80s!) and people reunited with their line mates. There were hugs all around. I had the foresight to wear a watch and became our area’s official timekeeper. One thing that came as a surprise was how dead the bar was. Getting a drink wasn’t worth the risk of losing your spot. I chatted with a girl named Johanna who flew in from Brazil the day before just for a chance to see a show that may or may not have been happening.

“What was it that made you decide to fly to LA?”

“I have a Google Alert for Guns N’ Roses and on Monday it started showing things I’d never seen before and they kept popping up. By Wednesday I knew I had to be here. I go back home tomorrow. The only flight I could get was LA - Vegas - Miami - Rio. How far did you travel?”

“About four miles. But I rode my bike and it was uphill the whole way.” I then thanked her for not stabbing me. 

Sound techs scrambling around on-stage kept everyone in suspense that the show would soon be starting but the only indicator you needed were the celebrities filing into the balcony. Slash wasn’t about to keep his high school classmate Lenny Kravitz waiting for long. 

At midnight the lights dimmed and a tech walked on-stage to make the grand introduction that everyone had been waiting 23 years to hear.

“Alright. Thanks for coming out. They’ll be out in a minute. Have fun tonight.”

OK, sir. We shall try our best. 

Slash was the first one out followed by Axl and the crowd erupted. It. Was. Really. Happening. Nobody knew what to expect or who the full line up would be. All day long people had been sharing their theories about who would be joining Axl, Slash, and Duff on a stage they first played back in 1985. 

But this wasn’t the time for pleasantries and introductions.

Guns N’ Roses had an audience’s ass that needed kicking.

They threw a curve ball by opening with It’s so Easy followed quickly by Mr. Brownstone and another curve with Chinese Democracy. Looking back, this opening trio of songs was probably nothing more than chance for the band to warm up and and find their footing, playing together in front of a live audience for the first time in decades.

Axl grew stronger with each song. He started out like a guy who’d kill it in a Guns N’ Roses tribute band but by the time Slash tore into the opening riff of the fourth song, a little ditty called Welcome to the Jungle, he had transformed back into Axl Fucking Rose.

From that moment forward, the show and audience erupted into a frenzy that wouldn’t slow down for another hour and a half.

In the middle of Welcome to the Jungle I gave a silent shout out to the surely long departed nun who tried to scare our 7th grade Catechism class straight by playing the Welcome to the Jungle video and breaking down the hidden “Satanic” messages line-by-line.

“Fun and games. Satan loves to tempt you.” 

“Feel my serpentine. Satan often takes the form of a snake.” 

“You’re in the jungle baby, you gonna die. Is the jungle place you want to be?”

Sorry, Sister Whatever-Your-Name-Was. I made it the epicenter of the jungle and it was glorious.

Just how good was Welcome to the Jungle? Even Lenny Kravitz took off his sunglasses to get a better look.

The VIP MVPs of the night were Andrew Dice Clay and Nicolas Cage. Those two dudes sat up in the balcony judging each song like Statler and Waldorf. Somebody really needs to get them a sitcom. Live and Let Die hit Nic so hard, he clapped multiple times.

New super group: JC/ADC/NC

Sweet Child O’ Mine and Knocking on Heaven’s Door absolutely destroyed the crowd. Anyone who managed to sneak in a camera or phone had long since been kicked out. Sorry, Snapchat. Each of these songs were once-in-a-lifetime moments that you could only share with those around you. Strangers were hugging and slapping high fives with anyone in reach, including Axl. A biker who looked like a giant version of Danny Trejo stood frozen, soaking it all in. There’s no doubt this guy had seen some serious shit in his day but it was clear this was his best day ever.

Heck, everyone there was having their best day ever. A dream so impossible that you wouldn’t even dream it was coming true before our eyes.

Nightrain shredded so hard that the crowd had no choice but to work itself up in a swirling pit of mayhem. The only exception from shows of the past is now that the audience is a little older and (marginally) more responsible, anyone who hit the floor was instantly picked up by their fellow crowd members. We all had each other’s backs. When things got too crazy even for Axl during the closer of Paradise City, he shrieked at the crowd to ‘back the fuck up’ and give some space to those who were getting pressed against the stage. Everyone snapped to attention faster than a soldier at boot camp and moved back so quickly you could feel a breeze.

They continued without skipping a beat and brought it all home. Aside from incoherent screams of joy, the crowd was speechless. Nobody exhaled until the band walked off the stage for good and then the only chatter was a confirmation of what we had just witnessed really happened.

I ran into my new friends from Vegas on the way out and offered them a ride back to their hotel. The five minute drive down Santa Monica Blvd alternated between pointing out the local landmarks and trying to wrap our heads around an unimaginable experience.

For one day at least, LA truly was paradise city.