Appetite for Destruction
Inside the Guns N’ Roses Riot
Riverfront Times, July 10-17, 1991
Welcome to the jungle, indeed: Shards of glass, showers of beer and pieces of plastic and metal chairs filled the air. Drums, speakers and grand pianos came crashing down in what could be thought of as the wildest performance-art piece ever. And what had been a relatively mild-mannered rock concert – relatively, because the group performing was the raucous hard-rock act Guns N’ Roses – was suddenly transformed into something from a nightmarish Hieronymous Bosch canvas; a cautionary glimpse into the maw of hell itself.
Yes, it was really that bad. It seems overly dramatic to say so now, a full week after the madness has subsided. But it was nothing short of a miracle that no one was killed. This was the worst riot St. Louis concertgoers have ever seen, and an overheard comment of a Maryland Heights policeman, on his way to face the destructive mob, typified the frenzied tenor of the evening: “Good thing I watched my LAPD video again tonight,” he said.*
What began as an idyllic summer evening at the two-month-old Riverport Amphitheatre ended in a bloody riot after the Gunners left the stage early because of what they claimed was poor security. Hundreds of police appeared on the scene to quell the melee that began after Axl Rose – rock & roll’s most notorious loose cannon – leaped headlong into the front row to retrieve an unauthorized flash camera from a fan. Left in his wake were at least 75 injured and 13 arrested, on charges ranging from assaulting a police officer to resisting arrest to destruction of property.
Amazingly, no charges are currently pending against Rose, who was seen pummeling a fan and a security guard. The singer may not be completely in the clear, however, because Maryland Heights Police Chief Neil F. Kurlander says he would “not rule out” filing charges against Rose until further investigation.
The conflict began 90 minutes into GNR’s performance, when Rose began pointing and yelling, “Get it, get it from him” at the security forces in front of the stage. When the guards failed to respond immediately – and, in their defense, it was nearly impossible to know who Rose was addressing – the singer took matters into his own hands. It took a number of GNR staffers to fish Rose out of the crowd – he apparently wasn’t aware that he was leaping into the midst of the Saddle Tramps motorcycle club. When he returned to the stage, he announced, “Because of the lame-ass security, I’m goin’ home.” Lead guitarist Slash added a nonchalant, “We’re outta here,” and followed Rose offstage.
For 10 minutes – it seemed like an eternity – it was unclear what had happened. Was the show really over? No one could say for sure, and by the time the lights went up and the egress music began playing, the audience’s blood was already up. What was difficult to ascertain, though, was just who they were mad at – the band, the allegedly lax security, or the promoters for not delivering a full show.
RFT columnist Thomas Crone and I watched spellbound from the eighth row as the night unfolded. Axl’s stage dive had occurred only about 15 feet from where we stood. As the riot began, half-empty beer cups were hurled through the air, repeatedly dousing those in the front rows. Security forces ringed the stage, as roadies frantically attempted to remove the band’s equipment. When some of the debris fell short, a few of the GNR staffers began taunting the audience. One of them, dressed in colorful tights, decorated with metal bracelets and brandishing a walking cane, repeatedly grabbed his crotch and made jerking-off motions toward the crowd, further inciting their anger.
By this time, the throng in front of the stage was a roiling mass. The Saddle Tramps, who had benignly been enjoying the show, suddenly erupted into fits of violence. There were moments of palpable horror all around. A man, naked to the waist, with a gash in his shoulder and blood running in rivulets down his face, emerged from the pack and staggered down the aisle. There was someone – was it the man Rose had attacked or the security guard or still someone else? – being removed from the front rows on a stretcher, his head taped to the handles, as if he’d sustained a serious injury.
One audience member challenged the cops, who had by now appeared on the risers to the rear and side of the stage. He tried to run the gauntlet and make a complete circle around the band’s set, but was captured by security forces and wrestled to the ground. Unwisely, after the man had clearly been subdued, a policeman began beating the man on the knees with his baton. The audience chanted, “Fuck you” and “Fuck you, pigs” in response to the undue violence.
The chairs in the pit area directly before the stage were rapidly destroyed and flung through the air. Even the people occupying the luxury boxes joined in, handing their chairs down front bucket-brigade fashion, to be thrown onstage.
Much of what was happening around us seemed freakishly unreal – as if it were a movie or perhaps a Road Runner cartoon. Acts of terrible brutality took on an almost comic edge. One reveler in front of use calmly stomped his seat to pieces, grabbed the flat portion with both hands and Frisbeed it toward the stage. It flew forward, traveling in a huge, wide arc and smashed a security guard squarely in the forehead. He staggered back, cartoon-like, but remained on his feet. The reveler and his buddy laughed uproariously and high-fived each other.
Moments of Keystone Cop-like hilarity took place onstage as well. A GNR staffer stuck his laminated badge necklace down his shirtfront to keep it from getting ripped off his neck as he worked the perimeter of the stage. Not recognizing him without his badge being visible, a security guard unceremoniously dumped him into the front row. Quickly realizing his mistake, the guard and several colleagues plunged into the crowd to retrieve the shaken roadie.
To our amazement, we saw a dozen policemen rolling out a fire hose on stage right. It seemed an extreme measure, since at this point police and security stood fast across the front of the stage. Not only did the sight of the fire hose enrage the rabble further, but the tactic failed utterly. There was some argument about using the hose, when a GNR staffer grabbed it from the police and turned it on. It began spewing a brown goo – sewage? we wondered. But soon enough, the water cleared up and several policemen wrested it back from the roadie. Much to their chagrin, however, there wasn’t enough water pressure to drive the crowd back. Indeed, people were trying to get into the stream, as if a cool dip sounded like a refreshing idea. One man, shirtless and soaked by the water, climbed to the front of the stage, unzipped his pants and waved his penis at the helpless police, who beat a hasty retreat to the stage-rear risers. Another man seized the fire hose and turned it on the police.
Eventually, the officers abandoned the stage altogether. By that time, security was long gone. For a good 15 minutes, anyone still in the venue could have gotten away with anything. There was simply no one to stop them.
I retreated to the sound board, where I found Jim Staniforth of Electrotech Sound, one of the technical crews contracted by the band. Staniforth watched with surprising calm while his company’s equipment was being destroyed. I introduced myself as a reporter and Staniforth stuck out his hand. “Hello, I’m unemployed,” he said. “And you know why? Because Axl Rose just fucked up.”
Onstage, revelers had begun to swing from cables beneath the 60-ton light and sound rig. Huge hanging speaker stacks lurched sickeningly back and forth. “If that rig comes down, there will be massive death,” Staniforth said.
Behind me, a B&D security man admitted, “This is a joke. We’re staying here, covering our ass. People are animals.”
Moving to the side of the pavilion, I watched a skinny man singlehandedly rip down one of the large video screens that flanked either side of the stage. He rode the screen’s cable up and down, as if he were ringing a giant bell. Eventually, the fabric gave way and the thing came crashing down. The man danced away triumphantly.
Police have repeatedly denied using tear gas on the crowd, but everyone I spoke with underneath the pavilion suffered from stinging eyes, a sore throat and nausea. Crone and I suffered the symptoms as well. The tactic worked, however, and in a few minutes, the area cleared out.
When police made a final strategic sweep of the pavilion, they did so swiftly and with terrible force. Crone and I both witnessed several people being thrown down the stairs at the rear of the building. I brandished my press card and yelled, “Press! Press!” thinking perhaps it would lessen the severity of their attack. “Fuck you, cocksucker,” one of them replied. “We’re reporters,” I tried again, to which another said, “That’s nice,” and jabbed Crone viciously in the kidneys with his baton.
We got the message.
And the pavilion was clear.
By 2:30 a.m. the long night was over – except, of course, for those headed to jail or to the hospital. Or for the Riverport staff, who only now could begin to assess the damage and arrange the cleanup.
In the end, what happened wasn’t really anyone’s fault as much as it was everyone’s fault. Security, promoters, police, band, roadies and audience all bear some responsibility, all having contributed to the rising tension. But it’s impossible not to lay the bulk of the blame at the feet of W. Axl Rose.
It may be true that security was lax – how else to explain the broken glass everywhere and the numerous flash and video cameras spotted at the concert? But compare the worst that could have happened if the photographer had gone on unchecked – there might be a few more unauthorized Axl Rose photographs circulating amid the groups’ hardcore fans – to what actually did happen. Dozens of people were injured, hundreds of thousands of dollars of damage was done, and the reputation of a brand new venue and its promoters was sullied.
Presumably, lawyers throughout the bi-state area and on both coasts came simultaneously when news of the event leaked out.
All this because one sorry-ass rock & roller – a man who makes his living selling records and being on TV – didn’t want to have his picture taken.
* Rodney King, remember?
Inside the Guns N’ Roses Riot
Riverfront Times, July 10-17, 1991
Welcome to the jungle, indeed: Shards of glass, showers of beer and pieces of plastic and metal chairs filled the air. Drums, speakers and grand pianos came crashing down in what could be thought of as the wildest performance-art piece ever. And what had been a relatively mild-mannered rock concert – relatively, because the group performing was the raucous hard-rock act Guns N’ Roses – was suddenly transformed into something from a nightmarish Hieronymous Bosch canvas; a cautionary glimpse into the maw of hell itself.
Yes, it was really that bad. It seems overly dramatic to say so now, a full week after the madness has subsided. But it was nothing short of a miracle that no one was killed. This was the worst riot St. Louis concertgoers have ever seen, and an overheard comment of a Maryland Heights policeman, on his way to face the destructive mob, typified the frenzied tenor of the evening: “Good thing I watched my LAPD video again tonight,” he said.*
What began as an idyllic summer evening at the two-month-old Riverport Amphitheatre ended in a bloody riot after the Gunners left the stage early because of what they claimed was poor security. Hundreds of police appeared on the scene to quell the melee that began after Axl Rose – rock & roll’s most notorious loose cannon – leaped headlong into the front row to retrieve an unauthorized flash camera from a fan. Left in his wake were at least 75 injured and 13 arrested, on charges ranging from assaulting a police officer to resisting arrest to destruction of property.
Amazingly, no charges are currently pending against Rose, who was seen pummeling a fan and a security guard. The singer may not be completely in the clear, however, because Maryland Heights Police Chief Neil F. Kurlander says he would “not rule out” filing charges against Rose until further investigation.
The conflict began 90 minutes into GNR’s performance, when Rose began pointing and yelling, “Get it, get it from him” at the security forces in front of the stage. When the guards failed to respond immediately – and, in their defense, it was nearly impossible to know who Rose was addressing – the singer took matters into his own hands. It took a number of GNR staffers to fish Rose out of the crowd – he apparently wasn’t aware that he was leaping into the midst of the Saddle Tramps motorcycle club. When he returned to the stage, he announced, “Because of the lame-ass security, I’m goin’ home.” Lead guitarist Slash added a nonchalant, “We’re outta here,” and followed Rose offstage.
For 10 minutes – it seemed like an eternity – it was unclear what had happened. Was the show really over? No one could say for sure, and by the time the lights went up and the egress music began playing, the audience’s blood was already up. What was difficult to ascertain, though, was just who they were mad at – the band, the allegedly lax security, or the promoters for not delivering a full show.
RFT columnist Thomas Crone and I watched spellbound from the eighth row as the night unfolded. Axl’s stage dive had occurred only about 15 feet from where we stood. As the riot began, half-empty beer cups were hurled through the air, repeatedly dousing those in the front rows. Security forces ringed the stage, as roadies frantically attempted to remove the band’s equipment. When some of the debris fell short, a few of the GNR staffers began taunting the audience. One of them, dressed in colorful tights, decorated with metal bracelets and brandishing a walking cane, repeatedly grabbed his crotch and made jerking-off motions toward the crowd, further inciting their anger.
By this time, the throng in front of the stage was a roiling mass. The Saddle Tramps, who had benignly been enjoying the show, suddenly erupted into fits of violence. There were moments of palpable horror all around. A man, naked to the waist, with a gash in his shoulder and blood running in rivulets down his face, emerged from the pack and staggered down the aisle. There was someone – was it the man Rose had attacked or the security guard or still someone else? – being removed from the front rows on a stretcher, his head taped to the handles, as if he’d sustained a serious injury.
One audience member challenged the cops, who had by now appeared on the risers to the rear and side of the stage. He tried to run the gauntlet and make a complete circle around the band’s set, but was captured by security forces and wrestled to the ground. Unwisely, after the man had clearly been subdued, a policeman began beating the man on the knees with his baton. The audience chanted, “Fuck you” and “Fuck you, pigs” in response to the undue violence.
The chairs in the pit area directly before the stage were rapidly destroyed and flung through the air. Even the people occupying the luxury boxes joined in, handing their chairs down front bucket-brigade fashion, to be thrown onstage.
Much of what was happening around us seemed freakishly unreal – as if it were a movie or perhaps a Road Runner cartoon. Acts of terrible brutality took on an almost comic edge. One reveler in front of use calmly stomped his seat to pieces, grabbed the flat portion with both hands and Frisbeed it toward the stage. It flew forward, traveling in a huge, wide arc and smashed a security guard squarely in the forehead. He staggered back, cartoon-like, but remained on his feet. The reveler and his buddy laughed uproariously and high-fived each other.
Moments of Keystone Cop-like hilarity took place onstage as well. A GNR staffer stuck his laminated badge necklace down his shirtfront to keep it from getting ripped off his neck as he worked the perimeter of the stage. Not recognizing him without his badge being visible, a security guard unceremoniously dumped him into the front row. Quickly realizing his mistake, the guard and several colleagues plunged into the crowd to retrieve the shaken roadie.
To our amazement, we saw a dozen policemen rolling out a fire hose on stage right. It seemed an extreme measure, since at this point police and security stood fast across the front of the stage. Not only did the sight of the fire hose enrage the rabble further, but the tactic failed utterly. There was some argument about using the hose, when a GNR staffer grabbed it from the police and turned it on. It began spewing a brown goo – sewage? we wondered. But soon enough, the water cleared up and several policemen wrested it back from the roadie. Much to their chagrin, however, there wasn’t enough water pressure to drive the crowd back. Indeed, people were trying to get into the stream, as if a cool dip sounded like a refreshing idea. One man, shirtless and soaked by the water, climbed to the front of the stage, unzipped his pants and waved his penis at the helpless police, who beat a hasty retreat to the stage-rear risers. Another man seized the fire hose and turned it on the police.
Eventually, the officers abandoned the stage altogether. By that time, security was long gone. For a good 15 minutes, anyone still in the venue could have gotten away with anything. There was simply no one to stop them.
I retreated to the sound board, where I found Jim Staniforth of Electrotech Sound, one of the technical crews contracted by the band. Staniforth watched with surprising calm while his company’s equipment was being destroyed. I introduced myself as a reporter and Staniforth stuck out his hand. “Hello, I’m unemployed,” he said. “And you know why? Because Axl Rose just fucked up.”
Onstage, revelers had begun to swing from cables beneath the 60-ton light and sound rig. Huge hanging speaker stacks lurched sickeningly back and forth. “If that rig comes down, there will be massive death,” Staniforth said.
Behind me, a B&D security man admitted, “This is a joke. We’re staying here, covering our ass. People are animals.”
Moving to the side of the pavilion, I watched a skinny man singlehandedly rip down one of the large video screens that flanked either side of the stage. He rode the screen’s cable up and down, as if he were ringing a giant bell. Eventually, the fabric gave way and the thing came crashing down. The man danced away triumphantly.
Police have repeatedly denied using tear gas on the crowd, but everyone I spoke with underneath the pavilion suffered from stinging eyes, a sore throat and nausea. Crone and I suffered the symptoms as well. The tactic worked, however, and in a few minutes, the area cleared out.
When police made a final strategic sweep of the pavilion, they did so swiftly and with terrible force. Crone and I both witnessed several people being thrown down the stairs at the rear of the building. I brandished my press card and yelled, “Press! Press!” thinking perhaps it would lessen the severity of their attack. “Fuck you, cocksucker,” one of them replied. “We’re reporters,” I tried again, to which another said, “That’s nice,” and jabbed Crone viciously in the kidneys with his baton.
We got the message.
And the pavilion was clear.
By 2:30 a.m. the long night was over – except, of course, for those headed to jail or to the hospital. Or for the Riverport staff, who only now could begin to assess the damage and arrange the cleanup.
In the end, what happened wasn’t really anyone’s fault as much as it was everyone’s fault. Security, promoters, police, band, roadies and audience all bear some responsibility, all having contributed to the rising tension. But it’s impossible not to lay the bulk of the blame at the feet of W. Axl Rose.
It may be true that security was lax – how else to explain the broken glass everywhere and the numerous flash and video cameras spotted at the concert? But compare the worst that could have happened if the photographer had gone on unchecked – there might be a few more unauthorized Axl Rose photographs circulating amid the groups’ hardcore fans – to what actually did happen. Dozens of people were injured, hundreds of thousands of dollars of damage was done, and the reputation of a brand new venue and its promoters was sullied.
Presumably, lawyers throughout the bi-state area and on both coasts came simultaneously when news of the event leaked out.
All this because one sorry-ass rock & roller – a man who makes his living selling records and being on TV – didn’t want to have his picture taken.
* Rodney King, remember?