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Introduction To The Article: This Article Is An Exact Reprint from The New Times, A Local Los Angeles Area Magazine: released in the November 14, 1996 issue. I sent a copy to the official RHCP Fan Club, and received confirmation that the information here is correct. Keep in mind that this article is over three-years old. I assume John has quit (or seriously reduced) his drug use. Read this article as just a little RHCP-History. Reprinted Article:
But they're not just rumors. John Frusciante is living the cliche-the
rock star holed up at the Chateau Marmont, where bigger names than he
have checked in to check out Four years ago he was in one of rock and
roll's biggest bands, the Red Hot Chili Peppers' guitarist just as the
group was climbing up from the college~radio ranks and into the arenas.
Now he's a transient in the hideaway's hallowed hall-ways: The living
room of his suite is fllled only with dozens of CDs (from Bowie to Devo
to his favorites, King Crimson and Nirvana) scattered on the floor,
bottles of mineral water, cigarettes, journals, and alcohol sterile
pads
Frusciante is holed up in the Chateau Marmont this night because he has
been kicked out of his Hollywood Hills home for not paying rent, and he
now has no permanent address. After this interview, he was booted out
of the Chateau, then kicked out of the Mondrian. As of a few days ago,
a business acquaintance who until very recently spoke to Frusciante
every day says he hasn't heard from the man for more than a week. when
that happens, some people shrug: Well, maybe he's dead. It is
Frusciante who first mentions his heroin use ~five minutes into the
interview, no less ~yet at the end of an exhausting night of
conversation, he also asks that the details of his life as a junkie be
veiled; he explains that he doesn't want the cops fucking with him and
that any article describing his hobbies might bring the heat down on
him. But thats unlikely, and a quick glance at his fragile, decay^_ing
figure reveals the sad truth his silence could never hide anyway. He
looks 20 years older than he did during his Peppers days, and his voice
is harsh and slurred now. He doesn't eat food, instead gulping canned
high calorie formu^_la normally consumed by the elderly and invailds.
He likes the way his body appear~a skeleton covered in thin
skin-because that's how David Bowie looked in The Man Who Fell to
Earth. Frusciante says he almost died in February; he explains his
body had "a twelfth of the blood its supposed to have, and that
blood was infected. My body.wasn't making any new red blood
cells." So he quit the drugs for a few months and cleaned up, as
much as he could. But the world didn't look right to him through dead
sober eyes, didn't feel right to him through numb hands. The spirits
didn't visit, the ghosts didn't talk to him; the door heroin opened for
him had been shut, and he would agan force it open even if it killed
him. when Frusciante joined the Red Hot Chili Peppers in 1988, he was
touted as a clean young thing~ fresh faced 17-year old Southern
California kid who would stand in direct contrast to original guitarist
Hillel Slovak, who died in June of that year of a heroin over-dose.
Frusciante joined just in time to record Mother's Milk, which
con^_tained the minor hit "Knock Me Down," an anti-smack song
about Slovak ("If you see me gettin' high~ knock me down")
that would seem hilariously ironic now if it weren't so pathetic in
retrospect After all, lead singer Anthony Kiedis himself just got off
junk after years of claiming he was clean; bassist Flea was a user: and
current guitarist Dave Navarro is a former junkie. The needle and the
damage indeed. Frusciante quit the Peppers in 1992 after spending a
year on the road with the band-a year of watching the crowds multiply
with almost every gig. Frusciante had come to hate the crowds who sang
along with every word and danced to every song; he couldn't understand
the conection hetween artist and audience, and he came to loathe the
people who were cheering and adoring him without knowing' him. And
musically he felt stifled by the tight structures of the songs and the
way audiences expected the band to perform the hits exactly as they had
been recorded. Frusciante had been straitiacketed by expectations,
stifled as a musician, cut off from the ghosts that wanted him to play
their music. The first couple of years I was in the Chili Peppers, I
don't consider myself a very good guitarist by my own standards,"
he says now. "I don't feel like I was 100 percent taking the
feelings and colors in my head and adequately transferring them to the
guitar and into the world where they became something concrete instead
of just a feeling that floats through outer space. But then I became as
good at that as a person could be, and every night when I would play, I
would play different solos and different guitar parts. I just had a
good relationship with the spirits and with the ghosts and with the
colors in outer space. "A song is something spir^_its can get
feelings from, but its nothing a human being can be aware of~ except I
am.So they give it to me as just a color and as a vibe and as a feeling
and as an aes^_thetic echo in my head, and then I'm able to take it and
turn it into music. when he returned to LA, he sat on his couch for
nearly a year, depressed and alone and unable to function. He wondered
whether he had made the right decision in quitting the band, or in
joining in the first place; he was con^_vinced he was pissing away his
talent He had only experimented with drugs, smoked pot "every day
when I was 20," and says he first shot heroin right after the
recording of 1991's breakthrough Blood Sugar Sex Mogik and then dallied
with the drug on and off again. But he finally became a junkie as a
final salvation, and in time he again started writing in his journals,
paint^_ing, and recording. Now he can't be without his needles or his
guitars; three guitars are scattered onthe floor of his Chateau suite,
and he often fondles the neck of one as he talks. "I used to
record every day" he explains. "it's good that I do at all
now. When I quit the band, I couldn't look at art, I couldn't paint, I
couldn't read books, I couldn't play guitar, I couldn't listen to
music, I couldn't do anything but lay on the couch depressed, and then
I became a junkie and came to life again and became happy and started
playing music again. But I couldn't exist at first. I was so depressed~I
couldn't talk to people. I Was just the most hopeless, miser-able
person you have evetr seen. I thought I was through with music and that
I was gonna die within a couple of weeks from depression. I thought,
Where rI'm at in my head is the head of a person about to die. I
thought my body was literally gonna give up. "And then I just
decided, I'm gonna become a fjunkie now' and the next day I was just
happy and better.. I just decided without [heroin], I have no control
over what thoughts take over my brain. See, with this, I have control
over what I want to think about, and when something comes into my~head
that is useless to think about, it won't take over I can get rid of it
I would sit there and think about the way things could have been if I
would have done it this way, the way I didn't do it But those are
pointless things to think about, but thats all I could think about, and
I had to just forget it I always had a reallY good discipline as far as
my head goes, but that stuff was just too heavy. With heroin, I was
able to all of a sudden have the power to get rid of those things that
would pop up into my head and think about something else. liike, all of
a sudden I wasn't the boss of my head any more. In the fall of 1994,
he released his first solo album on American Recordings, the label
owned by Rick Rubin, who had produced Blood Sugar Sex Magik. Warner
Bros. Records, the Peppers' label, had rights to the album because of a
leaving-artist clause in Frusciante's chili Peppers contract, but
because he was living as~a recluse who refused to do many inter^_views,
the label happily handed it over to Rubin, who finally released the
album at the insistance of River Phoenix, Butthole Surfer Gibby Hayes
and Johnny Depp. In the end Frusciante's solo album Niandra Lades and
Usually just a T-shirt sold about 15000 copies~'a tiny number compared
to the six nullion the Peppers moved of Blood Sugar. Niandra Lade: Is a
bizarre and complicated album, two dozen tracks that grow increasingly
fragmented and frightnening as the album wears on; any Chili peppers
fans who listened to the record expecting more punk-funk likely thought
their stereos were broken. Still, Frusciante expects to release
another album at the beginning of the new year, and David Katznelson,
vice president of A&R at Warner Bros. Records,.confirms he plans
to issue Frusciante's tentatively titledSmile from the Streets You Hold
sometime in the spring. The album will be released on Katznelson's own
Burbank-based Birdman Records label (home to such avant favourites as
Three Headcoats and Omoide Hatoba), with Warner handling some of the
disrtibution. "This stuff isn't alien to me" Katznelson says
of Frusciante's music. "Rick and John had a great relationship,
but I kept thinking about John and listening to the record, and there
were a couple of songs on there that I thought were so insipred, and I
thought that if we put out another record on an indie label it would
get more focus than if it had been put out on American or Warners or
something with so many other records. So I called John, and and he
jumped at the chance." "It was done at various times,"
Frusciante explains of the forthcoming album- One song even dates back
a decade, to when he was 17 years old and just about to join the
Peppers- "These are some of the best things I ever recorded."
He wants to play some of the new music, so he goes to the portable
stereo to find the cassette of the unmixed songs. But as he is fumbling
with the tape, forwarding and rewinding to just the right spot he
acciden^_tally knocks the stereo off its milk-crate stand.
"Motherfucker" he howls, and he kicks a small pile of CDs
flying across the room. Then, in a second or two, he is again calm and
focused, his temper under control. This is not the tape of my new
record," he explainS. This is a tape of the things that are on my
new record, but not all of the things are on the record. Its got a lot
of things that aren't on the record, but the things I'm gonna play you
are are on my new record." He hits play and turns up the volume,
and the room fills with a song that sounds as though it has been lifted
from an old Sergio leone spaghetti Western; its beautiful and eerie,
feedback and restrained frenzy, lyrics slinking in between the
off-kilter melody. "Kill your mama, kill your daddy," goes
one particularly memorable phrase. The song is followed by an
instrumental that seems to turn in on itself~ solo reverie filled out
by backward tracks and other ethereal effects. It's haunting
music~quite literally the unexpurgated sounds of Frusciante's demons
come to life, an unedited electronic reproduction of the sounds inside
his head-and as he listens to his own music, Frus^_ciante seems once
more tangled in^_side the notes. He closes his eyes and seems to nod
off, letting yet another freshly lit cigarette burn to its end and
deposit its ashes all over him. But when the songs end, he snaps to
life again. "Heroin empha^_sizes whatever you are,"
Frusciante explains "Like, if you want to record music, it'll help
you concentrate on that more, but if you want to lie in bed and not do
anything, it'll help you do that better. It helps you do anything
better you want to do. At least forme, not for other people. A
lot of people- close friends of mine who are clean, and I'm glad
they're clean-they know that when I'm clean I lose the sparkle in my
eye, I lose my personality~ I'm not happy, I'm kinda empty. A lot of
people say they feel a wall when a person's on drugs, but I have three
girls who I love and consider my girls, and one of them came and
visited me when I was clean in February, and she called me after-ward
and said she felt a wall. My head works differently than most people,
so consequently drugs affect me differently." Frusciente insists
he wants to get on a stage again-the last time he performed was at the
Viper Room the night his closest friend and champion and protector,
River Phoenix, died out^_side its doors-and that he wants to assemble a
real band to perform his pop songs, the ones that go verse-chorus-verse
in^_stead of just verse. And he still would like to release tapes of
the Three Amoebas jam sessions he recorded with Flea and Porno for
Pyros drummer Stephen Perkins years ago. Katznelson says he'll try to
help Frusciante get his music out there, book a few gigs, make him some
money so he doesn't keep getting kicked out of home and hotel. But he
realizes it isn't going to be easy; there are never any guarantees with
a man who's slowly killing himself while no one does anything~to stop
him. "A lot of artists have their own demons, and he's one of
them," Katznelson says. "If I made judgments on people
because of their lifestyles, I wouldn't work with any^_one. I work with
a lot of artists who have problems-illegal substanstances or personal
demons~but one is just as problematic as the other. If I was expecting
him to tour and play and there was a lot of money involved, I would
tear the hair out of my head. But there's not a lot of money. I just
want people to hear what he's about. If he wants to play, fine; if he
doesn't, fine If he wants to do interviews, great; if he doesn't, fine.
I think he's very.. .he's very used to his own skin." In the end,
Frusciante has become just another gifted musician who plunges a needle
into his arm every few hour~between playing and painting, between
reading and writing, between preparing a new record and finding a new
home, between living and dying; these days, record label rosters are
once again stockpiled with men and women just like Frusciante, though
they have publi^_cists to hide their artists' habits. Since Phoenix's
death, most of Frus^_ciante's other close friends have abandoned him,
sometimes after trying to intervene and save his life; they're too
fired of watching him decay in front of them, too sick of watching him
unapologetically kill himself. He knows they don't like being around
him, but he doesn't give a fuck. -They're afraid of death, but I'm
not," he says. "I don't care whether I live or die."
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