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Scar Tissue Paperback – October 19, 2005
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In this "vivid and inspiring" New York Times bestseller (Newsweek), the Red Hot Chili Peppers' lead singer and songwriter shares a searingly honest account of life in the rock scene's fast lane—from the darkness into the light.
In 1983, four self-described "knuckleheads" burst out of the mosh-pitted mosaic of the neo-punk rock scene in L.A. with their own unique brand of cosmic hardcore mayhem funk. Over twenty years later, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, against all odds, have become one of the most successful bands in the world. Though the band has gone through many incarnations, Anthony Kiedis, the group's lyricist and dynamic lead singer, has been there for the whole roller-coaster ride. In Scar Tissue, Kiedis delivers a compelling life story from a man "in love with everything"—the darkness, the death, the disease. Even his descent into drug addiction was a part of that journey, another element transformed into art.
Whether he's honoring the influence of the beautiful, strong women who have been his muses or remembering the roaring crowds of Woodstock and the Dalai Lama's humble compound, Kiedis shares a compelling story about the price of success and excess. Scar Tissue is a story of dedication and debauchery, of intrigue and integrity, of recklessness and redemption—a story that could only have come out of the world of rock.
- Print length465 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherHachette Books
- Publication dateOctober 19, 2005
- Dimensions5.3 x 1.55 x 8 inches
- ISBN-101401307450
- ISBN-13978-1401307455
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"Thoughtful, candid, and entertaining." -- GQ
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Scar Tissue
By Anthony KiedisHyperion Books
Copyright © 2005 Anthony KiedisAll right reserved.
ISBN: 9781401307455
Chapter One
"Me, I'm from Michigan"I'd been shooting coke for three days straight with my Mexican drug dealer, Mario, when I remembered the Arizona show. By then, my band, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, had one album out, and we were about to go to Michigan to record our second album, but first, Lindy, our manager, had booked us a gig in a steakhouse disco in Arizona. The promoter was a fan of ours and he was going to pay us more than we were worth and we all needed the money, so we agreed to play.
Except I was a wreck. I usually was whenever I went downtown and hooked up with Mario. Mario was an amazing character. He was a slender, wiry, and wily Mexican who looked like a slightly larger, stronger version of Gandhi. He wore big glasses, so he didn't look vicious or imposing, but whenever we shot coke or heroin, he'd make his confessions: "I had to hurt somebody. I'm an enforcer for the Mexican mafia. I get these calls and don't even want to know the details, I just do my job, put the person out of commission and get paid." You never knew if anything he said was true.
Mario lived in an old, eight-story brick tenement downtown, sharing his squalid apartment with his ancient mother, who would sit in the corner of this itty-bitty living room, silently watching Mexican soap operas. Every now and then, there'd be outbursts of bickering in Spanish, and I'd ask him if we should be doing drugs there-he had a giant pile of drugs and syringes and spoons and tourniquets right on the kitchen table. "Don't worry. She can't see or hear, she doesn't know what we're doing," he'd reassure me. So I'd shoot speedballs with granny in the next room.
Mario wasn't actually a retail drug dealer, he was a conduit to the wholesalers, so you'd get incredible bang for your buck, but then you'd have to share your drugs with him. Which we were doing that day in his tiny kitchen. Mario's brother had just gotten out of prison and he was right there with us, sitting on the floor and screaming each time that he tried and failed to find a working vein in his leg. It was the first time that I'd ever seen someone who had run out of useful real estate in his arms and was reduced to poking a leg to fix.
We kept this up for days, even panhandling at one point to get some more money for coke. But now it was four-thirty in the morning and I realized we had to play that night. "Okay, time to buy some dope, because I need to drive to Arizona today and I don't feel so good," I decided.
So Mario and I got into my cheesy little hunk-of-junk green Studebaker Lark and drove to a scarier, deeper, darker, less friendly part of the downtown ghetto than we were already in, a street that you just didn't even want to be on, expect the prices here were the best. We parked and then walked a few blocks until we got to a run-down old building.
"Trust me, you don't want to go in," Mario told me. "Anything can happen inside there and it's not going to be good, so just give me the money and I'll get the stuff."
Part of me was going, "Jesus Christ, I don't want to get ripped off right now. He hasn't done it before, but I wouldn't put anything past him." But the other, larger part of me just wanted that heroin, so I pulled out the last $40 that I had stashed away and gave it to him and he disappeared into the building.
I'd been up shooting coke for so many days straight that I was hallucinating, in a strange limbo between consciousness and sleep. All I could think was that I really needed him to come out of that building with my drugs. I took off my prized possession, my vintage leather jacket. Years earlier, Flea and I had spent all our money on these matching leather jackets, and this jacket had become like a house to me. It stored my money and my keys and, in a little nifty secret pocket, my syringes.
Now I was so wasted and chilly that I just sat down on the curb and draped my jacket over my chest and shoulders as if it were a blanket.
"Come on, Mario. Come on. You've got to come down now," I chanted my mantra. I envisioned him leaving that building with a dramatically different pep in his step, going from the slumping, downtrodden guy to the skipping, whistle-while-you-work, let's-go-shoot-up guy.
I had just closed my eyes for an instant when I sensed a shadow coming over me. I looked over my shoulder and saw a hulking, big, dirty, crazy-looking Mexican Indian coming at me with a huge, industrial-sized pair of cut-your-head-off giant scissors. He was in mid-stab, so I arched my back as forward as I could to get away from his thrust. But suddenly a skinny, little jack-o'-lantern Mexican bastard jumped in front of me, holding a menacing-looking switchblade.
I made an instantaneous decision that I wasn't going to take it in the back from the big guy; I'd rather take my chances with the scarecrow killer in front of me. This was all happening so fast, but when you're faced with your own death, you go into that slow motion mode where you get the courtesy of the universe expanding time for you. So I jumped up and, with my leather jacket in front of me, charged the skinny guy. I pushed the jacket onto him and smothered his stab, then dropped it and ran out of there like a Roman candle.
I ran and I ran and I didn't stop until I got to where my car was parked, but then I realized that I didn't have the keys. I had no keys, no jacket, no money, no syringes, and worst of all, no drugs. And Mario was not the kind of guy to come looking for me. So I walked back to his house, but nada. Now the sun had come up and we were supposed to leave for Arizona in an hour. I went to a pay phone and found some change and called Lindy.
"Lindy, I'm down on Seventh and Alvarado and I haven't been asleep for a while and my car is here but I have no keys. Can you pick me up on the way to Arizona?"
He was used to these Anthony distress calls, so an hour later, there was our blue van pulling up to the corner, packed with our equipment and the other guys. And one deranged, sad, torn-up, filthy passenger climbed aboard. I immediately got the cold shoulder from the rest of the band, so I just lay down lengthwise under the bench seats, rested my head in the center column between the two front seats, and passed out. Hours later, I woke up drenched in sweat because I was lying on top of the engine and it was at least 115 degrees out. But I felt great. And Flea and I split a tab of LSD and we rocked out that steakhouse.
Most people probably view the act of conception as merely a biological function. But it seems clear to me that on some level, spirits choose their parents, because these potential parents possess certain traits and values that the soon-to-be child needs to assimilate during his or her lifetime. So twenty-three years before I'd wind up on the corner of Seventh and Alvarado, I recognized John Michael Kiedis and Peggy Nobel as two beautiful but troubled people who would be the perfect parents for me. My father's eccentricity and creativity and anti-establishment attitude, coupled with my mother's all-encompassing love and warmth and hardworking consistency, were the optimal balance of traits for me. So, whether through my own volition or not, I was conceived on February 3, 1962, on a horribly cold and snowy night in a tiny house on top of a hill in Grand Rapids, Michigan.
Actually, both of my parents were rebels, each in his or her own way. My dad's family had migrated to Michigan from Lithuania in the early 1900s. Anton Kiedis, my great-grandfather, was a short, stocky, gruff guy who ruled his household with an iron fist. In 1914, my granddad John Alden Kiedis was born, the last of five children. The family then relocated to Grand Rapids, where John went to high school and excelled in track. As a teen, he was an aspiring Bing Crosby-like crooner, and an excellent amateur short story writer. Growing up in the Kiedis household meant that my granddad couldn't drink, smoke cigarettes, or swear. He never had a problem conforming to that strict lifestyle.
Eventually, he met a beautiful woman named Molly Vandenveen, whose heritage was a pastiche of English, Irish, French, and Dutch (and, as we've recently discovered, some Mohican blood, which explains my interest in Native American culture and my identification with Mother Earth). My dad, John Michael Kiedis, was born in Grand Rapids in 1939. Four years later, my grandparents divorced, and my dad went to live with his father, who worked in a factory that produced tanks for the war effort.
After a few years, my granddad remarried, and my dad and his sister had a more conventional home life. But John Alden's tyranny was too much for my dad to bear. Dad had to work in the family businesses (a gas station and then a drive-in burger joint), he couldn't play with his friends, he couldn't stay up late, he couldn't even think of drinking or smoking cigarettes. On top of that, his stepmom, Eileen, was a devout Dutch Reform Christian who made him go to church five times during the week and three times on Sunday, experiences that later embittered him toward organized religion.
By the time he was fourteen, he had run away from home, jumping a bus to Milwaukee, where he spent most of his time sneaking into movies and drinking free beer in the breweries. After a while, he returned to Grand Rapids and entered high school, where he met Scott St. John, a handsome, rakish, ne'er-do-well who introduced my father to a life of petty crime. Hearing the stories of their exploits was always depressing to me, because they were so unsuccessful. One time they went to a nearby beach, stripped down to their boxer shorts in an attempt to blend in, and then stole someone's unattended wallet. But there was at least one witness to the crime, so there was an immediate APB on the beach for two guys in boxer shorts. They got nabbed and had to spend the whole summer in jail.
At the same time that Jack, as he was known then, and Scott were raising hell in Grand Rapids and beyond, Peggy Nobel was leading what looked like a life of conventional propriety. The youngest of a family of five, my mom was the embodiment of a midwestern sweetheart-petite, brunette, and cuter than the dickens. She was very close to her dad, who worked for Michigan Bell. She always described him as a sweetheart of a man-wonderful, loving, kind, and fun. Peggy wasn't as close to her mom, who, although brilliant and independent, followed the conventions of the day and eschewed college for life as an executive secretary, which probably made her a little bitter. And, as the rigid disciplinarian of the family, she often clashed with my mom, whose rebellious attitude took some unconventional routes. My mom was enthralled with black music, listening almost exclusively to James Brown and then Motown. She was also enthralled with the star athlete of her high school class, who just happened to be black-a pretty taboo romance for the Midwest in 1958.
Enter Jack Kiedis, freshly back in Grand Rapids from a jailhouse stay for a burglary in Ohio. His sidekick Scott was stewing in the Kent County jail for a solo caper, so my dad was on his own when he went to a party in East Grand Rapids one night in May of 1960. He was reconnoitering the talent when he looked down a hallway and caught a glimpse of a small, dark-haired angel wearing white-fringed Indian moccasins. Smitten, he jostled people and rushed to the spot where he'd seen her, but she was gone. He spent the rest of the night trying to find her, but was content just to learn her name. A few nights later, Jack showed up on Peggy's porch, dressed up in a sport jacket and pressed jeans, holding a huge bouquet of flowers. She agreed to a date to see a movie. Two months later, after obtaining permission from her parents, the still-seventeen-year-old Peggy married Jack, who was twenty, on the day before her parents' thirty-fifth anniversary. Scott St. John was the best man. Six weeks later, Peggy's dad died from complications of diabetes. A few weeks after that, my dad started cheating on my mom.
By the end of that year, somehow Jack convinced Peggy to let him take their brand-new blue Austin Healy and, along with his friend John Reaser, drive to Hollywood. Reaser wanted to meet Annette Funicello, my dad wanted to be discovered and become a movie star. But most of all, he didn't want to be tied down to my mom. After a few months of misadventures, the two friends settled in San Diego until Jack got word that Peggy was seeing a man who had a monkey back in Grand Rapids. Insanely jealous, he drove 100 mph without stopping and moved back in with my mom, who was just innocent friends with the primate owner. A few weeks later, convinced that he'd made a huge mistake, Jack moved back to California, and for the next year, my parents alternated between being married and being separated and between being in California and being in Michigan. One of those reconciliations led to an arduous bus ride from sunny California to freezing Michigan. The next day, I was conceived.
I was born in St. Mary's Hospital in Grand Rapids, five hours into November 1, 1962, just shy of seven and a half pounds, twenty-one inches long. I was nearly a Halloween baby, but being born on November 1 is even more special to me. In numerology, the number one is such a potent number that to have three ones all in a row is a pretty good place to start your life. My mom wanted to name me after my dad, which would have made me John Kiedis III, but my dad was leaning toward Clark Gable Kiedis or Courage Kiedis. In the end, they settled on Anthony Kiedis, which was an homage to my great-grandfather. But from the start, I was known as Tony.
I left the hospital and joined my dad, my mom, and their dog, Panzer, in their tiny new government-funded home in the country outside of Grand Rapids. But within weeks, my dad started getting wanderlust and cabin fever. In January 1963, my granddad John Kiedis decided to uproot the entire family and move to the warmer climes of Palm Beach, Florida. So he sold his business and packed up the U-Haul and took his wife and six children, plus my mom and me. I don't remember living in Florida, but my mom said it was a pleasant time, once we got out from under the yoke of the abusive patriarch of the Kiedis family. After working at a Laundromat and saving some money, my mom found a little apartment over a liquor store in West Palm Beach, and we moved in. When she got a bill for two months' rent from Grandpa Kiedis, she promptly wrote to him, "I forwarded your bill to your son. I hope you hear from him soon." Mom was working for Honeywell by then, pulling in sixty-five dollars a week, one week's worth of that going toward our rent. For another ten dollars a week, I was in day care. According to my mom, I was a very happy baby.
Meanwhile, my dad was alone in his empty house in the country.
Continues...
Excerpted from Scar Tissueby Anthony Kiedis Copyright © 2005 by Anthony Kiedis. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Product details
- Publisher : Hachette Books; Reprint edition (October 19, 2005)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 465 pages
- ISBN-10 : 1401307450
- ISBN-13 : 978-1401307455
- Item Weight : 15.2 ounces
- Dimensions : 5.3 x 1.55 x 8 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #10,632 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #19 in Rock Band Biographies
- #19 in Rock Music (Books)
- #115 in Actor & Entertainer Biographies
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About the authors
Larry Sloman, a.k.a. "Ratso," is a Phi Beta Kappa and magna cum laude graduate in sociology. He has written for Rolling Stone and was editor-in-chief of High Times and National Lampoon. He collaborated with Howard Stern on the bestselling Miss America and Private Parts and is the author of a biography of Abbie Hoffman. He lives in New York City.
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The book opens with the birth of the band in the gritty, neon-lit landscape of Los Angeles in 1983. Four self-proclaimed "knuckleheads" burst onto the scene with a unique blend of cosmic hardcore mayhem funk, setting the stage for a musical journey like no other. Fast forward over two decades, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers have defied all odds to become one of the world's most successful and enduring bands.
But "Scar Tissue" is not your typical rock star memoir. It's a searingly honest and unapologetic account of Kiedis' life—one marked by both incredible highs and crushing lows. Kiedis doesn't hold back as he shares his love affair with everything, including the darkness, death, and disease that have touched his life. Even his harrowing descent into drug addiction becomes a poignant element of his artistic journey.
What sets this memoir apart is Kiedis' ability to intertwine personal experiences with the evolution of the band. He pays tribute to the powerful and inspiring women who've influenced his life while recounting the electrifying energy of Woodstock and the humbling presence of the Dalai Lama. It's a story of dedication and debauchery, intrigue and integrity, recklessness and redemption.
"Scar Tissue" is more than a rock 'n' roll memoir; it's a testament to the indomitable spirit of an artist who has faced the darkest corners of fame and addiction and emerged with his creativity and integrity intact. Kiedis' writing is raw, visceral, and, at times, heart-wrenching. It's a book that resonates with anyone who has wrestled with their demons, chased their dreams, and found their way back from the brink.
Whether you're a die-hard fan of the Red Hot Chili Peppers or simply someone intrigued by the inner workings of the music industry, "Scar Tissue" offers a gripping, no-holds-barred account of a life lived to the fullest—a life that could only have been lived in the world of rock 'n' roll. Dive in, and prepare to be moved, inspired, and forever changed by Anthony Kiedis' remarkable journey.
In the post by J. P. Stockton, he says that “We’re lucky Kiedis turned out the way he did in the end”, and i agree. Most of the book is about his battle with drug usage, and near death experiences for him, and some of the most important people to him. Thats a big part of the lasting effect the book puts on you, and how we are lucky that Anthony won his battle and can make the music that gives so many people the enjoyment of listening to it.
In the book, it goes from Anthonys movement to quiet, comfortable Michigan with his Mom, to big, loud, influential L.A. and his Dad. Thats a huge huge huge part of the book, and even though its just described with a few sentences, this almost transcontinental move proves to change Anthonys life forever. The question is-for better, or for worse? This new L.A. lifestyle introduces Anthony to drugs, partying, misbehavior, and other acts of recklessness. But from Anthonys point of view, I think he does an excellent job at showing both the negative and positive sides. Thats why the book is so great. It has a first person view of both sides of the story. There is also a great equilibrium between the two, as the flow of the story and the style of writing make it so it happens without you even knowing it. Not only are we lucky Anthony turned out the way he did because of the music he makes, but because of this great story about his life that gets shared with everybody.
Anthonys life is actually amazing. For a person to have that many great moments and memories, then be able to obtain all the information and turn it into a great book is incredible. You have to love Anthony, and as you read, you can feel the emotions he's feeling, like you're in his shoes while reading it. If you're as big of a Red Hot Chili Peppers fan as I am, you will notice that the book provides a lot of clarity into some of the songs written and performed by the group. Its all the little insight from him that makes you feel like if you see him in public, you could just walk up to him and act like you’ve known him and grew up with him and experienced all of the times in Scar Tissue right beside him. Of Course he has no idea who you are, and he is a human being bombarded by paparazzi and fans every second, so maybe just a wave and smile would suffice. But he is such an interesting guy filled with stories to tell for hours and hours. This book does a great job on telling the life story of a crazy, remarkable human being.
A great quote from this book is “Every artist is at war with the world” (Kiedis 71). This quote can definitely be proved true, especially for musicians. In the book, Anthony constantly is taking Flea, Chad, John, and some former members, including Dave, Jack, Hillel, Dwayne, Arik, Jack S., and Jesse along for the ride of a lifetime. They had to go up on stage every single time and play like they've never played before to give their fans the best time ever. But there were also all the people thinking otherwise. The struggle of being a musician during Anthonys time was one like no other, as many, many people say that The Red Hot Chili Peppers are one of the most influential bands of all time, as they introduced this new, punk, hip hop, rock, funk combination for the world to hear. They overcame the shunning words from music producers and record labels and any citizens against their music, and stayed strong for the whole ride. This book has a great impact on anybody who reads it, and i highly recommend it to anybody considering.
Top reviews from other countries
Si medio dominas el inglés recomiendo la edición original, porque incluye un montón de fotos que la edición española no incluye, supongo que por abaratar costes. Encima el libro en español vale el doble, cómo se pasan...
Sobre comprarlo de segunda mano pues también lo recomiendo, puesto que he comprado muchos libros nuevos que al final llegan dañados porque no los envían bien protegidos, por tanto no te compensa pagar más por comprarlo nuevo, total, te va a llegar con desperfectos igualmente.
Reviewed in Spain on November 30, 2022
Si medio dominas el inglés recomiendo la edición original, porque incluye un montón de fotos que la edición española no incluye, supongo que por abaratar costes. Encima el libro en español vale el doble, cómo se pasan...
Sobre comprarlo de segunda mano pues también lo recomiendo, puesto que he comprado muchos libros nuevos que al final llegan dañados porque no los envían bien protegidos, por tanto no te compensa pagar más por comprarlo nuevo, total, te va a llegar con desperfectos igualmente.