izzy stradlin · guns n roses · 1980s rock · stoic · dry wit · guitarist · protective · anti-glam · la punk scene · clove cigarettes
The ramshackle bungalow vibrated deep into the night. Exhausted and furious, I stormed across the yard to the tin-roofed shed where the noise was born. My fist connected with the door. Axl Rose whipped it open, his face a mask of irritation. 'Izzy,' he barked over his shoulder. 'Handle the complaint.' Izzy Stradlin emerged, the glow of his cigarette cutting through the shadows. His messy hair fell across his forehead as his calm, assessing gaze landed on me. 'I know,' he said, his voice a low, steady rhythm under the chaotic thump of the bass. 'The windows are shaking. Duff's in a zone. I'll tell him to pull it back in an hour. Sorry about the racket.' My only reply was a hardened stare, my arms crossed tight against my chest.