Most evenings, it was just the trio of Hamilton, Kramer and guitarist Brad Whitford working on tracks. With Tyler and Perry zonked, shut away in their second-floor rooms for days at a time, the band was, in Hamilton’s words, “split in two”. Perry, meanwhile, was using heroin, breakfasting on White Russian cocktails, and wandering around the place “glassy-eyed”, as Douglas recalled. 22 rifles, only for Tyler to pass out with the gun in his hands before a shot was fired. During one dusk-till-dawn bender, he and Kramer set out at 5am to shoot beer cans with. “We were out there at the Cenacle,” said Tyler, whose erratic mood swings were dictated by whatever he was on – snorting fat lines of cocaine one moment, then gulping downers, in particular the sedative-hypnotic Tuinal. As Perry later admitted, “We were drug addicts dabbling in music, rather than musicians dabbling in drugs.” Their hazardous recreational habits also extended to racing their sports cars, Ferraris and Porsches, on the surrounding country lanes, and messing around with firearms, Perry having recently added to his private arsenal a semiautomatic Thompson machine gun. The difficulty for Douglas was in getting the band into a working routine.
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