Ripping into Austin, Texas last night, L.A. Guns was a whirlwind of jet-black hair, smudgy black eyes and high-voltage rock-n-roll.
Phil’s reason for not getting back to me is the mother of all rock-n-roll “excuses.” Was he in jail? Was he passed out in a Dumpster after a three-night bender of snot-slinging debauchery? Oh, hell no! It’s much more shocking than that.