I’ll never watch Guns N’ Roses again. Eastern Creek was enough.

For those who weren’t there, January 30, 1993 at Eastern Creek Raceway should have been legendary. A sea of people standing in 40-degree heat. Depending on who you believe it was anywhere from 20,000 to maybe close to 100,000 fans. Either way, it was huge. And everyone there wanted the same thing, to see the biggest rock band in the world.

The day actually started the right way.

Pearls & Swine opened. I still wonder what ever happened to them. I’m sure a Google search would give me the answers.

Rose Tattoo came out swinging with that filthy slide guitar.

Skid Row were handing bottles of beer into the crowd, even though glass was banned, which was reckless and perfect and exactly what rock and roll used to feel like.

Everything about it felt dangerous and alive.

Until it didn’t.

Because then we waited.

And waited.

And waited.

The band were supposed to arrive by helicopter. Which sounds cool until you realise you’ve been standing in brutal heat for hours while nothing happens. Eventually the word spread through the crowd around 9pm: Axl Rose was still in Melbourne because he “wasn’t feeling it.”

Not sick. Not stranded. Not injured.

Just… not feeling it.

That’s the moment the magic died.

When the band finally hit the stage more than two hours late, the damage was already done. People were walking away from the show as they played. When “Paradise City” started it was the cue for a mass evacuation.

Thousands of people had missed their last trains home. Remember, this was a raceway miles from proper public transport. Fans were stranded because the frontman of the biggest band on earth decided the schedule was optional.

And that was the pattern.

This wasn’t an isolated rock-star mishap. This was behaviour.

Two years earlier at the Riverport Amphitheater on July 2, 1991, Rose spotted a fan filming the show. Instead of letting security deal with it, he jumped into the crowd himself, attacked people trying to grab the camera, came back onstage and announced:

“Thanks to the lame-ass security, I’m going home.”

Then he smashed the mic and walked off.

The crowd rioted. More than 60 people were injured. Fifteen arrests. The venue wrecked.

A year later came the infamous Montreal disaster at Olympic Stadium on August 8, 1992.

Metallica had already cut their set short after James Hetfield was badly burned by pyrotechnics. That night could have been Rose’s moment to be the hero, to carry the show, save the night, give fans something.

Instead he complained about his voice and walked off early.

The crowd exploded. Cars outside overturned. Fires lit. Windows smashed.

Hero moment… squandered.

And by 1992 the late starts had already become routine. Fans waiting hours was basically part of the ticket price.

Before the Sydney show there had already been the chaos of the Melbourne gig at Calder Park Raceway. The Victorian Ombudsman later produced a 100-page report describing what was arguably one of the worst concerts ever staged in Australia.

One line from that report says everything:

“The area later became a saturated and smelling swamp due to the heavy rains and the urine.”

Melbourne had 40 degree heat, violent winds and driving rain. Sydney just got the furnace, 40-degree heat.

Both crowds got the same treatment.

Because the shows were staged at remote racing venues, thousands of fans had no way out once transport shut down. Add brutal heat and suddenly water started selling for around $7 a bottle, which in 1993 was outrageous.

Meanwhile inside the band, things were falling apart. Rose had effectively isolated himself from the rest of Guns N’ Roses, especially Slash, largely over Slash’s involvement with Michael Jackson.

The divide was so deep Rose travelled on a completely separate helicopter, stayed in a different hotel, and even entered the stage from the opposite side.

That tells you everything.

Look, rock and roll has always had chaos. That’s part of the mythology. The danger, the excess, the unpredictability, that’s the electricity people pay to feel.

But there’s a difference between rock-and-roll chaos and just not giving a damn about the people who paid to see you.

That night at Eastern Creek, Axl Rose had a choice.

He could respect the crowd standing in brutal heat waiting for him. Or he could treat the fans like they didn’t matter.

He chose the second option.

And once you see that choice clearly, it’s very hard to unsee it.