Many of Rose's former boosters now consider him a crybaby, an OK singer who cares only for himself and is unable to act his age. His two wives divorced him over claims of mental and physical abuse, while Slash, his former Guns n' Roses partner in crime, hasn't spoken to Rose in almost a decade. His fans aren't much kinder -- long before Guns called it quits in 1993, they'd started calling the band "Guns n' Poseurs," and when Rose returned to the stage last year in Las Vegas, most of the Guns faithful focused less on the music, and more on Rose's expanded waistline.

But forget all that. Rose's personal problems, legal travails and general immaturity can never overshadow his talent. Axl Rose kicks ass. He descended on the '80s like acid, burning holes in a country that had become culturally complacent. For anyone with angst, anyone who grew up under Reagan-Bush, hating suspendered suits, hair-spray rock and synthesizers, Axl Rose was a savior. His angry, paranoid lyrics, piercing screams and stomping stage presence all acted as antidotes for the made-up go-go conservatism of the time. He was the anti-Culture Club hero, the flat-haired, bandanna-clad bad boy who never played by the rules, never tried to look pretty -- the one guy who repeatedly made people listen, then told them to fuck off. Few rock 'n' rollers -- Johnny Rotten in his prime, Kurt Cobain -- have given the world a more sincere dedication to pure, authentic anger.

No one could have seen it coming. Rose, born Bill Bailey on Feb. 6, 1962, in Lafayette, Ind., enjoyed most of his boyhood without incident. He grew up in a strict Pentecostal home, but didn't seem to mind much, singing in the church choir and working around his mother's rule that no rock 'n' roll be played in the home.

Then, at 17, he discovered that his natural father -- a man named William Rose -- had abandoned the family when his son Bill was 2. Rose suddenly started to lash out. School and church mattered less and less and he began getting in trouble with the law. The infractions were minor -- shoplifting, public drunkenness -- but they foreshadowed the future.

They also led to Rose's flight. Fed up with Midwestern mores, he hitchhiked to Los Angeles in 1980 with dreams of rock stardom in his head. He soon hooked up with another Indiana native, guitarist Izzy Stradlin, and two other musicians, guitarist Tracii Guns and drummer Rob Garner. The latter pair left Guns n' Roses after the band failed to get a record contract, leaving room for Slash, drummer Steven Adler and bassist Michael "Duff" McKagan to join.

This second draft of Guns n' Roses had more luck, and released its first album in 1985, a live EP from Geffen Records called "Live ?!*@ Like a Suicide." The band's official entrance into the pantheon of rock, however, came two years later with "Appetite for Destruction." Here, it seemed, was something different. Guns rocked somewhere between punk and metal; fast but approachable, it drove listeners just crazy enough to keep returning for more. Even now, the album still hammers a nerve, selling an average of 9,000 copies a week, according to SoundScan.

Some credit for success should be shared. Slash, in particular, played an important part in forging Guns' hard-driving style. But while the songs were supposedly written by all members of the band, the lyrics reek of Rose. And more than anything else it's Rose's delivery -- the squelching engine of rage -- that makes Guns n' Roses unique.

Rose simply attacks the music. I'll never forget throwing on headphones and walking to seventh grade with "Appetite for Destruction" in my Walkman. Rose made me blast the volume and pick up the pace. He didn't so much sing as scream and I couldn't help yelling with him. By the time I got to school, I had beads of sweat on my forehead and a distinct desire to take over the world, to make it listen -- to be, no matter what anyone said.

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