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F OR THREE DECADES , starting in the late 1980s, Chris Gill and I frequently found ourselves driving up the twisting roads of the Hollywood Hills to Edward Van Halens spectacularly unspectacular 5150 recording studio, located just a short uphill jog from his house. From the outside, the building looked more like an industrial tool and die shop than a sexy rock and roll hideaway, but that no doubt appealed to Eds grungy, homemade aesthetic sensibility. It was his own private hit factorya place where he could be found every day, playing guitar and composing tunes, some of which, he hoped, would one day appear on Gold and Platinum discs.

When wed pull into his driveway, we were greeted by the sight of Ed waiting for us in his backyard, often chatting with his brother, Alex, or his studio manager, Matt Bruck. Invariably, he would flash his famous smile and wave us inside the studio.

Though not quite messy, 5150 definitely felt comfortably lived in, with an array of banged-up guitars strewn about the floor and resting on couches, disembodied guitar necks hanging on a wall, and stacks of recording tape and CDs filled with snippets of ideas and song fragments spilling off shelves throughout. And thered usually be an ashtray overflowing with cigarette butts teetering on the edge of his recording console.

On occasion, Ed would sniff the air, rub his hands in eager anticipation, and in his distinctive, nicotine-stained rasp say, Hmmm, smells like work in here. It was always a joke, and it was always true.

Because work is what he didoften for hours on endwriting songs, recording ideas, or futzing around endlessly with his guitars. As much as he was a musician Ed was also a revolutionary guitar designer and technician, and his workbench was forever crowded with parts on their way to being incorporated into his next great Frankenstein or tossed onto a scrap heap.

As a teenager growing up in Pasadena, California, Eddie spent much of his time in his bedroom, putting in the ten thousand hours of intensive practice that Outliers author Malcolm Gladwell insists is the key to success in any field. As an adult, his enormous artistic and commercial success notwithstanding, he remained that driven, curious teenager, spending those ten thousand hours and many more at 5150, which ultimately was just an infinitely more sophisticated version of the bedroom where he became Eddie Van Halen, once-in-a-generation guitar player and designer.

Both his childhood room and the studio were far more than places where he could work, practice, write, experiment. They were sanctuaries to which he could repair when the outside world annoyed him, angered him, or sometimes became too painful for him to deal with. At 5150, he was happy and in complete control. And it was his favorite hangout, the place where he spent the lions share of his time with Van Halen.