The Storyteller

by Dave Grohl

  At one point before the show, a local promoter popped his head into the dressing room to wish me luck and to remind me that I had much to live up to, as the one and only Bruce Springsteen had played this stadium before and the audience were so enthralled that they “split the foundation” of the gigantic venue. No pressure! Never for a moment have I imagined rising to the level of “the Boss” himself, but I have to say, this pep talk did turn up the heat a little bit. I’m gonna fuckin’ give it to them good tonight, I thought, and continued my pre-show ritual, which usually consisted of three Advils, three beers, and a room full of laughter. I confess, I have always been too embarrassed to do any sort of conventional vocal warmups and vocal exercises. Especially considering that the majority of my performance is screaming bloody fucking murder rather than any gorgeous, operatic croon. A few belly laughs and our version of “band prayer” (a nonreligious moment where we all do a shot of Crown Royal as we stare into each other’s eyes) always does the trick.

  The sun was still bright in the sky when we hit the stage that night, and as we opened with the first chords of “Everlong” (undoubtedly our most popular song), the crowd went wild. This song, which we usually reserve for the closing number, was the perfect selection to begin what would turn out to be our most unforgettable show, and we barreled through it with the excited force of a band on fire. Without hesitation, we quickly counted into the fast-paced rock of “Monkey Wrench” as I ran from one side of the stage to the other, banging my head and soloing like a kid with a tennis racket in his bedroom mirror. Stadium stages are not only wide but extremely high, in order for the audience to see the performers from hundreds of yards away, so each movement is a fifty-yard dash, leaving you with little breath to sing the next line when you race back to the microphone.

  Midway through the song, I jolted forward for another trip to the wings (puns are indeed a specialty of mine) and my foot caught a cable that stretched across the floor, which sent me into a stumble only feet from the edge of the stage. My body lurched forward, and my balance was gone as I peered down at the twelve-foot fall before me. No sweat, I thought. I’ll just jump. As I had done countless times from neighborhood rooftops as a child, I put my best foot forward (see?) and hoped everything would work out. But this was no rooftop overlooking a manicured suburban lawn. No. This was hard, unforgiving concrete with hard plastic walkways designed to protect the soccer field beneath them. My body slammed the ground with a gruesome BANG!, and a giant wave of panicked adrenaline instinctively kicked in. How embarrassing! I thought. I quickly stood up so as to play it off like another minor childhood tumble, no big deal, but as I took my first step I instantly knew something was wrong. As I put my weight on my right ankle, it felt warm and numb, with the sickening consistency of a sock full of mashed potatoes. It was just . . . mush. I fell to the ground again, holding my leg as the local security guards surrounded me. Blissfully oblivious to what had happened to me, the band played on above my head, out of view of the carnage unfolding below the steep stage. I somehow caught the attention of our band security guard, Ray, who was thirty yards away, and exaggeratedly mouthed the words “I JUST BROKE MY FUCKING LEG!” Ray immediately jumped to my rescue, his massive frame bounding toward me as the band stopped playing and the song ground to a halt.

  I asked for a microphone, and from the narrow lane of the sweaty security pit I calmly declared, “Ladies and gentlemen, I think I just broke my leg. I think I really broke my leg . . .” There was a stunned silence in the stadium, as my faithful band was now looking down over the lip of the stage in bewildered shock, watching as I was quickly surrounded by paramedics calling for a gurney. My mind was racing as I tried to think of something to say that would defuse or remedy this ridiculous twist of fate. Here I was, barely two songs into a planned two-and-a-half-hour set, about to be carried away like an injured athlete off the field in front of fifty thousand fans. These people had all traveled from far and wide, spending their hard-earned money to be entertained for the evening. I was going to give them a Boss-level show, damn it. I thought, and then blurted out the first thing that came to mind: “You have my promise, right now, that the Foo Fighters . . . we’re gonna come back and finish this show . . .” I LOOKED UP AT OUR DRUMMER TAYLOR, MY BEST FRIEND AND PARTNER IN CRIME, AND SAID, “KEEP PLAYING!!!”

  As I was carried to the side of the stage, the opening notes of “Cold Day in the Sun,” from our fifth album, rang through the stadium to a stunned audience. A young Swedish doctor by the name of Johan Sampson cut the laces of my high-top sneaker, and as he removed it my foot fell limp to one side. I had dislocated my ankle, tearing all of the ligaments that keep the joint in place, as well as snapping my fibula in a razor-clean break. He looked up to me and in his heavy Swedish accent said, “Your leg is probably broken, and your ankle is dislocated, so we must put it back in right now.” Just then, my wife, Jordyn, and my tour manager, Gus Brandt, ran to my side in horrified concern, but all I could do was laugh at the absurdity of the situation. I instructed Gus to get me a tall Solo cup of Crown Royal and leaned over to my wife, taking the sleeve of her leather jacket and putting it between my teeth. “Go for it,” I told the doctor as I bit down on the salty black material, feeling a strange pressure as they wrestled my ankle back into place like an old key in a rusty lock.

  “Stay with me, stay with me, tonight you better stay with me . . . !!!” sang Taylor. The Faces classic that we had been playing for years echoed in the distance as another paramedic tried putting one of those Mount Everest Mylar blankets over me, assuming that I was in a state of shock. Can’t blame her, really. Maybe I was. I was lying on my back laughing with a plastic cup filled to the brim with whiskey, showing no signs that I had just decimated my leg in a massive fall. The only thing I felt in that moment was the responsibility of finishing the show for the thousands of people who had come to see us tear this place down with our well-oiled stadium-rock machine. I imagined lines and lines of people, heading for the exits, hands hanging low in disappointment, cursing our name and vowing to never come see us again. I turned to Johan, who was carefully holding my foot in place, and asked, “Hey . . . can I go up and finish the show if I sit in a chair?” “You will need a brace . . . ,” he told me. I asked if they had one on hand, and he informed me that we would need to go to the hospital and have a brace fitted there, and then we could return. “How far is the hospital from here?” I spat back. “Thirty minutes,” he replied. Fuck that! I thought. There was no way in hell I was leaving this stadium without giving these people their money’s worth. “How about this . . . ,” I said. “You go to the hospital and get a brace, I’m gonna go sit down and play, and when you return, we’ll put it on.” He looked at me in frustration and very politely informed me, “If I let go of your foot, it will fall back out of the socket!” Without hesitation, and in a moment of pure, stubborn will, I loudly exclaimed, “Well then, you’re coming up onstage with me, motherfucker!”

  “Pressure . . . pushing down on me . . . ,” Taylor continued in raspy perfect pitch, now singing the Queen/David Bowie classic as the doctor wrapped my ankle tightly in an Ace bandage, never losing hold of my annihilated limb, until I was lifted in a coordinated effort of multiple large men and carried back to the stage, where a chair waited for me in the place where I’d once stood.

  Life has a way of gifting you serendipitous, poetic moments along the way, but as my ass hit that chair and my guitar was placed in my lap, I burst into the bridge of “Under Pressure” as I always had done, singing in my best falsetto, “Chippin’ around kick my brains around the floor! These are the days it never rains but it pours . . . ,” and the deafening roar of the crowd confirmed that this song and this lyric could not have been more apropos in this unforgettable moment. You just can’t make this shit up. It was sheer joy. It was triumph. It was survival.

  Next, I kicked into our song “Learn to Fly” and looked down at Johan kneeling in front of me, trying his best to steady my foot as I thrashed my guita
r back and forth, adrenaline still pulsing through my veins. I noticed that he was no longer in a fixed state of worry but bobbing his head along to the music, so I winked with a smile and said, “This is pretty cool, huh?”

  “Yeeeeeaaahhhh!!!” he said. Little did I know that he was also a rock musician, and that the thrill of being on a stadium stage was in no way lost on him.

  It wasn’t long before the ambulance returned with that brace, which turned out to be a full plaster cast that they slung on me with the speed of a NASCAR pit crew, and we continued on with the show. Hours and songs passed, and at one point I even crutched my way to the center of the stadium to sing “My Hero” and “Times Like These”; the amount of love and support that was returned by the audience in a rapturous sing-along brought me to tears. By the time we hit the final notes of “Best of You,” I knew that we had just experienced a defining moment in our career. This band, born from the heartbreak and tragedy of our broken past, was a celebration of love, and life, and the dedication to finding happiness in every next day. And now, more than ever, it represented healing and survival.

  I was quickly escorted to a car beside the stage, and we sped off to the hospital surrounded by a wailing police escort. Along the way, I noticed that my then six-year-old daughter, Harper, who had watched this entire series of unfortunate events play out, began to cry quietly. As the siren lights illuminated her face, I asked, “What’s wrong, Boo?” She didn’t speak. “Are you scared?” I said. She nodded her head slowly as the tears rolled down her beautiful face, and my heart sank in my chest. Though I felt no pain, I felt hers. “Everything’s fine! We’re just going to the hospital so that they can take pictures of my bones . . . it’s really cool!” I said with forced, manufactured cheer. She did her best to smile and muster some courage, but I could feel the fear and empathy in her innocent little heart, and I was instantly focused on her well-being. After all, you are only as happy as your unhappiest child. Upon arrival at the hospital, I was placed in a wheelchair and sat her in my lap for the ride to the X-ray room, doing my best to make this bizarre moment fun.

  Thankfully, she giggled.

  Lying on the cold X-ray table, I was told to remain still as they moved the equipment around my leg to get a clean shot of my injury. Like an alien abduction, the white light filled the room, and there I was, alone, with only a window separating me from my tour manager and the technician. Silence. A low humming noise buzzed a few times, and I looked up to Gus’s pained expression behind the glass. It was not what I’d hoped or wanted to see. He looked me in the eyes and mouthed the word “surgery.” Fuck.

  The pain had finally set in when I made it back to my hotel in Norway that night, and as I lay on the couch with my cast in the air, I couldn’t help but think of those summer days I’d spent as a mischievous, hyperactive daredevil child, wandering the streets searching for thrills until I had holes in my sneakers, with no regard for physical consequences. Only emotional consequences. And as I looked at the texts pouring in on my phone, I wept at all the love and concern that my friends were sending me upon hearing the news. I knew what I had to do.

  YOU PICK YOURSELF UP OFF THE GROUND. YOU WALK HOME. THE SHOW MUST GO ON.

  Tracey Is a Punk Rocker

  “Tracey, they’re here!”

  In the extravagant foyer of my aunt Sherry’s turn-of-the-century Evanston, Illinois, estate, I stood at the bottom of the long, winding staircase waiting to greet my ultra-cool cousin Tracey with a much-anticipated hug. Though we weren’t technically related, I considered Tracey family as much as I did any blood relative. Our mothers had met as teenagers in high school and became lifelong friends, even forming an a cappella singing group called the Three Belles that performed at their local Boardman, Ohio, Kiwanis clubs, Women’s City Clubs, and school functions in the early fifties (not to mention a morning TV cooking show where my mother drank milk for a commercial endorsement and almost threw up all over the set). Joined by their dear friend Jeralyn Meyer, the trio sang “Tea for Two,” “Bewitched,” and “Alexander’s Ragtime Band” in perfect harmony, all smiles and matching outfits. With no real professional aspirations, theirs was more of a heartfelt passion, a way to pass the time and share their love of music with friends. After graduation, my mother and Sherry went their separate ways in life but vowed to reconnect every summer from then on, which we did, no matter the distance between our families.

  Our seven-hundred-mile drive from Springfield, Virginia, to Evanston was no small feat. My mother, my sister, and I would cram our luggage, pillows, blankets, and cooler full of snacks into our baby-blue 1981 Ford Fiesta for the eleven-hour drive, usually stopping halfway in Youngstown, Ohio, for a few days to visit with my grandparents, not far from where I was born in the little town of Warren. It was the highlight of the year, driving up the Pennsylvania Turnpike into one of America’s most beautiful corners, winding over rolling hills and through long mountain tunnels. I always enjoyed the trip, singing along to the radio with my mother from the front seat, pulling over at rest stops for souvenirs, and eating sandwiches that we had brought for the ride. It was my first real taste of travel, and even then I could appreciate the gradual change in landscape as we barreled across the country toward the Midwest in our tiny little car, squeezed in like cosmonauts for hours on end. I can only think that the pleasure I found watching the long road ahead inspired me to follow those same highways later on in life.

  Courtesy of the author’s personal archives

  After traveling from our sleepy suburban Virginia neighborhood, into the Pennsylvania hills, and past the long, flat cornfields of rural Ohio, the sight of Chicago’s sprawling metropolis before our windshield was nothing less than triumphant. Like the Emerald City from The Wizard of Oz, the glorious vision of the Sears Tower standing in the distance always filled me with a sense of amazement and wild anticipation, wondering what this summer’s trip would have in store. I absolutely loved Chicago. Its multicultural maze of subway cars and brick buildings seemed like a playground of opportunity, much more exciting than the quiet suburban environment of my home in Virginia. Along with my cousin Tracey, the most adventurous of my “cousins,” there were her three older brothers, Trip, Todd, and Troy, who would always take me under their wing and show me a world outside of my own that I otherwise never would have experienced, from exploring the city to playing for hours on the warm beaches of Lake Michigan. This was my Fantasy Island, my Club Med, my Copacabana. This also became my life’s first real taste of independence, as I eventually began taking the L downtown without my mother’s supervision to explore the city’s many corners, quickly finding my own sense of identity that stretched far beyond who I had been led to believe I could be. I was living a classic 1980s John Hughes coming-of-age film without realizing it, aesthetically and emotionally.

  As I stood waiting for Tracey to bounce down in her usual shorts and polo shirt, I noticed an ominous sound from upstairs. The sound of chains clanging and leather creaking, boots hitting the floor with a thud in every step, like a Viking slowly approaching an intended victim. A home intruder? A Hells Angel? The Ghost of Christmas Past? My heart raced as the footsteps grew closer, now at the top of the staircase. Boom. Clink. Boom. Clink. Boom. Clink. And then she appeared . . .

  TRACEY WAS NOW A PUNK ROCKER.

  With shiny Doc Marten boots, black bondage pants, an Anti-Pasti T-shirt, and a shaved head, she was a terrifying yet glorious vision of rebellion. Long gone were the tennis shorts and sneakers from last summer; Tracey had transformed into something I had seen only on prime-time TV shows like CHiPs or Quincy. But this was no cartoonish, spiky-haired villain terrorizing a silly sitcom with reckless anarchy and a clamorous soundtrack in the background. No. This was fucking real. I stood in awe, as if I were face-to-face with an alien sent from another civilization, examining every spike, every safety pin, and every leather strap with joyous bewilderment. But my shock and surprise were calmed the instant she greeted us with her usual sunny smile. It was still Tr
acey, just turned up to 11 like a postapocalyptic superhero. To say that I was excited would be one of my life’s greatest understatements. I was beside myself. Something had been awakened in me—I just wasn’t yet sure what that was.

  After the usual jolly catch-up, Tracey and I wandered upstairs to her bedroom, where she proceeded to show me the massive record collection next to her turntable stereo. Rows and rows of seven-inch singles and LPs, all neatly lined up and meticulously cared for, with band names that I had never heard of—the Misfits, Dead Kennedys, Bad Brains, Germs, Naked Raygun, Black Flag, Wire, Minor Threat, GBH, Discharge, the Effigies . . . too many to name here. This was a virtual treasure trove of underground, independent punk rock, something I had never known existed up until that point. We sat on her floor as she proceeded to play record after record with the enthusiasm of a professor instructing a hungry student ravenous for knowledge. “Listen to this one!” she would say, and carefully drop a disc onto the record player. “Now this!” she continued, playing one after another, blowing my mind into outer space with each track. I had questions. So many questions. How could I have not known that this existed? Does everybody know about this? Is this even legal? I examined the sleeve of each record, eyes wide, gazing at the crude artwork, photos, and credits, while Tracey blasted the loud, raw music filled with whiplash tempos and bloodcurdling screams. Hours flew by, and everything I knew about music up until that point went right out the window.

  THIS WAS THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF MY LIFE.

  Upon closer inspection, I noticed one glaring difference from all the typical classic rock albums that I owned at home: none of these albums were from any record companies I had ever heard of. On the contrary, most of them practically looked homemade. They featured xeroxed covers with dark, pixelated photos; handwritten lyrics and credits; silkscreened logos and graphics, all clumsily stuffed into plastic sleeves that sold for a mere three or four dollars. This underground network somehow existed entirely outside of the conventional, corporate structure and defied the ordinary manner of manufacturing and distributing music. These people were doing it THEMSELVES, Tracey explained. I was entranced, awakened, and inspired. I no longer considered music an unattainable act of wizardry, only possible for those who were blessed with the godlike ability of Jimi Hendrix or Paul McCartney. I now realized that all you needed was three chords, an open mind, and a microphone. And the passion and drive to make it happen yourself.