by Dave Grohl
My career as a dusk-to-dawn stoner was in full swing now; I was smoking it if I had it, searching for it if I didn’t. This posed perhaps life’s greatest challenge on the road. Not only did you have to budget it into your $7.50-a-day per diem (cigarettes, Taco Bell, weed) but you had to have a keen sense of party radar to scope out who was holding and who wasn’t at all times. Jimmy and I were constantly on the lookout for any lanky metalhead with a Slayer patch on the back of their leather jacket or crusty hippie-punk with dreadlocks tucked into a knit cap milling around the gig. When we rarely scored, we would run back to the van and inspect the bud, marveling at its superiority to the brown dirt weed we were used to smoking back home, and then proceed to get high as two Georgia pines right before the show.
It was finally time to head to California, somewhere I never in my wildest dreams thought I would see. To be standing in front of the Hollywood sign 2,670 miles away from my little idyllic neighborhood made as much sense to me as planting a fucking flag on Pluto. Unfathomable. All I knew about America’s most glamorized state was what I had seen on television and in movies, so I imagined all the police would look like they were in the Village People, all the kids would look like they were in The Bad News Bears, and all the women would look like Charlie’s Angels. (Turns out I was right.)
With five days until the next show, we took our sweet time heading down to our next destination, Santa Cruz, another town I knew virtually nothing about other than it was where Corey Haim’s vampire masterpiece The Lost Boys was filmed. Scream had become close friends with a band from Santa Cruz called Bl’ast years before, and as most everyone was in this underground network community, they were generous enough to offer a place to crash until our next show, in San Francisco. The eight-hundred-mile drive was a killer, but the scenery made up for our claustrophobia. We wound through the mountain passes of the prehistoric Pacific Coast Ranges until we finally made it to the Pacific Coast Highway, where we threaded through the mighty redwoods as giant waves crashed along the cliffs. I was in awe. Having watched the landscape evolve into this natural beauty over long, arduous weeks and thousands of miles, I considered this the payoff. I felt so lucky, so alive, so free.
Stopping at a pay phone as we got closer to town, Pete called ahead to our host, Bl’ast buddy Steve Isles, and gave an ETA for our arrival. He returned to the van with wonderful news: Steve’s mother, Sherri, was making a huge pasta dinner for us all and we would be crashing at their beautiful A-frame house just down the street from the beach for the next four days. This wasn’t tour anymore, this was Club Med. We bought Sherri a bouquet of flowers and a bottle of wine at the grocery store and raced to our new accommodations, ready to break free from the confines of our van and feast like kings.
We were greeted like family, and before long the mountains of pasta were being devoured and fat joints of the most incredible marijuana I had ever seen were being passed around the table, the thick, sweet smoke wafting in the air as we drank and told stories from the road. To my amazement, even Sherri was smoking! Now, THIS was California. I thought MY mom was cool. For Sherri to take in this vagabond group of disheveled punk rockers, feed us, smoke us out, and give us somewhere warm to sleep was nothing short of sainthood-level charity. It was the most selfless act of hospitality I had ever experienced. I passed out in my sleeping bag with a foggy smile and a full stomach.
The next day, Sherri was leaving town but instructed us that the leftovers were in the fridge and the weed was in the cupboard. Jimmy and I looked at each other and immediately made a beeline to the cupboard, where we found a large mason jar packed with the kind of weed you only see in a High Times centerfold. We grabbed a hairy, fluorescent-green bud and headed down to the beach on two Vespa-like scooters that we found in the garage, and there it was . . . the Pacific Ocean. I walked across the sand to the shore break and let the freezing water rush over my feet as I watched the sun set on the horizon. I had made it. FROM ONE OCEAN TO THE OTHER, I HAD CROSSED THE COUNTRY ON NOTHING MORE THAN THE LOVE OF MUSIC AND THE WILL TO SURVIVE.
Surely, it could never get any better than this.
Sure, I Wanna Be Your Dog!
Courtesy of the author’s personal archives
Toronto, Canada. June 22, 1990. A sunny afternoon in “the 6.” Scream had just set sail on yet another North American tour in our trusted (but funky) Dodge van, beginning with a jump over the border for a short run of Canadian shows in two of my favorite cities on earth, Montreal and Toronto. Over the years, Scream had established a small but loyal fan base up in the Great White North, while making friends with a network of amazing people who kindly hosted us in their various warehouse lofts and shared apartments every time we came to visit (far more comfortable accommodations than we were used to at the time). From my first tour at the age of eighteen, I always loved traveling to Canada. The hash was good, the girls were cute, and the shows were consistently wild, usually pulling in enough paid entrants to get us to the next stop without much trouble. But it was the post-show parties with our Canuck buddies, unrivaled in hilarity, that really made the trek worthwhile. Because, let’s face it, Canadians are fucking awesome. Laid-back, genuine, and funny as all hell. I defy anyone to walk one city block without making a fast friend in Canada. We were always welcomed there with open arms by our extended family of freaks and geeks, and they never failed to show us a good time, whether drunkenly wandering the streets of Montreal well past midnight in search of smoked-meat sandwiches and poutine, or getting high until the sun came up while watching Night Ride. (Still to this day one of my favorite shows, Night Ride was literally just a camera mounted on the dashboard of a car, driving around town for an hour with a jazz flugelhorn soundtrack. Part of a genre hilariously referred to as “slow television,” if paired with a little smoke and drink, it became a surreal, absurdist meditation. Very popular with prison inmates . . . or so I hear.)
Of all the venues in Toronto, the Rivoli on Queen Street West was perhaps the coolest club in town. Known for hosting the hippest bands on the underground touring circuit, with a capacity of around 250 people, it may not have been Royal Albert Hall, but it well suited a band like ours, and we would undoubtedly tear the roof off the fuckin’ joint with a triple-digit decimal attack come showtime. As we loaded in and unpacked our gear onto the tiny little stage for an early soundcheck, I noticed that the bartender was putting up promotional posters for Iggy Pop’s new album, Brick by Brick, all over the sticky, nicotine-stained walls. Strange, I thought, but since it had nothing to do with our gig, we all proceeded to plug in and crank up our high-octane punk rock and roll, getting our PA and monitor levels correct for that night’s performance as best we could. Our road crew at the time consisted of one roadie, Barry Thomas (very Canadian), so the process of assembling our backline of equipment was mostly left to the band. No sound engineer, no lighting engineer, just the four of us and Barry. Typically, a club soundcheck was a late afternoon affair just before doors opened, as set times were usually in the later hours of the evening. But, for whatever reason, on this particular day we were asked to come in much earlier, at noon for our nine P.M. show. Kind of unusual. Nevertheless, we dutifully complied. As I tuned my drums and watched more and more Iggy posters go on the wall, I had a sneaking suspicion that something was up, so I stopped what I was doing and asked the bartender, “Hey, man, what’s the deal with all the posters?”
Courtesy of Virginia Grohl’s personal archives
Courtesy of Virginia Grohl’s personal archives
Courtesy of Virginia Grohl’s personal archives
Courtesy of Virginia Grohl’s personal archives
“Iggy’s having a record release party here before your show,” he nonchalantly replied. “And he’s performing.”
My head practically exploded. This was a blessed miracle of musical destiny! Talk about being in the right place at the right time! I was soon to be in the same dingy little room as the godfather of punk, IGGY FUCKING POP! The artist formerly known as Jame
s Newell Osterberg Jr., this man was the Adam AND the Eve to what we now refer to as punk rock, and he would soon transform this little hole-in-the-wall club into a sonic Garden of Eden! The term “living legend” doesn’t even begin to describe his importance and relevance. I mean, the guy is credited with inventing the fucking stage dive. Top that!
“But you guys have to clear out after soundcheck. It’s record company only.”
In an instant, my dreams of meeting this musical enigma were dashed. I begged. I pleaded. I held back the tears of a thousand Cure fans and furiously racked my brain to come up with any and every excuse I could think of to convince him that we should stay. “But, but . . . what about our equipment? We need to be here to make sure nobody steals anything!” I blurted out, hoping he would take the bait and give us a pass. “The gear will be fine,” he said. “It’s just a bunch of record company types.”
Drowned in disappointment, we finished our soundcheck and retreated back to our old rust bucket in the alley, licking our wounds and cursing corporate, major-label record release parties to the fiery pits of hell. Banished from this once-in-a-lifetime experience, we were feeling pure heartbreak and rejection, rivaled only by the time I was dumped at a senior homecoming dance (which was on a boat, meaning I was therefore trapped in teenage purgatory until we docked hours later). Had the term “FOMO” existed in 1990, it most definitely would have applied here. Now our only options were to wander the city looking for a drink or sit in the van for nine fucking hours eating pizza and listening to the radio. Slightly hungover from the night before, I went with option B.
A short time later as we relaxed in the van, a black stretch limo appeared. Like a rock and roll secret service operation, it stealthily pulled into the back alley, stopped, and popped the trunk as the club door simultaneously swung open, a security guard awaiting the chauffeur’s precious cargo with the choreographed attention to detail that would be offered for a sitting president. Peering out from the comfort of our homeless shelter on wheels, we craned our necks in excitement to see our hero in the flesh. And then, like Daniel’s vision of the angel . . . he appeared. Just a short distance from our parking space, he emerged from the car, all five feet and seven inches of rock royalty poured into old jeans and a T-shirt. He walked to the trunk, grabbed his guitar case, and scurried inside. THIS WAS THE CLOSEST I HAD EVER BEEN TO A BONA FIDE ROCK STAR UP TO THIS POINT IN MY LIFE. His beautiful, crooked image had been burned into my brain from years of studying his work, but this was no one-dimensional album sleeve or bedroom poster. This was the living, breathing embodiment of cool, in the flesh. And, just like that, the backstage door closed behind him.
I have waxed poetic about the thrill of human interaction many times before, particularly as it applies to live music, because it takes us from the one-dimensional virtual experience to the three-dimensional tangible experience, ultimately reassuring us that this life is real and that we are not alone. Even just a chance encounter with a person you’ve grown up listening to, gazing at their album covers for hours on end, learning to play the drums from studying their jagged, tribal grooves, can send the matrix on its side. That’s all it took for me that night. My faith in music was rewarded, just by watching Iggy walk the short distance from his car into the same dark door I had just exited. My world was now a little bit brighter. And that was that.
Courtesy of Virginia Grohl’s personal archives
Courtesy of Virginia Grohl’s personal archives
Courtesy of Virginia Grohl’s personal archives
Courtesy of Virginia Grohl’s personal archives
A bit later, there was a knock at the window of the van. “Which one of you is the drummer?”
If I’ve learned one thing in my thirty-three years of being a professional touring musician, it’s that nothing good ever comes from this question. More often than not, it’s followed by either handcuffs, a subpoena, or a swift punch in the teeth. Not the type of thing you want to hear when you’re parked in a litter-filled alleyway, eight hundred miles from home, in another country. My head shot up from my musty sleeping bag in the back of the van, eyes widened in fear, awaiting fierce retribution for god only knew what crime I had committed to warrant this damning inquisition. Frozen in shock and mind racing, I immediately began to review all of the regretful possibilities that had brought me to this fate. Had I left a lit cigarette on the drum riser at soundcheck, sparking a raging inferno that had proceeded to burn the venue to the ground with Iggy Pop inside? Maybe made a smart-ass remark about another local band in a blurry fanzine interview, to the dismay of an angry, struggling fellow musician? Perhaps a vengeful ex-boyfriend had waited for this moment ever since the day his girlfriend left him to be with me? (Least likely scenario. I fucking lived in a van, for Christ’s sake.) I sheepishly raised my hand and with a trembling whimper replied, “Ummmm . . . that’s me?”
“WANNA PLAY DRUMS WITH IGGY POP?”
This took being in the right place at the right time to a whole other level.
Confused at such an unimaginable proposition, I paused a moment. Like most musicians, I had fantasized that someday I would be called to the stage by my favorite band to fill in for their drummer, who, for whatever reason, could not perform. I had fantasized about that happening with Scream, back before I joined. Now it was actually happening. Since I learned to play the drums by listening to my favorite bands’ records, I could replicate any of their albums note for note, Iggy and the Stooges included. This opportunity was, simply put, a dream come true. My heart retreated from my stomach in a rush of relief, and I screamed, “FUCK YEAH!” as I jumped out of my makeshift bed. I scrambled to collect myself as my bandmates looked on in wild amazement, tumbling out the side door onto the street in a rolling wave of excitement, racing to that backstage door as if I were on fire.
Once inside, I could hear a loud, distorted electric guitar being primitively strummed, feedback filling the room with deafening frequencies. As I turned the corner, there stood Iggy, guitar in hand, face-to-face with a full Marshall stack that towered over him like a monolith from 2001: A Space Odyssey as he played jangly, dissonant chords and fiddled with the knobs to find his tone. First impression? He was wearing glasses. Not cool fucking rock star glasses, mind you. No, I’m pretty sure they were readers. Thank god for that, I thought, as it instantly defused some of the mortifying tension that had overcome me as I inched toward the stage. Before I could properly introduce myself, the man who had summoned me from the comfort of my sleeping bag blurted out, “Here’s the drummer kid from tonight’s band.” Iggy turned with outstretched hand and said, “Hi, I’m Jim.” I nervously clasped his hand, the same one that had penned the lyrics to such classics as “Lust for Life,” “No Fun,” “Search and Destroy,” “I Wanna Be Your Dog,” and so many more.
Courtesy of Virginia Grohl’s personal archives
Courtesy of Virginia Grohl’s personal archives
“Hi, I’m Dave,” I said, like a kid meeting his teacher on the first day of school.
“Do you know my music?” he asked in his familiar Midwestern drawl. Now, ever since I was a child, I had always been told that there is no such thing as a stupid question, but no level of humility could spare Iggy the ridiculous “duh” face that I gave in response to this doozy. “Yes. I know your music,” I said with a smile. “Wanna jam?” came next. Strike two. “YES,” I obviously replied. I crawled back to my drum stool, and with Iggy fucking Pop standing a mere six inches from the yellow Tama drum set that I’d bought with money made from painting houses and mowing lawns, we started to jam. The rolling riff of “1969” was soon filling the empty room, and I joined in with its well-known tom-tom pattern, note for note, just like the record. Only guitar and drums, our stripped-down version of the song was even more raw than the classic album version (eat your heart out, White Stripes). Next up, the devilish “I Wanna Be Your Dog,” perhaps my favorite from the Stooges’ 1969 debut. Then, a curveball: he started showing me a song from his new reco
rd I had yet to hear, called “I Won’t Crap Out.” With the passion of a man performing to a sold-out stadium, he sang:
I’m standin’ in a shadow, hating the world
I keep a wall around me, block out the herd
It’s a nerve-wreck place to be, it kills real quick
You gotta scrape the concrete off your dick . . .
Having never heard the song, I followed along as best I could but had to wonder why the hell he was going to all the trouble of teaching me something that no one would ever hear. Maybe he was just lonely and wanted to jam? Maybe he was graciously making some no-name kid’s dream come true by inviting me to play along with him, knowing that it was a story I would get to tell for the rest of my life? As strange as it seemed, I kept focused on his strumming hand and locked into the arrangement, banging it out like we WERE in a sold-out stadium. We ended in unison on a triumphant final crash.
“Great,” he said when we finished. “We go on at six o’clock.”
Wait, what? Us? This? Tonight? This was not at all what I was expecting. Never for one second did I imagine he would want to perform these songs with me IN FRONT OF PEOPLE. I thought this was just an impromptu jam session, something to pass the time fucking around as I had done a thousand times before with friends in basements and dusty garages filled with gasoline cans and gardening tools. I didn’t realize this was a fucking audition! My jaw dropped, and with an incredulous stare I said, “You wanna do this tonight?” Iggy stood there smiling and said, “Yeah, man!” “Ummmm . . . should we have a bass player?” I asked. Seeming rather surprised, he said, “You got one?” I ran top-speed out to the van to grab our bassist, Skeeter. I couldn’t wait to share this life-changing experience with another bandmate, knowing that he would appreciate it as much as me. Skeeter was a huge fan of Iggy and the Stooges as well (not to mention a phenomenal bass player with perfect time and feel), and the three of us were rehearsed and ready in no time. It was official: we were now Iggy Pop’s rhythm section, at least for one night in Toronto.