The Storyteller
Page 19
THE CIRCLE WAS COMPLETE.
This was a home. This was a family. This is what I wanted.
A few days later, my father passed. We had lost touch in the last year of his life, but upon hearing news of his illness the month before Ophelia’s birth, I flew to visit him, knowing it would be the last time we would ever meet. In the same Warren, Ohio, hospital where I was born, we sat and chatted, trading updates on life as I complimented him on his long white hair and beard, which had almost outgrown mine. I told him that I was to become a father again soon, and he congratulated me, wishing me the best of luck. When it was time for me to go, I kissed his hand and said, “Okay, Dad. I’ll see you later. I love you.”
He smiled and said, “I love you too, David.”
Part Four
Cruising
Courtesy of Magdalena Wosinska
Crossing the Bridge to Washington
Courtesy of the author’s personal archives
“I’ll see you down there, dude!”
Paralyzed, with my back against the wall of a long hallway downstairs in the White House, I couldn’t believe my ears.
The president of the United States of America, George W. Bush, had just called me “dude.”
Frozen in shock, I politely waved as he was whisked away by Secret Service agents, and then continued on my mission to find the coatroom to get my very pregnant wife’s winter jacket so that we could head down to the Kennedy Center Honors, where I would be performing the classic “Who Are You” for a star-studded tribute to the Who, which President Bush would be watching from his center seat in the balcony.
HOW ON EARTH DID I GET HERE?
Since 1978, the Kennedy Center Honors has been considered America’s most prestigious performing arts awards ceremony, celebrating those in music, dance, theater, opera, motion pictures, and television for their lifetime of contributions to American culture. To be included in any capacity is an honor in itself, to say the least. The event, a virtual who’s who of Washington, DC’s most recognizable faces, is actually a weekend of multiple gatherings, from dinner at the State Department the night before to an awards presentation in the East Room of the White House the afternoon of the show, but the festivities always kicked off with the Chairman’s Luncheon at a hotel. Not unlike a brunch buffet at your cousin’s wedding, it’s a relatively informal affair, except instead of sharing the salad tongs with your crazy uncle, you’re passing them like a baton to former secretary of state Madeleine Albright. The absurdity of this most surreal experience was hard to ignore, and I found myself trying to keep a straight face while surrounded by the people who made the planet’s most important decisions as they fumbled with the smoked salmon sliding off their bagels. At most of the award ceremonies I attend, I tend to feel like I’m crashing the party, usually only one drink away from being escorted out to the parking lot by security. But I’ve never been afraid of striking up conversations with the most unlikely people no matter how out of my element I may be.
For security reasons, all performers are required to be shuttled to and from the Kennedy Center on one of those large buses that tourists usually fill to visit Washington’s most popular attractions, except instead of gangs of blue-haired seniors from the Midwest, the bus is filled with America’s most recognizable artists, usually breaking into a roaring version of “99 Bottles of Beer on the Wall” (take it from me, the song really acquires a whole new life when sung by Steven Tyler, Herbie Hancock, and the Jonas Brothers). It’s never a long drive to the gig, but just long enough to get to know these familiar faces and become fast friends, sharing stories of fabled careers and getting hearing aid advice from the best of them (thank you, Herbie).
Rehearsals for the performances are held in one of the many rooms off to the side of the main stage, which undoubtedly have seen their share of history over the years. Growing up just over the bridge in Virginia, I was no stranger to the Kennedy Center, of course, having seen many performances there and taken more than a few school field trips to experience the gorgeous display of modern architecture overlooking the Potomac River, but the backstage was new to me. As I walked through the hallways behind the stage, I tried to imagine all of the voices that have filled these hallowed rooms since its opening in 1971, asking myself once again, “How on earth did I get here?” This building was reserved for America’s most prestigious performers, not former DC punk rock thugs.
As much as it’s considered a nonpolitical event, a rare chance for people from both sides of the aisle to put down their differences and pick up a drink in the name of culture and the arts, there is an inevitable tension that permeates the proceedings, as if all the attendees are little kids who’ve been told to play nice on the school playground. I surely didn’t agree with all of the policies and principles that some of these people spent their days bickering about, so I took my mother’s advice and avoided the three topics that we were always told not to bring up at any dinner table: money, politics, and religion. This was a weekend where everyone could recognize each other as something more than Democrat or Republican. We were all human beings, first and foremost, and nothing can bring human beings together better than music and art.
For some crazy reason, I was tapped to make a toast to the Who for their award at the ultra-formal State Department dinner the night before the show. Not the type of blathering, slurred rant that you would give from a barstool in your local dive, this was meant to be a formal speech, commending the recipient of this highest honor for all of their achievements. And to a room full of orators, no less. Not to be taken lightly. I was assigned a speechwriter who kindly met me backstage at rehearsal and did a quick interview with me to come up with material for my speech. After a brief conversation, she thanked me and said she’d have my speech ready before the dinner that night. I would have preferred to write my own, but not wanting to rock the boat, I left it up to the professionals.
Later on, as I was squeezing into my penguin suit back at the hotel, my speech arrived, and to my horror it was written in a primitive form of “dude-speak” so as to seem like I had written it myself (I suppose). Oh my god, I thought. I can’t fucking read this! As the son of a former Capitol Hill speechwriter and prominent journalist, I would forever stain my father’s legacy as a man of intelligence, wit, and Washington charm. I also felt obligated to go with the program and deliver these words to the people in a selfless gesture of comic relief. FUCK, I THOUGHT. MADELEINE ALBRIGHT IS GOING TO THINK I’M A MORON.
Filing through the receiving line, I was already dreading my time at the podium as I shook hands with current secretary of state Condoleezza Rice, another on the list of things I never in my wildest dreams imagined happening. Looking around at the room full of scholars and intellectual titans, my deep childhood insecurity about being thought of as stupid kicked in, and I began to second-guess myself. All of the pomp and circumstance on display in the ballroom was certainly entertaining to watch, and I’ve never been one to shy away from the opportunity to embarrass myself for a mortified laugh, but this was being thrown to the goddamned lions. Cocktail, please.
As I sat at my table with various senators and cabinet members, I held that dreaded speech in my hands like a string of prayer beads, counting the minutes until my most gruesome public execution. I sat and watched as each speaker, one by one, gave a long, eloquent disquisition worthy of any inaugural or State of the Union address . . . knowing that soon I would be the one jackass in the room to use the word “dude.”
As Bob Schieffer, one of America’s most treasured television journalists and debate moderators, toasted the legendary country artist George Jones, I sat in front of my uneaten dinner, stunned by his ability to be outrageously funny, deeply emotional, perfectly informative, and brilliantly poetic all at once off-the-cuff, speaking with a relaxed and confident tone and commanding the room with no prepared speech to refer to. Okay. Fuck this. There was no way in hell I was going to read the speech that had been written for me. Not after Bob Schieffer!
With only minutes to spare, I came up with a concept: The unique reversal of musical roles in the Who was what set them apart from other bands. Keith Moon’s lyrical drumming made him more like the vocalist, Pete Townshend’s solid rhythm guitar made him more like the drummer, John Entwistle’s unconventional bass soloing made him more like the lead guitarist, and Roger Daltrey’s muscular vocals pulled it all together like a conductor for an orchestra of fire. This could work! I thought. Either way, I had nothing to lose, as it was already miles above the crumpled speech currently clenched in my sweaty hand. I had built an entire career on abiding by one very simple rule: you fake it till you make it. My name was called; I stood up; I left the crumpled speech next to my cold, untouched coq au vin; and I headed to the stage.
I must say, I was no Bob Schieffer that night, but I did manage to pull it off without any rotten tomatoes being thrown my way, and without a single “dude.” I may have even gotten a smile from Madeleine Albright.
The next afternoon at the White House reception, we all sat in the East Room as President Bush presented the honorees with their colorful medals. Of course, I had only been to the White House as a tourist before, so this was another huge moment for me. Let me tell you something, though: considering the hundreds of years of history that have shaped our world from within those walls . . . it’s really not that big a joint. Crammed in like commuters on the morning bus, we all sat quietly in our little folding chairs as the president draped the rainbow-ribboned medals over the necks of that year’s recipients: Morgan Freeman, George Jones, Barbra Streisand, Twyla Tharp, and the Who. I FELT LIKE I WAS WITNESSING HISTORY, WHICH MADE ME ASK MYSELF AGAIN, HOW ON EARTH DID I GET HERE?
At this point, the only thing left to do before finally heading to the gig was to get a picture with the president and First Lady in front of the White House Christmas tree. This was a decision that took more than a moment to ponder. To put it mildly, my personal politics did not align with those of the current administration, so I felt a bit conflicted about joining in on a picture with the president. Even though this weekend was supposed to be free of any political division, a chance to come together and celebrate the arts, it was difficult to put all of my politics aside, even if just for a snapshot in front of a bedazzled Christmas tree. The questioning in my heart rose up again. What am I doing here?
I thought of my father. What would he do? As a staunch Republican, he had spent decades establishing lifelong relationships with people on both sides of the aisle and could share a generous cocktail with almost anyone. On our weekends together, he would sometimes take me to a corner saloon in Georgetown called Nathan’s, where scores of seersucker barflies would come to drink, laugh, and debate—but most important, to coexist. I would sit at the bar nursing my ginger ale while listening to the booming voices of these Beltway news junkies, agreeing to disagree on current events, saving any real debate for when the House was in session Monday morning. This was the Washington, DC, I was raised to know, a place where people with opposing ideas could engage in civilized discourse without it turning into a barroom brawl. A place that has now sadly vanished.
Jordyn and I decided to get in line for the picture. Surrounded by marines in their dress uniforms, we were eventually called into the room where the president and First Lady were standing like cardboard cutouts in front of a towering Christmas tree, and we greeted them with smiles and firm handshakes. First impressions? The president was taller than I’d expected, and the First Lady had the most beautiful blue eyes. “Where are you from???” the president shouted in my face with the fervor of a military drill instructor. Stunned, I replied, “Uhhh . . . uhhhh . . . just over that bridge right there!” as I pointed out to the South Lawn. I told him I was there to perform a Who song at the Kennedy Center, he smiled, the picture was snapped, and we were shuttled out the door faster than you can say “We won’t get fooled again.”
I can only imagine that he recognized me in that downstairs hallway later on that evening because I was the only person in attendance with hair below my collar, but I had to laugh, as he proudly called me the one word that I had gone to so much trouble not to say the night before. If only Nathan’s bar in Georgetown were still open, I thought, I bet the two of us would have a rather eventful Sunday afternoon.
In 2010, President Obama was giving Paul McCartney a Library of Congress Gershwin Prize, which is an award given to only one recipient a year for their lifetime contribution to popular music. It’s basically the American equivalent of being knighted, and perhaps the highest of all honors for musicians. There was a performance planned in the East Room of the White House (I guess I was becoming a regular), and having made friends with Paul, I was invited to come perform “Band on the Run” with him on a tiny stage in that small room full of people. Of course, I jumped at any opportunity to play with Paul, not only because he will forever be the reason I became a musician, but because he’s really fucking fun to jam with.
When I arrived for rehearsals at Lisner Auditorium (just across the street from the Tower Records where I once had a part-time job), I was greeted onstage by his lovely band and crew, and after a bit of catching up, the musical director approached to introduce himself. I was somewhat prepared, I thought, but figured that Paul and his band would most likely do all the heavy lifting anyway, so in the event that I forgot a lyric or chord, I probably wouldn’t even be in the PA. “Okay, Dave, this is your microphone right here,” he said as he pointed to the mike stand center stage. That’s odd, I thought. “Ummmm, where’s Paul going to stand?” I asked. He laughed and replied, “Paul will be sitting directly in front of you with the president. You’ll be singing the entire song yourself!” Panic disguised by manufactured enthusiasm swept over me.
Courtesy of Mary McCartney
AGAIN, YOU FAKE IT TILL YOU MAKE IT.
We ran through a few versions, we got it “good enough for grunge” (a ridiculous saying that’s floated around the Foo Fighters for years), and I retreated back to my hotel room to practice the song on repeat until I felt comfortable playing it to the two most important people on earth, who would be sitting shoulder to shoulder six feet in front of me. This was a big one, and it was no ragtag side-stage lineup by any means. Stevie Wonder, Elvis Costello, Jack White, Emmylou Harris, and Faith Hill were all performing Paul’s classics for the event, so I felt dwarfed by the level of talent on display. It was without a doubt the most nervous I had ever been, for good reason.
At soundcheck the afternoon of the show, all of the performers were milling around the White House, rooting each other on and marveling at the size of the minuscule stage, which was about two feet high and barely big enough to fit Paul’s band. When it was finished, I was free to roam around the White House, admiring the historic portraits and browsing through books in the small library downstairs. My favorite find? A complete anthology of Bob Dylan lyrics. I’m not sure how much time it spent off the shelf, but knowing it was there gave me a little hope for the future. At one point, I asked an official-looking White House employee if there was any catering or a craft service table for the performers, as I was fucking starving for lunch. He offered to go check for me, asking if I had any preferences, but I am quite literally the least picky eater on earth (ask anyone I know), so I just said, “Whatever!” After a few minutes, he returned with some SunChips and a sandwich on a plate that had been made in the kitchen downstairs, and I thanked him profusely. What a nice guy! I thought.
I later found out he was the admiral of the Coast Guard.
The night of the show, all performers were standing in an adjoining room waiting their turn to play, like a line of paratroopers waiting to leap out of an aircraft and into the sky. One by one they were introduced and walked through the tightly packed crowd to that tiny little stage where they would greet Paul and the president and then perform their song. I can’t be the only one who’s nervous here, I thought. Without the Foo Fighte
rs’ wall of sound behind me, I felt practically naked. Naked in front of Paul McCartney and President Obama. My pulse started to speed up, my stomach started to turn, and I began to imagine the worst-case scenario: a crippling anxiety attack that required not only medical attention but a lifetime of living it down.
And then, something came over me . . .
I DECIDED NOT TO WASTE THIS MOMENT. I decided to stop asking “How did I get here?” I was there. I told myself that I was not going to spend a second being scared or wishing I were somewhere else. The long journey from my childhood in Springfield, Virginia; to cutting my teeth as a musician in the Washington, DC, music scene; to performing in the White House for a Beatle and a president made this in every way the most full-circle moment of my life, but rather than get lost in complicated introspection, I just smiled.
A calm came over me, and just then my name was called. I walked to the stage with my head held high and stood before Paul and the president with pride, feeling like the luckiest person on earth to have made it to this very moment, past and present, right and left, bridged together in music.
Down Under DUI
Courtesy of the author’s personal archives
“Asseyez-vous, s’il vous plaît . . .”
Confused, I turned to my French-speaking girlfriend, who was acting as translator, for some much needed assistance, and she said, “She wants you to sit down.” I nodded and folded into the chair across the table from the older woman, smiling nervously as she inspected my every move. I had good reason to feel ambivalent about this unexpected meeting. I had never been to a psychic before.