by Dave Grohl
The movie opened with a rogue road crew of burly, long-haired hooligans like modern pirates disassembling a rock and roll stage before loading it onto a fleet of trucks to be taken to the next city for another night of carnage. This was something I had never seen or considered before. After a concert’s last note has been played and the audience are on their way home to the comfort of their warm beds, it’s these brave souls who go to work coiling miles of cables and packing up tons of equipment into battered road cases as they wade through your littered beer cups and cigarette butts before passing out in bunks the size of coffins, getting in just enough sleep to set it all back up the next morning. This set the tone perfectly for what Larry and I were about to witness. This was not the glamour that we had been conditioned to associate with the larger-than-life rock stars in the posters on our bedroom walls; this was the real deal, and suddenly all those years of imagining rock and roll to be life’s most colorful theater faded into ripped T-shirts and bloody knuckles.
As the trucks barreled down the highway and blasted their air horns, it was immediately apparent that the PA system in the theater was on “stun.” I mean, this shit was DEAFENING. And we hadn’t even gotten to the music yet. It was, without question, the loudest thing I had ever heard in my eleven short years on the planet. Having not yet been to a rock concert, I didn’t realize the ultimate power of that level of volume and had no idea that sound could shake your rib cage with earthquake intensity. Needless to say, I liked it. A lot. By the time the band hit the stage with their first number, “Live Wire,” my ears were already ringing and I was on the edge of my seat.
I WANTED TO FUCKING TEAR THAT THEATER TO SHREDS.
The adrenaline that was running through my body caused what can only be described as the transformation that Bruce Banner would experience when turning into the Hulk on the TV series from the late seventies. I felt so overwhelmed and empowered by the sheer intensity of the music, I could hardly contain myself. If my skinny little arms had had the strength to rip the seat out of the floor and smash it in the aisle, I would have, but instead I just sat there shaking in my sneakers as AC/DC did what they have always done best: give every ounce of themselves to the audience and leave nothing behind.
Within a few songs, the drummer is seen replacing his snare because he broke it from rocking too hard. Whoa. Guitarist Angus Young, drenched in sweat, is seen on the side of the stage with an oxygen mask in between songs because he just ran at least three marathons from one side of the stage to the next over the course of thirteen songs and his body could barely withstand the rock. Holy shit. This was superhuman, I thought. Forget those bands that just stood there and fiddled with their instruments like medieval minstrels; these guys attacked them like it was their last day on earth. By the time the credits rolled, I was a changed boy. IF I AM GOING TO PLAY MUSIC IN A BAND, I THOUGHT, I’M GOING TO DO IT LIKE THAT.
I replied to Jordyn’s text with a gigantic “DUH” and pinched myself at the opportunity to finally meet the band that inspired me to kick fucking ass and take fucking names. If you have ever seen a Scream, Nirvana, or Foo Fighters show, you now know where this energy comes from. I owe it all to AC/DC’s Let There Be Rock.
It just so happened that AC/DC was in town to perform their new song “Rock or Bust” at the fifty-seventh annual Grammy Awards in 2015. I was not performing that night, only presenting an award, but as a lifelong AC/DC fan I was certainly more excited to see them than any of the other relatively tedious pop performers and their ridiculous, Vegas-like productions. A strong injection of true-blue rock and roll was exactly what the show needed. I would be there, front and center, undoubtedly feeling that same overwhelming rush of adrenaline that had made me want to tear the Uptown Theater to shreds thirty-five years before (except now I would be shoulder to shoulder with Katy Perry and Tony Bennett, feeling like I was hiding my flickering lighter at the end of a homemade pipe).
Seeing as how I was to be there on my own without my trusty Foo Fighters, I called Taylor and Pat to invite them to a post-show dinner with our wives, opting out of the usual after-parties, which are generally just orgies of selfies and industry small talk. We reserved a table at a restaurant called Faith and Flower just a few blocks from the venue and planned to meet for dinner and drinks away from the hubbub after the show. Paul McCartney was in town as well and inquired what we were planning on doing afterward, so we gladly invited him and his wife Nancy along, adding two more chairs to our growing table. Take it from me, any night with Paul is a good night, so this was shaping up to be an epic evening. Apparently, Paul bumped into the AC/DC folks at the hotel, and when asked what was going on afterward, he said he was having dinner with us, which led to my life’s most surreal text.
Pause. Reflect.
NOT A DAY GOES BY WHERE I DON’T STOP AND THANK THE UNIVERSE FOR THESE OTHERWORLDLY BLESSINGS, AND I MAKE IT A POINT TO TAKE NOTHING FOR GRANTED. It will never feel “normal” to me to be included in such a waking dream; it will always feel like I’m watching life happen from above, looking down at someone else’s fantasy playing out before me. But it is mine, and it’s these moments when I try to be present, reminding myself that I am perhaps the luckiest person on earth to breathe the next breath that will lead me to the next adventure.
A few days before the show, I received another text, from my good friend Ben Jaffe of New Orleans’s legendary Preservation Hall Jazz Band, notifying me that he was also in town for the Grammys and looking for a party. Believe me, nobody parties like a New Orleans native, and nothing says New Orleans like the Preservation Hall Jazz Band. Founded in the early 1960s by Ben’s father, Allan, they have embodied the sound, spirit, and joy of their great city, keeping traditional New Orleans jazz alive, playing three shows a night three hundred sixty-five days a year, for over sixty years. So, when they put the instruments down (which they rarely do), the party always turns up. While filming our documentary series Sonic Highways in 2014, Foo Fighters had the honor of spending a week filming in Preservation Hall itself, a tavern that dates back to 1803. We all became fast friends. By the end of that week, I had decided that New Orleans is an American treasure, and that we all indeed need to preserve its rich culture steeped in European, Caribbean, and Cajun history. There is nowhere on earth filled with the pure magic that New Orleans has to offer. It is, without a doubt, my favorite city in the world.
Courtesy of Danny Clinch
“Dude . . . we’re having dinner with Paul McCartney AND AC/DC!” I exclaimed to Ben. “You wanna come along?” I knew Ben would most definitely appreciate the enormity of such an incredible chance encounter. “Can I bring all the guys with me?” he asked. I paused and did the math. The Preservation Hall Jazz Band consisted of seven musicians, which realistically meant at least ten more people. Of course I would have loved to have them all, but we were on our way to moving from that table of eight to taking over the whole fucking restaurant, so I replied with a tentative “Uh, let me check,” afraid that the restaurant would decline our request for another ten chairs. But then Ben sealed the deal:
“How about we all come marching down the street playing in a second line, into the restaurant, straight to the table, and perform a set for you right there?”
There was absolutely no refusing this incredibly generous offer. For anyone unfamiliar with a second-line parade, it is considered a quintessential New Orleans art form, a tradition dating back to the nineteenth century, where a brass band marches down the street playing behind a funeral procession to celebrate the life of a lost loved one. Today, more casual versions of these parades can be found all over the streets of New Orleans at any given moment, and if you hear the sound of syncopated funked-up jazz-swing coming, grab a drink and join in. You never know where it may lead you.
I assured Ben that, come hell or high water, I would make this happen and said that we should keep it a secret so as to surprise all of our honored guests with a night they would never forget (not to mention the entire restaurant, whispering
over plates of high cuisine, who would surely be taken aback by the sheer volume of the howling horns, crashing cymbals, and thundering tubas played by New Orleans’s most beloved band).
Our quiet little table was now moved to a private room in the back, large enough to comfortably accommodate our ever-growing guest list in a space that would allow us all to grab a partner and swing them around the floor in a night of drunken celebration. I couldn’t wait to see the looks on everyone’s faces as the band marched into the room, hoping that it would inspire that same feeling I’d experienced the first time I joined in on a second line in New Orleans. A feeling of community and love, shared with people from all walks of life, joined in rhythm and joy as we followed the music wherever it led us. I remember dancing down the street on my first day in New Orleans, side by side with strangers smiling at each other and skipping to the beat, when I saw a familiar face, Ben Jaffe, standing on top of a car in the distance. We had only met recently, but he jumped down, gave me the warmest hug, turned to a man selling beer and minibar bottles of wine out of a rolling cooler, and bought us drinks for our afternoon journey. Sutter Home rosé never tasted so good at eleven A.M. He instantly became my brother for life.
Once the Grammys were over, Jordyn and I raced over to the restaurant to beat the crowd before our epic evening began. Our secret was mostly safe, though Paul somehow knew, because, well, he is the all-knowing, all-seeing, omniscient and omnipotent Paul McCartney. It turns out Paul actually had his own history with Preservation Hall that dated back to his time in Wings, when he recorded at local hero Allen Toussaint’s studio and would go by Preservation Hall to hang. “He was sort of a regular for a while,” Ben told me.
Brimming with excitement, I kept my phone close to coordinate the timing of the band’s entrance, making sure all was ready for the big reveal.
The room started filling up with the familiar faces of the people I love the most. My mother, my friends, Paul . . . and then, there they were . . . AC/DC in the flesh.
To be fair, I had met singer Brian Johnson once before, albeit very briefly, in a hotel bar in Valencia, Spain, on a day off from our Foo Fighters tour in 1996. Upon pulling up to the hotel after a long drive on a day off, we spilled out of the bus and noticed a few denim-clad autograph seekers standing out front with stacks of photos and magazines to be signed. Standard practice for any touring band, but as we approached, we noticed that they were covered head to toe in AC/DC gear and hadn’t the slightest fucking clue who we were. “You guys must love AC/DC!” I joked as we walked past, and in their thick Spanish accents they explained that AC/DC was actually staying in our hotel because they were performing at the local Plaza de Toros de las Ventas bullfighting arena that night, which just so happened to be a rare night off for us. Overcome with excitement, I raced to my room and called our tour manager, demanding that we all get tickets for this show, which would be my first time witnessing an actual AC/DC concert. A few phone calls were made, and we managed to score enough passes for everyone. We called room to room and made a plan to meet in the hotel bar for a few pre-show cocktails before heading down to the gig.
As we stood around the hotel bar devouring our drinks, a man in black jeans, a black T-shirt, and a flat cap nonchalantly walked into the classy room and ordered himself a drink as he sat down on a barstool by himself. Stunned, we fell silent, as this was none other than THE Brian Johnson, the man who sang AC/DC’s “Have a Drink on Me” from their most beloved album, Back in Black. As the bartender delivered his glass, Brian turned to us, and with a wink and a smile, he raised his glass in a simple toast, only saying, “Lads!” We all raised our glasses right back at him, realizing the poetry of this beautiful moment. I’m pretty sure he thought we were his road crew, but whatever, I was on cloud nine.
Courtesy of Danny Clinch
That night, I finally got to see the AC/DC that I fell in love with as a nerdy, rock-and-roll-worshipping eleven-year-old boy. The amount of energy they displayed onstage was exactly what I had expected, with Angus Young running full speed from one end to the other of the giant stage adorned with pyrotechnics and exploding cannons. The full-capacity audience only added to the spectacle, singing not only every lyric at the top of their lungs but the guitar parts as well as they bounced in a rolling human wave to the rhythm of every song. It was transcendent.
To see all of these hugely influential faces file into our own ragtag after-Grammys party would have been enough for me to die a happy man, but knowing what was to come made it so much sweeter. There was no way that I could possibly repay this roomful of icons for the years of inspiration that they had given me, but if I could make them smile, dance, and feel the joy of music, as they had done for me my entire life, I was making a small dent in my debt.
As our back room grew louder with celebration, I checked my phone and saw a text from Ben: “We’re down the block in our van, dressed and ready to go!” It was time. “Bring it,” I replied with shaky hands as I took my place by the window that looked onto the street, waiting to see the band in their trademark black suits and ties dancing down the sidewalk toward the restaurant. Moments later, I heard the faint sound of that familiar New Orleans swing in the distance, and as they rounded the corner, the hair on my arms stood up at the sight of their shuffling toward the front door in time. Within seconds the restaurant was flooded with the thunderous sound of brass as they wound through the tables of astonished patrons. Conversation in our little group ground to a halt as everyone tried to figure out what the hell was happening in the other room, and then . . . they appeared. Filing into our party in their second-line formation, the Preservation Hall Jazz Band burst into the room and took its place in the center of the floor, surrounded by the bewildered faces of our guests, as they blew their horns with rapturous fervor, only feet from our trembling eardrums. Once the initial shock subsided, the small floor became a ballroom, and everyone dropped their drinks to take their partners for a good swing around the room. In that moment, all of the rock and roll pretense and royalty disappeared, and there was only pure joy. At one point, as we danced along, Brian Johnson turned to me, and with a giant smile he screamed, “I’M ACTUALLY FUCKING HAPPY!!”
My job here was done.
The night continued with more music, more drinks, more joy. It was also a reunion of sorts, with Paul and Ben reminiscing about Paul’s time in New Orleans years ago and his friendship with Ben’s late father, something that undoubtedly meant so much to Ben. At one point, Paul grabbed a trumpet and began to play “When the Saints Go Marching In,” and of course the band joined in and played along. Paul turned to Ben and said, “My first instrument was the trumpet! Then my mum bought me a guitar and, well . . . you know how the rest of that story goes . . .”
Yes, we all certainly do.
The night went on into the wee hours, and no matter how much we wished it would never end, the houselights came up and it was time to wander back to reality, a place that seemed so far away after such a magical evening. I WAS EXHAUSTED—NOT PHYSICALLY, BUT MY SOUL HAD JUST RUN A TRIATHLON OF EMOTION, NOSTALGIA, AND UNDYING LOVE OF MUSIC. It’s hard to put into words the belief that I have in music. To me, it is god. A divine mystery in whose power I will forever hold an unconditional trust. And it is moments like these that cement my faith.
So, when you hear that parade coming down the street, spreading joy and love with every note, don’t just listen; join in the march. You never know where it may lead you.
Inspired, Yet Again
“Excuse me, are you Dave Grohl?”
Standing at the curb outside of the LAX departure terminal waiting to jump on my flight to Seattle, I took a long drag off my cigarette and nodded. “Yep.” The young man smiled and said, “I read in an interview that the only person you ever really wanted to meet was Little Richard. Is that true?”
“Absolutely,” I replied. “He’s the originator.”
“Well, he’s my dad,” he said.
I jumped back, immediately threw my ciga
rette to the ground, and vigorously shook the man’s hand with a crushing grip, honored and amazed to meet the son of rock and roll’s great pioneer.
“Would you like to meet him? He’s right here in the car . . .”
I could barely speak. This was the moment I had been waiting for. Of all the people on god’s green earth that I had met or have yet to meet, there has never been anyone more important to me than Little Richard. There would be no rock and roll without Little Richard. And without rock and roll, there would be no me.
We walked a few steps to the limousine parked on the curb beside us and the young man tapped the tinted window. It lowered just a few inches, and he leaned in, whispering quietly to the person behind the glass. Suddenly, the window began to roll down . . . and there he was, in all his glory! The hair, the smile, the eyeliner . . . and the voice that screamed, “Well, God bless you, David! It’s so nice to meet you!” I was at a complete and total loss for words. I stood there like a blathering idiot as he asked if I was a musician, the name of my band, where I was from, all while signing a postcard-sized black-and-white photo of himself, writing, To David, God cares. We shook hands, the window went up, and my life was complete.