by Dave Grohl
I cannot overstate the importance of these moments to me. I walk through this crazy life of a musician like a little boy in a museum, surrounded by the exhibits I’ve spent a lifetime studying. And when I finally come face-to-face with someone who has inspired me along the way, I am thankful. I am grateful. And I take none of it for granted. I am a firm believer in the shared humanity of music, something that I find more rewarding than any other aspect of what I do. When the one-dimensional image becomes a living, breathing, three-dimensional human being, it fills your soul with reassurance that even our most cherished heroes are flesh and bone. I believe that people are inspired by people. That is why I feel the need to connect with my fans when they approach me. I’m a fan too.
When I was seven years old, my older stoner cousin gave me his copy of Rush’s magnum opus, 2112, to take back with me to Virginia after our yearly vacation in Chicago. At this point, I was pretty much sticking to my Beatles and KISS records, so Rush’s prog rock musicianship and mastery was a whole new world to my virgin ears. I was intrigued. But the thing that stood out to me the most about that album was the drums. This was the first time I had ever heard them in the forefront of a song, equally as lyrical and melodic as the vocals or guitar. Although I couldn’t play what Neil Peart was playing, I could FEEL it.
Decades later, Taylor Hawkins and I were asked to induct Rush into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and to perform the first track on 2112, an instrumental titled “Overture” (no simple task). I had met bassist Geddy Lee and guitarist Alex Lifeson over the years, both perfectly down-to-earth and outrageously funny, but never the master himself, Neil Peart. Neil was a bit more elusive, understandable considering he was one of the greatest drummers of all time (not just in rock). When Taylor and I showed up for rehearsal the day before the ceremony, we were greeted by Geddy and Alex, but Neil was nowhere to be seen. And then in a flash, he appeared and introduced himself in his deep baritone voice: “Hey, Dave, I’m Neil.” All I could think was He said my name. He said MY name. I nervously said hello, and he asked, “Want a coffee?” “Sure!” I said, and we walked over to the catering table, where he, Neil Peart, drummer of Rush, the man who made me hear the drums in a whole new way at the age of seven, who inspired me to become a drummer myself, proceeded to make me a cup of coffee, handing it over with a smile.
INSPIRED, YET AGAIN.
It’s one thing to see your idols in a musical setting or context; it’s another to see them far away from the spotlight, in their natural habitat, like an animal in the wild. Once, while I was pushing Violet in a stroller down a busy London shopping street with my wife and our good friend Dave Koz, Elton John walked out of a boutique directly in front of us and jumped in a waiting car. We all stopped and asked each other, “HOLY SHIT! DID YOU JUST SEE THAT?!??!” It was Elton. Fucking. John. And he was sitting in a parked car only feet from where we were standing, starstruck. “Go say hi, Dave!” my friend said, nudging me. I laughed and said, “I don’t fucking know Elton John! And he sure as fuck doesn’t know who I am!” The car started up, pulled away, drove about twenty meters up the road, and stopped. The door opened, and out jumped Elton John, who walked back to us, still frozen in place. He approached me with that big, toothy grin and said, “Hello, Dave, nice to meet you.” My smile almost fell off my face, it was so wide. I introduced him to Jordyn and Dave, and he leaned down and gave Violet a kiss before running back and speeding away. Now, THAT’S how you do it, I thought. (And yes, his giant sapphire earrings matched his shoes perfectly.)
Years later, I had the opportunity to play drums on a track with Elton for the Queens of the Stone Age album . . . Like Clockwork. The song, “Fairweather Friends,” was a blistering, unconventional multipart arrangement that we had carefully rehearsed before his arrival, because when Queens recorded, it was always full band live to tape, meaning you had to have your shit together and get it right. Elton arrived, straight from an Engelbert Humperdinck session (not kidding), and said, “Okay, boys, what? . . . Have you got a ballad for me?” We all laughed and said, “No . . . come listen.” For anyone to just stroll in and learn such a complicated song straightaway was a huge ask, but Elton sat at the piano and WORKED on it until he got it right, take after take, ever the perfectionist, proving why he is the queen bitch of rock and roll.
INSPIRED, YET AGAIN.
It’s the moments with no safety net that keep your spirits at their highest, and if you’re an adventurer like me, those moments can always be found. And usually in the most unexpected places. One night in Osaka, we were informed by our tour manager, Gus, that Huey Lewis was coming to the gig. “HUEY LEWIS!!!” Pat exclaimed. I had never seen him so excited in all the years I had known him. Once again, Pat turned my world upside down by telling me that the album Sports by Huey Lewis and the News was one of his favorite records of all time (along with Butterfly by Mariah Carey), completely destroying my image of him as the punkest motherfucker on the face of the planet. Taylor then told me that Huey actually played harmonica on Thin Lizzy’s Live and Dangerous album, which I had no idea about but made a little more sense.
Huey appeared, and before long the backstage was alive with our usual beer and whiskey pre-show ritual. Take it from me, Huey is a most excellent hang. We drank, smoked, and laughed, and I eventually asked about his connection with Phil Lynott and Thin Lizzy (such an amazing band). He told me the story of his harmonica solo on that record and how he too loved Thin Lizzy. And then I had an idea: what if Huey jumped up and did a harmonica solo with us??? He checked his pockets for a harp but unfortunately was not strapped, though he did say, “If you can find one in time, I’ll do it!” I looked at the clock; we were on in twenty minutes, so I turned to Gus, asked him to do whatever he could to find one, did one more shot with Huey, and hit the stage. By the seventh song, I looked over, and there was Huey, smiling and waving his harmonica in the air. He jumped out next to me and, with a plastic harmonica bought from a Japanese toy store on a Sunday night, proceeded to rip a solo that would make the guy from Blues Traveler throw down his bandoliers and run to his mama. I was totally blown away. This dude is a grade A, 100 percent badass motherfucker, and I will never question the validity of Sports ever again. Shame on me. For one night and one night only, we were “Huey Lewis and the Foos,” and I liked it.
ANOTHER TWIST IN AN ALREADY WINDING PATH.
You never know who may appear on the side of the stage, but in those moments, you strike while the iron is hot. Years ago, we were asked by the BBC to record a cover song, something we enjoy and do quite often, amassing an arsenal of songs you never thought you’d hear the Foo Fighters do (or attempt to do). At the time, we were on tour, but we were scheduled to record it immediately upon returning home, so we had to pick a song and have it ready to go within a few days. In our tiny warm-up room backstage at Tokyo’s Summer Sonic music festival, Taylor and I sat and played around with a few ideas, and then I noticed that Rick Astley was on the festival bill, as well. “Dude, we should do ‘Never Gonna Give You Up’ for the BBC thing!” We started jamming around on it, and I quickly realized that the chord progression and arrangement bore an uncanny resemblance to “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” Pat, Chris, Rami our keyboardist, and Nate joined in, and before long the two songs were practically indistinguishable, like a mash-up from hell. It was so terrifically funny and absurd that we did it again, and again, and again, until finally Gus came in and told us it was time for the show. We headed out to the massive stadium stage and tore into our usual barn burner set, but after a few songs I looked over and saw a familiar face by the monitor board stage right. It was Rick fucking Astley, rocking out to the band, his unmistakable boyish face bobbing up and down in the distance. During one of Rami’s keyboard solos, I walked over to him and extended my hand. Over the crushing volume of the show happening behind me, I said, “We just learned ‘Never Gonna Give You Up’ half an hour ago. Wanna do it with us?” He seemed shocked but without hesitation answered, “Fuck yes,” and within seconds he
was onstage singing with a bunch of strangers in front of fifty thousand confused Japanese Foo Fighters fans, flying by the seat of his pants.
God bless you, Rick Astley. That took gigantic balls.
The flip side to meeting a musician who has inspired you is meeting a musician who has had no personal relevance in your life. That juxtaposition is an interesting one. Whereas I have turned into a withering puddle upon meeting the most obscure, unknown, underground hardcore rockers, I have also been cool as a cucumber around legends whose music never became a part of my vernacular. Not to say Neil Diamond isn’t a god among men, but the “Sweet Caroline” single did not reside between my Venom and Dead Kennedys records when I was a kid, so when we met at the 2009 MusiCares tribute, where he was being honored, I just found him to be a really sweet dude. But there was one person who I knew would become a withering puddle upon meeting him, and that was my late friend Jimmy Swanson’s mom. And she was why we were there.
Mary Jane was a lifelong Neil Diamond fan, and his was perhaps the only music I ever heard in her house besides the screeching satanic death metal Jimmy and I listened to. After Jimmy passed, she was left completely heartbroken, having lost her only son much too soon. She had always been family to me, another mother, so when we were asked to perform a Neil Diamond song at his tribute, I said, “Let me make one call before saying yes.” I called Mary Jane and told her that I would only play the show if she flew out to California, her first trip out west, so that she could meet Neil. She tearfully agreed, I called my manager and told him it was a go, and I began searching for a Neil Diamond song to learn, my first foray into his incredible catalog.
I was on double duty that weekend, also playing drums for Paul McCartney at the Grammys, where we blasted through a wonderfully raw version of “I Saw Her Standing There,” so Mary Jane flew out and attended the Grammys with us too, going from sitting on the couch in her TV room to sitting in an arena with Kid Rock, U2, and Stevie Wonder. That night we had an after-party at a restaurant with Paul and the band, and when Mary Jane walked into the room, Paul handed her a glass of champagne, kissed her on the cheek, and said, “Hello, luv.” I thought she was going to faint. But it was the moment when Paul stood up at the end of the table to make a toast that still makes me shed a tear today. After raising his glass to everyone in the room and toasting the wonderful night of music we had just experienced, Paul turned to Mary Jane and said, “And . . . to Jimmy.”
The next night was Mary Jane’s big chance to meet her beloved Neil Diamond. I had met him backstage earlier in the day, and he was a vision of seventies cool with his red silk shirt with diamonds embroidered on the collar (which we all complimented him on), his perfect hair, and a voice so smooth it would make anyone weak in the knees. I explained the emotional relevance of the evening, and being the true mensch that he is, he graciously agreed to come say hello to Mary Jane after the show.
I still remember the look on her face when he entered our dressing room later that night. It was the same face that I must have made when I met Little Richard, or Paul, or any of the obscure, unknown, underground artists I loved. The moment where the one-dimensional becomes three-dimensional and you are reminded that these sounds that have given you a life of happiness, escape, and relief all began with flesh and bone. As Mary Jane cried tears of joy, I could only think that Jimmy would have too.
And the next day, Mary Jane flew home to Virginia with that red silk shirt with diamonds embroidered on the collar carefully packed away in her suitcase. Yes, Neil Diamond had literally given her the shirt off his back.
Why do these people mean so much to me? Because people inspire people, and over the years they have all become a part of my DNA. In some way, I have been shaped by each and every note I have heard them play. Memories have been painted in my mind with their voices as the frame. I can still vividly remember when my uncle Tom took me sailing when I was a little boy, and we spent the day listening to—you guessed it—“Sailing” by Christopher Cross. Had this not been such a formative memory, I might not have tackled a terrified Christopher Cross one day at the Austin, Texas, airport baggage claim, just to get a glimpse of the man in person. Or there was the time I approached Ace Frehley of KISS on a Hollywood street corner at night, just for a simple handshake, or nervously confessed my love to Bonnie Raitt as we sat on a dressing room floor at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. BECAUSE I STILL WALK THROUGH THIS LIFE LIKE A LITTLE BOY IN A MUSEUM, SURROUNDED BY THE EXHIBITS I’VE SPENT A LIFETIME STUDYING, AND WHEN I FINALLY COME FACE-TO-FACE WITH SOMETHING OR SOMEONE THAT HAS INSPIRED ME ALONG THE WAY, I AM THANKFUL. I AM GRATEFUL.
But it’s one thing to meet a hero in passing. It’s another thing when they become your friend.
On a drunken night out with my crew years ago in Los Angeles, I was walking toward the restroom of the seedy bar we were currently destroying and noticed the one and only Lemmy sitting in the corner, drinking alone in front of a video poker machine (I won’t say his last name or band affiliation, because if you don’t know already, then I have to break up with you). I couldn’t resist. This man was the living, breathing embodiment of rock and roll, and I had looked up to him ever since I first heard his gravelly voice roaring through my speakers. I walked up to him and said, “Excuse me, Lemmy? I just had to say thank you for all the years of inspiration you’ve given me.” He looked up from under his black cowboy hat, and in a thick cloud of Marlboro smoke he growled, “Cheers.” I was about to turn and walk away when he said, “Sorry ’bout your friend Kurt.”
From that moment on, Lemmy was no longer a worldwide-worshipped god of rock and roll; he was a fellow human being. And through the years we became friends, sharing lurid tales of life on the road and a mutual love of Little Richard over thousands of cigarettes and bottles of Jack Daniel’s every time we met. I looked up to his honesty, truth, and strength, but also his vulnerability. Whether bellying up to the bar at the Rainbow Bar and Grill on the Sunset Strip (his home away from home, so much so that once while I was drinking with him there, the waitress came up and gave him his mail) or in his cluttered apartment down the street, I valued every minute in his presence. Because I looked up to him, not only as a musician, but as a friend.
Courtesy of Danny Clinch
News of his passing came as a shock to me. It was just days after his seventieth birthday and only a matter of weeks since his last show. I had thought he would outlive us all. He walked a hard road that most would never survive, and though that way of living took its toll on him later in life, he had the energy and spirit of a warrior. Lemmy would never surrender, until he finally had to give in and rest.
I went straight to a tattoo shop and branded my left wrist with an ace of spades and the words “SHAKE YOUR BLOOD,” a lyric from a song we had written together years before. He was a true lover of rock and roll and lived life to the fullest, two things that we most certainly had in common.
At his memorial service a week or so later, I was asked to speak, and holding back tears, I shared a few stories of our time together with the little church full of his oldest friends. This was a bittersweet celebration of his life, for he had brought us all so much joy but was leaving us behind to continue life without his irreplaceable friendship.
Pulling the small black-and-white picture that Little Richard had signed for me years ago from my jacket pocket, I stood and read the words to an old gospel song that Little Richard once performed, “Precious Lord, Take My Hand.”
Precious Lord, take my hand
Lead me on, let me stand
I am tired, I am weak, I am worn
Through the storm, through the night
Lead me on to the light
Take my hand, precious Lord
Lead me home
I turned and placed the picture on Lemmy’s altar to thank him.
Forever grateful for the inspiration.
Part Five
Living
Courtesy of Jordyn Blum
Bedtime Stories with Joan Jett
Courtesy of Brantley Guitterrez
“Hey, Harper . . . hey, Violet . . . what’s goin’ on?”
My two daughters sat in stunned silence as the one and only Queen of Rock and Roll, Joan Jett, stood before them at the foot of the couch. With her spiky black hair, weathered Converse Chucks, and tight jean jacket, she cast a long shadow over their cherubic faces like a warrior statue, her trademark gravelly voice bellowing above the sound of the afternoon cartoons in the background. “Guys! This is JOAN JETT!” I excitedly proclaimed, praying for some sort of response. I could see their little minds whirring, desperately trying to process this strange encounter, but they were rendered speechless. I had already warned Joan on the ride over to the house that this would happen, explaining that my girls were certainly familiar with her . . . they had just never met a superhero in real life.
A few months before, on a European tour, I had decided to take my daughters to the gigantic London department store Harrods on a rainy day off for a bit of rug-rat retail therapy. It was too cold for the park and too wet for a walk, so I figured I’d treat them to a tour of its legendary toy department, which dwarfed most American toy stores, in order to get out of the hotel for a bit and have some fun. Not as culturally rewarding as one of the city’s many spectacular museums, I admit, but sometimes you just have to say “Fuck it” and give the people what they want. Especially when the people are under four feet tall. As fun as traveling the world with your family can be, keeping kids from going stir-crazy from one hotel room to the next becomes something of a mission over time, and you find yourself constantly researching activities days in advance so as not to fall into a vicious cycle of room service chicken fingers and subtitled cartoons. Even after a night of thrashing my body, drowned in blistering volume, I have always tried to fill these windows of opportunity with adventure, turning an otherwise exhausting tour into a whirlwind rock and roll family trip. Over the years, I have been blessed to show them the world, from the canals of Venice, Italy, to Sydney Harbour, from the glaciers of Iceland to the Eiffel Tower, and everything in between. Along the way, I have proudly watched my children go from car seats strapped into airplanes and bassinets next to the hotel bed, to waving down flight attendants for more ginger ale and ordering room service ice-cream sundaes by themselves at midnight. They are now seasoned travelers, and I love it because it means that we get to stay together.