by Dave Grohl
Upon walking into the massive toy department, I decided to lay down a few fatherly rules. “Okay . . . you have one hour to find a toy, and it has to be small enough to fit in your suitcase. Ready . . . GO!” I set my watch, and the kids frantically shot off like two rabid Supermarket Sweep contestants, desperately challenged by the impossible task of choosing a toy that would meet my cruelly unreasonable requirements. One hour? Yeah, right! And . . . define “suitcase.” Are we talking YOUR suitcase? MY suitcase? Or, perhaps, a NEW suitcase altogether that would comfortably transport an entire Victorian dollhouse back to California? Mission: Impossible. Nevertheless, it delighted me to watch them scatter, their little shoes pattering aisle to aisle, their heads spinning from the infinite options on display. Admittedly, I soon found myself trapped in the LEGO section, fawning over the giant selection they had to offer, trying to decide whether I should join in on the challenge or remain a conscientious objector. I have always had a weakness for LEGOs, I confess. Ever since I was a child, they have always been my favorite toy. With their intricate little pieces and the gratifying snap of two tiny blocks fitting perfectly together, I could spend hours upon hours building castles, cars, and other geometric structures, just for the simple reward of knowing that I had done it myself. I was borderline obsessed in my youth, so much so that part of my “seeing” music is seeing individual parts of songs as blocks of LEGOs, a playful form of synesthesia that still to this day helps me memorize arrangements and compositions.
As the deadline loomed, I gave the girls a five-minute warning in my best game-show-host voice. Predictably, both had yet to find a toy, and both were still darting back and forth across the showroom floor, searching for the perfect prize. How could they possibly choose? I gave them “the look” (head lowered with one raised eyebrow) and repeated myself: “Five. Minutes.” At this point, they had narrowed the search down to the Barbie section, which was roughly the size of a large commercial airplane hangar. They circled, eyeing their prey. This wasn’t going to be easy. Hundreds of different Barbies lined the shelves, different styles, different themes, some with accessories, some with additional wardrobe . . . It was enough to make any kid’s head explode. I watched as they picked up box after box, carefully examining each one, undoubtedly trying to get the most bang for their buck while pushing the boundaries of the required luggage capacity. The clock was ticking, and the tension rose heavy in the air, until . . .
“TIME’S UP!” I yelled like a Little League referee (if only I’d had a whistle). “But, DAAAAAAD!!!!” they both cried in frustration. “We can’t decide what to get!” Laughing, I said, “Come on! Just pick one, any one, and let’s head back to the hotel!” Just then, I looked down at the table next to me that was stacked with Barbies and grabbed the first one I could find. “Look! I got a Barbie!” I said as I waved it high in the air. “No fair! You can’t get a Barbie!!” they shot back, and as I looked at the box, I noticed that I had unknowingly picked up an official Joan Jett Barbie, complete with red Converse Chucks, leather pants, a sleeveless black T-shirt, and a white Gibson Les Paul Junior guitar slung around her shoulder. Holy shit, I thought. I’m definitely buying this!
Within minutes we were all standing at the checkout counter comparing our Barbies (Rocker Joan and two super-tricked-out glam gals with accessories galore), anxious to race back to the hotel and play.
Later that night, as I sat at the desk in the living room of our suite, Violet and Harper came into the room and politely asked if they could play with my Barbie. “Of course!” I said with a smile, and I began to carefully open the colorful box, surgically removing the doll from its ridiculously complicated packaging (since when do toys require a degree in engineering to get them out of their fucking packages?). While the girls patiently watched me struggle with each tiny zip tie, I realized that they had no idea Joan Jett was an actual person. They thought that she was just another plastic figurine, one of hundreds that lined the shelves at their new favorite toy store. I stopped what I was doing, put down the doll, and explained that Joan was not only an actual human being but a most important one. A FEMINIST ICON WHO PROVED TO THE WORLD THAT WOMEN CAN ROCK EVEN HARDER THAN MEN. An innovator, an architect, a punk rock pioneer so powerful, she inspired generations of young women to pick up guitars and do the same. They seemed a bit confused, so I opened up my laptop, turned the volume to ten, and played them the “I Love Rock ’n Roll” video. They stood in amazement, transfixed by Joan’s swagger and sneer, and were singing along word for word by the final chorus. I closed my computer and said, “See? She’s real!” Then they quickly grabbed the doll and skipped back to their room, humming the classic tune along the way, and deep in my heart I could tell that they had just discovered their new superhero.
As the tour continued, we eventually made our way to New York City for a show at Madison Square Garden, one of my favorite venues in the world. The drive into the building always reminded me of that scene from Led Zeppelin’s live concert film The Song Remains the Same, a movie that I practically studied as a teenager, hopelessly trying to dissect John Bonham’s superhuman drumming. On our way to the city, our tour manager, Gus, asked if we wanted to invite any special guests to perform with us at the show. After all, it was Madison Square Garden, and we had to make it a special occasion. Names were thrown around the van, mostly friends that we had jammed with before, and then someone mentioned Joan Jett, who had been living in the city since the late seventies. Having never met her before, I asked if we knew how to contact her. Gus fired back with “Pat knows her!”
Pat Smear, our founding guitarist and reigning minister of cool, knew Joan from his days playing in the legendary band the Germs. L.A. born and bred, Pat was a punk rock kid in the midseventies and a huge fan of Joan’s first band, the Runaways, an all-girl group reared on the sounds of Bowie and T-Rex. He had seen all of their shows and eventually became friends with Joan, running in a pack of Hollywood punks who unknowingly would change the course of music forever.
Roughly the same age as Joan, Pat was inspired by the Runaways, as they were all just teenagers at the time, so much that he and his best friend, Darby Crash, decided to start a band as well. And when it came time to make their first full-length studio album, GI, in 1979, they asked Joan Jett to produce. So there was a deep history there, not only in the annals of rock and roll, but personally.
A few phone calls were made, and we were told that Joan would be thrilled to make an appearance, so we quickly arranged for her to come down and run through her classic song “Bad Reputation” with us before the show. It was the perfect selection for our audience, as Joan was one of the most celebrated voices of our generation and would undoubtedly cap off the momentous evening with a bang. As we pulled into the venue in our motorcade of vehicles, just as Led Zeppelin had done thirty-eight years before, I bristled with anticipation, pinching myself once again at the opportunity to meet another hero, a badass woman who made her own rules.
As Joan walked through the dressing room door, I stood up in nervous excitement and rushed over to greet her. I was now face-to-face with the real Joan Jett. That black, spiky hair, those weathered Converse Chucks, and that tight jacket were no longer just part of an image on a TV screen, and that gravelly voice was no longer just a sound from an old speaker. She was a strong presence, still badass and punk rock as ever. And . . . my god, she smelled good.
We ran through the song a few times on practice instruments in our dressing rooms and placed it toward the end of the set list, knowing that it would surely be the highlight of the show. Joan was such a pleasure to be around, her killer sneer replaced with a smile that could have illuminated Madison Square Garden all on its own, and it warmed my heart to see her and Pat together after all these years. Without these two, who knows where we would be? I felt like I was an extra in a documentary I would surely pay money to see.
You cannot underestimate the power of Joan’s presence, by the way. Before the show, I was standing in a long corridor full of
people, catching up with old friends over cocktails, when Joan quietly emerged from our dressing room. As she slowly walked down the hallway alone like a postapocalyptic James Dean, I watched every last person hug the walls, men and women both, positively stunned in her wake. Inspiring a collective swoon that perhaps only Elvis could rival, she cut a swath through the crowd one step at a time. This was fucking rock and roll. Joan was indeed a superhero.
When I introduced her onstage that night, I saw that she seemed to have this effect on most everyone. The roar of the crowd as she walked into the spotlight was a thunderous welcome, the kind that only legends receive, and our performance was tight, fast, and spot-on. Afterward, we celebrated over a bottle of champagne, and Joan and I talked about collaborating someday. “We should write some songs together!” she said in her thick New York accent. I enthusiastically agreed, and we compared schedules right then and there, successfully finding a window of time when both of us were off the road to meet up and record. We set a date and hugged each other tightly, grateful for this chance encounter and looking forward to the next.
I couldn’t wait to tell my daughters that their favorite superhero was not only coming to Los Angeles to write with me but also staying with us for the weekend! Their minds would be blown!
It’s asking a lot of a child to fully comprehend breaking the fourth wall in life, when the fantasy of toys and videos on YouTube becomes reality. For chrissakes, Violet was only five years old and Harper was two. Nevertheless, I did my best to prepare them for Joan’s arrival, hoping that it wouldn’t send them into an existential tailspin. I mean, if SpongeBob SquarePants showed up at your front door, I’m sure you’d be a bit gobsmacked, too.
Judging by their reaction on the couch that day, our little pregame pep talk hadn’t really moved the needle.
“Okay, guys . . . remember that Barbie that I bought in London? She’s coming to stay with us this weekend.”
Crickets.
“So, when she gets here . . . don’t freak out . . . she’s real.”
More crickets.
After settling in, Joan and I made our way to the Foo Fighters’ studio, where we began working on a song idea she had kicking around called “Any Weather,” an up-tempo number with one of her trademark melodies. It was instantly recognizable as Joan Jett, filled with attitude and heart. Watching her work, I could only imagine the incredible life she had lived, and I could sense her undying love of rock and roll, which was as contagious as it was inspiring, to say the least. After all these years, she still sang from the heart.
We can stay together
Through any weather
We can stay together
Through anything
If we love
That night, we returned home after a wonderfully productive day, and I began my usual ritual of getting my daughters ready for bed while Joan retreated to the guesthouse to change into her pajamas (just when I thought she couldn’t be any more adorable, yes, she wore pajamas). I gave Harper her bath, got her into her PJs, read her a few stories, and put her in her crib without so much as a peep. One down, one to go. Violet was next. Bath, PJs, but before putting her to bed, I carried her down to the living room to say good night to Joan.
Standing before the couch where Joan was sitting comfortably in her own jammies, I said, “Hey, Joan, Violet wanted to say good night to you.” Joan smiled and said, “Awwwwww, good night, Violet. I’ll see you tomorrow!” Violet turned to me and whispered in my ear, “Dad, will you ask Joan if she’ll read me bedtime stories tonight?” My heart stopped a moment as I looked in Violet’s eyes, and I turned to Joan. “Hey . . . ummmm . . . she wants you to read her bedtime stories tonight . . .” I felt Violet’s grip begin to tighten in suspense. Joan smiled and happily obliged. “Come on, Violet . . . let’s go!”
As I watched the two walk hand in hand upstairs, I prayed that Violet would never forget this moment, that she’d look back on this night someday and know that some superheroes are indeed real. That maybe someday she would become her own type of innovator, an architect, a pioneer, inspiring generations of young women to pick up a guitar or do whatever she chooses to do to make her mark.
FOR, IN A WORLD FULL OF BARBIES, EVERY GIRL NEEDS A JOAN JETT.
The Daddy-Daughter Dance
“Oh, by the way . . . the daddy-daughter dance is March sixth this year. Make sure you put it in your calendar.”
My heart froze as my wife’s voice echoed over the exaggerated delay of a long-distance call from Los Angeles to my hotel room in Cape Town, South Africa. March sixth? I thought to myself. Oh god, please let that be a day off at home . . .
I instantly knew that this was going to be a problem, but doing my best to conceal the sinking feeling in my chest, I causally told Jordyn that I’d make note of it, hung up the phone, and broke out in a nervous sweat, praying that this most important date (an event that I had promised I would never miss) fell within one of the short breaks in our never-ending world tour that year. Fearing the worst, I jumped across the room to my laptop and quickly opened my calendar to March 6.
It was a show day, all right . . . in Perth, Australia.
The daddy-daughter dance was a tradition at Violet’s school that was practically mandatory for any father trying to raise a girl in the silicone valley (no, I’m not referring to software) of Los Angeles. An opportunity to strengthen the familial bond, share quality time, and show them that no matter what, a girl can always rely on her dear old dad. From kindergarten to sixth grade, it was an annual parade of middle-aged men doing their best to politely socialize with each other in their starched business suits while their little girls, dressed in miniature ball gowns with corsages carefully pinned, ate candy hand over fist from long tables that would make Willy Wonka blush. All to a Kidz Bop, Top 40 soundtrack being DJ’d by a Nickelodeon-esque dance instructor screaming instructions to the “cha-cha slide” at ear-shattering volume. Usually held in one of the dingy banquet rooms of the infamous Sportsmen’s Lodge in Sherman Oaks (house of a thousand Bar Mitzvahs), it was the highlight of most every little girl’s year. And a few fathers’, as well.
Courtesy of Jordyn Blum
Violet and I never failed to make an event of it. Though I have always had an aversion to formal wear (as I tend to look like a stoner in court to pay a misdemeanor marijuana fine), I would do my darnedest to clean up and look the part. Of course, Violet would also do her Disney best, usually wearing something princesslike in a tricky pair of tiny heels, brimming with excitement and filled with nerves at the terrifying prospect of such an awkward social experiment. Deep down I knew that these formative functions would surely be the foundation of many high school dances to come, so it was imperative that they go smoothly for my girl, otherwise she might be faced with an adolescence of proms resembling the bucket-of-blood scene from Carrie.
This year was different, though. For years, Harper, who is three years younger than Violet, would always stand crying at the door when Violet and I would head out to the dance, begging to be included, though she wasn’t yet a student at the school. It broke my heart to see her wave goodbye, holding back the tears through her pacifier, unable to understand her ineligibility. I would always try to reassure her, “We’ll all go together someday!” Nevertheless, the sight of her standing at the doorway with tears streaming down her face as she held her favorite blanket always hit me right where it hurts. And now that she was finally old enough and I had the chance to make good on my promise to take them both to the dance, something Harper had been looking forward to almost half of her life, I had a fucking show the same night—9,330 miles away.
I immediately called my manager of thirty years, John Silva, and said, “John, we have a problem. Like, a serious problem.” I calmly explained the situation in my best measured tone while making it very clear that missing this dance was not an option. He apologetically replied, “I’m sorry, David, but the show’s already sold out.” DEFCON 1 kicked in as I imagined the horror of my two little gir
ls being stood up at the dance by THEIR OWN FATHER and I instantly went from zero to sixty, screaming, “Cancel it! Move it! Postpone it! Do whatever you have to do, but I cannot and will not miss this fucking dance!”
Realizing the magnitude of this potential disaster, we put our thinking caps on and started shuffling dates. I mean, if they could put a man on the moon, we could surely get me to the Sportsmen’s Lodge on time in my pair of Levi’s and dirty Clarks shoes, right? The tour, which was to begin in Christchurch, New Zealand, was a relatively short eight shows, all stadiums in the sweltering summer heat. It was to be our biggest trip Down Under yet, and tickets had disappeared quickly. We have always had a spicy love affair with our friends in New Zealand and Australia, making it a point at least once every album cycle to suffer the fifteen-hour flight and pay a visit. And it’s always more than worth it. From the black pebble beaches of Piha, New Zealand, just outside of the cosmopolitan wonderland of Auckland, to the wineries surrounding the hills of Adelaide, Australia, we had spent a decade exploring this heavenly territory, making lifelong friends and rocking the fuck out of every venue we set foot in. So it pained me to even consider postponing, much less canceling, a show. Plus, disappointing fans is just not in my DNA. But, as much as I love a nice, cold Victoria Bitter beer and a meat pie at midnight, I do have priorities. After a bit of brainstorming/shuffling and a few phone calls, we came up with a plan: