The Storyteller

by Dave Grohl

  The Perth show, which was already sold out, could potentially be moved from the sixth to the eighth, giving me just enough of a window of time to run offstage in Adelaide, board a chartered plane to Sydney, immediately jump on a Qantas flight back to L.A., land at LAX, sleep a few hours, take my girls to the dance, then leave straight from the Sportsmen’s Lodge for the airport and fly back to Perth just in time to run onstage and kick their fucking asses.

  CRAZY? PERHAPS. DOABLE? BARELY. MANDATORY? INDISPUTABLY.

  Our scheme was set in motion, and the kind people of Perth thankfully rearranged their calendars so we could meet on March 8. Crisis averted. I could now rest easy knowing that I would be there for my girls, escorting in my best Levi’s and Clarks shoes, reminding them that they can always rely on their father, even if it means forty hours of travel over two days and sixteen time zones. Fortunately, all of those years I spent packed in smelly, crowded vans for months on end, sleeping on floors and living off corn dogs, had prepared me for this exact moment. You do what you have to do to get to the gig. Always.

  By the time we got to Adelaide, our intercontinental operation had been planned down to the minute with military precision. Leaving no room for error or delay, my tour manager, Gus, and I were prepared to jump from the stage like soldiers from a Black Hawk helicopter and race to a private plane awaiting us on a nearby tarmac, in which we would be flown to Sydney to connect for the arduous fifteen-hour flight home. Daunting, to say the least, but a ridiculous challenge that we both strangely looked forward to, laughing at the absurdity of it all. The show that night was a ripper, a twenty-four-song blitz that had the stadium going berserk as I closely watched the clock on the side of the stage, making sure that I gave the audience every last second of my time before I had to flee. And as the final notes of “Everlong” still hung in the air, Gus and I jumped into a car and sped off to the nearby regional airport, ready to circle the planet together.

  As we boarded our first plane, I was greeted by the familiar smell of a hot bucket of KFC emanating throughout the cabin. This was no accident, mind you. The Foo Fighters have one very peculiar indulgence that we request every now and then for special occasions (and there are many special occasions): KFC and champagne. This tasty combination is something that we inadvertently discovered on a tour of Australia years before. One night, as we were driving to soundcheck, I saw a KFC out of the corner of my eye and said to Gus, “Hey, Goose, can you get a couple buckets of chicken for after the show?” I hadn’t had Kentucky Fried Chicken in years, and I was overcome with the need for that secret blend of herbs and spices. He obliged, ordering enough food for an army to be waiting for us in our dressing room. I’ll never forget walking offstage that night, soaking wet with a towel draped over me, the aroma of fried chicken wafting down the hall from our dressing room fifty yards away. I collapsed in a chair and tore into that bucket like a raccoon in a dumpster, devouring piece after piece, ravenous from the hundreds of calories I had just spent onstage. After a few pieces, I was parched, and the only liquid within reach was a bottle of champagne in a bucket of ice. I popped it, took a sip, took a bite of chicken, took another sip, took another bite of chicken, and screamed, “OH MY GOD, YOU GUYS, YOU HAVE TO TRY THIS!” Before long, every band member had a glass of champagne in one hand and a chicken leg in the other, marveling at this new discovery, convinced that we were the first to find this most perfect pairing. That night, it became an artery-clogging tradition, one that we still indulge in to this day. Laugh all you want. I could go into a detailed culinary lecture about the juxtaposition of taste and mouthfeel that comes with KFC and bubbly. But just take it from me, it’s fucking delicious.

  The short two-hour flight to Sydney was a breeze, giving us a few hours’ layover before the long haul, just enough time to call home and tell the girls I was coming. I could feel their excitement over the phone, and now it would only be a matter of hours before I could see them again.

  The anticipation and adrenaline made the next flight a never-ending affair, but my heart was full of fatherly pride as I imagined walking into the Sportsmen’s Lodge with my two amazing daughters, one on each arm.

  Upon arrival in L.A., I looked like I had been hit by a garbage truck but was immediately greeted by two screeching little girls as I walked through the front door, a feeling that supersedes even the most ferocious jet lag. Knowing that I only had a few precious hours with them, I staved off any physical exhaustion and “dad mode” kicked in. Full disclosure: I am what some people might consider a silly dad (shocker, I know); I often resemble one of those terribly annoying kids’ television show hosts who make you want to put your head in an oven. I am not opposed or averse to embarrassing myself for even the slightest giggle from my little ones, from the moment they wake to bedtime stories at night. Example: I have always found that dancing like a fool to Earth, Wind and Fire while serving pancakes in the morning not only elicits the first smile of the day but gets them out the front door with a skip in their step, even if just to escape my insanity.

  Courtesy of Jordyn Blum

  The rest of the day was spent drinking an ocean of coffee and trying to keep my eyelids from slamming shut while organizing the evening’s festivities. Stretch limo? Check. Fake champagne? Check. Failed attempt at trying to look formal after an almost ten-thousand-mile commute? Double check. This was their big night, so the pageantry and preparation can only be described as Oscar worthy, replete with a glam squad that could very well double as a NASCAR pit crew. At this point, Violet was a seasoned veteran of the daddy-daughter dance routine, but I could see in Harper’s eyes that this was indeed something very special. A moment she had been awaiting for so very long. And that was worth every mile I had traveled.

  I was never one for school dances. To me, they were painfully awkward affairs that reinforced my crippling insecurities as a nerdy kid and never failed to remind me of the simple fact that I JUST CAN’T DANCE. The terrifying ritual of standing in a circle with friends trying to summon the funk as Rick James’s “Super Freak” blasted over the PA has left me with irreparable trauma, deathly afraid of any dance floor outside of the privacy of my own kitchen. Not to mention that one homecoming dance on a boat where I was dumped halfway down the Potomac River with no life jacket. So a wallflower I became. Perhaps a bit ironic considering I devoted my life to rhythm. I’ve seen many drummers dance, though, and believe me, it ain’t pretty.

  Soon we were standing in line at the Sportsmen’s Lodge with all of the other fathers and daughters, and my grueling fatigue began to kick in, waves of exhaustion that practically made my knees buckle; I was going down fast. Snap out of it! I told myself. This is a night the girls will remember for the rest of their lives, and you only have two hours to share it with them before racing back to the airport for another ten-thousand-mile trip. All it took was one look at their wondrous expressions and my strength came right back. I WAS ONCE AGAIN FILLED WITH PRIDE KNOWING THAT, NO MATTER WHAT, THEY COULD DEPEND ON ME. I’VE GOT THIS.

  As we entered the main room, we were met with the standard affair of balloons, tables neatly set with beautiful dishes, a grand buffet of plain pasta and chicken nuggets, and a dance floor full of screaming children. Our eyes lit up like Dorothy’s as she entered the wonderful world of Oz, and we shared a group hug as we surveyed the scene. What to do first? Eat? Dance? Attack the cotton candy machine? Expecting Violet and Harper to be a bit nervous, I said, “How about we find a table and put our stuff down?” I turned to find an empty seat, and . . . they were gone, racing toward their friends to dance in little packs of squealing glee. I could only smile as I watched them share the joy with all of the other girls. My job here was done, and I was now left to socialize with a roomful of similarly abandoned fathers, biding their time with stiff-as-starch conversations that typically revolved around sports, something I know absolutely nothing about. If fatherhood has taught me anything, it’s that I couldn’t pick a Hall of Fame athlete out of a lineup if my life depended on it,
though to be honest, I actually relish being the one dude at the party who is always more interested in the Super Bowl halftime show than the game itself.

  I have always felt like a bit of an alien, which obviously I learned to embrace over time. When diagnosed with a crooked spine at the age of seven, I had to begin wearing a small lift on my left shoe to slowly correct the problem. I remember feeling a sense of shame and embarrassment at first, as I wasn’t allowed to wear the cool sneakers that all the other kids wore, but at some point that shame and embarrassment turned into a sort of empowerment. I was different from them, even if just because of the shoes that I wore, and I liked it. I didn’t want to be like the other kids. As crooked as I was, I liked the feeling of being strange. Still do. So, here I was once again, doing my best to fit in, forever the kid with the weird sneakers.

  I kept an eye on the time, knowing that there was little margin for error in my diabolical itinerary. Counting down the minutes until I had to say goodbye again (something I always dread), I decided to hit the buffet line for a little Caesar salad, knowing that the food on the flight was probably going to be a bit more my speed. I figured that I’d get to the airport lounge, have a meal and a few glasses of wine, then pass out in my seat and sleep the majority of the fifteen-hour trip. After all, I had been awake for what seemed like days at this point, and my body would surely surrender to exhaustion, leaving me in a deep hibernation until the wheels touched down in Sydney.

  It was time. I scanned the room to find my little ones and held back tears as I saw them having the night of their lives, bouncing and screaming with their buddies, doing their best to nail the cha-cha slide. I pulled them to the side and, in my best Courtship of Eddie’s Father tone, explained that it was time for me to go, expecting an explosion of tears and suffocating hugs. Instead, they chirped, “Okay! Bye, Dad! Have a good trip!” and without hesitation raced back to the dance floor, leaving me alone in my chair with a half-eaten Caesar salad beneath my dropped jaw. But I could only smile. MY PRIDE WAS NOW THAT OF A FATHER WATCHING HIS DAUGHTERS DISCOVERING INDEPENDENCE, NO LONGER CLINGING TO THEIR DOTING PARENT, BUT RATHER FINDING THEIR OWN WORLD OUTSIDE OF THE ONE WE HAD CREATED TOGETHER. The separation anxiety was all mine. I grabbed my jacket and headed to the airport, leaving them with their mother to close out this most important night.

  As I sat in the airport lounge blasting through a bottle of Shiraz, I replayed the previous twenty-four hours in my head, picking out moments that will undoubtedly stay with me forever. The walk through my front door, the meticulous preparation, the sweaty palms, the pinning of tiny corsages to their elegant dresses, their faces in the dance floor lights, the mountains of butter noodles and steamed broccoli . . . now I only had to make it to the gate and this impossible task would be nothing but a memory. One that Violet and Harper would hopefully never forget.

  Gus and I boarded the plane, and I poured my weary bones into the spacious seat, passing out in a perfect red-wine haze before we even left the ground. Mission fucking accomplished.

  Turbulence. Not the kind that feels like a massage chair at the mall. No. The kind that feels like a 9.0 earthquake, throwing you in every direction like a feather in the wind (thank you, Robert Plant), simultaneously rattling your organs and scaring you to death all at the same time. It’ll pass, I told myself. I’ve got this. After a good twenty minutes, I felt a sharp pain in my stomach that can only be described as someone taking a knife and carving their initials into my intestines like lovers do on park benches and old oak trees. This was not normal. This was not motion sickness. This was food poisoning. As the plane violently lurched back and forth, I realized that I was now trapped in this aluminum tube with thirteen hours to go, and every sudden movement made me want to, well, explode. I broke out in a cold sweat, staring at the seat belt light, praying for it to go off so that I could run to the bathroom and rid myself of these toxins, but the turbulence continued for what seemed like an eternity.

  Food poisoning is a touring musician’s worst nightmare. If you have a cold, you drink hot tea. If you have a flu, you take medicine. If you have food poisoning, you are absolutely 100 percent fucked. There is no way to keep your body from doing the thing that it’s genetically designed to do: puke and shit the poison out of you. Only, I have a bigger problem. I am physically incapable of vomiting. I have maybe thrown up three times since the age of twelve: once at the age of fourteen while listening to David Bowie’s “Space Oddity” outside of a keg party (nothing worse than heaving up still-cold Meister Brau), once in 1997 after a bad piece of street pizza in Hollywood (seemed like a good idea at the time), and once after seeing Soundgarden at the Los Angeles Forum in 2011 (it wasn’t the music, I assure you). So any bout with nausea is usually a long process of trying to convince myself that I’ve got this. Basically, it’s my hell.

  The seat belt light finally went off, and I made it to the bathroom in seconds flat, locking the door and hovering over the sink as I tried to relax and let nature take its course. As the minutes went by, I became more and more aware that not only was this attempt to expel my inner demons entirely in vain, but I was probably raising the suspicions of every passenger and flight attendant in the cabin by “overstaying my welcome” in this tiny toilet. After a good college try, I limped back to my seat and broke out in chills. I looked at the clock . . . twelve hours to go.

  The ensuing flight was a nightmare. Multiple trips to the loo, all failed attempts, and back to my seat for another round of spasmodic chills and fever. No sleep. No rest. Just an endless worst-case scenario that couldn’t have happened at a more inappropriate time, considering that I had to go straight to the gig for soundcheck upon landing in Perth. This was a test, I thought. A test of will, dedication, and the age-old adage “You do what you have to do to get to the gig.”

  Now, at the time, Ebola was making headlines. The terrible disease was sending shock waves of fear around the globe, and international travel was full of precautionary measures that required all passengers to be screened in one way or another. As we neared Sydney, I was handed the usual customs and immigration cards to fill out, but now there was also a mandatory Ebola questionnaire that everyone had to sign. A simple yes-or-no form with a list of symptoms that were signs that you might be infected with Ebola. I read the list in horror. Nausea. Diarrhea. Fever. Chills . . . I was exhibiting each and every one of them. My mind fast-forwarded to being thrown in a room full of people with actual Ebola at the airport, where I would then contract the disease and ultimately die alone in the land Down Under. I sat up in my chair, put on my best game face, and tried to will my sickness away.

  Drained of all energy, I stood up as we disembarked the plane and whispered to Gus, “Dude, I have food poisoning.” His eyes widened, and we held our stare as the airplane door opened. We still had another five-hour flight to Perth. This was not over; it had only just begun. His phone came out, and just as he had always done, he began scrambling to find a way to remedy this most disastrous situation as we walked to baggage claim. Our master plan had been derailed, all bets were off, and it now became a rock and roll version of The Amazing Race. What had seemed like a ridiculous adventure at first was now a challenge of basic survival. All in the name of the father.

  By the time we boarded our next flight, Gus had arranged for a doctor to meet me at the hotel in Perth. Fortunately, it seemed that the worst of it was over, and it was now just a matter of trying to keep down some tea and toast, hoping that it would provide even the slightest bit of the energy that I would need to pull off another two-and-a-half-hour screaming rock show. That felt like an impossible task, I thought, but there was no turning back now. The stage was set, gear was ready to go, and thousands of hard-core Foos fans were preparing for the night of their lives.

  The doctor arrived at my room, and looking at his watch, he explained exactly what I had to do in the short period of time before the houselights went up. “Take this pill right now, I’ll give you a liter of fluid, and I want you to lie down
for one hour.” I popped the anti-diarrheal pill into my mouth, I watched the bag of fluid empty through the IV into my vein (where does it go?), and my head hit the pillow like a ton of bricks. I’ve got this, I thought once again.

  I was welcomed backstage by my fellow bandmates with a sense of amazement. They had been warned that I might be a bit under the weather, so there were discussions of altering the set list with emergency plans in the event I pulled a GG Allin and covered the stage in a puddle of filth. My usual pre-show routine of bouncing in place while laughing over cocktails with the guys was reduced to sitting on the couch with a half-eaten banana in my hand, trying to summon the power to belt out twenty-five songs in the summer heat. This ain’t gonna do it for me, I thought. I looked over at the mini-fridge and noticed a Guinness tucked behind the Gatorade and coconut water. “Well, hello . . . ,” I said as I cracked that bad boy, downed it, and hit the stage running. Hey, if it is good enough for nursing mothers in Ireland . . .

  What could have been a career-defining train wreck of epic proportions turned out to be a triumphant night of deafening sing-alongs and joyous end-of-tour celebration. The thirty-six hours that preceded this performance ultimately fueled not only my body but my soul, reminding me of all the things I am thankful for in my life. My family. My friends. My music. I was cured by life and retreated back to the hotel after the show, no longer broken but stronger, with one more incredible Australian tour under my belt.

  The next morning, I woke, ate a meal, and turned right back around toward the airport for the twenty-two-hour trip home. Mission fucking accomplished. I had this.

  As I circled the planet one last time, I took stock of this wild gesture of love for my children, reflecting on my relationship with my own father and wondering if he would he have done the same for me. Would he have moved heaven and earth to be with me on such an important day? Doubtful, I thought. Perhaps I love so fiercely as a father because mine could not.