The Storyteller

by Dave Grohl

  I firmly believe that your understanding or “version” of love is learned by example from day one, and it becomes your divining rod in life, for better or worse. A foundation for all meaningful relationships to stand upon. I surely have my mother to thank for mine. I LOVE MY CHILDREN AS I WAS LOVED AS A CHILD, AND I PRAY THAT THEY WILL DO THE SAME WHEN THEIR TIME COMES. SOME CYCLES ARE MEANT TO BE BROKEN. SOME ARE MEANT TO BE REINFORCED.

  Years later, I was driving Harper to school and she asked, “Dad, what’s the longest flight you’ve ever been on?” I smiled and said, “Well . . . remember that time I came home for one night to take you to your first daddy-daughter dance?” She nodded. “That was about twenty hours in the air,” I said. She looked at me like I was crazy. “Twenty hours??? You didn’t have to do that!!!”

  We smiled at each other, and after a long pause, she turned to me and said, “Actually . . . yes you did.”

  The Wisdom of Violet

  “Are you sitting down?”

  John Silva’s voice, terminally hoarse from decades of screaming orders from his cluttered Hollywood office, couldn’t have been more crystal clear in this moment. After all, these are four words that no one wants to hear at the start of any phone call, especially from the man in charge of their career. “Yes . . . why, what is it???” I quickly blurted back, anticipating some devastating news as shock waves of fear and anxiety began to pulse through every vein in my body.

  “The Academy Awards called. They want you to perform ‘Blackbird’ by yourself on the show this year.”

  I stopped in my tracks and my mind instantly went to the moment when all eyes and cameras would turn to me, alone with only an acoustic guitar, live on television in front of thirty-four million people. Even though I was currently wearing sweatpants in my living room and the show was weeks away, the crippling stage fright immediately hit me. I couldn’t imagine a more terrifying prospect. A quiet “Holy shit!” was all that I could muster in response.

  I was no stranger to the song, of course. The arrangement had been burned into my memory since I was a child, and eventually I’d learned Paul McCartney’s intricate fingerpicking guitar technique while singing along to his timeless melody. Though, it’s one thing to gracefully execute such a difficult song from the comfort of your couch at home. It’s another to pull it off while the ENTIRE FUCKING PLANET IS WATCHING (not to mention Jennifer Lawrence and Sylvester Stallone).

  With the phone practically slipping from my already sweaty palm, I croaked back, “Wait . . . why?” It made little sense to me. The band was on hiatus (or, as we call it, “I hate us”) for the moment, and I surely wasn’t nominated for an Oscar, so why on earth would they call me? “They would like you to be the musical accompaniment for the ‘In Memoriam’ segment,” Silva answered. Not the cheeriest opportunity, I thought, but having never been one to easily back down from any challenge, I said, “Let me sleep on it, and I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Courtesy of Danny Clinch

  I hung up the phone and sat in silence as my mind bounced back and forth from every reason to accept this unprecedented opportunity to every reason to politely decline. The idea of being invited to pay tribute to those the movie industry had lost that year was an immeasurable honor, but . . . I questioned whether I could pull it off. Deep down, I was scared. “Blackbird” is no walk in the park, after all, and playing the Oscars is very different from playing to an arena full of Foo fans.

  Luckily, I had performed the song before, but to a very different audience.

  That would be at Violet’s third-grade Student Entertainment Day the year before.

  No longer referred to as a talent show for fear of the lifelong psychological impact that any sort of competition might incur on our next generation of children (cue exaggerated eye roll), Student Entertainment Day was usually a cavalcade of children performing piano recitals or lip-syncing along to Katy Perry songs with intricately choreographed dance routines for a gymnasium full of helicopter parents in Lululemon active wear.

  Upon its announcement that year, Violet had raced home and excitedly asked if she could perform “Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band” with a group of her closest friends. Not an unusual request by her standards, as I had made it a point to brainwash her with the Beatles’ entire catalog from an early age, hoping to lay some sort of substantive musical foundation before she moved on to the likes of Cardi B and Iggy Azalea. I could sense in her enthusiasm that she felt this was finally her chance to share her undeniable talent with others, something I had been anticipating since the first time I heard her beautiful voice singing along to Amy Winehouse songs from her little car seat on long drives through the San Fernando Valley. A few phone calls were made to chum the waters, but to our dismay the general consensus from her group of besties was “Sgt. who?”

  Violet was devastated by the news that her friends would not join her for the show. As we sat on the couch together and I watched the tears roll down her cherubic little face, the protective father in me kicked in. “Hey, what if you and I perform ‘Blackbird’ together? I’ll play guitar and you sing!” She looked up and wiped her face, and her expression instantly changed as she nodded excitedly with a relieved smile. I ran to fetch my guitar, sat down before her, and began to play the song. Without even a moment of rehearsal or lyric sheet to refer to, she came in on time, in tune, and we played it together perfectly, first try. It was beautiful. I would say that I was surprised, but I wasn’t. I knew that she could do it. But . . . could I? We high-fived and made a plan: we would rehearse every morning before school and every night before bed until the gig, ensuring that we’d be more than ready by the time we hit the stage.

  Saturday Night Live, Wembley Stadium, the White House—each of these monumental performances was a highlight of my career, but my anxiety about all of them paled in comparison to how nervous I was for this event. The fact that it was just a gymnasium full of parents sipping iced nonfat lattes while fingering their cell phones made no difference to me. I was there for Violet, and it was crucial that this performance go smoothly. So, every spare moment I had from that day forward was spent preparing to be her flawless musical accompaniment, trying to perfect that beautiful guitar arrangement until I had blisters on every finger. THIS IS THE MOST IMPORTANT GIG OF MY LIFE, I THOUGHT.

  We arrived for soundcheck the morning of the show, smartly dressed and well rehearsed. I requested a stool to sit upon while I played. Violet requested a music stand for her lyrics in the unlikely event that she needed them. We tested the guitar and microphone levels and then nervously waited for the room to fill up. Having been at this school since kindergarten, Violet knew most everyone, and most everyone knew Violet, but her amazing singing voice had been a well-kept secret, and it was about to be unleashed upon this most unsuspecting audience.

  After a few adorable performances, our names were called, and we climbed the stage to a smattering of supportive applause. We took our places and got settled, and in the horrifying pin-drop silence I looked at Violet and said, “Ready, Boo?” Petrified with nerves, she nodded, and I began the delicate guitar intro, reminding myself that this was, without question, the most important performance of my life, and hers as well. As usual, she came in perfectly on time, perfectly in tune, and I looked out at the audience’s faces as their collective jaws began to drop. Her innocent, crystalline voice filled the PA, and the room was stunned. I could only smile, knowing that they were finally meeting the Violet that I knew so well. As the last chord rang out, we were met with thunderous applause and a standing ovation. We took a bow, high-fived, and left the stage to the next performer. “You nailed it, Boo!” I said, giving her a hug.

  My heart was filled with pride. Not just pride in Violet’s musical ability, but pride in her courage.

  Courage is a defining factor in the life of any artist. The courage to bare your innermost feelings, to reveal your true voice, or to stand in front of an audience and lay it out there for the world to see. The emotional vulnerab
ility that is often necessary to summon a great song can also work against you when sharing your song for the world to hear. This is the paralyzing conflict of any sensitive artist. A feeling I’ve experienced with every lyric I’ve sung to someone other than myself. Will they like it? Am I good enough? It is the courage to be yourself that bridges those opposing emotions, and when it does, magic can happen.

  Still on the fence about the Academy Awards, I waited for Violet to get home from school to tell her the news. After much back-and-forth, I had finally made the decision to decline, convincing myself that I didn’t need to play the Oscars and that I’d probably screw the whole thing up anyway, but I thought I’d share the absurdity of the offer with my daughter. As she came bounding through the door with her backpack full of books, I excitedly said, “Guess what I got asked to do today!” “What?” she asked. “To play ‘Blackbird’ on the Academy Awards!” She looked me dead in the eyes and said, “Well? You’re gonna do it, right? I mean . . . you did it at the Student Entertainment Day!”

  The gauntlet was thrown. In a flash, I realized that I had to play the Oscars. As her father, I now had to show her that I had the same courage that she had summoned in the gymnasium that day, no matter how terrified I was. OF COURSE, I HAD TO PROVE TO HER THAT I COULD DO THIS, BUT DEEP DOWN, I ALSO HAD TO PROVE IT TO MYSELF.

  I called John Silva, accepted the offer, and began preparations for the biggest performance of my life.

  It was decided that I would be playing the song with an accompanying orchestra as a montage of photographs was displayed above me. But there was a twist: the song was entirely rearranged to fit with the sequence of photos, and the orchestra was to be piped in from a studio down the street, leaving me alone on the stage with no conductor to refer to in the event that I needed help following the wildly fluctuating tempo. Therefore, I was to play to a “click track” through an ear monitor, which would serve as a sort of metronome reference. Easily done, right? Fun fact: I do not and have not ever played with in-ear monitors (earbud-like gadgets that are used to help you hear yourself and have become industry standard over the years). I still prefer old-school floor monitors, the kind that look like dirty old speakers and blow your hair back with every kick drum hit. So this posed a serious problem. With no conductor to watch or click track to follow, how was I going to pull this off?

  I finally relented and reluctantly agreed to use an in-ear monitor for the first time in my life while thirty-four million people looked on. What have I gotten myself into? I thought. I decided that in the event of a train-wreck-level emergency, I would just find Jennifer Lawrence in the front row and serenade her the best that I could. Or Sylvester Stallone would do in a pinch.

  Of all award ceremonies, the Academy Awards is some next-level shit. You practically have to get Pentagon-entry clearance just to plug in your instrument, and the process of getting “dressed” is something straight out of Cinderella. Not my vibe. I’m used to wandering into an event after a few cocktails wearing a jacket that’s perfectly acceptable at both funerals and court appearances. But this was different. I was soon given an appointment at a boutique in Beverly Hills to be fitted for the perfect suit. I was a fish out of water, to say the least.

  Standing before the racks of clothes, I had no idea where to begin. Anyone who knows me knows that I am the least fashionable person on earth and basically still dress the same way I did in ninth grade (Vans, jeans, band T-shirt), so I was assigned a stylist to assist me in finding and fitting the perfect suit. I was soon introduced to a stylish young blond woman with huge blue eyes named Kelsey. “We’ve actually met before,” she said. I looked at her face, and though it did seem familiar, I couldn’t place the memory. “I was the little girl in Nirvana’s ‘Heart-Shaped Box’ video . . .” Silence. Then I instantly saw it in those big, blue eyes. It was her.

  Mind. Fucking. Blown. THE UNIVERSE WAS HARD AT WORK.

  That video, filmed twenty-three years before and directed by legendary photographer Anton Corbijn, was a surrealist collage of birth, death, anatomy, and chaos all set in a fantasy world with an elderly man hanging on a cross in a Jesus Christ pose. Standing in the middle of it all was a little girl in a white hood and robe, her giant eyes full of sadness, perhaps a representation of the innocence Nirvana had lost with our traumatizing rise to fame. And now, here we were, reunited in a fitting room, pinning the cuffs of the pants that I’d be wearing while playing a Beatles song to a room full of movie stars. Irony much?

  As the date drew nearer, I grew more and more nervous. When I had dinner with Paul McCartney a week before the awards, I told him that I would be performing on the show. “What song will you be playing?” Paul asked me. “‘Blackbird,’” I nervously replied. “Cheeky,” he said, smiling and waving his finger at me. Funny, but it did further amp up the pressure, as now I had one more reason to not fuck this up.

  I would constantly revisit the image of Violet onstage, proving to herself that she had the courage to bare her innermost feelings, reveal her true voice, and stand in front of an audience and lay it out there for the world to see. I was inspired by her bravery, therefore finding my own and dedicating this performance to her in my heart.

  For anyone wishing to attend the Oscars, take it from me, it’s much more enjoyable from your living room with some spinach dip and a nice cold Coors Light. I applaud anyone who devotes their life to the arts, but good god, it felt like the longest Catholic Mass you could possibly imagine, just without the crackers and thimbles of cabernet. And my performance was well toward the end of the program, leaving me to my rising anxiety. Hours passed. Days. Weeks. After what seemed like an eternity, I was finally called backstage to prepare.

  As I walked out to my chair in the middle of the stage during a commercial break, I looked down at the front row, where Jennifer Lawrence and Sylvester Stallone had been sitting all night, searching for their faces to rescue me in the event that I choked up and my performance derailed into disaster. They were nowhere to be found, replaced by seat fillers who all stared at me with confused expressions, clearly expecting Lady Gaga. “One minute!” a director shouted over the PA. I pushed in my tiny ear monitor, adjusted the microphone, took a deep breath, and closed my eyes.

  I saw Violet. I saw her first steps as a baby. I saw her first day of school, waving goodbye to me in the distance. I saw her pedaling away on a bicycle for the first time, no longer needing the assistance of her doting father. And I saw her onstage, singing “Blackbird” in the school gymnasium. I FELT HER COURAGE AND FOUND MY OWN.

  Too bad Jennifer and Sly missed it.

  Conclusion

  Another Step in the Crosswalk

  Courtesy of the author’s personal archives

  “You okay, buddy?”

  Slumped over in my chair, I gave a silent, reassuring nod to Chris as I hid my face in a dirty backstage towel and wept, my muffled cries echoing in the awkward silence of our dressing room as the other guys quietly opened their wardrobe cases and changed their clothes behind me, still sweating from the three-hour show we had just played. After twenty years of being a band, this was the first time Pat, Nate, Taylor, Chris, and Rami had ever seen me, their fearless leader, completely break down in front of them. But I couldn’t hold it all in any longer. I had to let go. In a moment of catharsis, it was as if every emotion that I had suppressed in the last forty years came to the surface and finally breached the levee inside of me, spilling onto the concrete floor below.

  It wasn’t that I was unable to walk and yet had continued on an exhausting tour of sixty-five shows where I had to be lifted onto a chair each night to perform, only to be carted away afterward like a broken theater prop. It wasn’t that I still felt the searing pain from the sharp titanium screws drilled deep into my bones that will forever remain as a humbling reminder of my vulnerability and fragility. And it wasn’t that I was filled with the devastating longing for my family that breaks my heart when we are apart for weeks on end, preying on my fear of absence and th
e separation anxiety left behind by my father.

  No, this was something else.

  It was the fact that I had just finished playing a sold-out show at Chicago’s Wrigley Field to forty thousand people, directly across the street from the Cubby Bear, that tiny club where I saw my first concert at the age of thirteen and was inspired to devote my life to rock and roll.

  I had played stadiums twice this size before, conducting a sea of fans in chorus after chorus, all of us joining together in rapturous harmony for hours, but it wasn’t the sheer capacity of the room that brought me to tears on this night. It was the fact that Wrigley Field was just a crosswalk away from that dimly lit corner bar once filled with bodies writhing and dancing to the deafening shriek of feedback and crashing drums that served as my dawn. That summer night in 1982 when my cousin Tracey took me to see Naked Raygun was my baptism; I was bathed in the distorted glory of the music. From that day forward, I was changed, empowered by the revelation that I felt as my skinny little chest was crushed against the tiny stage and I came face-to-face with the raw power of rock and roll. I had finally found my niche, my tribe, my calling. But most important, I had found myself.

  This was my great awakening, and dreams were no longer dreams; they became my divining rod. I was an idealistic misfit, empowered by the audacity of faith and a reckless determination to do it my way. Punk rock became my professor in a school with no rules, only teaching the lesson that you need no lessons and that every person has a voice to be heard, no matter the sound. I have built a life on this notion and blindly followed it with undying conviction.