So he was doing that for a while, and I was still trying to get in touch with him, but he wasn’t responding to anything, and like, meanwhile, you know, I was helping my mom prepare for her wedding with Bob, which was going to be this very small, very beautiful thing in Buenos Aires, where, like, we had rented this whole little villa, and I was also touring and laying down some new tracks with Skelet0r, and so I just wasn’t ultimately paying that much attention to what was going on with my dad.
And then he got the Web series, and that sort of changed the mood of the whole thing.
I mean, I’m sure a lot of you have seen it—I don’t need to go into detail about the whole thing—but, it was just sort of fucked up, because like, Content Bucket had to have known that he wasn’t doing well—like, they had to have met him and seen the state he was in and understood that he was a deeply unhealthy person—but they just didn’t give a fuck. They just, like, wanted to cash in on whatever little viral thing those videos were gonna be, and so they basically gave him free rein to say whatever the fuck he wanted about me, and whatever the fuck he wanted about my mom and Bob and the world and then, you know, they’d put in all these ironic edits and like, do all this fucked-up, goofy shit around these videos of him, like, clearly losing his mind. And, you know, if you listen to those rants, they just make no fucking sense at all. At first, like, I thought my dad was in on the joke or something—like, I thought it was maybe this weird, ultimately unsuccessful attempt at some kind of “alt-humor” or whatever—but it was so clear after the first two or three videos that my dad was totally fucking serious and that the people at Content Bucket were just laughing their asses off in the editing room.
And then the stupidest fucking part, you know, the part that really pissed me off about the whole thing, was that the news would still report on these videos as if they were actual allegations that I needed to respond to, you know? Like, I’d get asked in interviews about this crazy conspiracy theory or that crazy conspiracy theory, and I’d just be like: Are you guys fucking serious? You’re gonna ask me to respond to this?
And I mean, it’s not like these people are stupid, you know? Everyone knew what was going on—everyone except my dad, I guess—so it’s not like these fucking reporters actually thought that these videos had anything to do with reality. It’s just like, this little fucking game we’re all supposed to play. EVERYONE involved in the process knows it’s bullshit, like, every single person knows EXACTLY what’s going on, but we all still have to pretend like it’s real. They all have to pretend like they’re ACTUALLY curious about what my answers are gonna be to these questions, and I have to pretend like I don’t know for a fact that they’re lying. And half of the time, I just want to be like: Can we drop it for a second? Can we just, like, take the day off? But Content Bucket was absolutely loving it, you know, because these were some of their most popular videos ever, and they were driving a lot of traffic to their site, and meanwhile, like, I’m trying to get in contact with them—I’m sending them all these emails being like: Hey, listen, my dad is obviously sick. Why don’t you just tell me how to get in contact with him so I can get him some help?—but they were like: Your father doesn’t want us to give you that information. We have to respect that. And I was just like: Fuck these motherfuckers. You know? Like, how fucking lost and empty do you have to be to become one of these motherfuckers? I’ll never forgive those Content Bucket guys. Seriously.
And so at a certain point, I just totally disengaged. I started saying to people, like: Believe whatever the fuck you want to believe, because I’ve got bigger fish to fry. If I paid attention to every crazy thing that was said about me, if I responded to every crazy conspiracy theory, I’d never have time to live my life, like, I’d never have time to actually make any music, and that’s what I’m supposed to be here for in the first place, right?
And so I just helped my mom and Bob with the wedding, and like, that was beautiful and it went great, and then I just disappeared for a little while to the South of France.
I just wanted to get the fuck out for a bit, you know? So I packed up and left the country and just tried to focus in. I just tried to get back into the root of the thing, which like, has always been the music—it’s always just been me alone at the piano or at the computer, and like, that’s what I wanted to get back to—so I found this little place that I could rent indefinitely, and the place had a grand piano, and so I was like: Dope.
And it was actually in that place in France that I started to make the album that would eventually become Roses and Mud. I wanted to go super-minimal, you know? Like, just me and the piano. And I actually got into a really nice groove with it when I was making those songs. I’d get up every day, and I’d have a little bit of breakfast—maybe a bowl of cereal or something—and then I’d just sit down at the piano and work for, like, hours at a time. And in the afternoons, I’d go out, like, go for a swim or some shit, and like, I’d invite different people up to come stay in the house and work on some shit with me—Scaggs dropped in, and Deez and Trick, and I even got Billy Maze to come out and sing some melodies for “Pump Bottle”—and it was this really dope setup. I just wanted to basically stay there for like, a couple of months, even a year, because back home all the shit with my dad and all the rumors and all that shit were just getting way too intense, and so I just didn’t even wanna be there at all. I was considering for a moment just like, totally uprooting my life and moving to France for good, but then, you know, the only reason I decided to even go back was because my mom was having the baby, and I obviously wasn’t gonna miss that.
I was surprised at first when she told me that she and Bob were expecting, but you gotta remember, my mom was super-young when she had me—she was only, like, twenty years old or something—and so it actually wasn’t that crazy, biologically, for her to give it another go. Plus, you know, Bob is estranged from his son—the kid he had however many years ago with his ex-wife—and so I think he was really into the idea of creating a whole new family with my mom and me.
I’ve actually never told anybody about this, but my dad reached out to me a few days before he died. I had been trying to contact him for a while to get him to stop making those videos, and then I just sort of peaced out on him and peaced out on the country, but three or four days before he died—you know, like, three or four days before I got on the flight back to L.A. to see my mom and Bob—I got this crazy message from him in my in-box. I didn’t really think much of it at the time, because, like, he didn’t even say anything on it, but I guess it must’ve been some sort of cry for help, or like, maybe even some kind of suicide note, because he didn’t leave anything behind when he shot himself. Looking back on it now, I guess this message he left in my in-box was like, his version of saying good-bye or his version of saying fuck you, and it was crazy, because, like, it’s not even like he called me on the phone and tried to actually talk to me. Like, he didn’t want me to actually be able to respond to him. He just like, recorded something on his phone and emailed it to me from his official Content Bucket email address, and I was supposed to open it up and sit with it and figure out what the fuck to do with it for the rest of my life. And all it was was this very dark, very grungy acoustic guitar cover of that first song I wrote with Deez—the one that sort of started all this shit—with my dad singing the main lyrics. It was literally just my dad and his guitar, and he played through the whole song. And I didn’t respond to it or anything because at the time, I was just sort of like: What the fuck is this? But I have to say, like, the way he was singing that song was actually kind of next-level. I mean, literally no one’s ever heard it before—I haven’t even told my mom about it—but like, it was kind of the best work my dad had done in years. Maybe if I ever release that covers album of the stuff we recorded back at the radio station in St. James, I’ll include this thing my dad sent me as like, the last track, because I think it would really freak people out, you know? Like, how deep of a move would that be? To just drop that shit at
the end?
But, you know, it was really fucked up of my dad to do it when he did it, because literally three days after he died, my mom gave birth to Lenny, and so Lenny’s birth was overshadowed by all this horrible darkness. Here was this day that was supposed to be all about joy—you know, my mom’s joy and Bob’s joy and just generally, like, the joy of life—and instead it became all about anger and resentment and death. I was coming out of the hospital, going down the street to go pick up coffee for my mom and Bob, and like, the reporters outside were just asking me about my dad’s suicide, and it’s like: Guys, I’m at the hospital to watch my MOM give BIRTH to my BROTHER, you know? Even when I was literally, like, wheeling my mom out of the hospital with Bob and the baby, people are shouting shit at my mom and me about my dad, and I was just like: GUYS! Time out! Please!
But, you know, the irony is my dad was always sort of a PR genius. It’s crazy how creative people can get when they don’t give a fuck anymore. That’s something I think about a lot, like, when I’m creating, is just like: How can I create like I don’t give a fuck? How can I create like there’s nothing left to lose even though, like, I’ve got so much to lose, you know? Because there’s a lot of freedom in that. There’s a whole world of potential that gets opened up when you decide to create from a place of just total not caring.
Because, you know, that was my dad’s problem, right, is that it all started to mean too much to him. Like, he was just taking life so seriously. But the moment he decided he was going to kill himself, like, the moment he decided it didn’t even matter to him anymore, all of a sudden, all of this creative energy started to brew up in him, and he was able to have, like, some actually exciting ideas. Like, that sort of grungy cover he sent me was actually sort of dope. If he had proposed THAT for the next album instead of the shit he had shown me, maybe we would’ve never had any of the problems we had in the first place, because it would’ve just been like: Whoa, Dad, amazing. And the way he timed the suicide, I mean, what a work of art, you know? What perfect execution.
But I guess that’s the thing about suicide is that it’s never a particularly creative thing to do so much as it just shows a certain level of commitment. Like, what’s exciting about suicide, from an artistic point of view, isn’t so much that it’s so amazingly smart or so amazingly original, but it’s more just like: I can’t believe he went there, you know? Like, when those monks set themselves on fire, it’s not like that’s the most amazing idea in the world—it’s not as if my mind is blown that anybody thought of that—because, like, at the root of it, it’s actually kind of a deeply stupid thing to do. Like, the easiest thing in the world to do is to just blow your brains out or to set yourself on fire, but the fact that someone actually DID it, like, the depth of the commitment it takes to actually follow through on such a stupid idea, is actually kind of breathtaking, because it’s like: That’s the last thing you ever get to do. Like, for my grandpa, the last thing he got to do was crap his pants and fall asleep. And he probably didn’t even know that it was the last thing he was ever gonna do. He just did it and dozed off thinking, like: Gonna wake up again tomorrow and be in more pain and crap my pants some more! And then he just never woke up. But my dad like, got a fucking shotgun and loaded it up with shells, and, fully conscious of what he was doing, like, put the barrel in his mouth and put his finger on the trigger and blew his fucking brains out.
He did it in the house I grew up in. LOL. I guess I forgot to mention that. Probably most of you already knew that, but it turned out that’s where my dad had been staying this whole time: the last place I ever would’ve thought to look. He was just renting out our old house in St. James, making all those crazy videos for Content Bucket in front of a green screen in the basement, and like, sleeping in the room he used to share with my mom. And the day he decided to kill himself, he went up to the room that used to be my room, you know, the room where we recorded that video of me singing the national anthem, and he sat at the little desk that used to be my desk, and he leaned the gun up against the desk, and he leaned his head onto the gun, and he pulled the trigger. And like, the only reason he did it that day instead of some other day that week was that he knew the housekeeper was gonna come by that day, and so he knew someone would find him and report it and we’d all hear about it on time. I mean, it’s like I said, you know, there’s nothing particularly remarkable about killing yourself that way. There’s nothing particularly original or creative or interesting about it, but it’s just, like, the FACT that he did it is so powerful, you know? There’s some real sense in which, like, you just can’t top that. You can’t top, like, my dad sitting at my desk in the house I grew up in, literally blowing his brains out all over the room. That’s the best he’s ever gonna do. That’s the best anyone could ever possibly do. Which is why I think, like, for so many artists who can’t create anymore, it just makes so much sense to choose suicide as the next move, because it’s like, the most complete work of art we’re capable of. I mean, what could be more meaningful? What could be more powerful than just removing yourself from the equation? It’s the only power we ALL fucking have, but by doing it you’re just going, like: Yeah, I pushed the fucking button. In a way, it’s like you’re ending the whole fucking world, because, as far as you’re concerned, once you’re gone, there’s nothing left. And what better artistic statement could there be? What more intense thing could you do than just end the whole fucking world for yourself?
LOL.
* * *
Here’s something I learned recently:
The only reason tattoos stay in our skin for so long is that our body thinks it’s under attack.
Did you know that?
I’d been getting tats for years before finally I asked my main guy—this dude Optimus Prime who’s got a shop on Melrose—like: Yo, how does this shit even work? And what he told me was that tattoos are basically little infections.
When the needle pierces our skin and injects ink into the lower level—like, not just the surface level but the layer that’s way beneath that—our body freaks out, and it’s like: What the fuck is happening to me? And so it sends all of these immune cells to the places where the needle is attacking it, and when the cells try to fight off the ink, they eat up all the dye and soak it up into the skin. And most of the particles in the ink get eaten up by the cells no problem, but the pigment cells—the cells that have all the color—are too big to get broken down, and so they just stay there, trapped in the skin forever. And you’re always shedding layers of skin, so like, eventually they DO fade, but for most tats to disappear completely, you’d basically have to live, like, three hundred years or something, and so for all intents and purposes, they’re permanent.
Which makes you think, like: What makes a perfect tattoo?
Or, I mean, I guess I’m not really concerned with what makes a perfect tattoo, because like: What the fuck does that even mean? But I do ask myself all the time, like, WHY should I get this tat or like, why should I get that tat? And it always ultimately boils down to: How badly do I want it? How much do I believe in this thing?
Because, you know, once you get started, it’s really hard to stop. I mean, once you realize that the pain isn’t that bad, and once you get over the initial nervousness about, like, it being forever, it’s really easy to just go way the fuck overboard and tat your whole body up. Like, Z Bunny for instance, or Skelet0r: Those dudes just LOVE getting tattoos. And for Z at least there’s no decision-making process at all. If it occurs to him one minute that maybe he should get a tat, he’ll get it. The second he gets that feeling of like, Hmm, that’d be cool, it’s already pretty much inked on his body. All he needs to do is go to the parlor and sit in the chair. And I’ve literally been with him countless times where we’ll just be watching a movie or whatever, or like, driving down the street, and he’ll just point to something and be like: Shit, whoa, I gotta get that on my leg. Or like: Bro, watchu think? Should I get that on my forehead? And sometimes it’s just the stupid
est shit, you know? Like, no disrespect at all to Z—that guy’s my boy for life—but like, motherfucker has a tattoo of a Snickers bar on his nose because one day he was eating one, and he was just like: This might be my favorite candy … and two hours later, like, legitimately no joke, we’re at the tattoo parlor and I’m going: Yo, Z, you sure about this, man? And Z is just laughing like: What kind of question is that?
So that’s one attitude that you can have. And that’s cool. I mean, I respect that. But I find myself being a little more selective when it comes to the shit I put in my skin. I mean, I have a TON of tats, don’t get me wrong. Like, compared to most people you’d see in a coffee shop or like, on the beach or whatever, I’m a dude with a lot of tats, that’s just part of my identity, but for someone like Z or for someone like Skelet0r, it’s just like, EVERY fucking inch of their bodies is covered, you know? You can barely see the skin.
Famous People Page 7