The New Yorker Radio Hour - Dave Grohl’s Tales of Life and Music

Episode Date: September 2, 2022

At The New Yorker Festival, Dave Grohl talked with Kelefa Sanneh about Grohl’s recent book, “The Storyteller: Tales of Life and Music.” Grohl, who was the drummer for Nirvana before becoming the front man of the Foo Fighters, recalled one of his earliest experiences of taking music seriously: harmonizing with his mom to Carly Simon on the car radio. He also talked about what it was like to collaborate with Kurt Cobain, who was known for his capricious genius, and about stepping out from behind the drums to lead his own band. “After Kurt died, I was, like, I’m not playing music anymore—it’s too painful,” he remembered. “And then I eventually realized that if music saved my life, my entire life, this is what’s going to save my life again.” This segment was originally aired November 26, 2021. New Yorker Radio Hour listeners, we want to hear from you.  We have a few questions about the show and how you listen to it. The survey takes about twenty minutes, and your feedback will help us make our podcast better.  Take the survey here.

This is The New Yorker Radio Hour, a co-production of WNYC Studios and The New Yorker. Welcome to The New Yorker Radio Hour. I'm David Bramnick. Hi, I'm Kellifacana. I'm a staff writer at the New Yorker magazine. And on behalf of the New Yorker magazine and the New Yorker Festival, thanks for coming out, whether you're with us here. Last fall, a crowd gathered in Brooklyn to hear from a very special guest. The guy I'm sitting next to has been destroying stages ever since the 1980s. when he was a rambunctious punk kid playing with hardcore bands in the D.C. area. Rock musician Dave Grohl.

It's true! He changed the world with Nirvana and then kept changing with foo fighters, who were now 10 albums into one of the most epic rock and roll runs of all time. Dave Grohl's epic run began as the drummer for Nirvana. Then after the death of Kurt Cobain, Grohl became a front man for his own band, Fu Fighters. On this Labor Day weekend, we wanted to take a break from the news of the world and bring you a conversation from last year's New Yorker Festival.

Dave Grohl's recent memoir is called The Storyteller. He talked about the book, his early days, and so much more with staff writer Kelifassane. They were on stage last October at the Skyline Drive-in, out on the Brooklyn waterfront. And as they talk, you might hear something creaking in the breeze off the East River. But it's all good. Please freak out for Dave Grohl. Awkward. So Dave, we're here at the New Yorker Festival,

and we're here to talk about your literary career, which began at age 14, I think around there, with a letter you wrote to your dad. Well, okay, so both of my parents were writers. My mother was a public school teacher for 35 years. She taught, yes, let's hear for the teachers. Yes.

We love the teacher. She taught creative. writing and she was a forensics coach and a debate coach. And my father was a speechwriter and a journalist on Capitol Hill. We grew up outside of Washington, D.C. So not only the written word, but also spoken word in our house was valued so that, I don't know if I told you, but we would do these articulation drills at dinner. What? Yes. My mother would give us a topic to speak about and we'd have to speak for maybe three minutes without interrupted speech. So it could be anything.

It could be brownies. And you'd have to talk about brownies for three minutes without saying, um, or like, or you know. So also they were great storytellers. Anyway, so what you're referring to was my runaway note when I was 14 years old,

where I finally kind of ran away from my dad's apartment. And it was a defining moment in my life, because at the time, I was playing music, but I wasn't allowed to because I was such a horrible student. And I was playing in punk rock bands, and in these punk rock bands, you basically did everything yourselves, right? You made your own records, you made your own t-shirts, you booked your own shows. So I had tried my hand at becoming a promoter.

How'd that go? I made a hundred bucks. It worked out okay. Did the bands get paid? Everyone got paid. And I made $100. It was great. But anyway, so yes.

So what you're referring to is probably that. Yes. And, you know, it was at that point where I was discovering independence. And I talk about this sometimes that, you know, there's a golden window of opportunity in every child's life where independence and identity intersect. And so you're no longer just like arm candy, like holding your parents' hand when you cross the street. You're allowed to become who you're going to become. And at that point, I knew that I was going to be a musician and that I was going to have to do it all myself.

And so that was the beginning of that. And you set this down. I mean, you set it down in an actual letter, like a manifesto, right? It was like, here's what my life's going to be like. Yeah, I mean, I was basically just saying, you know, if you only knew what I did last night and everything that I put into it, and I did this all myself, and I'm proud of me. And so I think this is what I'm capable of. And if you don't have faith in me, then I'm just going to go do it on my own.

And so I did. Kids, stay in school, don't do drugs. So it seems like your story with music, there is this origin story involving the song, You're So Vane. So, okay, so both of my parents were also musicians. So when my mother and I would drive around in our car, we would sing along to 70s a.m. radio.

And there was one day we were driving around, and Carly Simon's Your Sovain came on. And we're both singing like, You're Sovain together. And then it gets to the chorus part. And I was singing the Mick Jagger part. And my mom was singing the song. And so we break off in harmony.

And it was in that moment that I realized and understood that two different notes form a chord. And like, wait a second. Hold on. And then the kick drum does that. And then the snare drum does that. And then so I started listening to music, not just as a sound.

I was like listening to music and the patterns. And some people experience this condition called synesthesia, you know, where you can actually see sound. And it kind of started happening to me. I would imagine music in these sort of Lego shapes in my head. So if still to this day, like if I hear a drum track, I can hear it and see it in these shapes. So it's great because I don't read music.

That's how I memorize things in my head. So if you play me a drum track or an arrangement of a song, as I'm listening, I'm visualizing it, and then I can play it back for you like that. Right. So, yeah, that was a huge moment. And that's when I fell in love with music. And that's when I, like, went home and was playing with the Beatles records on the floor, playing drums with my teeth. Hold on a second. Let me see if I can do it.

I don't know if the mics. I got it. All right. Let's see if I can do it. Ready? Okay, hold on. Check, check. Ready?

you're going to have to crank the mic for one second, Mr. Sound Guy. Here it comes, ready? Okay, it's not so good. Anyway. I mean, it was so bad. I went to the fucking Dennis one time, and he's like, do you chew a lot of ice? I was like, no, why?

He's like, well, because you have an unusual amount of deterioration. I was like, oh, dude, I can play drugs with my teeth. So, you know, as a writer, I don't always get to pick my own headlines or titles, but I did get to pick the title for this event, which was maximum rock and roll, a phrase that describes your life and career, but was also the title of a magazine that was important to you as a kid.

Absolutely. A magazine that was like the punk Bible that helped kids find each other that were into punk rock, but that also had a reputation for being kind of self-righteous and kind of obnoxious. What does that phrase maximum rock and roll mean to you?

Okay, so for people that don't know about the underground music scene that we grew up in, listening to music. I discovered this punk rock thing in like 1983 through a cousin of mine that lived in Chicago. And I had started playing music and I loved bands like Devo and the B-52s and things like that, the Beatles and Kiss and Zeppelin. But I didn't realize that there was an underground network of bands and labels and magazines that was like this community. But, you know, before anything online, it was, it was this really grassy. grassroots community of people that were doing it all themselves.

Right. But yes, it was also filled with like this ethically suffocating punk rock manifesto. Right. Right. And so, I mean, to be perfectly honest, I was more attracted to the independence and the musicality of what was going on, or lack of musicality. It was just the energy of the whole thing, I thought was very cool. But you've said, I mean, in your book, you talk about those years and how you go from

playing with Scream in D.C. to suddenly you're in a big band and your relationship with this punk rock world is changing. Well, it's difficult to kind of join the two, you know? Like when you're raised in that ethically suffocating punk rock scene, you're conditioned to reject anything, any conformity, any sort of, you know, popularity or what.

whatever it is. Nirvana came from that same scene. But there was a problem is that Kurt's songs were so good. That it's like, you know, we never expected that we would become as big as we did, but it was almost inevitable with his songs and his lyrics and his voice, you know.

So then once we became successful and popular, we felt conflicted in this way that we had sort of betrayed this scene that we were raised in the underground when we really hadn't done anything differently than we had done before. It was just that now the songs were being heard. Did it feel slow at the time?

Did it feel like the steady thing of like my band's getting bigger? No. No, it happened really quickly. I mean, you know, the big moment was the first time we played on Saturday Night Live. And that was like, I mean, that's where I grew up watching that show in the 70s.

not only for the comedy and the brilliant cast that they had, but for the music, because that's where I saw live performance. I'd never seen a concert, but I saw the B-52s, and I saw Peter Tosh, and I saw Devo, and I saw Fear and Bowie and things like that. So when we went to go do that first SNL, just knowing that my drum set was in the same place that all of these legends had been, I was just like, phew! It's crazy. Was there any trepidation? Was there any sense of, like, well, I don't know

we want to be an SNL kind of band? Or were you guys just like, this is amazing, let's do it? There was once when we were meeting with all the record companies in New York, long before anybody really knew who Nirvana was. And we were in the office of this guy named Donnie Einer, who was the head of, I think, Columbia Records or something. And it was in this, this, you know, big high-rise office, and he's behind this big oak desk,

and he's a music executive guy. And he goes, what do you guys want? And Kurt goes, we want to be the biggest band in the world. And I thought he was kidding. So it's weird, you know, I think that there was some sort of ambition there. But I don't think anybody had any understanding or any real, expectation. Would you guys talk about it?

Would you talk like strategy? Like, uh... No. No. We barely talked. No. I mean, it was... We wouldn't even talk about writing songs.

We would begin every rehearsal with this sort of improvisational noise jam and just kind of do this free-form freak-out thing. If it was a quiet part, I would sit there and I would watch Kurt's Converse Sneak, get closer and closer and closer to the distortion pedal. And I was like, here comes, here comes, here comes. And then right before he stepped on it, I go, and that's how we wrote songs. I looked at his foot the entire time.

So it wasn't like, you know, we weren't like discussing like, why think the bridge of this song should be in a minor key and go seven times instead it was like, it was just I watched his sneaker the whole time. So, you know, one of the amazing things about your book, I went through it to make sure that I didn't miss something. I did like a global search through the text for the word utero.

Okay. And it didn't return anything. And I said, this is... I didn't mention in utero? I was like, this is, this guy made a record that sold like 15 million copies around the world. And you've done so many things in your life that like, this is just another record you made. Absolutely not. Okay.

The biggest challenge in writing this book was deciding what, to write and what not to write. The way I wrote it, I wrote it in sort of this short story format. And it all began last year when the pandemic hit and I had nothing to do. I started this Instagram page, Dave's Truth Stories.

And so I started writing these little short stories for this Instagram thing. And then once I realized that this was going to be more than just a few weeks, I'm like, it's time to write the book. I had made a list of 30 or 40 stories for the Instagram page. and I signed a book deal

and I gave my editor the list of the 30 or 40. And I said, just tell me what you want me to write. And so she was kind of shorter to cook me. Like, write about joining Nirvana, write about this and that. I mean, I could write a fucking book about every chapter of this book. So it was like, I could write an entire book about Nirvana

or Scream or the Food Fighters. I was 300 pages in and I hadn't even mentioned the foo fighters yet. And I was just like, oh my God, my guys are going to fucking kill me. If I don't at least say like, oh yeah, and then I started another band. So it's just, it was really difficult. At one point, my editor was like, stop writing. You got to stop writing. I was like, really?

Okay, so I did. So in uniterole, I mean, you know, that was a difficult time. After going through the success of Nevermind. Right. And being, you know, conflicted and at this ethical crossroads, we decide to continue and we make an album where the opening lines are, teenage angst has paid off well, now I'm bored and old. And so when I listen, it's actually kind of hard for me to listen to that record

because it was a difficult time, but also because it's so real that record. That record's real. Yeah. Did you ever second-guess yourself and wonder whether this was what you actually wanted to do? Music? Yeah. No. Even when things were at their darkest and weirdest with Nirvana.

Well, after Kurt died, I was like, I'm not playing music anymore. It's too painful. And then I eventually realized that if music saved my life, my entire life, this is what's going to save my life again. But no, I mean, I never. That's probably, you know, the only time I ever stopped playing music. Yeah, I don't, I've never, I've never not needed it. How long did you stop for? It was maybe six or seven months or something like that.

It just, I couldn't even turn on the radio. It was hard. So, yeah. And then I realized, like, okay, I have to kind of write my way out of it. Pick up an instrument and play it again, play the drums, and kind of get my way out of this that way. Dave Grawl, the musician and author of a recent memoir called The Storyteller Talking with Kelifassane. Our conversation continues in a moment. This is the New Yorker Radio Hour.

This is the New Yorker Radio Hour. I'm David Remnick. We've been hearing from Dave Grohl, who first achieved global fame in the band Nirvana. In 1994, after Kurt Cobain's death, Grohl went on to form foo fighters, and he moved from the drums to frontman, singing and playing guitar. They took the name foo fighters from an old slang term, pilot slang from World War II that described UFOs. Let's pick up with Dave Grohl at last year's New Yorker Festival. He was speaking with staff writer, Kelifassane. As you probably know, people have ideas about drummers, right? So when people hear like, oh, the drummers got a new thing, they're like, oh, it's going to be this like intense drum-driven thing, but you turned out to be making these amazing demos as a single. And so, when

singer-songwriter. Thank you. Which is not whatever anyone was expecting. Nor was I. No, I mean, that was always... So when I was young, I figured out how to multi-track with these two cassette decks. So I'd, like, record something on this cassette,

put that cassette in the player, hit play on that, put another cassette in there, hit record, and play drums along to it. So now I have something with drums and guitar on it, you know? So I was always into the idea of, like, that multi-tracking, that combination of that, elements and the thing that I heard that first day in the car with my mom, it was like a puzzle. It was like a game.

And so I would write and record these songs by myself, but I'm like, this sucks. And so I was just banking all of these songs. And, you know, while I was in Nirvana, I wasn't going to like disturb the radical creative process we already had by going in. And I mean, it's the famous joke. What's the last thing the drummer said before you got kicked out of the band? Hey guys, I got a song I think we should play. So, you know, when you're at a band, like, Nirvana and Kurt's writing songs, you're like,

just this works the way it works. Yeah. So when did you start thinking, like, maybe I should share these songs that I've been making? Well, I sort of did on, like, some funny, like, punk rock compilations in the early 90s, I think, like, right around the time I first joined Nirvana. but I don't even think I put my name on it. Anyway, after Kurt died and the band was over, I did a bunch of soul searching.

And I actually decided, okay, I'm going to disappear. I'm going to go to the most remote place on Earth. I'm just going to get away from everything and figure it out. So I went to the Ring of Kerry in Ireland, where I'd been before. It's so beautiful there. And you really feel like you're just at the end of the earth, and there's nothing serene.

It's so beautiful. And I was driving around. in my rental car and on a country road and I saw this hitchhiker kid and I thought well maybe I'll pick him up and as I got closer to him

I saw that he had a Kurt Cobain t-shirt on and I and it was Kurt's face looking back at me in the middle of nowhere and I realized like oh I'm I can't outrun this so I need to go home

and get back to work and so I did I went back and I started recording these songs by myself and with really just with the intention of just continuing life that's what I needed to do to survive and it helped a lot when did you realize like

oh these songs that I was kind of made me nervous to share like people really like them well I mean I was literally so I went I recorded the first record by myself in like six days. And I made 100 cassettes. Cossets. And I was so fucking stoked

that I could go to this cassette duplication place and like, I designed the insert. Like, I picked the font. Did you give yourself credit in the liner notes? Unfortunately, my name is nowhere in that thing at all. I called it Food Fighters because I didn't want people to know it was me because of the baggage that came with that.

Also, because it was plural. I imagine that if a, if a, Band name is pluralized that they're like, oh, it sounds like a gang, whatever. It's the stupidest band name in the world. But I was like literally giving this cassette to people at gas stations. And then someone from a record company called and said, hey, we want to put out your record. I'm like, the cassette thing? Okay.

All right. But then this is the good part. This is the best part to me personally, is that then I call my. My manager John, my lawyer, Jill. I don't think anybody expected much was going to happen. But my lawyer said, listen, don't just give it to someone. That's yours. Start your own label and do everything yourself like you did when you were a kid.

And so I went right back to where I was when I was a teenager, starting my own label, recording my own songs. and we still, to this day, like, I'm the president of our record company, Roswell Records. When this thing, this foo fighters thing that started as a demo tape, is becoming real, and you're putting together a band

and the songs are getting played on the radio, and I'm sure people at the record company are all excited, and kids are showing up to the shows. Was there any trepidation of, like, oh, I'm back in this, like, rock and roll star machine again? No. Well, it was different. I knew that if I just, I had offers to go play drums with other bands, but I knew if I just sat down at a drum stool that it would like forever remind me of losing Nirvana.

But it's also more spotlight, right? You can imagine a different version of your life story where you're like, you're a working musician, as opposed to the guy in the center of the stage with the spotlight on you and a guitar singing the songs. I was like the whole stadium is singing along. Well, I was kind of born with a drummer mentality, which is just like keep the beat and keep the people moving. It's a comfortable place to be. Like if I go to, like, to go record with someone, I don't walk in there like, I'm Dave Grohl.

I'm going to play like this. I walk in and I'm like, what do you need? Tell me what you want me to do. And then I do it. Is that cool? And I like that. I like facilitating someone else's boogie, you know. It's fun, it's cool.

As a front man, dude, it took me for a f***, ever to get comfortable with doing that. A decade at least. Well, you know, okay, so I actually, another revelation, a big moment for me. There was once where I was asked to go play at the White House. Paul McCartney was getting a Gershwin Prize, a Gershwin Award, which is, you know, a huge honor. Right. and there was a performance in the Eastern of the White House. And there were all these people invited to play Jack White, Elvis Costello, Stevie Wonder,

performing in this tiny room in the East Room. It was very small. And with Paul's band. I got invited and I'm like, oh, cool. I'm going to play with Paul at this thing. And they're like, no, no, no, no. You're going to sing this to Paul and President Obama, who will be sitting three feet in front of you staring at you doing this thing.

And I was just like, I was like, I was so incredibly nervous. And I remember being like about to walk on stage thinking this might be the coolest thing I've ever done in my entire life. I mean, considering growing up in D.C. being on the other side of the fence at the Rock Against Reagan concerts. Now I'm in front of President Obama and Paul McCartney. And I was so terrified. I'm like, okay, I'm going to puke. I'm going to faint. I mean, if like, this is going to be the worst thing ever.

And then I stopped and I'm like, one of a second, this is the most extraordinary thing that's ever happened to me. And I'm going to waste it on being scared? That. I was like, this is only going to last for five minutes. And it really did. It changed me. So, you know, I was terrified to come up here with you.

Yeah, it's on the same level, I'm sure. Well, I'm going to take it. this moment to thank you. Dave Grohl. All right. Thank you. Let's see you next time. Thank you. Staff writer Kelifasana talking with rock musician Dave Grohl. His recent memoir is called The Storyteller. Our conversation was recorded last fall at the New Yorker Festival, and since then,

Grohl has lost another close bandmate, longtime foo fighter's drummer Taylor Hawkins, who died unexpectedly in March. The band has organized two tribute shows for Hawkins this month, one of which is in London this very weekend. I'm David Remnick, and that's our program. I want to thank you for joining us. See you soon. The New Yorker Radio Hour is a co-production of WNYC Studios and The New Yorker.

Our theme music was composed and performed by Merrill Garbus of Tune Arts, with additional music by Alexis Quadrado. We had assistance this week from the New Yorker Festival, including Catherine Sterling, Amanda Miller, and Nico Brown, also Michael Etherington and his team. And a very special thank you to Fabio Bertoni and WNYC's Joe Plort. The New Yorker Radio Hour is supported in part by the Cherina Endowment Fund.