Suck and Blow (20 page)

19

INTIMACY WITH STRANGERS IN THE DARK

I think it's important for songs to be autobiographical—you need to write about what you know. Charlie Parker said if you don't live it, it won't come out of your horn, and I've taken that to heart. And if you don't mean what you're saying, then there's no way for your song to connect with other people.

When a comedian tells a joke, there has to be truth in it so someone else says, “I know exactly what you're talking about.” There's no shortcut to that, and the only way I can see to solve that is by writing autobiographical songs. I stopped telling people what songs are about a long time ago because if they loved the song, it would be about something in their mind, so that would ruin it.

The best example is the song “Just Wait,” which I wrote about my friend Felicia going off to Yale. She wasn't making friends there yet, and I wanted to cheer her up. Over the years I've had a number of people tell me that the song helped prevent them from killing themselves. One guy, this big guy, came on our bus in Philly, sat down, and started crying. He told us he had been planning to kill himself; he'd gotten a big brick of heroin and was going to do heroin until he died. Then “Just Wait” came on, and he saw a picture of his family and
decided to give his life over to Jesus. He became a born-again Christian and never touched heroin again.

He told us this, and as soon as he said, “give my life over to Jesus,” all of us on the bus were like, “Uh-oh, this isn't going to go down well.” But it really did. You don't know what to do about something that big, and you don't want to tell him, “It's about my friend going to college and worrying about making friends.” You learn to shut the hell up because what you originally wrote the song about is not the important thing. Just like tone, truth harmonizes. If you write something that's true to you, it doesn't matter what the song's about; the important aspects of it resonate in somebody else's experience, and then the song is more about what they want it to be about. “Just Wait,” if you look at the lyrics, is much heavier when you apply it to that guy's story than mine.

Whenever someone says, “You saved my life,” I respond, “I'm really appreciative that you're alive, and I'm really honored that you used our song as a totem. But
you
saved your life. I don't want to take the credit for all the work you did, and I want to remind you that
you
did that.” We were a part of it, but
they
did the work.

Plus, that really is something I need to deflect, because where do I go from there? “You're welcome. I
did
save your life, and now your life belongs to
me
! Give me the contents of your wallet, and prepare yourself to follow my little plan . . .”

Where does that lead, and where does that end? The next thing you knew you've got ATF outside the gate to your compound, and all of your wives are twelve years old. The fact is that that guy did save his own life. He heard my song, and I'm very honored and grateful that there was something in that song that connected to him, and that's all I was trying to do. He did all the rest, and that's what I try to remind people. And if I do that, then maybe I won't go to hell. I look at it as my karma credit card. I get away with a lot of shit, and if I do good things, it kind of equals out. At least that's what I'm hoping.

I've always likened what I do to being a stripper because it's intimacy with strangers in the dark. The only thing you've got to remember is to not replace that with actual love. As long as you know that, it's a very acceptable and healthy form of expression, but you just can't look at it as true intimacy.

You make a trade. When you say to the entire world, “Look at me, look at me, look at me” and then you wonder why the whole world is looking at you, you don't quite have the same rights because you kind of started it. I sort of invited myself into a dialogue with people who don't know me.

So I try to be supportive, listen to what people have to say, and 99.99 percent of the time it's something really nice and positive. Although there was one night at a mafia bar in Rhode Island when I invited a drunken fan into our dressing room, and within a few minutes he started insulting the women and spilling drinks on people, so I asked him to leave. Then, as I was escorting him out the door, he took a swing at me and knocked my hat askew. Before I knew what happened, my left hand went up and I broke his nose. I was torn, thinking I had failed because handling drunks is part of my job, but another part of me said, “Wow, it's nice to know I can do that if I have to.”

But as long as people aren't belligerent, I don't mind having a conversation with them. Provided they don't slap me on the back. I hate back slappers.

Picture, if you will, this hearty, jovial man, and I always picture him having eaten a large barbeque or drinking a lot of beer, more of a soccer dad, who walks up behind you, filled with love and admiration—they only want to say something nice. But the way they express themselves is by taking their flat open hand and whapping you like you're the biggest smash return in a tennis match, and saying, “Hey man, I love you!” or “How's it going, brother?” with a familiarity that's just so inappropriate to being slapped hard on the back.

You haven't even seen this person; you're just minding your own business and get a big loud slap on your back and a stinging red mark. So your first instinct is you want to turn around and take a swing at whoever just did that to you. But as you turn, you realize that this person meant well, that they're not being a dick. They feel like they know you, and they're genuinely happy to meet you.

The thing you've got to remember when you're dealing with a fan is that they might say something you hear over and over again, but for them it might be the only time they'll get to say it. I try to be there in the moment because it's really about the person who's having the moment with you. They want to tell you something amazing about you
that you don't want to believe, and what you're really aware of is that this person believes it, so fuck what you believe. And you let the person tell it because it's really important to them that they had the courage to tell you, and this is their moment. They don't do this every day; they don't go around looking for musicians to tell this to.

So I try to be supportive and listen to what they have to say. It's almost always something really nice and positive.

But what happens is that you don't feel any different—what makes it matter is that they've imbued it with power:
you
haven't, but
they
have. So what you're really getting is their reaction to what you do, and that gives you the actual wisdom they claim you have. So it's a really weird symbiosis, and I think that really is the key. You just stand there and let that moment happen and try to pay attention, if you can, to what they're saying. That gets harder when it's a bunch of people, but you've got to remember the objective. You've got to remember the point, which is that what you did really affected somebody.

And people have affected me as well. There have been a couple of people I've been too scared to talk to, like Michael Jordan. I've been the worst kind of fan, a back tapper who wouldn't leave him alone. He was meeting kids in wheelchairs and was surrounded by cameras, and I was behind him—
tap tap tap . . .
“Mr. Jordan?”
. . . tap tap tap.
Then finally he turned around
and barked, “What?” I said meekly, “I'm a big fan,” handed him a harmonica, and just slinked away. I still don't know if he knew who I was.

Another one is Jack Nicholson. There was a Bulls connection there too, because I became friends with Dennis Rodman. One time Dennis was sitting at a table after a game with Jack, and I just couldn't bring myself to join them. I sat somewhere else, and instead, my road manager, Dave Precheur, went up to him and said, “I just wanted to say hello” and Jack responded, “Well, hello.” And I don't even have that. That's my Jack Nicholson story—talking about how Jack Nicholson said two words to my friend because I was too chicken-shit to approach him myself.

A better Michael Jordan interaction came when I was a fan in the crowd at the United Center in Chicago. It was game six of the 1997 finals against the Utah Jazz. The Bulls were down in the fourth quarter, and it looked like they might lose. Jordan walked onto the court
after a timeout, and I sort of fearfully cheered and lifted my beer. Then he looked at me and gave me this wink, like, “We got this.” It was a priceless moment that any fan could have.

The Bulls really blew me away, especially during the second three-peat era. Michael Jordan had gotten me into basketball. It was like watching Babe Ruth play baseball—you didn't have to be a baseball fan; you'd just get it. Jordan had some moves like that fadeaway, where it was almost like slow motion, the whole place slowed down, and even the other team said, “Wow.” I was hooked immediately.

I began buying box seats and going to games whenever I could. My accountant couldn't understand why I'd want to buy a gun or a cool sword, but Bulls tickets made sense to him, even though it was about a thousand bucks a throw. Dennis Rodman eventually invited me to sit in his box, which made it a lot cheaper.

Then I started hanging out with him. There was always a late-night party, especially with Dennis and the team winning a lot. There were a lot of celebrations. I wouldn't hang out with Jordan, but I'd see Steve Kerr, Scottie Pippin, and, eventually, Phil Jackson toward the end, but he was not a big hanger-outer.

I can remember one of the first times when we went looking for Dennis, he was at some place called the Crobar in Chicago. I walked in with Bobby, and the first thing we saw was a man dancing naked in a cage. It turned out that Dennis and the Bulls were hanging out around the corner, but Bobby and I saw the naked cage dancer, looked at each other, and started to leave when this hot blond girl said, “Hey, you're that guy from Blues Traveler. Come dance.” And we started making out while we were dancing to electronica music. I remember thinking it would be cool if I made out with her for the entire length of the song, but I didn't realize this was a techno tune, so it really lasted a good long while. Bobby was blown away because he was the guy who was used to taking over the room. Some days I do have my moments.

I never assume that anybody knows who I am. Whenever I think everybody knows me, that's when nobody does. And whenever I think they aren't paying attention to what I'm doing, that's when they know precisely what I do. So I've got to be ready for both.

I can never tell which way it's going to be. As soon as I try to get out of a ticket, I get a ticket hard, and as soon as an older cop who does not look like my demographic pulls me over, he's like, “Hey, I saw you on VH1” and he lets me speed. It's nothing I can ever count on.

When I meet someone I'll usually say. “Hi, I'm John.” And if they say, “Of course, I know who you are,” I'll respond, “Well, I still reserve the right to introduce myself.”

And if there's one lesson in the racket of being famous or being pseudo-famous, it's this: never ask the question, “Do you know who I am?” Because if you have to ask, the odds are they don't.

Sometimes the whole thing gets kind of murky when someone maybe, sort of, kinda recognizes me.

I remember we did a NORML benefit at the Playboy Mansion. Bill Maher was there hosting. I think I've been there three times, and every time I get into that grotto, the same experience happens: there are no women in there and a bunch of dudes are asking, “Are they any women in here?” It's like Christmas when you walk in, and then your heart sinks when you see a bunch of dudes who look just like you: schlubby, horny, and overeager. And then right behind you comes another guy who looks like a kid on Christmas morning until he gets the same look on his face when he sees you, and that makes you realize, “Wow, I'm a pervy slob too.” Then he feels like a pervy slob when the next guy comes in behind him. It's like this endless machinery of agony.

Then I walked into one of the little houses. It had a pool table, and I was pretty sure Thora Birch was playing pool. I thought she recognized me, but we both weren't sure. I was like, “I think that's Thora Birch,” and she was like, “I think that's that Blues Traveler dude,” which is what most people call me. But we were both too nervous to talk to each other. I love awkward moments like that.

My favorite one is when Lukas Haas came to say hi to me and I got it into my head that he was Henry Thomas. I was like, “No way, man! I loved you in
ET
! My friend was obsessed with that movie when it came out. We hid in the bathroom and saw it like fifteen times.” And he was so sweet about it (but crushed too) that he pretended to be Henry Thomas the entire night. He wrote me a note later explaining, “My name is Lukas Haas. I was in the movie
Witness,
among other
things.” Of course, I loved
Witness
too, and I loved Lukas Haas in it (and when I read that I recognized him in retrospect instantly). He just didn't want to let me down, so he pretended to be Henry Thomas for me. And I asked him questions about working with Spielberg and what Drew Barrymore was like, and he would give me polite, positive answers. But the sweet little note he wrote me was just awesome. I got to see him later and make it up to him. It was one of the nicest things anyone's ever done for me.

The question, of course, is would Henry Thomas pretend to be Lukas Haas for me?

Hollywood is strange. I'm glad I don't live there because I would be such a whore about it, like, “Oh my god, Christopher Walken said ‘Hi' to me again!”

I met Christopher Walken after Alicia Silverstone invited me to her
Excess Baggage
premiere. I was newly famous and didn't quite understand how that worked, so I figured I'd just try it out. I'd read some article that said Alicia Silverstone was starting her own production company and thought that was cool, considering how young she was, so I wrote her a fan letter and she invited me to the premiere.