{*Did you know you can write on Elephant? Here’s how—big changes: How to Write & Make Money or at least Be of Benefit on Elephant. ~ Waylon}
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“The Musician Comes First”
Over the past few months, I’ve been grieving the death of my father.
My sweet loving partner has been witnessing a majority of my tears and grief, watching as I stumble and fall on my way to understanding this new disastrously altered version of myself.
He’s seen me struggle to find out who I am now, who I want to be, the purpose I want to have, the impact I want to make on the world, the legacy I want to leave behind.
Honestly, I am struggling to find my purpose, my voice, the brave and outgoing (ish) person I used to be. Instead, I’m doing things I think will make me feel better and whole, finding out those feelings are so very fleeting.
My partner has been watching me go through all range of emotions offering his bits of wisdom along the way.
He is subtle, my partner. He’ll plant little seedlings, ideas, that send me on these journeys of profound thinking and exploration of myself. I examine them, even when the grief has made me too tired to want to do anything.
Usually, these thoughts lead me to memories of my dad, recollections of his death and all the things he didn’t complete in his life. Part of me feels like I have to live life to the fullest, just in honor of him, just to keep his memory alive. The other part of me doesn’t know where I should even begin.
So my partner planted his little seedling last night, saying to me, “Have you heard the speech Dave Grohl gave at SXSW?”
I laughed to myself, saying, “David Grohl”—a joke between him, me, and my sister. “No.” I finally said, knowing I rarely listen to the Foo Fighters, especially their speeches.
“It’s been a while since I’ve watched it, but I remember he talked about what it was like to find himself again after Kurt Cobain died,” he said, casually scrolling his phone between words.
That was all he said. But it was enough. Enough for me to go searching for the speech on YouTube the next morning, where Grohl’s words consumed my whole day.
What I found in his speech was beautiful, and heartbreaking, and true.
And while I know I have a long road ahead when it comes to becoming friends with grief, for a minute, I felt hope. Because now I know this.
At the end of the day, I can choose to quit my job to pursue a new passion, choose to change my hair, choose to pursue the things I know I should do but scare me, choose to buy hundreds of dollars worth of craft products I’ll never use, choose to adopt a new kitten, choose to revive old projects I placed on the back burner, choose to pick up new projects.
Whatever I choose, I can make this world mine. I can make it however I want it to be, whenever I am ready to.
To see the whole context of what I mean, here is the portion of Dave’s speech reminding me, and all of us, that we can create the life we want when we’re ready.
For me, I have always wanted to write; ever since I was in the 3rd grade, I knew that’s what I wanted to do. Nothing brings me more joy than writing. But my in the past few months, and even years, that has been lost to me in some ways.
But it doesn’t have to be lost forever.
You don’t have to unpack in your grief when the things you love most can heal you.
So take Mr. Grohl’s advice, and remember, at the end of the day, you are the musician. You can craft whatever tunes and harmonies you want.
And remember too, the musician (you) comes first.
PS. To my beautiful partner: thank you for your love, patience, and seedlings. I love you.
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Here’s the full video:
The clip I refer to below goes from 37:31-44:13, but the whole video is worth watching.
“When Kurt died, I was lost. I was numb.
The music that I had devoted my life to had now betrayed me. I had no voice. I turned off the radio. I put away my drums.
I couldn’t bear to hear someone else’s voice singing about pain or joy. It just hurt too much. But eventually that feeling that I had Independence Day July 4th, 1983, at the base of the Lincoln Memorial steps, that feeling came back.
The same feeling that made me feel possessed and empowered and inspired and enraged and so in love with life, so in love with music that it had the power to incite a riot or an emotion or start a revolution, I felt it again.
I found a studio down the street. I booked six days, loaded all my sh*t into the car, bought some good strong f*cking coffee, and I got back to work. Fourteen songs in five days with one day to mix. I played every instrument, running from the drums to the guitar to the coffee maker to the bass to the VOC mic to the coffee maker back to the drums back to the coffee maker.
Here I was again left to my own devices with no one to tell me right or wrong. The same one-man band 20 years ago, 20 years later, multi-tracking all on my own. Though long gone were the two cassette recorders and songs about my dog, my bike, and my dad, I was singing songs about starting over—maybe a few about my dad.
I dubbed 100 cassettes. I gave it the name Foo Fighters so that people would imagine it was a group rather than just one strung out coffee junkie scrambling from instrument to instrument. I gave them to friends, I gave them to relatives, I gave them to people at gas stations.
I was starting over.
It wasn’t long before I got the call an A&R guy. The tape was getting around. Those six days that I spent alone in the studio, that I considered to be a demo, I considered an experiment, I considered it f*cking therapy, they thought it was a record.
I didn’t even have a band. I called my brilliant friend and lawyer, Jill Berliner, for advice. You know what she told me?
‘The musician comes first.’
I started my own label, Roswell Records. That’s right, ladies and gentlemen. You are staring at the president of a record company.
After all that had happened, deep down I was still the same kid that at 13 years old realized I could start my own band.
I could write my own songs. I could record my own record. I could start my own label. I could release my own record. I could book my own shows. I could write and publish my own fanzine. I could silk-screen my own shirts.
I could do all of this myself, and it may have been an entirely different world now, but once again, there was no right or wrong because it was all mine.
From day one, the Foo Fighters have been fortunate enough to exist within this perfect world. We write our songs, we record our songs, we make our albums, we decide when the album is the album, we own the album, and we’ll license it to you for a little while but you got to give it back because it’s mine.
Because I am the musician and I come first. I have to imagine that the reason I’m here today in front of you all is exactly this:
Am I the best drummer in the world? Certainly not. Am I the best singer-songwriter? Not even in this f*cking room. But I’ve been left alone to find my voice since that day I heard Edgar Winter’s, Frankenstein.
Recently, I directed a full-length feature documentary about the recording studio that Nirvana recorded Nevermind on over 20 years ago, Sound City. In the movie, we not only tell the story of this magical sh*thole, but we also explore technology and what we refer to as the human element of music.
How do these things coexist? Well, there is no right or wrong way. There is only your voice. Your voice screaming through an old Neve 8028 recording console. Your voice singing from a laptop. Your voice echoing from a street corner. A cello, a turntable, a guitar, serato, a studer, it doesn’t matter.
What matters most is that it’s your voice. Cherish it, respect it, nurture it, challenge it, stretch it, and scream until it’s f*cking gone because every human being is blessed with at least that and who knows how long it will last.
It’s there if you want it. Now more than ever.”
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