The Storyteller: Tales of Life and Music

by Dave Grohl

Since I was a child, I have always measured my life in musical increments rather than months or years. My mind faithfully relies on songs, albums, and bands to remember a particular time and place. From seventies AM radio to every microphone I’ve stood before, I could tell you who, what, where, and when from the first few notes of any song that has crept from a speaker to my soul. Or from my soul to your speakers. Some people’s reminiscence is triggered by taste, some people’s by sight or smell. Mine is triggered by sound, playing like an unfinished mixtape waiting to be sent.

Though I have never been one to collect “stuff,” I do collect moments.

I considered music my religion, the record store my church, the rock stars my saints, and their songs my hymns.

One problem was that we were now attracting the same people who used to kick our asses in high school for being different, who called us “faggots” and “queers” for the clothes we wore and the music we listened to. Our fanbase was changing to include macho monster-truck homophobes and meathead jocks whose worlds revolved around beer and football. We had always been the outcasts. We had always been the weirdos. We were not one of them. So, how could they become one of us?

This was more than just a recording session to me—it was deeply therapeutic. A continuation of life. This was what I needed to defibrillate my heart and return it to its normal rhythm, an electric pulse to restore my love and faith in music. Beyond just picking up an instrument and feeling productive or prolific, once again I could see through the windshield rather than look in the rearview mirror.

Finally working up the courage to venture out of my sweaty porta-cabin, I stepped to the side of the stage and witnessed what can only be described as the most awesome, most brutal, most vulgar display of power known to man, Pantera.

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.

When I was seventeen years old, music had become my counselor when I needed guidance, my friend when I felt alone, my father when I needed love, my preacher when I needed hope, and my partner when I needed to belong.

As a band, we had each become a whirring wheel in a thunderous clock, only ticking because the spinning teeth of one gear met with those of another, locking us into synchronized movement. Without this, our pendulum would stop. The revolving door that had once plagued our early years had now been locked, and we had become a forever thing. Once you’re in, you’re in for life. The stability and security that we had all longed for as children of divorce and teenage rebellion were now found in a barrage of distorted guitars and laser-lit stages. We had become a family.

And as I collect more little lines and scars, I still wear them with a certain pride, as they almost serve as a trail of bread crumbs, strewn across a path that someday I will rely upon to find my way back to where I started.