My Afternoon with Dave Grohl*

I knew what I was holding was real. The sweat raced down my inner arm the way it did every time I took the small black notebook out of the gallon-sized Ziplock bag I was temporarily using for its safe storage. I set the notebook back on the bed for fear my shaking hands would sever its cover which was barely holding on to its body like an old bandaid would. As carefully as I could, I pinched the corner of the first page and flipped it over with precision. The words “Kurt Loder” written backwards with a big sad face was all I needed to see before immediately shutting the book to insure its contents were left untouched in the slightest. I wasn’t worthy of its words, its musings, its details. Whatever it contained would be closely examined and discussed for many years. This was the Dead Sea Scrolls of Rock and Roll. This was a relic.

I found the notebook once all of our stuff landed from LA to our new home in Gulf Shores Alabama. I was going through my musical equipment and found a pocket in my cymbal bag I had never noticed before. The bag was in crummy shape. Its zippers were uncooperative and I could barely read the faded logo for some guitar shop in Olympia Washington. When I opened the pocket, a little name tag for a place called The Polynesian Hotel popped out. I set it aside while I examined what else I had been unknowingly lugging around all these years. And there it was. Just a little black notebook that looked like it had been through hell and back.

After skimming through the first pages of mostly doodles and set lists I came across some lyrics that were written upside down. The page had “About a Girl” etched heavily across the top, or I guess the bottom.

What a loser I thought to myself as I read the first line. Then suddenly, the words felt familiar. Then they felt really familiar. Then I was singing while reading. I took a closer look at the name tag and I could see the word “Kurt” scribbled wildly across it in marker. There’s no way. Initially, I thought my wife was playing a joke on me, but she’s not that cruel. Plus, we had a no pranking agreement.

The bag was a throw-in when I bought this super warped set of B8 cymbals from a pawn shop on Santa Monica Boulevard a few years before. They were all I could afford so I begged the owner for the bag and he obliged as the bag was an eyesore even then. I guessed maybe the whole thing could’ve made sense. Maybe a bag that Nirvana toured with passed hands from pawn shop to pawn shop and somehow found it’s way to me while containing some early writings from one of modern music’s greatest minds.

Who do I call? What do I post? My mind was racing. After careful consideration, I realized that it would only be right if one person could see this before its contents were released. And it just so happens that our paths were set to cross in a few short months. That person was Dave Grohl.

I took the job at The Hangout because I needed money and I needed out of LA. It wasn’t going well for any of my bands, I was pushing 30, I needed benefits. The position was for entertainment manager, which meant I booked the bands and did their lights and sound while they played. This seemed like a dream gig for me because I loved music. I was wrong.

I wanted to be a rockstar my whole life, and I had the crappy tattoos and enough white AA chips to show for it. Watching band after band, night after night quickly got on my nerves. That should be me. I would crush this stage so hard. These guys don’t know what they’re doing. It sucked. I wanted to be on stage, not holed up in a booth. The routine of it all was slowly killing me.

But even during my bellyaching I was still focussed on one thing, that was Hangout Music Festival. It was like Fyre Festival, only it was real. The idea was simple. Take the best artists in the world and put them on the beach in a sea of neon lights and pyrotechnics. The 2011 Hangout Fest was absolutely stacked with headliners like The Black Keys, Cee Lo Green, Flaming Lips and of course Dave Grohl’s legendary Foo Fighters. I knew this would be my chance to give him the notebook.

I couldn’t sleep the night before the festival. When I showed up for work the next day, notebook in bag, anxious for my work assignment, I was expecting, at the very least, to do sound for one of the reggae acts or maybe fulfill riders for one of the VIPs. The possibilities were endless, until they weren’t. When I saw my name on the schedule with the words “Staff Catering” next to it, I immediately texted by boss Jamie.

“Dude what the hell is Staff Catering?”

“I need you in there man, it’s so easy. Just get with Chef, he’ll bring you up to speed. And don’t worry bud, next year we’ll have something cool for you.”

I felt a lump grow in my throat as I realized that Staff Catering was festival talk for “Where the not famous people eat”. The structure was essentially a 3000 square foot tent with a buffet on one end and rows of long tables spanning the remainder of the space. The AC was harsh but welcomed as the Alabama heat was something I had never experienced. The job was easy enough. Scoop the food on the plates as the people pass by. I felt like a lunch lady. I was in a hairnet. Breakfast ran smooth, 500 staff fed. Then the music started.

The gravel beneath the tent, which was normally our parking lot, began to rumble and the bass from the speakers over 100 yards away rattled the sunglasses off of my nose. I couldn’t hear the music, I could only feel its power. The muffled joy just out of reach reminded me of growing up in Orlando. My high school was across the street from Universal Studios, and on quiet days you could hear the roar of a hundred people screaming on a roller coaster. All of it a constant reminder of what I was missing.

Lunch was difficult but doable and sans a shortage of hamburger buns it went pretty well. It was around that time I heard a cackled call over the radio I was wearing.

“Does anybody have eyes on Cee Lo? This is an all call for Cee Lo Green. He’s performing in an hour and he’s gone missing.”

I couldn’t help but giggle wondering how they lost Cee Lo. I turned the volume up on my earpiece to follow the situation. That’s when I heard Jamie over the radio.

“The VIP tent has lost power and people are pissed. We have no AC and the food can’t cook properly. We’re gonna go ahead and send them over to Staff Catering. Zack, get ready.”

I stuck my head outside the tent to see if the displaced VIPers were on their way. That’s when I caught a glimpse of the main stage where Foo Fighters were playing their last song. I closed my eyes and thought about my wife as I sang along to the last chorus of Everlong.

“Thank You Hangout. We Love you!” Dave waved to the crowd, stoic, accomplished. The crowd screamed and cheered long after the band left the stage. This beautiful moment was interrupted by Jamie on the radio.

“Zack, Zack, Jamie. We got the Foo Fighters heading your way.”

My heart stopped. This was my chance. I raced to my locker where I was stashing the notebook. I was so nervous I couldn’t get the combo right on my lock. After three tries, I finally opened the steel door, grabbed the notebook in the Ziplock bag, stuffed it under my shirt and ran back to my lunch lady like post. I started tonging ribs onto people’s plates as the crowd started to grow rapidly. The people were moving so fast I stopped addressing them entirely. I was merely holding out ribs, and if a plate would find itself beneath them I would release. This went on for what seemed like forever until I heard a “nice shirt man”. I looked down at the Sepultura shirt I was wearing and said thanks. When I raised my head to connect with the stranger, I had already handed Dave his ribs and he was working his way towards the veggies.

CRAP! THAT WAS HIM! CRAP! The sharp plastic corners of the Ziplock bag pinching my stomach encouraged me to not give up, but I was stuck on rib duty. I spent the next several minutes serving the guests as fast I could but the line felt never-ending. I would poke my head up to catch a glimpse of Dave and the other guys every so often to make sure they hadn’t left. Luckily, I saw him stand up alone and gesture to the other guys about his phone. He stepped out of the tent, and I followed.

“Chef I need you to hop on Ribs” I yelled into the makeshift kitchen as I made my dash.

Dave was standing alone next to a pallet of water bottles holding his phone up like he needed reception.

“Great set dude” I thought was a pretty good opener.

“Hey Sepultura! Thanks bro, we love it here” He was so approachable. Now was my chance.

“Hey listen, I know this is so weird man, but I have something I want you to see.” I removed the Ziplock bag from my shirt. He seemed a little weirded out but his curiosity grew when I handed him the small black notebook. Dave became silent as he leafed through the pages.

“Is this real?” He asked with tears welling in his eyes.

“I think” I rebutted.

“Where did you find this?” He wanted to know.

“It was hiding in a cymbal bag I bought at a pawn shop in LA.” I informed him.

“Is it a bag from Music6000? With the worst zippers in the world?” He asked.

“That’s the one” I chuckled.

“Can I like make a copy of this or something?”

“It’s yours.” He didn’t say anything back, he just hugged me.

In that very moment, my boss’s boss, the creator of the festival, Shaul appeared out of nowhere. He was out of breath and may or may not have had a few Johnnie Walker Blues.

“Dave I need you to play again.” He managed to get out. “Cee Lo went swimming or something and we can’t find him! He was supposed to be on stage 5 minutes ago.”

I tried not to laugh as the Cee Lo situation had grown serious.

“Yeah I’m down.” Dave said eagerly. “But you’ll have to sort it out with Gus”

“How about you just take this and we’ll figure out the paperwork tomorrow” Shaul offered while handing Dave two banded stacks of crispy blue hundreds. “I just need you on stage now”

“That’ll work just fine” Dave held the stacks of cash in one hand and the notebook in the other.

Shaul took off towards the stage to put the new plan into motion. Dave looked at me and smiled.

“Do you think this should cover it?” He asked holding out the cash.

“I think that’ll do”. We did one more bro hug. Then he left to rally the rest of his band.

---

P.S. - Dave, if you ever read this HMU. Let’s jam!

P.P.S. - I pawned my drums the day before writing this so bring yours.