Red Hot Chili Peppers
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© 2014 Red Hot Chili Peppers
Photographs © David Mushegain
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Contents
Intro by Anthony Kiedis
INTRO BY ANTHONY KIEDIS
Growing up I was never really a “fan” of anyone, as we normally think of being a fan. From the age of eight onward, my father, Blackie, turned me on to all kinds of great music: Blondie, Benny Goodman, Roxy Music, the Sex Pistols, and the Clash. I loved all that music but I didn’t consider myself a fan of those people. I was always one step removed from that “I’m a fan, I have to go to this show” mentality. It wasn’t because I was rebelling against my dad; I loved the art he was showing me, but my personality at that time was to be more of an observer than a rabid participant.
I felt the music, I loved it, and I would dance and sing along with it and get excited. The only way to create a vibe for going out to a club is to listen to music that you like. When you’re getting dressed, when you’re doing your hair, you just need to have the jam going. But I wasn’t a fan per se. Perhaps it was because I always had a grandiose idea that my destiny was to be an artist myself so I couldn’t go around idolizing another artist too much. My father had planted the seed when I moved from Michigan. “Here’s the plan, you are going to move to L.A. and you’ll be a movie star.” And I’m like, “Okay.” That’s what I told my friends before I moved back to California when I was eleven.
They were like, “Why are you moving to California?”
“Well, because I have to go and be a movie star.”
“Oh, okay. We’ll keep an eye out for you.”
So I started getting into acting and I got this audition for a huge part in a big Hollywood movie, American Hot Wax. Ironically enough, I was going up for the part of an obsessed fan—the president of the Buddy Holly fan club—so I had to study what it was like to be the fan of one of the first rockers ever. My dad helped me a lot. “Here’s a Buddy Holly cassette tape, learn the music. And here’s the story of Buddy Holly, learn everything about this guy. Just think about him a lot and remember that you really love this guy and you want to turn other people on to him and his music. You’re the guy who’s going to spearhead the Buddy Holly movement,” he told me.
I got so into Buddy Holly that out of the one thousand people that auditioned for that part, it came down to two people—me and this famous child actor named Moosie Drier. Moosie had been doing movies since he was three years old, so they went with the veteran, which broke my heart. I went on a bender of drugs and alcohol but, in retrospect, the Universe was looking out for me. If I had gotten that part, my whole life might have been different and I might never have become a musician. But that was the first time that I really got the sensation of what it was like to be fanatical about a musician—to study what they wear, emulate their haircut and their glasses and their dance moves.
The dictionary definition of fan is “an enthusiastic devotee, follower, or admirer of a sport, pastime, celebrity, etc. a baseball fan; a great fan of Charlie Chaplin.” It’s an Americanism, originating around 1885, and it’s short for “fanatic.” By that definition I certainly am a fan, of musicians and songwriters and singers, famous or not famous.
I’m a fan of nature. I admire nature every day. Every time I look at a tree, I’m in awe; I’m a fan of that tree. What a perfect thing. It’s bigger downstairs than it is upstairs; we don’t even see half the tree. It’s cleaning the air. It makes everything look better even if it’s in the middle of a badly architected city with horrible buildings, you see a row of ten trees and you have to say, “Whoa, look at the shape of those leaves. Look how they blow in the wind.” I’m such a massive, enthusiastic fan of nature that every day I look at the mountains in our neighborhood and point them out to my son. “Look at that mountain. Look how that cloud is sitting on top of it.” Then at night, we just stare at the stars in the sky shining over the ocean. So I’m a big fan of creation. I absolutely love life and the will to live, the life force finding ways to exist and create.
Look what this framed beauty had to say, somewhere in Australia.
I’m a big fan of underdogs, of people and animals that have a hard time and have managed to persevere. And I’m a huge fan of kindness. Of all the weird shit that we all experience, when I actually see true kindness being exhibited, it makes me well up with emotion; it’s just the craziest thing. Pure kindness, with no ulterior motive, that just knocks me out.
And I freak out when I hear artists like Eric Dolphy or Miles Davis or John Coltrane, guys who are on an alien level of intelligence, dedication, and magic. They blow me away. I would love to meet these people, but I’m not the guy who follows them around on tour.
When I was growing up, it was natural to become a fan of the people you saw on TV. I came out of Grand Rapids, Michigan, back in the era of three television channels. It was a very middle-American ritual to go to school, come home, have a snack, and go out and play—bike riding or tree climbing or skipping rocks, whatever—until you couldn’t play anymore. Then you came home and had dinner and sat down in front of the television. You watched a Disney show, or the current hits, whether they were The Wild Wild West or Get Smart or Bewitched. I fell in love with all the cute girls on the screen and wanted to be like the dudes, especially David Carradine in Kung Fu. And when my dad dropped me off at a karate movie downtown, I came home and took it to another level and started practicing some slick Bruce Lee moves.
I guess my first fan experience came when I was about five years old. We were living in California and my mother was the secretary of an entertainment lawyer. At that time, Gilligan’s Island was massive and the lawyer represented the show. So my mom said, “Do you want to go to the set of Gilligan’s Island and meet the cast and characters?” And I was like, “Well, why yes, I do. I would like to go and meet Gilligan and Ginger and the Skipper.” So I went to the set where they filmed the show and there was the island; there were the palm trees and the sand and some little pools of water. I met the whole cast and they all gave me signed, glossy eight-by-tens of themselves. We moved to Michigan and those things went up on my playroom wall.
The only other time I can remember actually going out to seek someone’s autograph was when I was about twelve years old. I was at a restaurant with my dad and he pointed to another table. “That’s O. J. Simpson.” �
��Oh, I know who that is. He’s with the Buffalo Bills,” I said. “You want to get his autograph?” my father asked. “Sure.” So I walked over to his table and asked him to sign this little card and he accommodated me and I saved it for a long time. I wasn’t all that into O. J., but he was a famous guy. I’m no longer a fan, though.
Other than the Gilligan’s Island photos, I never really adorned the walls of my room with posters of my heroes. I did have that famous Milton Glaser multicolored Bob Dylan poster on my wall but I didn’t really know much about Dylan, I just liked the way his rainbow-colored, animated hair looked.
I guess I was just not cut out to be an average fan. Part of that was because as soon as I moved back to L.A. in 1973, when I was eleven, the very first person that I ended up being friends with was Sonny Bono. Sonny and Cher had their hugely popular TV show then and I befriended both of them, even though she was getting divorced from Sonny at the time. So that whole mystique of the world of the super-famous performer was instantly penetrated, and I was no longer on the outside of that bubble; I was right inside it. That really changed my perspective of looking at people that might seem bigger than life, or impossible to attain communication with. And I also took the standpoint that I was probably better off not meeting my superheroes because I might be disappointed when I did. Except for the Beatles.
One night when I was in my teens, I went out with my father and his drinking buddies to a big party in Beverly Hills. Every famous couple in Hollywood was there. My dad and his pals were all high as fuck and we got to the doorman and they wouldn’t let us in. Suddenly, I saw Cher leaving the party and I’m like, “Hi, Cher!”
“Oh, hi, Tony. What’s going on?” Cher said.
“Well, I’m here with my dad and his friends and they’re not letting us in.”
“Oh, that’s fine,” she said. “Just go right in.”
It turned out that it was her party. So we went in and my dad and his friends were all luded out and high on champagne and I looked in one corner of the room and there was Paul McCartney standing and talking with John Lennon. The two guys who were supposed to be archenemies at that point in time were chatting it up at this Beverly Hills party.
“Wow, the guys from Yellow Submarine,” I said to my dad.
My dad was totally lubricated and he walked up to John Lennon and said, “Hey, John Lennon, come here. I want you to meet my son, Tony. Tony, get over here.”
My dad sort of knew Lennon from hanging out at the Roxy but they certainly weren’t besties. I was a little embarrassed that my dad was so high but at the same time, I was certainly going to go over and say hello to the two greatest guys on earth.
Anthony and “the Queen” in London
They were very tolerant of the whole situation. I suppose they would be when there’s a kid involved; no one wants to make a father look bad in front of his child. I think even super-mega-massive celebrities always make an exception for a child. So they were nice and I loved seeing them. They were so flippin’ stylish. Just to be around those two icons that were part of everybody’s upbringing was amazing. They were omnipresent in my life since I was five. Everybody was Ob-La-Di-ing, no matter where they were on the earth. Everyone was watching that little Apple spin around on their turntables in the basement, dancing to those iconic songs.
I didn’t really understand everything that the Beatles had been through at that point. I didn’t know that Paul and John had really gone their separate ways and had written sort of malicious songs about each other. I didn’t realize how special it was at that moment that they were together having a moment of either reconciliation or just humanity, whatever was happening. But they were beautiful.
My love for The Beatles got way stronger years later. I still get the biggest thrill whenever I see Ringo anywhere. And it is love; I see these people and what I feel is love. Just like, “Oh I love that guy; he’s such an awesome human being.” These are guys that have been through the wars and they came out alive and they’ve got great energy.
Cut to decades later [last week at the time I’m writing this], I went with my girlfriend to an Oscar party at Guy Oseary’s house and every actor, every actress, whatever, they were all there; they were having a great time. It was a beautiful thing; people were dancing and smiling. And there was Paul McCartney and I have the same feeling about him today as I did when I was a kid. I just love that guy; I love him so much. He has given the world more than the world could ever give him back. He’s endlessly bestowed love and beauty on Planet Earth like nobody’s business. We’re so lucky to have him; this guy is magical. “Blackbird singing in the dead of night…” There he was, what a beautiful thing.
“It felt so good to both be a fan of this person’s art and his beauty and his history but also for him to be so welcoming…It’s Paul.”
Normally I wouldn’t really know how to say, “Hey, let’s talk.” But Paul said, “Get over here; we played that festival together in Outside Lands.” I was drenched in sweat because I had been dancing and he came over to give me a big hug and I was like, “Whoa, whoa, whoa” and he said to me, “Oh, come on, some of my best friends are sweaty.” Back to the party. I was there with my girl, Helena; he was there with his beautiful, new, super-sweet wife, and he wouldn’t let us go. He just wanted to tell us story after story after story, about his kids, about his wife’s business. She finally goes, “Come on, Paul, you’re boring these people to tears.” And I say, “No, this is good, this is fine, we’ll listen.” So he was telling me how his wife was in charge of a New York–based trucking firm and she was responsible for three thousand trucks. I was thinking, “That’s so cool.” It felt so good to both be a fan of this person’s art and his beauty and his history but also for him to be so welcoming and just kind of dismantling of the separation that fame imparts on you. Because if anybody knows what it is to live a life of separation, it’s Paul.
I was aware of Iggy Pop from a very young age because I saw him perform at the Whiskey when I was maybe thirteen. When I watched his show, I thought, “This guy is completely original; he’s one of the greatest performers I’ve ever seen.” He was beautiful and he was stylish and brimming with raw energy. I went home and was like, “I saw the coolest show the other night. You’ve got to check this guy out.” It wasn’t like now he was my guy, or I was going to identify with him, but I liked what he did. I went and saw Blondie at the Whiskey on their first trip out west and I went back to the hotel and proposed marriage to Deborah Harry as a child. But I wasn’t a fan of hers. I emotionally felt the experience of seeing these artists live, I would lose myself in reckless abandon on the dance floor, but my observation was a little bit studious or clinical. I guess I just wanted to quietly take it all in on some level.
Even when the punk scene started in L.A. I’d go to see The Germs and The Dickies and all of these very, very important, early L.A. punk rock bands, but I’d just stand on the side and see what was going on. All of the people in the audience had Mohawks and I sat there and watched a girl put a gigantic safety pin through her cheek because she really wanted to express her dedication to this new, beautiful, and indescribable punk rock scene that was happening. But again, I didn’t feel like, “Oh, I am a fan now.” My feeling was, “I’ve got to go tell my friends about this, we’ve got to get to some more shows.”
I was acting in my high school theater group then and Flea was just starting to play bass in the band Anthem. At very best, I was introducing Anthem at their shows. That was my first live performance, which was really lots of fun. I didn’t have in mind that I wanted to be in a band, per se, then. I didn’t set the course for that outcome.
Along with my friend Dondi, who played bass, we had a weird jam band in 1980 and we’d play in a little Hollywood nonequity theater. We called ourselves “Spigot Blister and the Chest Pumps” and I was Spigot Blister and I’d just scream into the mic and Dondi just made this aggressive noise on the guitar. It was fun to jump around and just generally freak out.
I guess it was a little bit of a foreshadowing of my future, but playing as the Red Hot Chili Peppers wasn’t even my idea. It wasn’t until our friend Gary Allen suggested that we get together in 1983, that our band was born. I wasn’t looking at my friends and going, “Oh, I gotta sing with these guys.” It really didn’t dawn on me.
Flea was like me at that time. He was definitely a fan of the punk rock scene, but again, he was such a young stud himself, as a musician and as a character, that he mingled very easily in the scene. He just became more a part of it than being on the outside as a fan. He joined Fear, the top-dog punk band in L.A., and he became their bass player. So he was a lover of the scene and a lover of music but I never saw Flea draw “Van Halen Rules” on his high school notebook.
In some respects, to be a fan is to give up some of your own identity. And I think, even unconsciously, when you have a strong sense of self and you get a bit of a momentum for creating your own art—even if it’s just the art of living—you’re less likely to attach yourself to another artist and follow them and emulate them. Believe me, we loved a lot of bands. We would have Black Flag parties at our house where we would drink a lot of beer and dance. But it was more for inspiration to do our own thing.
I’d say Jimi Hendrix is the closest I ever came to idolizing another musician, but it was not so much to be a fan of the guy as it was to try to figure out what made him tick so we could go tick that hard. When I was in my late teens, Flea, Hillel, and I got heavy into Jimi. Electric Ladyland, Axis: Bold as Love, we would just listen to those albums over and over again to try to understand the fire and the energy and the genius and the dedication that guy had, and then we wanted to go play his music.
The Roxy in Los Angeles, 2011
Apart from the music, we never styled ourselves after a particular rock star. As a kid I never looked to a musician for style points; I looked to my father. By the time I hit my period of self-expression as an artist, I had my own sense of what I thought style was, and it was fairly different from a lot of other people. I loved David Bowie’s style, but I wasn’t a skinny little androgynous guy who could pull that off. I was like an aggro, bouncing off the walls. And even though I was more closely related to Iggy as a performer, I didn’t want to buy his style either; although inadvertently, I did kind of go with the bare-chested approach, but with very different energy and very different movements.