Fly, be free now

The relentless happy and sad of Taylor Hawkins.

In the wake of our most recent New Year’s Eve, I remain no fan of the ritual (nor of resolutions). In the majority of cases, it’s a night of undeserved hype, overpriced prix-fixe menus at packed restaurants and forced partying that never truly lives up to its alleged promise. But there were also some in my past that were unexpectedly meaningful and ever-memorable.

The 2000 millennium changeover was one in particular. Despite the avalanche of fear-induced panic, computers never crashed and my fiance and I walked around the frigid Boston Common to take in the lights and ice sculptures before spontaneously ending up on our condo rooftop with our neighbors at midnight. Boston was good like that.

Then there was another the year before in the winding Griffith Park hills of Los Angeles near the Greek Theatre at the gorgeous 1930s-era Spanish revival home of then-married rock-star super couple of Gwen Stefani and Gavin Rossdale. Like, what?! No, really.

We were mere outliers, there because of my friends and our mutual relationship with No Doubt drummer Adrian Young. It was what we called a “starfucker party,” bursting at the seams with distinctly ‘90s celebrities, associated scenesters and hangers-on. We knew those types of parties happened all the time in LA, but this was one of momentous proportions to us at the time because we were actually there and HAVING it.

At one point, a fittingly lubricated Mötley Crüe drummer Tommy Lee burst through the front door in typical fashion, loudly proclaiming his presence as his sidekick for the night, Foo Fighters drummer Taylor Hawkins, snickered and followed along. Taylor shuffled quickly past Beck through a hallway toward the kitchen where we were, and upon catching sight of each other, grabbed my cheeks and laid a massive smooch on me before we caught up for a minute and he was off again.

“What the hell just happened?!” my then-girlfriend exclaimed, both surprised and bewildered. “That’s just Taylor,” I said, chuckling and holding up my hands in a “I have no control of this situation” type of gesture. It had never happened before, but the unchecked joy in that few seconds was very much indicative of the type of person he was.

We’re soon nearing the three-year anniversary of his shitty, unnecessary death. I thought of him again recently when seeing The Darkness, an undeniably fun British rock band whose drummer Rufus Taylor (son of Queen drummer Roger Taylor, who ironically Taylor idolized) has the same hawk tattoo in the same spot on his arm as Taylor. We chatted after the gig about him and my memories of our interaction and professional friendship from over two decades ago were instantly, thoroughly vivid again.

Taylor and I first met in 1995. At the time, he was drumming for Alanis Morrisette on the heels of her pop-culture crushing debut album that unleashed one of the most indelible feminist anthems ever. I was a year and a half into my artist relations job, by then well-familiarized with the requirements but also new enough to still feel hungry to prove myself. Respectful, yet a bit rebellious.

The upstart from Laguna Beach was already a hot commodity and playing a competitor’s cymbals at the time (those preferred by another of his heroes, Police drummer Stewart Copeland). Which to me was both an impediment and an irresistible challenge. I had to establish contact and win his respect as a person, while being able to convince him that our instruments were superior and of better use to him as a professional musician. No small task, and one I would repeat many times. But I loved it and believed wholeheartedly in what I was selling.

Keep in mind, the internet then was in its earliest stages. There was no social media. I had a pager, not a cell phone. Through connections, I made contact with his drum tech and learned the band would be rehearsing in a midtown New York City studio for an MTV appearance at the same time I’d be in town for an annual live music showcase. Time to hatch a plan.

I studied his setup and hand-picked a version of the same with our cymbals. I had them sent to my hotel in New York, shlepped them in a cab and met up with the band at rehearsals, shared the new equipment and won his approval, perhaps in part from the personal attention. The next morning, I took him to an Upper East Side diner for breakfast and he ordered chocolate chip pancakes. A sign of the kid inside the man. Or as I would lovingly refer to him, “a human golden retriever.”

Not long after that, Taylor would assume the hotly contested Foo Fighters throne after Dave let go original drummer Will Goldsmith. It’s well-known that the band was always thoroughly a Dave Grohl Production™ and in first realizing his vision for a post-Nirvana band incarnation, Dave played pretty much everything. At least on the first two albums (the second of which, “The Colour and the Shape,” became a massive hit that slingshot the band skyward where it would continue to remain in orbit until … *checks calendar* … right, still one of the most popular acts on the planet).

In Taylor, Dave knew he not only had a new best friend but a drummer of his caliber who would leave his own stamp on the band’s sound and perhaps more importantly, become the yin to Grohl’s yang, a commanding but complimentary personality in his own right. So on the band’s third album, “Nothing Left To Lose,” both Taylor and Dave’s drum parts were used in the final release. Even though Taylor was admittedly intimidated by the idea of recording in front of Dave.

The rest is proverbial history and Taylor rightfully launched himself into the drumming pantheon. I worked with he and the Dave until I left the job in 2000. A couple of our best moments, beyond so many remarkable shows through the years:

The 1997 MTV Video Music Awards at Radio City Music Hall in New York. I met up with Taylor and we ran around the curving staircases, nooks and alcoves of that stunning, historic theater like it was a playground, until the band was called to literally play on the roof of the infamous neon marquee fronting the Avenue of the Americas. To get there, everyone crawled out a window from a room where I watched with management, tour crew, sundry others and a seemingly bored Cindy Crawford.

A show at the Avalon club in Boston in 1998 on Landsdowne street right outside Fenway Park’s famed Green Monster. I’d recently moved there from Los Angeles to work at Zildjian headquarters on the south shore of the city. I showed up to soundcheck with a local photographer friend and while unsuspectingly waiting I was suddenly tackled to the floor (ewww) by Taylor and instantly dogpiled by Dave.

I was wearing a very period chunky silver chain bracelet I rarely took off that under the collective weight left a mark for weeks. Somehow I appreciated it. The gig was opened by San Diego stalwarts Rocket from the Crypt, whose fantastic drummer Atom Willard remains a friend to this day and currently plays with ever-wonderful Alkaline Trio. Both bands were on fire that night.

(That floor.)

(That bracelet.)

I wouldn’t see Taylor again until I moved back to Los Angeles in 2002. By that time, he’d already had an overdose scare in Europe and I instantly knew everything for him would be different. My then-pregnant wife and I were at a Supergrass show at the ever-endearing, historic Troubadour club, our favorite. Taylor loved Supergrass too, they’d toured together and both bands had a similar uplifting spirit.

We were in the venue’s upstairs loft that overlooked the stage from a tiny, high school gym-like bleacher arrangement. I spied Taylor at the railing and excitedly yelled to him, gesturing at my wife’s lovely swollen belly. He turned and his face registered the conflicted look of someone happily seeing a friendly ghost from their past, while trying desperately to banish destructive former tendencies and everyone associated with them. Taylor was not the only endorser with whom I experienced this kind of tension and forced distance via understandable rehab program requirements.

That was the last interaction we ever had. I’ve now lived in Kansas City for 20 years and have seen the Foos a few times, twice with my son who loves them like me. Never once did I try to play the “remember me?” card with the tour crew to get backstage or into the show. I probably could have, but somehow it didn’t feel right. I didn’t live that life anymore. I wanted to remember it for what it was and be happy for that.

When Taylor passed, I was as crushingly stunned as everyone else. There are some compulsive personalities who seem absolutely hellbent on self-sabotage and unable to knock sense into themselves. The ones you fear upon meeting them might not be with us for long.

Taylor never struck me as one of those. Despite his now obvious pain, he was too full of life and later into the Foos’ career, focused on his wife and kids and friends and everything he continued to accomplish. Which is not to say he couldn’t be both all of that and a tortured soul ever-susceptible to demonic seduction.

His 17yo son Shane is already flashing signs of drumming greatness (though I didn’t try to attend Taylor’s memorial concerts in London and Los Angeles where Shane played, I watched the YouTube replays full of sadness and inspiration). Dad’s innate talent is no doubt coursing through the kid’s veins. I just dearly wish that Taylor could still be around to see it and also be there for his family, while continuing to further his own legacy.