Suck and Blow (33 page)

I've always felt like we were trying to straddle a fence. Back when “Run-Around” was huge, all these twelve-year-olds would come to our shows, and the hippies would tolerate them (barely). The twelve-year-olds would be bored by the rest of what we were doing, which the hippies were all into. Then we'd do two songs, and suddenly the twelve-year-olds would be the vocal majority, with these little kids screaming, and all the hippies would be horrified. They would later tell me that it felt like we were leaving them.

The twelve-year-olds had no idea about any of our other songs. But those twelve-year-olds are now in their thirties, and they've listened to us since they were twelve, so we've become their institution. We were sort of the hippies' institution before that, but these were the hippies who were around in the sixties, who adopted us at the tail end of the eighties. There was an audience who left after Bobby passed away, but we also have an audience who started listening after Tad
and Ben joined the band. So we'll get these weird clusters of fans. We're this band of several identities.

I was really struck when Emma Stone had a lip sync battle with Jimmy Fallon on the
Tonight Show
and she chose “Hook.”
Rolling Stone
reported that she had managed “to make Blues Traveler the coolest band in the world again.” Then I responded in kind by donning a feather boa to lip sync my version of her “Knock on Wood” performance in
Easy A.
We probably lost the title.

The band fun. played some of “Hook” on a radio appearance when they were asked to identify “the very first piece of music you bought with your own money.” I was genuinely appreciative (even if fun. may be the least fun way to spell fun) because they were really trying to be nice and say they liked the song, but they got the words wrong. I wanted to complain, but who was I going to call? And then I started feeling like I should be muttering to myself and shaking my fist, complaining about the trouble with kids these days and telling them to stay off my lawn.

I'm sort of put in that same spot when people ask for my opinions about other harmonica players. I never want to be one to say “too many notes,” even though there are plenty of talented harp players who are faster than ever. I'm thinking of people like LD Miller or Will Freed. I don't want them to come to me to vanquish or to be vanquished. At times I think they have some trouble with melody, but rather than too many notes, I want to say, “Take those notes somewhere.” I want to set a good example, though, so they get there on their own. What these kids really need is somebody who gets it and says, “Yes! Play weird!”

If I had chance to talk to myself when I was a kid, I might have something to say about “Hook.” I wrote it when I was twenty-five when I liked to make the point, “Look how high I can sing, everybody! Look at me! Look at me!” I had no idea that for the next twenty years I might like to go back in time and punch myself in the face—“Do you understand what you're going to be doing?” I'd probably respond, “Shut up, old man! You're not my father!” and I'd get into a fight with myself. (Given the weight trouble I had as a younger man, I think I could take the younger me. The key is to sweep the knees. If I sweep my younger knees, I think I'd have a real advantage. Of course,
younger me would probably know that older me would do this and would do something to protect the knees and attempt to fall on the older, more bone-fragile me in an attempt to crush my ribcage. But I would know that I really love my testicles and would try to stab my testicles with my thumbs jutted out like some sort of makeshift shiv. It would be a very close fight, but I think I could do it because older me knows more.)

One rarely has a chance to go back, although in 2013 I did have the opportunity to make amends with Stevie Wonder after the incident at the White House in 2000 when I brought his jam to a screeching halt because I didn't have the right harmonicas. He invited me to be part of his benefit show when he performed all of
Songs in the Key of Life.
The only tricky part was that this was one of those rare times when he didn't want me to solo; he wanted me to play the low harmonica section that he played on a chromatic harmonica thirty-five years ago. I didn't know that part, but thankfully Frederic Yonnet, this incredible harmonica player from France, was there. It turned out he was a fan of mine and said, “I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of isolating your part on a file for you to hear.” I said, “But I didn't get
you
anything!” So he made it remotely possible for me to play the part. I was so thankful that it wasn't like the old days, when we'd think,
Oh you're such an enemy, another harp player.

Still, it was going to be a challenge for me to do the beginning, even after we fought through it. india.arie (what is it with these kids and their damn lowercase?) had kissed Stevie when she came out, and there was a little imprint of lipstick on his cheek. I saw the imprint and pointed it out to Frederic. I figured I'd keep things light, and there was a pause, so I got on the mic and said, “Who doesn't love this man? Who wouldn't kiss him? Who wouldn't kiss this man?” The crowd started clapping and then cheering, so I walked over to the piano and kissed him on the cheek. He loved it and fell over on his stool laughing. Then the crowd really clapped, and I whispered in his ear, “You know they're really clapping because I just took all my clothes off.” Then we started the song, and
he
tanked the beginning, so that was how I saved my own ass.

Afterward Bobby Shriver told me that they were doing music at a friend's house and invited me to join him. I went along, but I only
brought one harmonica, an obscure key, because my attitude was that I was done for the night.

It turned out it was Renée Zellweger's house. It was like I was having a dream in which I was at a party, only everybody at the party was somebody famous: Tom Hanks, Rita Wilson, Johnny Knoxville, Nia Vardalos, Ian Gomez, and plenty of other people I recognized by face but not by name.

John Stamos was there, and of course, he wanted to play the drums, but I only had one key, which was a flat. None of the dabblers could play in a flat, but we wrestled out a blues so people could get their money's worth. Then this little thirteen-year-old girl asked whether she could sing one, and behind her was her nebbishy dad saying, “Would you mind if she maybe sang one?” I said, “Sure,” because now I'm the lord of the living room, and her nebbishy dad, as if he were cast for the role, was Albert Brooks. I said sure, and people told me it was so nice what I did for her, but all I did was say okay. She sang Etta James's signature song “At Last” a cappella because none of us knew how to play it, and she rocked the room.

I was talking with a crowd of people when Tom Hanks walked by, so I said, “You're amazing, by the way.” I've been a Tom Hanks fan since
Bosom Buddies.
Then I think he called me a phenomenon, but as he was saying it I couldn't quite hear him because I was getting tunnel vision—he wasn't Tom Hanks anymore, he was . . . pick your favorite character from a Tom Hanks movie, that's who he was. For me he was Captain Miller from
Saving Private Ryan
calling me a phenomenon.

It was one of the my favorite celeb hangs, and what was really great was I had brought my sister, who lived six blocks away in Santa Monica and had moved to Hollywood to be an actress and had written a screenplay or two. For her it was like I dumped crack down her throat and then chased it with a speedball. And, I have to admit, it felt that way for me as well.

These days, as we play new music festivals with an increased frequency, I find they're a good source of celebrity sightings and new musical collaborations, and I never tire of either. The Southern Ground Music & Food Festival in October 2014 offered ample helpings of both.

It was there that I ran into Bill Murray for the first time since he gave that pep talk at SXSW. I once again thanked him for it, but then I caused him some undue alarm when I began talking to him about my impending heat stroke. For all I know Bill had just smoked a whole bunch of pot, which may have exacerbated any anxiety that I caused. I've come to acknowledge that I can be a terrible hypochondriac and that the way I combat it is by obsessing about passing out. I try to make it worse than it actually is so that when I get on stage, it actually isn't that bad. I've inherited this hypochondria from my father, who wants his tombstone to read,
He was a terrible hypochondriac and in the end he was right.

It turned out that it wasn't that bad, far from it, and it also marked my first appearance with the Zac Brown Band. I wasn't all that familiar with their music, but when I walked onto their bus, they were in the midst of some bluegrass tune. It was obvious that they all could play. It was fun to see that Zac himself is all player rather than just someone who is supported by good players. I sat down, opened up my harp case, and jumped right in—when you've got musicians that good, you can do that.

I wound up doing a few songs with him. One of them was “Piano Man,” in which he played the actual Billy Joel part, which I can do, but I figured I'd play something weird around it. So I did it in a more classical musical style—it sounded all fuguey. He called me a show-off, and then we did the third one together. That was the acoustic set, and later I came out on the electric set with Luther Dickinson for “Can't You See.” It felt like we were taking the Nestea plunge into something I had never done before but still felt familiar. It was like falling into a new family, and it was an easy, cool thing to do.

In August of 2015 I sat in with the Foo Fighters, where I experienced a similar level of comfort and connection. We were getting ready for a one-off H.O.R.D.E. show that took place in Detroit (as a possible test run for the future), and I was in town early, so I went to my first Foo Fighters show. At this point I've learned to bring harmonicas with me. I learned from that experience playing at Al Gore's concession party—if your harps are in the broom closet, you're going to have to tap Stevie Wonder on the back and ask him to change keys, and that's just not what I am going to do.

It might have felt a little presumptuous that the Foo Fighters would ask me to sit in, but they're a bunch of players, they like to have all sorts of experiences, and they're easygoing guys, so that's a recipe for having my harps with me. I called Lani, my manager, who had to call some crew guy to get them off some vehicle and rush them to Deer Creek (or whatever that Noblesville, Indiana, amphitheater is called these days). Sure enough, the Foo Fighters said, “We want you to sit in,” and they worked out some blues riff.

It was cool to see how in tune Dave Grohl is with the audience—there's such a love affair there, and he gives them everything he can.

He was playing with a broken leg, and that offered an interesting contrast from my own experiences. Back in the day my crew would shovel me into my little wheelchair and then dump me into this tall, swiveling chair—that was the height of my chair technology: it swiveled. His chair was forged by artisans from the Aztec tradition, and there was a lot of chrome and lights and a big FF on it. It would slide back and forth on a track and flames would shoot out of it. Mine swiveled.

Watching him sit there, I was reminded how once a show I would pretend I could stand up for the first time, even though I was just standing on the other leg—“I've been healed!” He would do that too. You just can't beat that gag, no matter what technology you have.

I also really enjoyed watching his daughters, who must have been five and nine, just loving their dad onstage and then putting “Kick Me” signs on the crew's back. I think he gave them each a job. At different times each would run out onstage and present him with a coke. It was just so much fun to watch and made me excited for my daughter.

When I went out to play it was really a no-brainer because I knew what I had to do: just grip it and rip it. It was one for the bucket list because we move in the same circles a lot of the time but we'd never actually met each other, let alone play together.

But even as I try new things like that, it feels good to maintain some traditions as well. Although we gave up the New Year's Eve black cat ritual after Bobby died, one tradition that continues is Fourth of July at Red Rocks, which we've been doing for more than two decades.

I love the place, but it's brutal for a singer. It's so high up in the air that my voice drops an octave—it can be physically challenging. We write set lists for artistic reasons, not altitude reasons. I used to get oxygen but I found that it dried my throat out if I took it during the show. Bugs will fly in my face or in my drink. (That's what happened in 2013 when TMZ posted a video of me spitting up on stage, calling “party foul” on myself—I was about to drink a shot while we were performing in Florida, and as it reached my mouth, I noticed a giant insect in it.) There can be freak weather—one year we were getting sideways freezing rain, and I said to the audience, “If you can take it, I can take it,” but they all had brought rain slickers and I hadn't—so it fucked me up for the rest of the summer and I got a vocal thrush that had to be zapped.

I know how much the audience loves it, though. It's a spectacular venue on any night, but on the Fourth of July, it can be quite a light show with all the fireworks in the surrounding towns. There have been times when I have heard the crowd spontaneously cheering and wondered,
Did we do something cool? Let's do it again!
Then I realized they were looking behind me at the fireworks that just started or finished, so my ego would get deflated. But what we also get is all this energy pointed like a funnel right at us because we're at the bottom of this natural amphitheater. It's amazing.

The “No Woman, No Cry” we did there in 2003 with Ziggy Marley (which appears on the
Thinnest of Air
DVD) was one of the banner moments of my life. We played it with the son of the source of that song, who sings a lot like him and looks a lot like him and certainly knows that song and that music. And I had this delivery I had been working on, where I was really late on that second verse. Frank Sinatra often did it that way, and I was late on the line because I was so deep in the pocket. That made Ziggy crack up. It really tickled me.