The Tao of Foo

Photo by Matthias Vriens

DON'T BE AFRAID TO TALK SHIT

"I think maybe her greatest dump," Grohl says proudly, "was the one on the way up to Napa Valley. It was up the shirt, dude! It was in her armpits, all the way up to the neck, and it was in the car on a road trip that was five hours long. We had to pull over and basically throw her clothes away."

Bassist Nate Mendel, your turn: "Noah was constipated, and we gave him some prune juice in a sippy cup and then went out to eat. In the middle of the restaurant, the prune juice did its magic. And it just went everywhere. He had crap seeping out of his diaper as we carried him out of the restaurant."

Guitarist Chris Shiflett: "I changed one yesterday morning that was just fucking brutal. I mean, the kind where you change the diaper and he still smells like poo and you smell like poo and you can't get it off; it just sort of permeates."

The only Foo without a decent scat story is drummer Taylor Hawkins, known among his bandmates as the Hawk, who wants it noted for the record that his first child is only a month old and has already peed on him several times.

GHOSTS MAY HAUNT YOU IN MANNERS UNEXPECTED Dave Grohl still thinks about Kurt Cobain. Of course he does. You try playing drums for the most revered musician of our generation, knowing that half the people you meet are more interested in hearing about Saint Kurt than your new album.

Grohl was all of 25 when Cobain killed himself, and he's spent the 13 years since working feverishly to establish his own artistic identity. But that doesn't mean he can erase Cobain's memory. "This morning I watched this thing on YouTube of Kurt's home movies. He's hanging out with his family in a park, sitting by this stream as these little girls run around, and it broke my heart, because I knew when that was, and I knew that he wasn't necessarily happy at the time."

Grohl tells this story out on his deck, the burnt haze of another L.A. sunset ready to flare beneath him. A few feet away, Violet Maye is tottering around a barbecue grill, murmuring to herself, "Hot, hot."

Given that the new album boasts lyrics such as "Beautiful veins and bloodshot eyes / Why'd you have to go and let it die?" I ask him if he's addressing anybody in particular.

Grohl sighs. "Most people just assume that any song I've written about loss or death or anger is about Kurt or Courtney. But I've been surrounded by musicians for 20 fucking years; there's a lot of people that have gone that direction." Still, he can't seem to shake that YouTube image. "He couldn't fully experience the joy of life," he says softly. "And I'm at that point now where I can."

He appears dour for a moment. But then he looks over at Violet, busts out one of his famously toothy grins, and scoops her up. And it's at this point -- with Grohl and his daughter giggling madly, off to pursue some new adventure -- that it becomes clear why the ghost of Kurt Cobain has been skulking around of late. It has nothing to do with the burden of living up to his creative genius or even his loss as a friend. It's the simple and horrifying fact that Cobain was, at the time of his death, the father of a young girl almost exactly Violet's age.

SOMETIMES GROWING UP MEANS BEING A GIANT HYPOCRITE, AND THAT'S OKAY

Upstairs at Foo HQ, Mendel, 38, is waiting for a haircut and stewing. Today's big assignment is recording footage that will be shown at Wal-Marts nationwide, as well as bonus downloads that will be available with the new album exclusively at the retail giant's online store. "Everybody knows that the way Wal-Mart runs is bad for small businesses, small towns, bad for the working class." Mendel shakes his head. "I'm definitely conflicted about doing this thing."

Downstairs, Hawkins, 35, offers a more blunt assessment: "It's hard to sell records these days, man. Gotta suck some corporate cock."

Grohl's rationalizations are a bit more nuanced. Like Mendel, he cut his teeth in the hardcore punk scene of the '80s. "We both still feel like our inspiration is rooted in that. But it's kind of a different ball game now."

With music retailers going under left and right, Grohl knows that Wal-Mart is just about the only game in most towns. "Anything that has to do with promoting the music through a chain that will sell albums we kind of feel okay about," he says, sounding only half convinced. "I mean, we've had Ford come to us and say, 'We want "Times Like These" for this commercial,' and everybody's begging us: 'It'll be a million dollars! It'll be huge!' But that creeps me out."

Then there's the family to consider. The way he figures it, if working with Wal-Mart means 15,000 fans waiting for the band in Boise, Idaho, and the ability to tour with his wife and child comfortably, Grohl will live with a few pangs of punk-rock guilt. It's called selling out. Or growing up. You decide.