- They were witnessing
a nightmare. It wasn't even a train wreck. It really was more a-- it was like an existential
shattering of a human soul. - Yeah! [cheers and applause] [in slow-motion]
Yeah! [indistinct slow-motion chatter] <i> [dark electronic music]</i> [in slow-motion]
- [growls] [audience gasps] <i> ♪ </i> [grunts] - [screaming] <i> ♪ </i> [mud splashes]
[slow-motion yelling] <i> ♪ </i> [grunting and yelling continues] [struggling vocally] <i> ♪ </i> - Super excited
to bring this guy up. His album--
the album "Get Wet," one of the best
party-rock albums of all time. You guys, a rabble-rouser
of the seventh degree-- give it up
for Mr. Andrew W.K., everybody. <i> [cheers and applause]</i> - When I was 16, I wanted to be
a fashion designer, in case you didn't get
that impression already. But I wrote a letter
to a company that was actually
based in Japan called Comme des Garcons. And I want to work
for this company, and I was 16, so I figured
that what you do is you write a letter to Japan,
and then they hire you. And they actually wrote back through their New York offices
and said, "If you really want
to work here, "in two more years
when you're 18, write back and we'll
see what we can do." So I waited two years
and then wrote back and then said, "Yeah, I still
want to work there." So then I moved to New York,
and I was given a job in the basement office
of Comme des Garcons on Wooster Street. [scattered cheers and applause] And, uh... was fired two months later. For stealing
and other petty offenses. When I was fired,
I was crying quite a bit, which the woman in charge
asked me not to do. And I decided that I wasn't
meant to do fashion. So, at that time,
I was living in the living room of two folks from Michigan
who I didn't know really and looking through
the want ads every day in the back of
the "Village Voice" and came across a job
for a musician. I thought, huh, I've never
thought about doing that. Now, I had taken piano lessons
and played piano and made music,
but that to me was like reading. I never really thought-- you know, once you learn
how to talk, you don't necessarily
become professional, unless you're gonna be
a stand-up comedian or something like that. [sighs] Anyway, so-- This is easier than I thought, 'cause that wasn't even
supposed to be a joke. So I thought,
well, at the worst-case, I mean, the job paid
$700 a week, which was more money than
I'd ever imagined you could really make
doing anything. It was a lot more than I was
getting paid at the internship at the fashion place,
so I said, "Okay, I'll try it." Now, I figured,
having never auditioned for a musical job before, that I would go in
and I would have a meeting and they would give me
songs to learn and we would talk
about the band. I'd only been
in high school bands and things like that,
and we did have original songs, but I think we once learned
someone else's song and played it very poorly, and it took about two
or three months of practice before we got it, and then
we never played it again. Went back to
the original songs, 'cause no one
could judge those. So I dressed up as most
professional musicians did at the time,
which I envisioned to be a sport coat with
the sleeves rolled up, and I got myself psyched up and really tried to use the
power of visualization, which I'd just been learning
about at that time, that you could kind of picture
how things would go. I learned actually
doing piano recitals to picture
the recital going well, and then when it goes
terribly wrong and you mess up, much like the way I feel
now on this stage, you'll at least be able
to compare it and really realize
how poorly it's going compared to what
you visualized. So, uh, I visualized that
I would get to sit in a room, maybe with a piano--
kinda like I imagined it would be like
a ballet studio for some reason with mirrors along one side
and a railing. And this nice gentleman who was gonna give me
the stack of songs to learn, "Come back in two weeks.
We'll review. We'll go over this,
as much time as you need." And I make my way down there
on the subway, you know, all by myself. I didn't have any friends
really at that time. I had two roommates
that I was irritating, but I don't think
they would have considered themselves
my friends. And then found my way
to this place, which was in
Greenwich Village. It said on the sign--
it said "Cafe Wha?" in kind of bold colors. And I really didn't like
the name. And I thought, "That doesn't--
this is not a-- this is a bad omen." So I listened to a deeper
voice that said go in, and I went inside
and went down some stairs. There was actually
a very nice women there, that I explained
I'm answering this ad. And she had
a slight look of concern mixed with fear. And she seemed to say, "Okay, well, you know what,
come over here, "and you can take a seat
in the back, and I'll go tell the manager
you're here." And I thought,
"This is great. He'll pull me into his office
and we'll talk." In the meantime,
it was a packed house. It was very much like this. In fact, I haven't felt as much
like I did that night until this night. And I really mean that. I mean, my heart is racing
so much so that if I just sit still, I just could be--
seem to pulse. It's a very intense feeling. And so it was a packed house. It was a live music club. And it was a very
boisterous audience. Standing room only.
People were singing along. I cannot exaggerate
how fantastic the band was that was playing. I mean, world-class. And again,
it was really in a place really about
this exact size, uh, in the most eerie
of ways. There were a lot of mirrors,
much like this, and helped make the room somehow seem more claustrophobic
in a strange way. And I found the one
only person seat for this whole club. Sat down, ordered a Sprite. And just waited for her
to come and tell me when the manager was ready. So I'm watching this band, and then this gentleman who had
been more like the sideman stepped up
and took over the mic, speaking with the audience. And it was very strange
for me at this time to watch this guy. I was just fascinated
by his confidence, because in my eyes he had absolutely no reason
to be confident. He looked like the friends
I had in high school that were really into
computer repair, which was a higher lever
of computer enthusiast. And was playing
a Fender Stratocaster guitar with the strap
at that height, that certain height
that just doesn't seem like it can't possibly
make it easier to play. So I'm watching this guy
command the crowd, and I'm really amazed by his
almost overconfidence. It turns out, of course,
he's the host, and actually he's the manager.
He's the manager. How amazing is this
that the manager of the club is playing in their
world-class band? So he's bantering
with the audience, he's talking about how great
everyone has been so far, what an amazing lineup-- "And I understand
that there's a young man "somewhere
in this audience tonight "that's gonna come up
on stage here and audition for us." And the first thought was: shoot, someone else
is gonna get this gig. This other kid.
This other guy. And I'm not even gonna get
a chance. And then he asked again if the young man would
please show himself. And that's when I realized
it was me. And, uh... I just realized,
I could sit there and not acknowledge myself and wait until
they passed over, 'cause he did want
to keep the show moving, or, um, I could go up there. And at that time,
that really surpassed any asking out a girl
for the first time. It certainly surpassed having
been fired from that job. I could tell this was
the most underwhelming overwhelming thing
that was about to happen. And I was about to actually
just cop out, 'cause it was gonna be-- you know, it wasn't
gonna go well. It was a living nightmare. And there was a very clear
voice in my head. It wasn't my voice. It's kinda like the voice that when you're reading
a book silently. It's just this voice that
doesn't actually have a sound, of course. But somehow it's saying
these words to you. So I don't really understand
how exactly that works. So who-- whose voice that is, but it's right--
it's very intimate. You can't--
can't shut it out, and it said, "This is what
you're supposed to do." So I said okay. So I got up
and went on the stage, and as soon as I stood up, there was one of those
prison spotlights, and so then
I couldn't see anything, except that I was
very lit up. And right away,
the host's face just sank, 'cause he saw
that I was 18 years old and probably gonna be
really amazing or really, really bad. And I managed to be both,
I think. I walked up and I kinda
scooted through the stage. It was very crowded.
Once you get up there, you realize that everyone's
kinda overlapped on top of each other. And the keyboard player
specifically was not happy about me taking over his, at least, three racks of
triple-tiered keyboards, and then a whole nother
triple tier, and then the ones that
you can't play behind you. That's always been--
you know, I can play one barely. So this idea of nine was-- again, I just
was very intimidated. And all the while
this is happening, I can't believe
that it's happening, and I still think about
just fleeing. And I'll try to run through
this part quick because it's just very painful
to think about. So the host is here,
and he says--he says, "Okay,
so what do you got for us?" And I--you know,
my mouth was so dry. It was like all the moisture
had gone to my-- the palms of my hand
and behind my knees. I could barely speak,
and the mic was way too loud. I said, "I didn't think
it was gonna be like this." And before I could even
finish uttering that, the whole crowd--
the tension, it just-- they were having the greatest
night of their lives, and it was just cut off. They were witnessing
a nightmare. It wasn't even a train wreck. It really was more, uh-- it was like
an existential shattering of a human soul. And this guy hosting
realized that, and he says,
"Okay, well, let's go all-in." He said, "Well, how could
you come to a thing "and not have
anything prepared? What song can you play?" I said, "I don't know--"
I really was thinking maybe I would play scales
or something backstage. I didn't have the nerve
to say that. I said, "I didn't think
it was gonna be like this. On every level." He said, "Well, name a song
that you can play." And this is the part that I
almost wasn't gonna tell you. 'Cause it's just--
out of all the songs-- some that I would know, like "Happy Birthday"
or something. I could've played that. A song I've never played,
still don't know how to play, haven't even tried to play,
especially after this. Hadn't heard it
earlier that day. Had no particular
relationship to the song, no special memories
about the song. I said "Rocket Man"
by Elton John. And at that point, I almost
felt like looking back now the voice in my head was like, "What--where--
where did that come-- "What the hell are you doing? That's not how
this is supposed to go." So he said,
"Okay, 'Rocket Man!'" And then all of a sudden,
it dawned on me that this band
knew every song. They knew "Rocket Man." They had it memorized. No one gave them
the sheet music. They--I could have
called out any song, they'd go, "Okay,
one, two, three, four." Pachelbel's "Canon in C." "Mary--" ugh. So they kick into it and it sounds
just like the album except that there's no
piano playing. And I say,
"Whoa, whoa, whoa, wait. What key is it in?" You know, I normally
have the music, and even then
I need a lot of practice. He said, "Well, it's
on the same key as the album." I said, "Well, I don't know
what key's that in." And then I think
some of the other band was starting to get irritated. It was starting
to make them look bad. And then, uh-- So he said, "What key
do you want to play it in?" And I said,
"C. C major." But the problem is--
if you're even slightly familiar with "Rocket Man,"
whatever key you start in, within the first few seconds,
it's changing and modulating and moving
to about 18 different keys. It's probably one
of the more complicated songs to try to just fake
your way through. And I faked my way through it by turning the volume down
on the keyboard. One of the great things about
keyboards versus real pianos. Just turn that down
and have a ball. And then I realized I didn't
know all the words, so he said, "I'll feed you
the words one line as we go." I mean, and at this point,
my face was so red and hot. The way it feels right now. When your ears are so hot
that they hurt without even being touched. You can leave a thumbprint
on your cheek. But eventually, I got
to the line where he says-- where it's, "And I think it's
gonna be a long, long time." Which was the one line
I really did know. So I was excited,
and as I started to sing that, he said, "And I think
it's gonna be a long, long time till you ever perform
at Cafe Wha? again." [audience awws] And in part, I was relieved,
of course, like-- "Good, let me get out of here.
Gee whiz." And at that moment,
the crowd kind of-- it was just so bad,
something had to give. 'Cause he wasn't
letting up on me, and I don't blame him. But someone yelled,
"Hey, let him finish." Or, "Let the"--you know,
"You're doing great, kid!" And-and the feeling
that some other person that I didn't know
that had no reason to-- they cared about me. They were shouting for me. And, like, a whole sea change--
the whole vibe changed to, "Come on, you can do it!"
Like an underdog. But the thing--
I really couldn't do it, so it wasn't like
I won the game or scored this three-pointer
and brought it all home. Finished the song
very, very badly, left the stage,
but there was still something kind of
satisfying about it, I guess. The bass player,
he put his hand on my shoulder and said,
"It's gonna be okay." Sorta like, you know, "You're
gonna live through this." And I walked down
the stairs, and I went back,
and then, you know, very slowly walked out. But the feeling was that if I
could not make it through that, I could not make it
through anything. [cheers and applause] <i> ♪ </i>
