So as I approached Heritage Artist™ age, I had to decide: Did I want to adopt the affectations of the new generation in hopes of remaining relevant, begging for attention with each new release? Or did I want to get out of that business, head to Vegas, and just keep reliving my old shit? Well, somehow neither of those binary options seemed very attractive. So, then what? What to do with the Script™? The answer was in the dark somewhere, where it always is. After all, the dark is where we mated for the first time.
AFTER THE FLOOD
ON APRIL 30, 2010, I had a one-off gig with Weezer at the University of Maryland, which I did solo at the piano in a football stadium. May 1 had been randomly chosen for an early mutual birthday party for the twins and their stepsister, all of whose real birthdays were later in July, when the twins would be with their mother. Somehow, this randomly chosen substitute birthday had become immovable—quite the production with RSVPs, blow-up waterslides, and extra parking. The only way I could do the afternoon Weezer gig and be back in time for the party was to book a private jet.
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As large bouncy castles were being delivered and inflated back in Nashville, I was finishing my set in Maryland. Hopping into the car, which was idling just next to the stage, I could hear the opening riff of “Hash Pipe” and I felt my phone vibrating in my pocket. It was my old friend Millard, who told me a close mutual friend of ours had just died—suicide. I don’t remember the fancy plane trip at all.
I arrived home in Franklin, Tennessee, to a backyard full of colorful inflatable structures, a handful of early arriving children, and a team of adults talking weather and pointing at some threatening skies. I wasn’t sure how I was going to bear a couple hours of small talk with parents or being fun for the kids at that very moment. The news had stricken me near mute. But the skies spoke instead, and the party was over in minutes. A “hundred-year flood,” as it was called, sank much of the neighborhood under water by nightfall and continued all the next day. Our dearly departed friend was always quite the performer, with a penchant for the dramatic. And his storm did not disappoint. It dumped a year’s worth of rain in a weekend. Levees broke, fields became lakes, and sirens blared through the night. That was his style.
The next morning, people were paddling around the streets in boats, roofs were poking out of new lakes, but there was no national coverage yet. I assumed there would at least be some information online about this flood, but I saw nearly nothing, aside from a few local forums posting information and pictures. But these photographs that were posted just didn’t tell the story, so I rolled my pants up and waded into the mess to take some photos to post online. I used my old Nokia phone instead of my fancy vintage cameras—that’s all that was needed to tell this story. I accompanied my images with warnings like “Folks! There’s poo in this water!” For a few hours they were some of the only decent pictures that could be seen of this flood, so they were getting tens of thousands of views a minute. National Geographic got wind of my posts and created a quick online story using my photos. By the next day, the professional reporters and photographers kicked in and we had a better view of the situation. I was invited a few months later to National Geographic to give a talk about my photography.
When there’s a disaster, big or small, we all have to pick up a shovel and chip in. It’s best to reach for the biggest one you have at your disposal. In my case, I decided to raise money for Nashville’s beautiful symphony hall, the Schermerhorn, which was under water and had sustained incredible damage and lost many instruments. Conductor Francisco Noya was kind enough to fly from Providence, Rhode Island, on his own dime to conduct an orchestra fundraiser we put together. It was the first event of this kind I had ever initiated and we raised nearly a quarter of a million dollars, which was a small—very small—contribution. But it was the biggest shovel I had in the shed. I soon accepted a seat on the board at the Nashville Symphony Orchestra, where I served on the education committee.
Franklin, TN, after the 2010 flood. Photos taken with old Nokia phone, used for National Geographic piece online.
My main recording/touring piano was destroyed in the flooding, so I decided to strip all eighty-eight keys off the ruined piano, autograph them, and sell them for eighty-eight dollars apiece to raise money for musical instruments in local schools. Nashville Symphony Orchestra had a program that located broken instruments and hired volunteers to repair them, so that is where the money went. We called the program “Keys to Music City.” All eighty-eight keys sold in a few days and so Steinway began to chip in piano keys too, and we kept going. We found other artists to do some signing and at the end of the program we had raised eighty thousand dollars for countless instruments, which were distributed to kids who would otherwise never have had access to them.
This was quite a development for me. It was a long time coming. I was emotionally charged by the death of my friend and the incredible perspective that such a tragedy can give. I think I felt the need to start turning the negatives into positives rather than trying to outrun it all. I was ready to face the music, and the life.
THE EVER-POPULAR VH1 BEHIND THE MUSIC ARTIST-HITS-BOTTOM ACT
I KNEW I HAD TO see someone. It was becoming obvious that I needed help.
My first session with Dr. McLeod was the most painful, but I learned a lot. It required me to open up. Immediately. And to trust. That’s the hard part.
In a glance, Dr. McLeod was able to identify the contours of my anxiety, like an archaeologist or a psychic might. How I’d neglected myself, even down to my diet and my sleep. He laid it all out for me. And I didn’t have to say a word. It’s rare that I’m required to just shut up and listen, but in this kind of session you have no choice.
“Open widey!” he said cheerfully as he put gloves and mask on.
Dr. McLeod is, of course, my dentist. A poetic and wise one. Stuffing my mouth full of gauze and medieval equipment, he began his examination. It all seemed pretty routine for a dental appointment until he said, “Everyone has a black box, Ben.”
I nodded with a light grunt and a slight shift of an eyebrow.
“It’s where we lock up our secrets. The little black box. It’s ours and ours alone, to the grave. Whatever is in yours, Ben, it’s okay.”
He reached for a pointy metal thing. “My good man, you’ve been quite the grinder and gnasher, haven’t you? Your diet, the pattern of this wear right here, no sleep, lots of fretting…Look at this, Sandy.” His eyes showed some concern as he peered over his mask. Sandy shook her head and lined up some more tools for what was going to be a long night. I hadn’t been to the dentist in a decade and I was paying the price. I had a series of teeth I needed to lose, replace, crown, and cap, due to an old, failed root canal. It had all exploded in incredible pain and fever as I’d landed from a Japanese concert tour. My tooth emergency ended up being a two-year process all in all.