1997
@freshfighters
Starting from the beginning would no doubt be the best idea. A phone call had been received at six o’clock in the morning, answered by a rattled, disheveled Taylor in a panic only to find that it was Dave Grohl casually asking him if he knew any good drummers. Six in the morning. Who the fuck was even up at six in the fucking morning? Crazy people, that’s who. Logically, that made Dave a crazy person. And Taylor had been even crazier to suggest himself. It was a long story, honestly. Yes, the audition had been brief enough to exclude a full taste of the drummer’s, um, exuberant personality and maybe Pat had quit because of him and maybe the two remaining members could often be found sitting on the floor rubbing their foreheads. Mendel should have been in Rush. Rush read on tour and shit. Rush wouldn’t have hated Taylor this much, though. At least Taylor hoped not. He hoped Neil Peart would return at least a quarter of the love the blond fanboy had for him. This is going off on a tangent. The fact of the matter was that Taylor, after a particularly exhausting afternoon of bouncing off walls and tirelessly making noise, was standing in front of one of his favourite drummers of the moment, known for hating his last one so much he secretly re-recorded all the drum tracks in his place. And he wanted to go somewhere to have a ‘serious talk’. Fuck. Time to put on his renowned Innocent Face™.
