The Immersion Library

To me, that is beauty. Not the gleam of prefabricated perfection, but the road-worn beauty of individuality, time, and wisdom.

Forget that you revere Dave Grohl. Forget that you can sing “Everlong” word for word. Forget that mental image of a stringy-haired animal behind Nirvana’s drum kit.

You’re walking down the street – perhaps heading home from work, perhaps meeting friends at a restaurant – and you meet this hippy freak with a massive smile wearing understated flannel and black jeans. You say “Hello”. His smile somehow grows with the brightness of his eyes and he reaches out to shake your hand. Charisma compels you to accept and you embrace like long-lost friends.

And he begins to tell you stories.

This memoir of lyrical prose and endearing sentiment, seeping with broken humanity rather than polished iconicism, immediately connects the reader with themes and characteristics shared by all people. It beckons the reader to sit on the rug, cross one’s legs and listen to the day’s storyteller. It does not simply chronical events of a guy idolized and glorified by the media – cheaply thrilling us with the prospect of his own words. It clicks colorful toy building blocks together with every choice episode and the result is a man – not a movie, not only a story, not only a memoir – a person. Honest and endearing with only the faintest line segregating immaturity and maturity, the reader envies Grohl’s courage to embrace himself, never forsaking it for the smart industry move to achieve rock-stardom. He grips the reader not with his accolades and accomplishments but with his passion and soul.

Yes, I love the Foo Fighters. But to me, Grohl represents the type of success story born not from a corporate sensibility to “make it” in the music business; but from a simple conviction and belief in joy, a yearning to grow, and the courage and perseverance to be himself even in the face of adversity.

For Dave Grohl, that courage and perseverance paid off. But that’s not the point. Take away the financial success and that four-eyed, stringy-haired hippy in the flannel shirt you met on the street would still be enthralled with life because of his stories and relationships, grateful for his survival and chance to live his dream. And we can all live our dreams. If we, too, store up stories and relationships born from daring to dream, I bet we would all write one hell of a memoir too.