Copyright © 2018 by Thomas O’Keefe with Joe Oestreich All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018. Skyhorse Publishing books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or [email protected]. Skyhorse® and Skyhorse Publishing® are registered trademarks of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation. Visit our website at www.skyhorsepublishing.com. 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file. Cover design by Rain Saukas Cover photo credit: Thomas O’Keefe Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-2493-8 Ebook ISBN: 978-1-51072494-5 Printed in the United States of America For Stephanie and Sophie Table of Contents Prologue Part 1: The Sheriff of Whiskeytown (Spring 1997–Fall 1997) Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Part 2: I Played in Whiskeytown and All I Got Was This Lousy Goddamn T-shirt! (Fall 1997–Spring 1998) Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Part 3: Yesterday’s News (Summer 1998–Spring 2000) Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Epilogue Acknowledgments Notes Photos P ROLOGUE S , W . F 1998 EATTLE ASHINGTON EBRUARY A gaggle of cops stood on the sidewalk in front of the hotel, blocking the door to the bus. I flashed my laminate, told them I was the tour manager, and climbed aboard. It was 4:00 a.m., and the front lounge was packed: the whole band, a few EMTs, another cop or two. And there was Ryan Adams, passed out on the couch, being attended to by one of the technicians. The EMT bent over Ryan and slapped a blood pressure cuff on him. This woke him up a bit, and he seemed to almost register what was happening. He opened one eye, glanced at the tech and the pressure cuff, and said, “Get the fuck off of my bus.” “Ryan, don’t talk to these guys like that,” said Caitlin Cary, the fiddle player. “They’re trying to help you.” Ryan’s head wobbled like a newborn baby’s, as if his neck were barely strong enough to carry the weight of everything rolling around up there. “Get the fuck off of my bus,” he spat out a second time. The technician spent a few minutes checking Ryan’s vitals, and Ryan giggled and babbled and insisted that the authorities get the fuck off his bus. Meanwhile, the rest of us told the EMTs what little we knew about the combination of intoxicants Ryan might have taken. Tomorrow we were playing Vancouver, and because we would soon meet the Canadian drug dogs at the border crossing, we had already cleaned the bus of illegal substances. Tonight’s show had ended just five hours earlier, but that seemed like a week ago. As the technician unfastened the pressure cuff, he said to us, “He’s coming out of it. The worst is over.” Then he turned back to Ryan and said, “Before we go, I gotta ask you a few questions.” “That’s cool,” Ryan said. “Ryan, what city are you in right now?” “Seattle,” he said, slurring the t’s right out of the word. “And where are you from?” “North Carolina.” “Good. Now can you tell me what day of the week it is?” “Whoa, whoa,” I said. “Hold on a minute. That’s not fair. None of us can answer that. We’re on tour. Every day is Monday, every day is Friday.” I looked at the EMT and shook my head. “Next question.” The tech quizzed him a little longer, and although Ryan could barely get the words out, he’d aced the test so far. “Ryan,” the tech said, “Who’s the president of the United States?” This was the big money question. Final jeopardy. Ryan elbowed himself higher. “It’s Bill Clinton,” he said, “and let me tell you something about Bill Clinton.” The Monica Lewinsky scandal had broken a few months earlier, and back in those days Ryan’s politics leaned toward the right. “He … he … he should be in jail.” The technician started putting his supplies back into his gear box “Well, Ryan,” he said, “at least we agree on one thing.” The EMT and I walked off the bus, and we stood down on the blacktop next to the cops, all of us lit up by the police cruisers and the ambulance. I thanked everybody for their help. “Goddamn, son,” one of cops said. He was an older guy who’d clearly seen his share of criminal mischief in his years on the force. He looked at me and then he turned back toward the bus. “I wouldn’t trade jobs with you for anything.” P ART 1 T S W (S HE HERIFF OF HISKEYTOWN PRING 1997–F 1997) ALL