#2540 - Travis Barker

Train in the daytime, then it’s Joe Rogan at night. All day. We’re up.

Man, it’s good to have you here. And your kid is ridiculously cute. People without children really don’t understand that level of love; it’s a whole different thing.

Thank you, man. He’s the best. We had a few days together in Utah, so now he’s got separation anxiety from me—and honestly, I’ve got it from him too. I’ll take every second I can get with my kids. People who have kids and don’t spend time with them, I just don’t get it.

My documentary came out today. The first version had no ending. Around 2017, I was sober and had survived the crash, but couldn’t walk toward a plane for cameras. I’d take six or seven days by bus to New York, then the Queen Mary Two to England, while my band got there in hours.

After twenty years, I had to look at the monster. My kids linked planes with death because we lost people we loved. I’d proved people wrong after the accident—running again, playing drums again—yet told myself I’d never fly. My wife didn’t tell me until the night before. The flight was beautiful, nothing like the nightmare in my head.

The odds are strange, but trauma doesn’t listen to math. You lost friends, were badly burned, and that impact lives in your head. Getting on a plane publicly gives people dealing with any wreck a reason to keep moving.

Before a trip, I still think, am I gonna make it? My wife sees a cool destination; I’m thinking about the flight until we land. But if my godson and friends could answer me, they wouldn’t want me letting that crash run my life. Meeting another survivor at my premiere was huge. I’d never met somebody who understood that loneliness.

The boat wasn’t peaceful either. We hit thirty-five-foot waves, lost windows, got stuck in our room—no internet, nowhere to go, just the ship slamming in the Atlantic. Still, I ran laps, practiced all day, and saw the Northern Lights. That was beautiful.

Roughly seventy percent of my body was burned. I had about thirty surgeries in six months, and they weren’t sure I’d live or save my foot. I was addicted before the crash, then got pain medication after surgery and woke up screaming, swinging on doctors. When they tapered me off, I never wanted to put anything in my body again.

Talking about the documentary can still gut me. I lost my mom young. But the film finally had an ending: I fly, my kids fly, I’m married, and my relationship with my dad became beautiful. I came from a house without hot running water, so I played drums relentlessly. I want a kid to know you can start with nothing, get knocked down hard, and keep building yourself.

That’s the formula: find something, get obsessed, and love the process. Kids get sold instant results, but art, carpentry, music, fighting—anything difficult—teaches discipline, improvement, and that you’re valuable.

My parents made me earn skateboarding or BMX by drumming for hours. When my mom died, I buried myself in drums: marching band, orchestra, jazz, everything. After the crash, I was outside with scabs all over me playing again. Being good at something gives a kid confidence: fuck you, I know I’m good at this.

Tim Grover’s Relentless is basically my Bible. Some people are wired to win something and immediately ask what’s next. It can make you feel alone, then you find other fucking psychopaths who love their work that much. I love drums, music, being in the studio forever. It makes me feel alive, and I never think I’ve reached my ceiling.

Austin has that energy. People are running, training, doing jiu-jitsu, making comedy, trying to build something. Comics came here when they couldn’t work in Los Angeles; clubs multiplied, and the place started buzzing. Being around people getting after it matters.

I felt it right away. I walked by the water in long cutoff sweats, high socks, regular shoes—looking super Inland Empire—and everybody was still out running. I love that. I saw Jean Jacques Machado, got invited to train, and found his gym on a run. Hungry, inspiring people change everything.

For training, I can’t just get huge. Drumming needs speed, fluidity, endurance. I like sprints, explosive reps, boxing, jump rope, battle ropes, then slower strength work. Heavy weights can make me tight at the kit. I need my body to work for drums, not just look jacked.

Drumming is arm sprinting for a long time. You want a welterweight boxer’s build: lean, wiry, strong, with insane endurance. Jiu-jitsu is great too, as long as you avoid wild partners. Injury risk goes way up when some young, jacked blue belt is spazzing out.

A guy called light sparring on tour and threw a spinning backfist forty-five minutes before my show. Bro, chill—I’ve got a set to play. But training clears my mind and humbles me. Dom Cruz had me try to catch him, and I was swinging at air while he held me wherever he wanted.

That’s why I’m happy drums don’t hit back. Fighters prepare for twenty years to get locked in a cage, then one day it’s over. Before I play, I’m the same with preparation: running, jump-roping, practicing, watching fights. Stay ready so you don’t have to get ready.

I’m vegan because it works for me, not because everybody needs to live my way. After the hospital, I cut out animal products and felt great. My family eats differently, and that’s fine. I don’t care who you vote for, what you eat, who you love. Are you a good person? That’s what matters.

People use politics, religion, diet—anything—as permission to be assholes. Social media amplifies the loud, miserable people. You don’t persuade anybody by insulting them. Talk like a human being and see whether there’s common ground.

People say marrying Kourtney made me different, and I’m like, that’s the most punk thing I could do. She’s my wife, my soulmate. I still wear my Dickies, band shoes, and tattoos. Punk is being yourself without hurting anybody.

Brother, it’s been great seeing you. The documentary is out now on Hulu.

When I look back at the crash, the flashbacks are still heavy. But my mom’s last message was to play drums. I had to decide who I’d become after all of it. Knowing how close I came to not being here, I can’t explain how much I appreciate life.