#2438 - John Mellencamp

We open on tattoos getting smudgy with age, and me laughing about running a tattoo shop in Indiana in the mid-80s when tattooing was illegal; I brought a guy in from LA, and they shut us down because he was on heroin.

I remember when tattoos were illegal in New York and I had to drive to Connecticut, and back then heroin felt rare compared to the opioid mess now.

First time I saw heroin was at a giant festival in college; we watched a guy shoot up and I told myself, we’re not doing that.

I knew a longshoreman who’d shoot up at lunch and go back to work; a functioning addict, which is wild to think about.

I quit drugs and booze in 1973 after picking a fight in a bar, getting beat senseless, then falling out of a Pinto and waking up unrecognizable; I cut my hair and walked away from all of it at 21.

That sounds like rock bottom; I wouldn’t have pegged you as the guy who spits on someone to start a fight.

Small-town boredom, man—either find a girl or a fight; I did fine with girls, but sometimes the fight found me, and in the end I realized I didn’t even like drinking that much.

Your songs were my first taste of nostalgia and how messy adolescence can feel; those lyrics made me wonder if the chaos might be the best of times even when it doesn’t feel like it.

I had big hits and still felt empty, then I got older and accepted that this might be it, so I focused on humility and doing the work well.

What didn’t you like about being a massive rock star in the MTV era when everything got ultra-visual?

Before MTV you knew bands from album covers and late-night shows, then the screen came into every living room and changed how we were seen overnight; I think my unhappiness back then was mostly age and brain chemistry, and I eventually snapped out of it.

You’ve got that snap-out-of-it gear—quit substances, quit feeling sorry for yourself.

I’m absurdly lucky; I was born with spina bifida and a young neurosurgeon did an experimental operation for a dollar, and I was the only kid who made it, which set the tone for my whole life.

What did they do in that surgery?

They opened my head and neck to push nerves back into the spine and drain fluid; my parents were told I probably wouldn’t live past infancy, and I didn’t even know about the scar until a classmate pointed it out years later.

When did panic show up?

After college I got agoraphobia so bad I couldn’t leave the house for a year and a half; I’d married young and had kids, then a record deal forced me back outside.

I’ve had full-on panic attacks in front of twenty thousand people, planting my feet to power through; decades later I had a real heart attack on stage at 42, which pushed me to stay home with my little boys and actually enjoy family life.

That’s a blessing in disguise; luck can be choosing to see yourself as lucky.

I once wrote, what you believe about yourself tends to come true; I ignored sky-high cholesterol because I felt fine and didn’t want meds, but heart disease runs in my family and I learned the hard way.

Cholesterol debates aside, some folks swear natto kinase can shrink plaque; it’s wild how much we’re just trying to undo what processed food does to people.

A top doc told me he’d put the whole country on metformin and a statin because we eat junk; my mom had diabetes and would still crush hot donuts—food addiction is brutal.

American food rules are lax compared to parts of Europe; I’ve seen videos of fast food that barely rots and ice cream sandwiches that don’t melt, which is terrifying.

That’s why I avoid politics and media hysteria; I grew up a hippie suspicious of power, even asked my dad about the Kennedy assassination and he just gave me a look that said, figure it out.

Trust has cratered and polarization’s intense; when I was a kid, people disagreed but didn’t hate each other like now.

Voting used to be private and that’s how I see it; if you’re doing good and not hurting anyone I’m for you, but I still want integrity, and folks forget the 60s had nukes in Cuba and kids shot on campuses.

World War II felt righteous, then Vietnam broke that spell; what about the Civil War?

I think it was really about ports and money, with slavery used to get the public onboard, and I even believed Lincoln kept slaves; that’s how it’s told where I live.

Most historians say Lincoln didn’t own slaves, but it’s wild how close that era is—only a couple of long lifetimes back.

Time bends—when I was a kid, World War II seemed ancient even though it had just ended; to kids now, the 80s are the Stone Age with tube TVs and no internet.

We were the remote with pliers and channels; HBO changed everything with uncensored stand-up like Sam Kinison.

Sam was unpredictable as they come; growing up we roamed the town until dark and parents yelled out windows, then I started bands around eleven and was playing bars at fourteen, singing soul tunes with a friend and making more money and trouble than a kid should.

Did you picture a music career or just have fun?

I figured I’d be a singer, football player, or boxer; I loved contact sports and my son actually wound up a two-time national Golden Gloves champ who also played football at Duke.

When did the music really start taking off?

I was a bar singer in The Mason Brothers until a riverboat gig went sideways—time zone screwup, drunk bassist casting a line mid-set, then a replacement band of kids who couldn’t play, so I walked; I flew to New York terrified, holed up in a hotel, but kept pushing.

Cities have changed; Austin’s managed homelessness better than LA’s Skid Row, which can stretch for dozens of blocks.

In small towns, vagrancy laws kept streets tight, but big cities let it sprawl; the 70s New York I first saw was rough enough I wouldn’t leave my room at first.

So when did the breaks come?

I got signed and dropped for mouthing off, moved to England with a manager connected to the big names, watched punk explode, then had my first real spark when a singer covered I Need a Lover, which popped in Australia before America cared.

Who stuck you with Johnny Cougar?

A manager who’d renamed David Jones as David Bowie insisted; I hated it, the critics hated me, and I almost walked, but I swallowed it and kept going until I could be John again.

Did any critics help you?

My friend Tim White at Rolling Stone and Billboard warned me SoundScan would weight big markets heavier, which turbocharged urban radio and changed the charts; add Napster and rock got squeezed.

New rock bands are rare on the charts now.

I left arenas for theaters so people would actually listen, not just party; I’m half-deaf from years of volume, have three girls and two boys, and one daughter’s battling brain cancer, which puts everything in perspective.

Kids made me nicer; comics today still push lines, but we try to ignore the outrage and focus on the room.

I’ve never Googled myself and don’t plan to.

Back to MTV—how did that break actually happen?

Because I’d done videos in Australia, MTV had content and spun me a lot, and our first big promo was giving away a pink house in Bloomington; the first place they bought sat on a chemical dump, so we made them get another, and after that I couldn’t walk down the street anywhere.

Did all that attention trigger the agoraphobia?

Weirdly, it helped me push through; I’d never even written a song before my first deal, and dyslexia still makes me hand my notebooks to someone to translate.

So how did the writing click?

I kept it simple for radio—Hurts So Good came to me in the shower; down at Criteria in Miami the label threatened to drop me, then hated the three tracks I had, which were Jack and Diane, Hurts So Good, and Hand to Hold On To.

They hated Jack and Diane?

They balked at the timing sound, which I’d borrowed from a drum machine the Bee Gees were testing, and Mick Ronson told me to lean into it; that click held the groove, the song caught fire, and people still carry those characters with them.

Gatekeepers get it wrong all the time; the show I’m doing now only worked because nobody could stop it, and no matter what you make, some folks will even say the Beatles are trash.

I told crowds for years I’m not here to be everything to everyone, so I stopped chasing the hits live; now I’m itching to do a two-and-a-half-hour hits run and flip some, like turning Jack and Diane into a sweaty soul groove that still keeps the chorus everyone sings.

When did you finally drop the Cougar? That whole name shift was confusing back then.

It had to be slow because people took my calls as John Cougar, not as John Mellencamp, so I phased it over time; others tried a hard switch and it didn’t stick.

I didn’t realize how common it was for artists to be pushed into new names.

Old Hollywood was full of made-up names—Rock Hudson wasn’t born Rock Hudson—so I wasn’t surprised, though a guy like Schwarzenegger keeping his own was wild.

He was a strong governor; how long were you John Cougar Mellencamp before you went back?

Scarecrow was the last one under that banner, and it spit out five hits while I was still learning to write in public; MTV’s circus and all the early gatekeeping pushed me to write Pop Singer and get loud about what they wouldn’t play.

SoundScan flipped the board, hip hop surged, and rock got sidelined so hard that legends can drop a record and you barely hear about it.

I saw the Stones a couple years ago and Mick, in his eighties, blasted through a high-energy set—guy trains constantly and it shows.

At Farm Aid I hit Neil’s equipment trailer and spend half the day on that lazy machine; keeps me moving until the night set.

I never imagined any of this lasting, bought a small house and figured two records and done; Springsteen and I still look at each other like, can you believe this life?

Real gratitude matters, not the bumper-sticker kind; we’ve both been crazy lucky.

I tell audiences we’re riding a rock around the sun for a blink, so ease up, show some humility, and quit acting like every slight is the end of the world—politics could use a lot more of that.

My grandma lived to a hundred and told me life is short even in its longest days; I tattooed it, wrote a song, and I still feel it every night.

Does playing feel different now—more appreciation, less angst?

I’d have laughed at a hits tour at thirty-five, but Sean Penn told me to share the best of it, so I’m doing it and I’m fired up.

Two and a half hours of wall-to-wall hits is a rare privilege; almost nobody gets to do that.

I joke that I’m the dad who doesn’t push his kids to work; I love having my son on the property and fatherhood’s one of the best things I ever did.

People say a high-school kid derails you, but it doesn’t have to.

I was a mess at eighteen and learned late; I lost seven close friends in eighteen months to booze, told one buddy with a bad family history to see a doctor and he wouldn’t, and that’s how men die—by avoiding help.

I still smoke and my cardiologist says my heart looks like a teenager’s shape-wise even if my voice is sandpaper; I get the risk, I just haven’t quit.

Is it the American Spirits with fewer additives? A doctor once told me the chemicals are the killer.

There’s a cocktail of stuff in most smokes; partners hate that I light up, but it’s been with me my whole life and I became hooked as a kid.

I’m not pro-smoking, but stress alone can wreck a body; anything that genuinely calms you has real pull.

Cigs pull you out of the moment, and back in the day Johnny Cash tried to hand me a London quit-guy; I learned the hard way by butchering Ring of Fire in the wrong key with legends staring daggers, then flew home puffing after the quit talk.

Ron White quit booze and smokes with a hypnotist and says the cravings just faded.

I knew Paul Newman and he stopped late and didn’t have much time after; life’s strange like that.

He was incredible—The Hustler still floors me.

I became close with Joanne Woodward, took her to plays, and now I bring a guitar and sing when I visit because dementia makes words hard; we met at a John Kerry event and she lit up a room.

It’s rough watching someone fade like that.

Watch The Fugitive Kind with Brando and Joanne—it’s killer; I mostly stick to old black-and-white movies and don’t keep up with new faces.

Fast Times rocked, but studios don’t greenlight that kind of comedy anymore.

Why did people let scolds run the show; it felt like everybody froze instead of saying enough.

There was a wild overcorrection and now no one wants the heat, but stand-up’s thriving—Chappelle’s a giant, Attell’s a killer, and the internet blew the doors open; the trick is ignore the haters and just be funny.

I saw Pryor’s Sunset Strip in Miami and one of my guys tried to strut into an all-Black crowd grabbing himself like a fool; Richard still murdered and rewired my brain.

I saw that as a kid and couldn’t believe one man talking could be that funny—it was a tidal wave of laughter.

Crazy part is that special was take two—he’d tanked trying to do the set backwards, which was the kind of risky creative move he loved.

He hammered those bits at the Comedy Store with Paul Mooney and turned misses into monsters; that club was my church too.

I’m tight with Letterman—baked his birthday cake with his mom on air—and he’s always treated me right; Bloomington to New York and back, it’s been a ride.

This was a blast and a real honor; I’ve been a fan for years.

I’m glad I came, and I hope you catch a show.

I will, even if you don’t know your own website—thanks again, we’ll find it.

And you’re gonna hate those tattoos someday; I still like mine.