An Open Letter To Zack De La Rocha

Zack De La Rocha
Los Angeles, CA
USA

Dear Zack-

Hi. You don't know me, but I'm a big fan. I mean, I don't technically know you, but we've met. I'll forgive you if you've forgotten, but for a minute there, I think we were actually kinda tight. Not like boys or anything, but we were solid for a good, oh I don't know...4 1/2 minutes or so? It was 1997, so it's totally cool with me if you don't remember. Let me refresh your memory. 

I used to work at the Valley River Inn, in beautiful Eugene, Oregon. On May 6, 1997 you and the other fellas in Rage Against The Machine played Autzen Stadium, opening up for U2, and you all stayed at our hotel. Man, was it exciting. I mean, at the time I worked in room service, so that means that if you guys were gonna eat, then unless you were going out, I was the guy that was gonna bring it to you. It was an inevitability that you were going to order dinner at some point in the day, so obviously, this made me popular with an awful lot of people, but not for the right reasons. It wasn't because they were excited about you guys. Everybody was bugging me to ask you if U2 was going to be staying in the hotel.

SERIOUSLY? FUCKING U2?

fucking U2.

It's not that I didn't necessarily dislike U2 at the time (that came later...) but it didn't seem to me like you guys were getting much respect here. U2 writes pop songs, but you guys wrote fucking FIGHT SONGS. I mean, as a 23 year old alcohol-feuled college student with a fiery social conscience and an appetite for confrontation, "Killing In The Name Of" was pretty much all I needed to get fired up about something. I mean, if I didn't keep my shit in check, I could easily try to punch my fist through concrete while listening to that song. I broke SO MUCH SHIT listening to Rage Against The Machine. I mean, seriously. I punched holes in walls, man. I smashed lamps on the floor. I was like a raging gorilla on a 3 week dose of Adderall. 

I really loved you guys, which is why I was really excited when my room service phone rang and I saw "DE LA ROCHA" on the caller ID. 

You ordered crab chowder (our specialty) and chicken strips. I made sure that I prepped them myself. I mean, I'd served celebrities before. We're talking Carl Lewis. Dan Fouts. Maya Angelou (she was a badass, but I'm being serious here when I say that she really likes Johnny Walker black. That beautiful slur that she has in her vocal inflections? Multiply that by a gazillion. I tell you this, man. A drunk Maya Angelou will charm the SHIT out of you.) Oh, and Nicole Kidman. Forgot about her.

Regardless, I was getting a little nervous. I was, and am, a big fan.

So yeah, I took you your grub, tried to put on my best casual "bro" persona, and struck up a little conversation. It was brief. Something like, "Nice to have you here. If I could just get your signature right here, blah blah blah." And then I managed to slip it in. "Hey, uh, I really don't give a shit, but everyone else in the kitchen is really hoping you can give us some insider dish on whether or not U2 is going to be staying here too." 

Your response was frighteningly blunt. "I have no idea, man. Probably not. When you've got your own fucking LEER JET, you pretty much don't bother with hotels."

I'm guessing they need all those extra seats for...Oh never mind. 

This was awesome. You weren't even toeing the line, here. Classic De La Rocha, man. Fuck the man. Fuck Bono, and his douchy private jet. Here you were opening for these guys and you still don't mind flashing a little "I could give two shits" when asked for a little insider fan info. I dig that.

So fast forward to the next day, and I'm still a little bit high from my flash with infamy, and yeah, I'm still 23 years old, so I still have a hard time holding myself together when it comes to exciting stuff like this. And I did something that I'm still, to this day, not very proud of.

I called in to a radio show.

There was this DJ in Eugene at the time named Marconi and he had the morning slot on the local "Alternative" format station. And yeah, I called in and told him that I got to meet you and told him the story, and all that stuff. He even put me on the air and we made up this fake routine about how I told you to sign your check and you jumped up and started yelling "FUCK YOU I WON'T DO WHAT YOU TELL ME!" over and over again. It was hilarious. Then, off the air, I gave the guy your room number.

I know, I know. The moment it came out of my mouth, I knew it was a bad idea. Classless. Disrespectful. Just overall dodgy. It was one of the suckiest things I've ever done, because then Marconi started calling your room and leaving long-winded and half-funny messages on your room's voicemail, and he did it all on the air. Thank God you didn't answer. Ugh. It would've been awful. 

But for what it's worth, and if it makes you feel any better, his radio career ended pretty badly. In hindsight, you really dodged a bullet by not having to talk to the guy. 

So this brings us to the point of my letter.

I want to make it up to you, Zack. 

That was a shitty thing that I did back then. Just shitty. I've lived with that guilt for a long long time and I want to try and make it right. And I'm going to start by sending you an invitation to what is most definitely going to be the party of the decade. Because next year I'm turning 40, and I really need to have you there to help me ring it in. 

If you agree to come to my party, I can make several guarantees:

1) Marconi will not be there. 

2) I will make you (another) awesome meal. You'll eat well, Zack. And since I know that you probably aren't vegan or anything (unless nobody has told you that crab chowder has both animal and dairy products in it, not to mention the chicken strips...), I'm telling you right now that there's going to be some good shit going down. 

3) Anybody who walks up to you and starts yelling RATM lyrics in your face will get seriously cross-checked by yours truly. You need backup? I'm your backup. As far as this goes, I definitely owe you.There will be no "Hey, do a song, Zack!" heckling from the crowd. (Although it just occurred to me that that would be a funny scene if you imagine the whole "Oh, a song? Well, if you insist..." kind of scripted Elvis-like movie moment, except then you bust into "Down Rodeo" I could dig that. But don't worry. As much as I'd love that, I won't let it happen)

4) Jerry Brown is going to be there.

Hope to see you there, man. It'll be fun. The party is on August 24, 2013, and my address is <REDACTED> Sacramento, CA, 95831. If you need directions, call me at (916) 290-XXXX. If you could call ahead when you're on your way, I'd appreciate it. We might need more ice.

Most Sincerely Yours,


Pete Barker

PS-Of course, if you get a hold of Tom Morello, he's invited too. He'll remember me. I'm the guy that delivered a quart of cranberry juice to his room. Tell him I said "what's up?" (Also, when you say "What's up?" Make sure you do that cool head nod, head-cocked, squinty eye wink thing that cool guys do when they're bros and they're saying hi to each other.)