The Dirty Mind and Lonely Heart of John Mayer
Later on, in a restaurant or club, he will have to take a leak and head straight for a stall. (“I’ve got to go to the stall. I can’t get a good flow going when I’m out in the world. But then, of course, you run the risk of people thinking you shit all the time.” He endures.) In the evening, he favors single-malt Lagavulin scotch (and drinks about a bottle of it a week), but only in L.A. In New York, where he owns a home, he doesn’t drink that much. It has to do with the hangover. “On the West Coast in the morning, it’s like Bob Dylan with a coffee; on the East Coast, it’s socialites getting penicillin shots,” he says obliquely. “I can’t drink in New York.”
Along the way, he tries to explain himself and his various predilections. His love of poop Twitters, for instance. “I mean, in the wake of some completely fabricated story in Star, you’d be surprised what a good poop joke can do for you. When I send a poop joke out on Twitter, every single time, people write back, ‘LOL, that’s why I love you. You’re not like every other bullshit celebrity.’ It shows an artist detaching from the matrix of trying to micromanage perfection. It’s about not caring. So, it’s not really about poop at all.”
This is pure Mayer talk. Nothing is what it seems. He operates in layers of meaning, where a poop joke is so much more than a poop joke. “He’s a student of cause and effect,” says Chad Franscoviak, Mayer’s sound engineer and sometime roommate for the past 10 years. “And he’d be a phenomenal chess player, because he knows all the moves so many steps ahead. That’s just how he operates.”
“I am the new generation of masturbator,” Mayer says later on, out of the blue, apropos of nothing, really. “I’ve seen it all. Before I make coffee, I’ve seen more butt holes than a proctologist does in a week.”
Does this new generation of masturbator masturbate every day?
“I don’t like that question, because it seeks to make me sound strange if I say ‘yes,’ but of course I do. I mean, I have masturbated myself out of serious problems in my life. The phone doesn’t pick up because I’m masturbating. And I have excused myself at the oddest times so as to not make mistakes. If Tiger Woods only knew when to jerk off. It has a true market value, like gold bullion. First of all, I don’t jerk off because I’m horny. I’m sort of half-chick. It’s like District 9. I can fire alien weapons. I can insert a tampon. No, I do it because I want to take a brain bath. It’s like a hot whirlpool for my brain, in a brain space that is 100 percent agreeable with itself.”
After that, he continues in like manner, revealing another one of his situations. He’s in love with the sound of his own voice, always saying things like, “Let me break it down for you,” and then laying into it with revelatory verbal fireworks of the kind that constantly threaten to blow him to smithereens. He can’t help himself, he’s got to say what’s on his mind, despite the consequences, which often get played out in the tabloids and on trash TV, such as the time during a stand-up-comedy gig when he said he never got to have sex with early girlfriend Jennifer Love Hewitt because of a bout of food poisoning.
“I sometimes wonder what the fuck I’m doing,” he says. “I have these accidents, these mistakes, these self-inflicted wounds, and then I tear my head to shreds about it for days. I’ll read a little something and die a thousand times in my own mind, visualizing the death of my career or respect for me and my music. I almost go blind. But then two weeks ago, it occurred to me, ‘John’ – if I can use my own name with myself – ‘The only reason you’re going through these trials is because you’re brave enough to say, “I don’t want to detach. I don’t want to go live in a gated community.”‘ So, I will continue to make these worldwide dignity mistakes as often as it takes to not make them anymore.”
How Mayer got to be like this is kind of a mystery. He grew up in the leafy Connecticut town of Fairfield, the middle son of level-headed professional educators. His mom, Margaret, was an English teacher; his dad, Richard, some 20 years his mom’s senior, was a high school principal, and Mayer wasn’t anything like them. A class clown in his early years, Mayer had taken up the guitar by his midteens and had begun shutting himself off in his room to the exclusion of everything else. It’s all he did and all he wanted to do – “kill it, kill it, kill it,” with that guitar. He plastered his room with posters of Stevie Ray Vaughan, B.B. King, Jimi Hendrix. While the other kids were listening to Nirvana, Mayer was deep into reading the Buddy Guy biography Damn Right, I’ve Got the Blues and cutting out the photos when he was done.
“He kept to himself quite a bit back then, and he was pretty quiet in school but hilarious once we got outside,” says Fairfield-raised tennis pro James Blake, who’s known Mayer since they were seven. “He seemed pretty disinterested in what was going on in school.”
For several years, Mayer took guitar lessons from Al Ferrante, owner of the Fairfield Guitar Center. “He came in holding a Stevie Ray Vaughan album, said, ‘I want to learn this stuff,’ and in short order he was wailing away,” says Ferrante, “way beyond anybody else.” To his friends, Mayer’s talent was obvious. “He could play the guitar and drum at the same time,” recalls Joe Beleznay, who played rhythm guitar in Mayer’s high school band, Villanova Junction (named after the Hendrix song). “He’d sit behind the drum set, get the bass drum going, then on the down strum of his guitar he’d hit the snare. It was crazy, inventive shit. He just had it.” Says Blake, “With girls, I wouldn’t say he had the same kind of success he’s had now, but he didn’t put in the same kind of effort. His focus was on that guitar.” At some point, however, this single-minded devotion to music so freaked his parents out that they sent him to shrinks to see if something was wrong (he was given a clean bill of health). Meanwhile, the kid had his own worries. For one, his parents fought a lot, which he says led him to “disappear and create my own world I could believe in.” Also, he’d begun to suffer from anxiety attacks and feared ending up in a mental institution. “Growing up,” Mayer says, “that was the big fear.” Says his pal Beleznay, “I would get anxiety attacks too, and we would talk each other down. It was heart palpitations, shortness of breath, coldness and shivers, strange stuff, and we’d be like, ‘You’re totally fine. You’re not having a heart attack.’ His mind works at such speed that I think he would sort of second-guess his sanity at times.”
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