The Rolling Stone interviews - Jann Wenner [116]
I got to know another side of him in the last few years. I saw that he was funkier, that he had a darker side that made the other side work. He was much older than me; he died at eighty-one. Up until four or five years ago, I kept distance out of respect. Then we made a connection. It’s a wonderful feeling when your father becomes not a god but a man to you—when he comes down from the mountain and you see he’s this man with weaknesses. And you live him as a whole being, not a figurehead.
Were you with him when he died?
I was here in San Francisco, and he died at home, out in Tiburon [a nearby suburb]. So I was close. He’d had operations and chemotherapy. It’s weird. Everyone always thinks of their dad as invincible, and in the end, here’s this little, tiny creature, almost all bone. You have to say goodbye to him as this very frail being.
At least he was home and died very peacefully in his sleep. My mother thought he was still asleep. She came downstairs and kept trying to shake him. She called me that morning and said [calmly and evenly], “Robin, your father’s dead.” She was a little in shock, but she sounded happy in a certain way, if only because he went without pain.
Is it true that you scattered his ashes?
[Chuckles] Yeah, it was amazing. It was sad but also cathartic and wonderful in the sense that it brought my two half brothers and me together. It kind of melded us closer as a family than we’ve ever been before. We’ve always been very separate.
That day we gathered right on the sea in front of where my parents live. It was funny. At one point I had poured the ashes out, and they’re floating off into this mist, seagulls flying overhead. A truly serene moment. Then I looked into the urn and said to my brother, “There’s still some ashes left, Todd. What do I do?” He said, “It’s Dad—he’s holding on!” I thought, “Yeah, you’re right, he’s hanging on.” He was an amazing man who had the courage not to impose limitations upon his sons, to literally say, “I see you have something you want to do—do it.”
What has fatherhood taught you about yourself?
That most of your actions have consequences with the child. And I’ve learned to have the security not to worry that he will love me—as long as I keep the connection strong enough. I’ve learned not to try to force the love. You can’t. All you can do is try to set up a world for him that’s safe and stable enough to make him happy. I want to protect him and shield him from public sight. I want him to have his own life.
Do you find yourself performing for him?
Yeah, and sometimes he’ll love it. I did a Señor Wences thing for him. I dressed my fist in a napkin and was Mother Teresa. I played her drunk and made her drink water, which I’d spill down my arm. He liked that.
The hard part is when you really have to back off and provide him with the time to play alone. Children are a drug. I used to say they beat the shit out of cocaine: You’re paranoid, you’re awake, and you smell bad. It’s this constant metamorphosis. This is a precious time. Some of those lines in Garp ring true. I never thought I would literally sit and watch a child sleep. But you can. I never thought that would be real.
You’ve been drug free for how long now?
Five years. Six months before Zach was born I basically stopped everything.
Do you remember the last time you were on the cover of ‘Rolling Stone,’ in 1982?
Wasn’t the basic premise that I’d cleaned up my act?
The headline was “Robin Williams Comes Clean.” Was that honestly the end of the self-abusive chapter in your life?
There was no going back. I realized that the reason I did cocaine was so I wouldn’t have to talk to anybody. Cocaine made me so paranoid: If I was doing this interview on cocaine, I would be looking out the window, thinking that somebody might be crawling up fourteen floors to bust me or kick down the door. Then I wouldn’t have to talk. Some people might have the metabolism where cocaine stimulates them, but I would literally almost get sleepy. For me, it was like a sedative,