The bullet is still there in Cris Kirkwood's back, a permanent reminder of how bad it got for him. He was outside a post office in Phoenix...
WEST HOLLYWOOD, Calif. — The bullet is still there in Cris Kirkwood’s back, a permanent reminder of how bad it got for him.
He was outside a post office in Phoenix that day in 2003 when he exchanged words with a woman who complained about his parking. Then he got into it with a security guard who intervened. Kirkwood, who weighed more than 300 pounds and was in the grip of severe heroin addiction, grabbed the guard’s baton and hit him with it. As the struggle continued, the guard drew his gun and fired.
Kirkwood says he surprised the doctors by suffering no motor damage in his lower extremities, and he went to prison for 18 months for the assault.
That was bad, but the real low point had come five years earlier, when his wife, Michelle Tardif, died in their bedroom from a drug overdose. In comparison, Kirkwood’s arrests, the broken relationships, the physical damage and his fall from the pinnacle of indie-rock prominence as a member of the Meat Puppets didn’t seem like so much. Not that it sobered him up.
Most Read Entertainment Stories
- An ice skating trail in Safeco Field? Yep — it's coming this winter
- No rope. No gear. 3,000 feet of granite. One man's amazing feat up El Capitan. WATCH
- 'Halloween': 'Pure evil' is back in wickedly smart, effective sequel WATCH
- Remember cellist Sheku Kanneh-Mason from the royal wedding? He's playing with Seattle Symphony this week
- 'Come From Away' at 5th Avenue Theatre is openhearted and exhilarating
Even by the standards of rock-lifestyle excess, Kirkwood’s story, which was detailed in a 1998 Phoenix New Times article by David Holthouse, ranks as extreme. Instead of the co-pilot of one of alternative rock’s most admired and influential bands, he became known mainly as one of its most notorious casualties.
His brother Curt, the Meat Puppets’ singer and guitarist, certainly didn’t hold out much hope.
“No, no, none. I completely [wrote] him off years ago. A junkie, you don’t deal with them at all, it doesn’t do you or them any good. … You write them off as dead.”
Cris shows a faint smile as he listens calmly to his brother’s harsh evaluation. The band is on tour now, having made a stop at the Crocodile in mid-May. The brothers hope to reconstitute the old Meat Puppets magic for a crowd of fans who thought they never would have this chance again.
“I don’t know about reclaiming anything, but definitely to be able to just do this again, it’s a … riot,” says Cris Kirkwood, who began willing himself back toward a functional life after leaving federal prison in Phoenix in mid-2005 and is now a Meat Puppet once again.
“Me and him together have a weird thing — it’s a really neat thing,” Cris adds, looking at Curt. “There’s a certain place you can get to. It was a thing that happened live a lot. Like the audience and some weird energy would get going and suddenly you’d get to this trippy place that I really dug.”
The prodigal bassist’s return has reanimated one of rock’s most colorful entities, a freewheeling outfit with a wild-eyed vision and a disregard for musical borders. Starting in 1980, the Kirkwoods and drummer Derrick Bostrom made music that evolved from punk to Grateful Dead-like folk-country.
With their desert origins, surreal imagery and exploratory impulse, they were invariably tagged as pioneers of post-punk psychedelia, and their mind-bending ways have been adopted and absorbed into the fiber of rock.
You can hear their influence in such artists as the Pixies, Beck and Queens of the Stone Age, but the Meat Puppets’ most notable fan and patron back then was Kurt Cobain, who performed the Meat Puppets songs “Plateau,” “Oh Me” and “Lake of Fire,” with backing from the Kirkwoods, on Nirvana’s 1994 “MTV Unplugged” album and telecast.
Cris Kirkwood is 46, but from his lined and weathered face you would guess a decade older. But he’s down to 175 pounds, and he has some teeth now to replace his addiction-destroyed originals.
He’s clear-eyed and present, without any of the robotic remoteness that often accompanies recovery. He says he’s not hesitant to answer questions about his difficult times — “I figured they would have to come up a lot,” he says — and at the end of the interview he asks, with disarming sincerity, “How did I do?”
The musician credits his return to his prison stretch, which was long enough to let him break his physical addiction, and strong support from his girlfriend, bassist Ruth Wilson, and her parents.
“That amount of time away without that kind of self-medication to deal with my emotional problems allowed me to focus on that and in some ways come to terms with my emotional wounds,” he says. “I just never managed to deal with the pain that was causing me to continue to use. Which was just the emotional pain of having done that to myself. I’d dope and maybe ruin my life to a degree, then I needed dope to deal with the amount of damage I’d done to myself.”
When he felt strong enough, Cris made contact with Curt’s son Elmo, who’s 23 and opening the Meat Puppets’ shows with his band, Kirkwood-Dellinger. When Curt got word that his brother seemed to be back, he took what he calls a leap of faith.
“I just went, ‘OK, you’re rehabilitated. Let’s bury the hatchet totally.’ … As good as I am at burning bridges, I’m as good at burying hatchets, and I don’t hold grudges, so I was just like, ‘Let’s move on. The past is dead.’ “
During Cris’ absence, Curt had meandered, physically and musically. He spent a couple years in the Los Angeles area and now lives in Austin, Texas. He made a Meat Puppets album with other musicians, formed a short-lived group called Eyes Adrift with Nirvana’s Krist Novoselic and Sublime’s Bud Gaugh, and toured on his own, releasing a solo album, “Snow,” in 2005.
With Cris back, it didn’t take long for the brothers to jump-start the Meat Puppets. Ted Marcus was brought in on drums to replace the retired Bostrom, but it was the brother act that made it go.
Their album, “Rise to Your Knees,” came out last month on the small Anodyne label.
“That’s something that you can’t really think about, we can’t practice it,” Curt says. “What actually happens is more like that kind of chemistry.”