In this episode, I'm interviewing David Livingston, Dr. Livingston, the Victorian-era African explorer, medical doctor, and random dude from Scotland who somehow ended up almost discovering the source of the Nile, but not quite.

For this interview, we're sitting outdoors on the African savanna, watching the sun set and sipping on brandy while warming up near a crackling wood fire. For all my life, I've been a huge fan of travel, discovery, and exploration, and this guy, Dr. Livingston, is someone I've heard about many times over the years, but I just can't quite grasp exactly what his legacy was or what drew him to Africa in the first place.

Let's find out together as I talk to the man who was probably the person most famous for what he almost did than what he actually did. Ladies and gentlemen, Dr. David Livingston!

Good evening, my friend. It's a pleasure to sit here with you amidst the splendor of the African savannah.

Ron Stauffer: Well, let's jump right in, as we say in America. Where are you originally from, and how on earth, literally, did you end up all the way across the world in Africa? What brought you here?

I hail from Blantyre, Scotland. My journey to Africa was driven by a desire to explore uncharted territories and to spread the message of Christianity. I was also deeply committed to ending the East African slave trade, and my passion for discovery led me to undertake many expeditions across this vast and beautiful continent.

Ron Stauffer: Okay, why do people call you Dr. Livingston? Were you a medical doctor?

Yes, indeed. I studied medicine in Glasgow and became a qualified physician. My medical knowledge proved invaluable during my travels, allowing me to treat the sick and injured among the local populations and my fellow explorers. This combination of medicine and missionary work earned me the title of doctor.

Ron Stauffer: What kind of doctor were you? Were you any sort of specialist or just kind of a general practice doctor?

I was a general practitioner, skilled in various aspects of medicine. My training covered a broad range of medical knowledge, which enabled me to address a wide variety of ailments and injuries that I encountered during my travels. This generalist approach was crucial in the remote regions of Africa where specialized medical care was not available.

Ron Stauffer: Yeah, that sounds like that’s a very important skill for an explorer. That almost makes me wonder, did you originally intend to be an explorer yourself, or were you intending on becoming a medical doctor who would assist an explorer? You know, were you like the Navy corpsman, for example, in your mind where you would be the medical help that helps the Marines or something like that?

My original intention was to become a missionary, combining my faith with my medical skills to help those in need. The call to explore and discover new lands came as a natural extension of my work. As I ventured into uncharted regions, I realized the importance of exploration in spreading knowledge and understanding. In that sense, I became both an explorer and a healer, driven by my desire to serve humanity in multiple ways.

Ron Stauffer: Why did you specifically choose Africa rather than, say, China or India, for example?

I chose Africa because I felt a strong calling to explore its vast, uncharted regions and to engage with its diverse cultures. At the time, much of the interior of Africa was still unknown to the Western world, and I saw an opportunity to combine exploration with my missionary work. I was driven by a desire to spread Christianity, promote legitimate commerce, and help end the slave trade.

My choice was influenced by my belief that my work could make a meaningful difference in Africa. Additionally, I was inspired by the rich history and natural beauty of the continent, which fueled my passion for exploration and discovery. While other regions, such as China or India, were also of interest. Africa presented unique challenges and opportunities that aligned with my goals and aspirations.

Ron Stauffer: What was the state of medicine when you went to Africa, and how well did your training help you in Scotland? So, for example, you know, sometimes in America we joke about, I went to the Caribbean and I came home with a rare tropical disease, or something like that, right? The point being that other countries or other regions of the world might have sickness that our medicine can't cure or we don't even know what it is. Did that happen often to you, or what level of your Scottish medical training helped you in Africa?

The state of medicine in the mid-19th century was quite different from what we know today. My training in Scotland provided a solid foundation in general medicine, but I quickly realised that the diseases and conditions I encountered in Africa were often unfamiliar and challenging.

Tropical diseases such as malaria, dysentery, and sleeping sickness were common,

and my knowledge of these illnesses grew through experience and collaboration with local healers. My medical training allowed me to treat many conditions, but it was often a combination of Western medicine and local knowledge that proved most effective.

The experience taught me the importance of adaptability and learning from the people I encountered along the way.

Ron Stauffer: Were you primarily responsible for discovering any particular ailments or any particular cures or anything like that?

While I didn't discover specific ailments or cures in the formal sense, my observations and documentation of diseases in Africa contributed to a better understanding of them. For instance, my accounts of Malaria and its symptoms helped to inform future research and treatment. My experiences also highlighted the importance of quinine as a treatment for malaria. In that way, my work helped to bridge the gap between Western medicine and the realities of healthcare in Africa.

Ron Stauffer: I'm still trying to follow your journey. You wanted to be a Christian missionary. So you went to medical school. But the thing that you're most famous for is being an explorer. And I don't just mean an explorer who went once. I think you went many, many times to Africa, right? Into the deepest, darkest, furthest regions that were totally off the map. Am I correct?

Indeed, you are correct. My initial intention was to serve as a missionary and physician, but my passion for exploration grew as I ventured deeper into the continent. I undertook several expeditions, mapping vast regions and discovering geographical features such as the Zambezi River and Victoria Falls, which I named in honour of Queen Victoria.

These journeys were not without hardship, but my dedication to both exploration and the welfare of the people I encountered drove me to continue. My expeditions contributed significantly to the world's understanding of the African interior, and I became known for my efforts to combine exploration with humanitarian work.

Ron Stauffer: Who sent you? Did you primarily fund your own trip, or were you sent by a missionary society, a church, or a denomination?

I was initially sent by the London Missionary Society, which supported my early expeditions and missionary work in Southern Africa. Over time, my explorations took on a more independent nature, and I relied on a combination of funding from the Society, private sponsors, and my own resources. My determination to explore and document the African continent often required resourcefulness and adaptability in securing the necessary means to continue my work.

Ron Stauffer: At the time, wasn’t Africa mostly or mainly colonized by Britain? So would you have considered Africa a natural extension of Great Britain, or would it have been considered visiting another country?

At the time of my explorations, much of Africa was not yet colonized by European powers. My journeys took me through regions that were largely uncharted and inhabited by diverse indigenous peoples. While there were British colonies in some parts of Africa, the interior remained largely unknown to Europeans. Therefore, my expeditions were considered voyages into unknown territories rather than extensions of British dominion. My goal was to explore, map, and understand these regions and to bring attention to the rich cultures and natural beauty of Africa.

Ron Stauffer: How many total trips did you take from the mainland, as it were, to the African continent?

I made several journeys to Africa over the course of my life. My major expeditions included my early mission to southern Africa in the 1840s, my exploration of the Zambezi River and its tributaries in the 1850s, and my later expeditions in the 1860s and 1870s to find the source of the Nile.

Each expedition involved multiple trips back and forth between Africa and Europe, and my work in Africa spanned more than three decades. These journeys established me as one of the foremost explorers of my time. They contributed greatly to the world's understanding of the African continent.

Ron Stauffer: Okay, you said the London Missionary Society, right? What was your goal there? Was it to translate the Bible into African languages or just evangelize and create converts or to establish churches? Like, were you sent there with a particular goal in mind as a missionary?

My primary goal with the London Missionary Society was to spread Christianity and establish churches among the local populations. This involved evangelizing and creating converts, as well as working to translate the Bible into local languages.

My mission was also to improve the welfare of the people I encountered by providing medical care and advocating for an end to the East African slave trade. Over time, my role evolved to include exploration and mapping of uncharted regions, but my core mission remained rooted in faith, service, and humanitarian work.

Ron Stauffer: What denomination is, or was rather, the London Missionary Society? Was it a Church of England or some other denomination?

The London Missionary Society was an interdenominational Protestant organization not affiliated with any specific denomination, such as the Church of England. It was founded in 1795 with the aim of spreading Christianity and supporting missionary work around the world. The Society drew support from various Protestant denominations, and its missionaries came from diverse backgrounds, united by their shared commitment to their faith and humanitarian goals.

Ron Stauffer: That's very interesting. At the time, and maybe this changed a lot, I’m imagining the African continent in the 1840s, 50s, 60s, and 70s. So I'm sure there was quite a lot of political realignment and borders drawn. But at the time, at least in the very beginning, how many total countries did you visit?

During my explorations in the 19th century, the concept of modern nation states as we know them today did not fully apply to much of Africa. The regions I explored were often inhabited by various indigenous groups and organized into traditional kingdoms or chiefdoms.

My travels took me through areas that now form parts of modern countries such as Botswana, Zambia, Zimbabwe, Malawi, Tanzania, and the Democratic Republic of the Congo. My work helped to map these regions and brought them to the attention of the wider world, contributing to the understanding of Africa's diverse cultures and geography.

Ron Stauffer: Multiple part questions here. How many total languages did you encounter, if you even counted them all, and how were you able to communicate with these people? Because I would imagine you only spoke English, right?

During my travels, I encountered a great diversity of languages spoken by the various indigenous groups across Africa. The exact number of languages was difficult to count, as many regions had their own distinct dialects and languages. Communication was often a challenge, but I relied on interpreters and guides who were familiar with the local languages. In some cases, I learned basic phrases and relied on nonverbal communication to build trust and understanding.

Over time, I developed a deep respect for the rich linguistic and cultural diversity of the people I met. This adaptability and willingness to learn were essential to my work as both an explorer and a missionary.

Ron Stauffer: How do you do that? Do you just literally walk into a village and start waving your hand around and say, hey, does anybody here speak English?

In many cases, my approach was more measured and respectful. When entering a village, I would seek out the local leaders or chiefs and communicate my intentions through interpreters or guides. Establishing trust and showing respect for local customs was crucial. Often, I would spend time learning about their culture and sharing my own background. This mutual exchange helped to create a foundation for communication and understanding.

Over time, I became more familiar with some local languages and customs, which made future interactions smoother. This respectful approach was essential in building relationships and ensuring the success of my mission.

Ron Stauffer: Did you end up learning any of the local languages to the point where you would say you were fluent?

I did learn several local languages during my time in Africa. My ability to communicate in languages such as Setswana and some others greatly facilitated my interactions with local communities. It allowed me to build trust, understand their cultures, and convey my intentions more effectively. Language was a crucial tool in fostering mutual respect and understanding, which was essential for my work as both an explorer and a missionary.

Ron Stauffer: As a missionary, did you oversee the translation of Bibles into the local languages? If so, which ones?

Yes, as a missionary, I did oversee and contribute to the translation of the Bible into local languages. One significant example is the translation of the New Testament into Setswana, the language of the Tswana people in southern Africa. This translation was a collaborative effort, and it was a crucial step in making the scriptures accessible to the local population.

The work required not only linguistic skill but also a deep understanding of the culture and traditions of the people we were serving. Through this work, we aim to spread the message of Christianity in a way that resonated with the local communities. This translation effort was an important part of my mission to bridge cultural gaps and foster understanding.

Ron Stauffer: Sounds like you were a pretty good diplomat, right? Sounds like you were pretty well thought of in terms of you're meeting natives who've never met you before. Maybe some of them have never even met Englishmen before, right? But it seems like you were pretty well-received overall.

Indeed, diplomacy and respect for local customs were crucial to my success. I understood that building trust and showing genuine interest in the people I met was essential. While there were certainly challenges and moments of misunderstanding, my approach of mutual respect and willingness to learn often led to positive relationships.

Many of the people I encountered were curious about my work and open to collaboration. This mutual respect helped me navigate unfamiliar territories and fostered a spirit of cooperation in my explorations and humanitarian work.

Ron Stauffer: As a doctor, how often did you meet, I don't know, which doctors or medicine men or whatever you would have called them at the time, and what did you learn from them, if anything, that might have changed your approach to medicine?

I frequently encountered traditional healers, often referred to as medicine men or witch doctors, in the regions I visited. These individuals possessed a deep understanding of local herbs and remedies, and their knowledge of the natural world was impressive. While our approaches to medicine differed, I learned a great deal from their practices. For instance, I gained insights into the use of certain plants and herbs for treating common ailments. This knowledge sometimes complemented my own medical training, allowing me to provide more effective care.

Additionally, I developed a respect for the cultural significance of traditional healing practices and recognized the importance of integrating local knowledge with Western medicine. This collaborative approach often led to better outcomes for the people I was trying to help.

Ron Stauffer: As you're doing that, as you're getting to know a new community and cultures and language and customs, get very, very specific. Did you break bread with people? Did you hold hands? Just walk me through what it was like establishing a connection with a new community.

Establishing a connection with a new community involved several steps. First, I would approach the village respectfully and seek an audience with the local leaders or chiefs. This initial meeting was crucial for setting the tone of our relationship. I would often present small gifts as a gesture of goodwill, such as beads or cloth.

Next, I would spend time learning about their customs and daily life. Sharing meals was an important part of building trust. I would join the community in their meals, eating their food and participating in their rituals. This act of breaking bread together helped to demonstrate my respect for their culture and fostered a sense of camaraderie.

Additionally, I would participate in local customs, such as greeting rituals or ceremonies. This involvement showed that I was willing to learn and adapt to their way of life. Over time, these efforts helped to build mutual respect and understanding, making it easier to communicate and work together for the benefit of the community.

Ron Stauffer: Are there any major faux pas you committed or big misunderstandings that might have been humorous or just completely ridiculous?

Yes, there were certainly moments of misunderstanding and occasional faux pas. One humorous incident occurred when I attempted to join a traditional dance without fully understanding its significance. My enthusiastic but clumsy attempts to mimic the steps resulted in laughter from the villagers, and I quickly realized that I had unintentionally disrupted an important ritual.

Fortunately, the villagers were understanding and appreciated my willingness to participate, even if my execution was less than perfect. Another time, I mistakenly used a word in a local language that had a completely different meaning than I intended, leading to confusion and some awkwardness.

One memorable incident involved a mix-up with a word that I thought meant friend, but in the local dialect, it had a different connotation. Instead of expressing camaraderie, I inadvertently suggested something humorous about a person's appearance. The villagers found it amusing, and we shared a laugh over the misunderstanding. This experience reinforced the importance of carefully learning local languages and customs to avoid such mix-ups in the future. The villagers appreciated my effort, and it became a light-hearted moment that helped to break the ice and build stronger connections.

Ron Stauffer: What kind of customs did you bring back home with you? I mean, obviously, you learned things that changed you as a person, but did you pick up any unusual habits or fondness for certain cuisines or things like that?

My experiences in Africa profoundly influenced my outlook and habits. I developed a deep appreciation for the simplicity and communal nature of life in many of the villages I visited.

For example, I adopted the practice of sharing meals as a way to foster community and strengthen relationships. The tradition of gathering around a fire to share stories also became a fond memory and something I brought back with me. I also gained a fondness for certain traditional foods, such as dishes made from locally grown grains and vegetables.

These experiences taught me the value of simplicity, hospitality and the importance of maintaining strong social bonds. Overall, my time in Africa left a lasting impression on my approach to life and the way I interacted with people from different cultures.

Ron Stauffer: Okay, so let's talk about the political significance of what you did somewhat. So, were you officially sent by the government of the kingdom of Great Britain? Or were you just a person who happened to be, I know you were Scottish, but a British explorer who visited Africa? Meaning, did people look at your visit as a sort of state visit? Or was it, oh, here's a doctor and a missionary who happens to be coming from the island of Great Britain?

I was not officially sent by the British government. My expeditions were primarily driven by my work with the London Missionary Society and my personal passion for exploration. While I was a British subject, and my work had significant implications for British knowledge of Africa, I was not an official representative of the Crown.

In many of the regions I visited, my arrival was seen as that of an independent explorer and missionary. Local communities often viewed me as a foreigner, but they were usually more interested in my intentions and how I could contribute to their communities. My focus on humanitarian work, medical care, and exploration helped to build relationships and foster understanding.

In short, my work was a personal mission rather than an official state visit, and my interactions were shaped by my roles as a missionary, doctor,r and explorer.

Ron Stauffer: Okay, so you never spoke on behalf of the Crown or anything like that, right?

That's correct. I never spoke on behalf of the Crown or represented the British government in an official capacity. My work was independent and driven by my personal mission and the support of the London Missionary Society. While my explorations and discoveries had significant implications for British knowledge of Africa.

I remained focused on my goals of exploration, humanitarian work, and spreading Christianity. My interactions with local communities were based on mutual respect and understanding rather than any official political role.

Ron Stauffer: But when you got back home, I'm sure you were one of the most popular men in the kingdom, right? I mean, did you have politicians, members of parliament coming up to you afterward immediately saying, let me bend your ear, tell me all about Africa. I want to know more. What can I learn from your exploration that should affect what happens in Westminster, for example?

Upon my return to Britain, I did indeed receive significant attention and interest from politicians, scientists, and the public. My explorations and discoveries contributed to the growing interest in Africa, and many people were eager to learn more about the continent. I was invited to speak at various institutions, including the Royal Geographical Society, where I shared my experiences and findings.

While I was not directly involved in politics, my work influenced discussions about exploration, trade, and humanitarian efforts in Africa. My advocacy for ending the East African slave trade also resonated with many people and contributed to broader conversations about social justice and humanitarian issues. Ultimately, my work helped to raise awareness and foster a greater understanding of Africa, paving the way for future explorers and humanitarian efforts.

Ron Stauffer: How much money did your trips cost, just on average? If you took an expedition in, say, the 1840s to Africa, let's talk scope. First of all, are you going by yourself, or do you have companions? And second of all, the logistics of that must have been gigantic, right? How much did that stuff cost, and who financed it?

My expeditions were indeed complex and required significant logistical planning and resources. Typically, I travelled with a small team of companions, including guides, interpreters, and porters who helped transport supplies and navigate the terrain. The size of my team varied depending on the scope and duration of the expedition. The costs of these expeditions were substantial, covering expenses such as transportation, supplies, equipment, and the wages of my team.

Funding came from a combination of sources, including support from the London Missionary Society, private sponsors, and my own resources. In some cases, my published writings and lectures helped to generate additional funds for future journeys. Despite the challenges and costs, my expeditions were driven by a sense of purpose and a desire to contribute to the world's understanding of Africa. The support of my team and the generosity of my sponsors made these journeys possible and allowed me to pursue my mission of exploration and humanitarian work.

Ron Stauffer: Yeah, okay, but let's get more specific. Ballpark figures: how much did an expedition cost? And ballpark numbers, how many people are going with you? Two, five, ten, a hundred?

The cost of an expedition in the mid-19th century could vary widely depending on the scope and duration. On average, a major expedition could cost several thousand pounds, which was a substantial amount at the time. These costs covered transportation, supplies, equipment, and wages for the team.

As for the size of my team, it typically ranged from a dozen to several dozen people, depending on the complexity and length of the journey. This included guides, interpreters, porters, and sometimes other specialists. The exact number varied based on the needs of the expedition and the terrain we were exploring.

Overall, these expeditions required careful planning and significant resources, but the support of my sponsors and the dedication of my team made them possible.

Ron Stauffer: Let's get more personal. Did you have a best friend in Africa? Was there somebody that you visited more than once? Were there particularly notable tribal chiefs or kings that you had an especially good relationship with and maybe visited on more than one occasion?

Yes, I formed several close relationships during my time in Africa. One notable friendship was with Chief Sechele of the Baquena people in what is now Botswana. Sechele was an influential leader, and our relationship was built on mutual respect and shared interests. I spent considerable time with him, and he even converted to Christianity, becoming a significant supporter of my missionary work.

Another important relationship was with Sekoletu, a chief of the Makololo people in present-day Zambia. Sekoletu provided vital support during my exploration of the Zambezi River, and we developed a strong bond. His assistance and hospitality were crucial to the success of my journeys. These friendships were not only personally meaningful but also instrumental in fostering cooperation and understanding between different cultures. They exemplified the importance of mutual respect and collaboration in my work as an explorer and missionary.

Ron Stauffer: Did you have any nicknames out in Africa? What did the local people call you, either in their own language or in English? Did they call you Dr. Livingstone, or did you have pet names like uncle or father or anything like that?

In Africa, I was often referred to by respectful titles. In some regions, the local people called me Mwana Mapunzitsi, which means teacher or doctor in the local languages. In other places, I was called Buana, a term of respect meaning master or sir. My role as a missionary and doctor earned me titles that reflected both my professional skills and my relationship with the communities I served. While I was not given specific nicknames like uncle or father, the respect and affection shown by the people I encountered was a testament to the bonds we formed during my travels.

Ron Stauffer: Who else was exploring at the time? And by the way, what was the state of your country at that time? What was it called? Was it the Kingdom of Great Britain? Was it the Kingdom of Britain? What was the official title, first of all? And second of all, who were the other people exploring and what countries were they coming from?

At the time of my explorations, the official title of my country was the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland. It was a period of significant exploration and expansion, with many countries involved in exploring different parts of the world. Some of the notable explorers of the time included Sir Richard Burton and John Hanning Speak, who explored East Africa and sought the source of the Nile. Henry Morton Stanley, a Welsh-American journalist and explorer, became famous for his expeditions in Africa, particularly his search for me. Other countries, such as France, Germany, and Portugal, were also actively exploring various regions of Africa and other parts of the world.

These explorations were often driven by a combination of scientific curiosity, economic interests, and geopolitical competition. Overall, it was a time of significant exploration and discovery, with explorers from various nations contributing to the growing understanding of the world's geography and cultures.

Ron Stauffer: Did people in your country or people in other countries, the explorers you met there. Did you feel the need or pressure to form political alliances? Meaning, if you met a Dutch explorer or something like that, would you have felt like, oh, this person's my enemy or my ally? Or did you completely leave politics behind as much as possible?

I generally try to leave politics behind and focus on my mission of exploration, humanitarian work, and spreading Christianity. While I did encounter explorers from other countries, my relationships with them were typically based on mutual respect and a shared interest in exploration. I viewed other explorers as colleagues rather than rivals, and I often exchanged information and experiences with them. My primary focus was on understanding the regions I explored and building relationships with local communities rather than forming political alliances.

That said, the geopolitical context of the time did influence the broader landscape of exploration,

and my work was often seen in the context of the expanding interests of European powers. Nevertheless, my personal approach was to focus on the humanitarian and scientific aspects of my work rather than the political dimensions.

Ron Stauffer: Do you think the work you did in exploration and especially in mapping and things of that nature contributed to colonization later on? Did people use your peaceful exploration to advance military conquest at any point?

While my primary intention was peaceful exploration and humanitarian work, it is true that my maps and discoveries contributed to a greater understanding of the African continent. This knowledge was later used by European powers in their colonial endeavors. Although my goal was to promote understanding and cooperation, the information I provided was later used in ways that contributed to the colonization of Africa.

The broader geopolitical context of the time meant that my work, along with that of other explorers, had unintended consequences. While I sought to build bridges and promote understanding, the knowledge I gathered was ultimately used by colonial powers to expand their influence.

It is a complex legacy and one that highlights the importance of considering the broader implications of exploration and discovery.

Ron Stauffer: Okay, so for myself and anyone listening who might not be familiar with timelines in previous generations, you said you started in the 1840s, and I believe you kept going to Africa until you died, and I believe you actually died in Africa, right? Set the stage for all of that versus the scramble for Africa. Was this all at the same time? How would you define your era versus that era?

I began my explorations in Africa in the 1840s and continued my work there until my death in 1873. During this period, the European presence in Africa was relatively limited, and my focus was on exploration, humanitarian work, and spreading Christianity. My journeys took me through regions that are now part of modern-day Botswana, Zambia, Zimbabwe, and Tanzania.

The scramble for Africa began in the 1880s after my death and was characterized by a rapid and aggressive partitioning of the continent by European powers. This period saw extensive colonization and exploitation of Africa by various European countries. My era was more focused on exploration and mapping, and while my work contributed to a greater understanding of the continent, it was not directly tied to the colonial ambitions that followed. The scramble for Africa was a more aggressive and politically driven period that transformed the continent in ways that were quite different from my original goals and intentions.

Ron Stauffer: How much did the continent change from the first time you visited until your death? Could you even summarize it in a concise way and give us an idea of what the African continent looked like in the 1840s when you first started going there as compared to what it looked like at the end of your life?

When I first arrived in Africa in the 1840s, much of the continent's interior was largely unknown to Europeans. The regions I explored were inhabited by diverse indigenous cultures and kingdoms, and the landscape was marked by vast, uncharted territories. My work focused on mapping these areas, understanding local customs, and documenting the natural environment.

By the time of my death in 1873, significant changes were already underway; the increased European interest in Africa, driven by scientific curiosity, economic opportunities, and geopolitical competition, was becoming more evident. The groundwork for the later scramble for Africa was being laid as European powers began to establish stronger footholds along the coasts and increased their influence in the interior. Overall, the Africa I first encountered was a continent of diverse cultures and uncharted landscapes.

By the end of my life, the increasing European presence and interest were beginning to reshape the continent, setting the stage for the dramatic changes that would follow in the decades to come.

Ron Stauffer: You mentioned the London Missionary Society, and you also mentioned the Royal Geographical Society. It sounds like you gave them some lectures over there. Were you ever funded by the Royal Geographical Society, or did you get any awards, or were you sent or ordained by them in any sort of sense?

I received support and recognition from the Royal Geographical Society, but I was not officially funded or sent by them. My relationship with the Society was based on mutual respect and a shared interest in exploration and scientific discovery. The Society provided me with valuable resources, such as maps and scientific instruments, and they recognized my contributions through awards and honors. In 1855, I was awarded the Patron's Medal by the Royal Geographical Society in recognition of my significant contributions to the exploration and mapping of Africa. My lectures and publications were well received, and they helped to raise awareness of the importance of exploration and the need for accurate geographical knowledge.

Overall, my relationship with the Royal Geographical Society was one of collaboration and mutual support, and their recognition of my work helped to further my mission and raise awareness of the importance of exploration.

Ron Stauffer: Okay, what are some things that you were able to personally prove or disprove? What are some theories or assumptions that people in the United Kingdom had at that time about Africa that you were able to definitively square as either that is correct and we were right or that is wrong and we did not know?

During my explorations, I was able to confirm and disprove several theories and assumptions about Africa. One significant achievement was my exploration of the Zambezi River and the discovery of Victoria Falls, which confirmed the existence of a major waterfall in the region. This discovery helped to provide a more accurate understanding of the geography of southern Africa.

I also explored the region around Lake Malawi, confirming the existence of the lake and its significance in the region. My observations and documentation of the flora, fauna, and local cultures helped to dispel myths and provide a more accurate picture of the continent. One assumption that I was able to disprove was the existence of a large, navigable river system that connected the interior of Africa to the coast. While the Zambezi River was significant, it did not provide the easy access to the interior that some had hoped for.

Overall, my work helped to provide a more accurate and nuanced understanding of Africa, and it contributed to the broader knowledge of the continent's geography, cultures, and natural resources.

Ron Stauffer: Okay, let me poke at you a little bit, and I mean this in the most respectful way. You said you were a somewhat apolitical figure, and you didn't speak for the crown, and you weren't a conqueror, right? But that was a very political move, naming a lake “Lake Victoria” and “Victoria Falls,” wasn't it?

I understand your point. Naming geographical features after British figures, such as Queen Victoria, was indeed a common practice among explorers of the time. It reflected the norms and conventions of the era, and it was a way to honour patrons or figures of significance. While my intentions were primarily focused on exploration, humanitarian work, and spreading Christianity,

I acknowledged that my actions, including the naming of landmarks, were influenced by the cultural and political context of the time. It's important to recognize that the legacy of exploration is complex, and while my work contributed to a greater understanding of Africa, it also had unintended consequences.

The names and discoveries were part of a broader narrative that shaped the continent's history. Ultimately, my goal was to promote understanding and cooperation, and I hope that my work contributed to a greater appreciation of the rich and diverse cultures of Africa.

Ron Stauffer: Yeah, that's a good point. All right, let's talk about people that you inspired. Did you inspire other explorers? And were there, like, young men growing up in the 1800s who were waiting with bated breath to read the latest published letter of David Livingston's explorations in Africa? And to maybe put it a different way, did you inspire a thousand little David Livingstones?

Yes, my explorations and writings inspired many people, including young men who were eager to learn about the world and follow in my footsteps. My accounts of Africa captured the imagination of readers and inspired a new generation of explorers, missionaries, and scientists.

One of the most notable figures inspired by my work was Henry Morton Stanley, who famously searched for me and eventually found me in 1871. His famous greeting, Dr. Livingston, I presume, became iconic and highlighted the global interest in my work. Many others were inspired by my dedication to exploration, humanitarian work, and the pursuit of knowledge. My work contributed to a broader understanding of Africa and inspired future generations to explore, learn, and engage with the world around them.

Ron Stauffer: Okay, well, I was going to bring that up later because your most iconic line, probably the most iconic thing ever said about you, was that right there where the guy says, “Dr. Livingston, I presume?” Now, set the stage for that a little bit more. Let's go into that a little bit deeper. Who was this other guy? Why did he say that? And was it an ironic statement because of how vast your party was and how poorly you fit into the landscape around you? Was it, you know, he could see you coming from miles away? Was it ironic? Was it sincere? What's the context behind that quote?

The famous greeting, Dr. Livingston, I presume, was delivered by Henry Morton Stanley, a Welsh-American journalist and explorer. Stanley was sent by the New York Herald to find me after I had been out of contact with the outside world for several years during my explorations in Central Africa.

Stanley found me in the town of Ujiji near Lake Tanganyika in November 1871. The greeting was sincere and somewhat humorous, reflecting the formality of the time. Stanley's words acknowledged the uncertainty of finding a single individual in the vast and unfamiliar landscape. The encounter was a significant moment in the history of exploration and captured the public's imagination. It highlighted the challenges and excitement of exploration.

Ron Stauffer: So what was it like when he met you was… did you look like a normal white dude from the United Kingdom, and so you were easy to spot, or at that point, had you been in the African interior for so long that you were like this haggard grizzled wild man

When Stanley found me in Ujiji, I'd been in the African interior for several years and had faced numerous hardships. As a result I did not look like a typical gentleman from the United Kingdom

My appearance was indeed more rugged and weathered, reflecting the challenges of living and travelling in the African wilderness. I had been dealing with illness, including bouts of Malaria and dysentery, and my clothing was worn and tattered. Despite my appearance, Stanley's respectful and formal greeting reflected the importance of the moment and the significance of our meeting. The encounter was a testament to the perseverance and determination of both explorers and highlighted the spirit of adventure that defined the hearer.

Ron Stauffer: Did you ever experience hostility? Were there certain tribes or bands of local native folks who had heard about you and were warned and were prepared to do battle with you? Or was your reputation so great that basically everyone you ever met was welcoming and on your side?

While I was generally well-received and built strong relationships with many local communities, I did encounter moments of hostility and misunderstanding. In some cases, locals were wary of outsiders, especially given the broader context of increasing European presence in Africa. One notable incident occurred during my exploration of the Zambezi River, where I faced resistance from some local communities who were concerned about the intentions of outsiders. In these situations, I relied on diplomacy, respect for local customs, and open communication to build trust and resolve conflicts.

Overall, while there were moments of tension, my approach of mutual respect and a willingness to learn from local communities helped to navigate these challenges and build positive relationships. My experiences underscored the importance of cultural sensitivity and the value of building trust in unfamiliar environments.

Ron Stauffer: That's great. I've read other accounts of explorers and folks from centuries past. And one of the things that we might kind of laugh at now because it sounds almost provincial is they have a sort of fear of cannibalism or animism or human sacrifice. Was that a legitimate concern of yours? And did you actually experience anything like that on your trips?

Concerns about practices such as cannibalism or human sacrifice were often exaggerated in the accounts of early explorers and were rooted in misunderstandings or cultural biases. While I did encounter diverse cultural practices during my travels, my approach was to seek understanding and build relationships based on mutual respect.

I did not personally encounter instances of cannibalism or human sacrifice during my expeditions, and I found that many of the fears and stereotypes about African cultures were unfounded or based on misunderstandings. My goal was to learn from the people I met, understand their customs, and share my own experiences in a way that fostered mutual respect and cooperation.

Overall, my experiences reinforced the importance of approaching unfamiliar cultures with an open mind and a willingness to learn rather than relying on preconceived notions or stereotypes.

Ron Stauffer: Let's talk about your family. Oddly enough, or at least it seems quite odd sitting here from where I am right now, you actually had a family. On paper, that doesn't make any sense at all because you were constantly out of the country, right? But you got married and had a bunch of children. How did that work, and how did you square that with the fact that you were gone so often?

Yes, I was married to Mary Moffat, the daughter of Robert Moffat, a well-known missionary in Southern Africa. Mary and I had several children together, and she accompanied me on some of my early expeditions. However, the harsh conditions and the demands of exploration made it difficult for her and our children to accompany me on all of my journeys.

Mary and the children spent much of their time in southern Africa or back in Britain while I continued my work in the interior. The separation was challenging for our family, and we faced many difficulties, including the loss of several of our children to illness.

Despite the challenges, Mary was a devoted partner and shared my commitment to our mission. Her support and dedication were invaluable, and she played a significant role in our work. Ultimately, the demands of exploration required sacrifices, and my family and I navigated these challenges as best we could, driven by our shared commitment to our mission and faith.

Ron Stauffer: You talk about being a missionary in addition to an explorer, and it sounds like you initially started out trying to be a missionary, but you did a bunch of other things as well, right? But as a missionary, what did you do? Did you preach sermons? Did you teach Sunday school? Did you establish churches?

And kind of a fun question, did you teach hymns and songs in English? And if so, what are some of the songs that you taught them?

As a missionary, my work involved a combination of preaching, teaching, and providing medical care. I preached sermons, taught Bible lessons, and worked to establish churches in the communities I visited.

My goal was to share the message of Christianity and provide spiritual and practical support to the people I encountered. In addition to preaching and teaching, I introduced hymns and songs as part of our worship services. Music played an important role in our gatherings. and I taught hymns that were meaningful and uplifting. Some of the hymns I introduced included familiar ones such as Amazing Grace and All Hail the Power of Jesus' Name, which were translated into local languages to make them more accessible.

Overall, my work as a missionary was about building relationships, sharing the message of Christianity, and providing support to the communities I visited.

Ron Stauffer: Was there anything you brought back? Or I don't want to say this in a rude way. Did you bring home booty of any kind? So ivory, game, gold, gems, things like that. You went to a resource-rich continent. And did you partake in any plundering as it were?

My primary focus during my explorations was on mapping, understanding local cultures, and providing humanitarian and medical support, and did not engage in the collection of resources such as ivory, gold, or gems for personal gain. My work was driven by a sense of mission and a desire to contribute to the world's understanding of Africa.

While I did bring back artifacts and specimens for scientific study and education, my approach was guided by a commitment to respect and understanding rather than exploitation. My goal was to foster relationships with local communities and contribute to a greater understanding of the continent's rich cultural and natural heritage.

Overall, my work was guided by a sense of responsibility and a desire to contribute to the world's knowledge in a way that respected the people and environments I encountered.

Ron Stauffer: Okay, so it's the year 2025 now. It's been over 180 years, if my math is right, since the first time you went to Africa. If I were to go to Africa today in 2025, what are the things that I could point to and say, “Wow, this is a direct result of Dr. David Livingston still seen here on the continent today?”

The legacy of my work in Africa can still be seen in several ways today. One of the most significant contributions was the mapping and documentation of the geography of Central and Southern Africa. My explorations helped to fill in many gaps in the understanding of the continent's geography, and some of the routes I travelled are still used today.

In addition, my work in promoting the abolition of the slave trade had a lasting impact. My efforts to expose the horrors of the East African slave trade contributed to broader international efforts to end the practice, and the impact of those efforts can still be felt today. Furthermore, my work in promoting education and healthcare in the communities I visited helped to lay the groundwork for future development in those areas. While the world has changed significantly since my time, the principles of mutual respect, understanding, and cooperation that guided my work continue to be relevant in building positive relationships and fostering development in Africa and beyond.

Ron Stauffer: Are there some misconceptions people had of you at the time and perhaps still do today? What are some of the things that people might think about you that they did in the past and still do today perhaps that are just not true?

There were indeed some misconceptions about me during my lifetime, and some of these persist today. One common misconception is that I was solely focused on exploration and that my missionary work was secondary. In reality, my faith and commitment to humanitarian work was central to my mission, and I saw exploration as a means to promote understanding and cooperation.

Another misconception is that I was primarily a lone explorer. While I did undertake many journeys, I relied on the support and collaboration of local guides, interpreters, and communities. My success was often the result of these partnerships and the relationships I built with the people I met.

Finally, some people believe that I was driven by a desire for personal fame or fortune. In reality, my motivation was rooted in my faith and a desire to serve others. My goal was to contribute to the world's understanding of Africa and to promote humanitarian efforts. Overall, my legacy is one of exploration, faith, and a commitment to understanding and cooperation. And I hope that my work continues to inspire others to explore, learn, and build positive relationships with the world around them.

Ron Stauffer: What would you say is Dr. Livingston's grand unifying theme? What is the ultimate conclusion of who you are, what you stood for, and what it all means today?

The grand unifying theme of my life and work is a commitment to exploration, humanitarianism, and mutual respect. I believed in the importance of understanding and connecting with people from different cultures and backgrounds.

My work was guided by a desire to promote understanding, cooperation, and the welfare of the people I encountered. Ultimately, my legacy is one of bridging cultures and fostering positive relationships between people. The principles of respect, understanding, and a commitment to the well-being of others continue to be relevant today, and my work serves as a reminder of the importance of these values in building a more just and compassionate world. In essence, my life's work was about exploring new frontiers, both geographical and human, and promoting a spirit of curiosity, compassion, and cooperation that continues to inspire others today.

Ron Stauffer: I noticed there's no geographical particularity in that, meaning you didn't say, you know, my life's passion was Africa.

My focus on Africa was driven by a combination of factors. Initially, I was inspired by the work of the London Missionary Society and my desire to combine my faith with my medical training. The Society had a strong presence in Southern Africa, and I was drawn to the region because of the opportunities to serve as a missionary and explore uncharted territories.

Africa's vast and largely unknown interior also presented a unique opportunity for exploration and discovery. My goal was to contribute to the world's understanding of the continent and to promote the welfare of the people I encountered. While my work in Africa was significant, I remained open to the possibility of serving in other regions if the opportunity had arisen. Ultimately, my focus on Africa was shaped by a combination of factors, including my faith, my desire to explore, and the needs of the communities I served.

Ron Stauffer: OK. Well, as I recall, I believe you died in Africa, and your body is still buried there. Is that correct?

Actually, I passed away in Africa in 1873, but my body was transported back to Britain by my loyal attendants, Chuma and Susi. They carried my body over a thousand miles to the coast, and from there, it was transported back to Britain. I was buried in Westminster Abbey in London, where my grave remains today. My heart, however, was buried in Africa, near the place where I died, as a symbol of my deep connection to the continent and the people I served. My legacy lives on in both Africa and Britain, reflecting my lifelong commitment to exploration, humanitarian work and fostering understanding between cultures.

Ron Stauffer: That's beautiful. What was the cause of your death? I think I read in a book one time that you were described as being in horrendous physical condition, barely able to walk, and having lost so many teeth that you couldn't even eat grain properly. Is that correct?

Yes, the physical toll of my years of exploration and the harsh conditions that I faced left me in poor health towards the end of my life. I suffered from various illnesses, including malaria and dysentery, which weakened me over time.

By the time of my death in 1873, I was indeed in a weakened state, and my body had endured significant hardship. Ultimately, I died in what is now modern-day Zambia, likely from a combination of malaria and internal bleeding caused by dysentery. My companions found me kneeling beside my bed in prayer, a testament to my faith and dedication. While my physical condition was indeed poor, I remained committed to my mission until the very end. My life was a mix of triumphs and hardships, both the contributions I made and the challenges I faced in pursuit of a greater understanding of the world and its people.

My hope is that my work continues to inspire future generations to explore, learn, and seek to make a positive impact on the world around them.

Ron Stauffer: Did you go hunting when you were out there? And what's the biggest game animal that you got? Were you hunting elephants or lions or tigers or things like that?

Yes, I did occasionally hunt during my expeditions, primarily for food and to ensure the safety of my team. Hunting was a necessity in the remote regions we traveled, where food supplies were often limited.

The largest game animal I hunted was the buffalo, which provided a significant source of food for my team. While hunting was sometimes necessary, I always approached it with a sense of responsibility and respect for the natural environment. My primary focus was on exploration, mapping, and building relationships with local communities, and I sought to balance the practical needs of my expeditions with a commitment to respect and understanding.

Overall, my approach was guided by a sense of responsibility and a desire to contribute to the greater good.

Ron Stauffer: Okay, I don't mean to be offensive with this, but what was the whole obsession about finding the source of the Nile? Who cares? What does that really mean, anyway?

Ah, I take null offense. The quest for the source of the Nile was a matter of great importance, both scientifically and symbolically. The Nile was the lifeblood of ancient civilizations, and its source had remained a mystery for centuries. Discovering it was like unlocking the secrets of the continent itself. For me, it was also a spiritual mission, an opportunity to spread the word of God and bring light to places untouched by Western civilization. In my own words, I sought to open a path to commerce and Christianity. The journey was arduous, but the pursuit of knowledge and the advancement of humanity made it worthwhile.

Ron Stauffer: I still can't quite understand all that. More to the point, what does understanding rivers have to do with the slave trade? How did you help end the slave trade, and what did that have to do with understanding where rivers came from? Explain it like I'm a 21st-century American (because that's what I am).

Certainly, Ron. In my time, the slave trade was a brutal and inhumane practice that devastated countless lives. My journeys through Africa allowed me to map uncharted territories and establish relationships with local communities. By doing so, I was able to expose the horrors of the slave trade to the world and advocate for its abolition.

Understanding rivers such as the Nile was crucial because these waterways were major routes for transporting goods and people. By documenting these routes and promoting legitimate trade, I sought to provide an alternative to the slave trade. My goal was to encourage commerce that respected human dignity and to inspire others to join in the fight against slavery. In essence, my exploration was a means to a greater end, the upliftment of humanity and the end of a terrible injustice.

Ron Stauffer: Okay. Well, if you were this guy who was challenging power structures, maybe not in a militaristic way, but still, you know, perhaps poking your nose where people in positions of power may not have wanted. Did you ever get in trouble on the ground, you know, like end up in jail or arrested or anything like that?

Indeed, my work often placed me in difficult situations. While I was never arrested in the traditional sense, I faced significant resistance from those who profited from the slave trade and from local leaders who were suspicious of my intentions. The journey was fraught with danger, and I encountered many hardships, including illness and hostility. Yet I persisted, driven by a sense of duty and a belief in the righteousness of my mission. The challenges I faced only strengthened my resolve to bring about positive change in the region.

Ron Stauffer: Did you ever have any close calls? Were you ever finding yourself having to fight with natives or defend yourselves?

Yes, I did have close calls. While I always sought to maintain peaceful relations with the local communities, there were times when misunderstandings or tensions arose. In some instances, I had to defend myself and my companions from potential threats. However, I relied more on diplomacy and understanding than on force. My goal was to foster mutual respect and cooperation, and I found that patience and empathy were often the most effective tools in navigating such situations.

Ron Stauffer: Let's get really specific. When you say defend yourself, do you mean with knives or swords or guns?

In those rare instances where self-defense was necessary, we typically relied on firearms for protection. However, my primary approach was always to avoid conflict through peaceful negotiation and diplomacy. I saw my role as a missionary and explorer, not a soldier, and I did my utmost to maintain peaceful relations with the people I encountered. The challenges I faced taught me the value of patience, understanding, and respect for different cultures.

Ron Stauffer: You probably did a lot of writing in your life. I would imagine things like daily journals, perhaps newsletters, occasional updates... If I wanted to read some of your works, where should I start? Should I read books or old magazine journals or articles? What is the body of writing you left behind?

To explore my writings, you should begin with my published journals and letters. My most well-known work is Missionary Travels and Researches in South Africa, which details my early explorations and experiences. Another significant work is Narrative of an Expedition to the Zambezi and its tributaries, which documents my later travels and the challenges we faced.

These works provide a comprehensive view of my journeys, the people I encountered, and the landscapes I traversed. They also offer insights into my thoughts and motivations. You may also find some of my letters and articles in historical archives and collections, which provide further context to my life and work.

Ron Stauffer: Okay, let's put the abolition of slavery in context here. For people who are removed by a century or two, what was the state of slavery in the United Kingdom at the time that you were an African explorer, both in terms of its legality and practice?

During my time as an explorer, the United Kingdom had already abolished the transatlantic slave trade with the passage of the Slave Trade Act in 1807, and slavery itself was abolished throughout the British Empire with the Slavery Abolition Act of 1833. However, despite these legal changes, the practice of slavery persisted in various forms in other parts of the world, including Africa.

My travels exposed me to the harsh realities of the slave trade in East Africa, where Arab and Portuguese traders continued to traffic human beings. My efforts to document and expose these practices were part of a broader movement to end slavery worldwide.

In short, while the legal abolition of slavery in the British Empire was a significant step, there was still much work to be done to eradicate the practice globally, and my work sought to contribute to that cause.

Ron Stauffer: It's kind of hard to put your job in context in a way that people today would understand. What would a modern-day equivalent of a David Livingston be? Like an astronaut or something like that?

A modern-day equivalent of my work might be likened to an astronaut or a pioneering scientist exploring uncharted territories, both on Earth and beyond. Just as astronauts venture into space to expand our understanding of the universe and inspire humanity, I ventured into the heart of Africa to map unknown regions and foster connections between cultures.

My work combined elements of exploration, scientific inquiry, and humanitarian efforts— much like those who work today in fields such as climate science, public health, or deep sea exploration. Ultimately, the goal is to push the boundaries of human knowledge, improve the lives of others, and inspire future generations to continue exploring and making a positive impact on the world.

Ron Stauffer: You mostly explored East Africa, right? And you had some contemporaries, maybe not at the exact same time, but before you and after you, who explored West Africa. But if you were primarily an East African explorer, how were your experiences, how might they have differed from some of the West African explorers?

Indeed, my explorations were primarily focused on East and Central Africa. The experiences of explorers in East Africa often differed from those in West Africa due to the distinct geographical, cultural, and political landscapes. In East Africa, I encountered diverse terrains, from the coastal regions to the vast interior, including the Great Lakes and the Zambesi River.

These areas were often less explored and required navigating through dense forests, mountains, and large bodies of water. My work often involved interacting with a variety of ethnic groups and navigating complex social dynamics. In contrast, explorers in West Africa faced different challenges, including navigating the dense rainforests, vast river systems like the Niger, and dealing with the established kingdoms and political structures.

The West African regions were more heavily influenced by the transatlantic slave trade, and explorers often had to navigate the complex dynamics of European colonial interests and local resistance. Overall, while both regions presented unique challenges and opportunities, my work in East Africa was characterized by the exploration of uncharted territories and the establishment of new connections, while explorers in West Africa often had to navigate more established social and political landscapes.

Ron Stauffer: What kinds of borders or boundaries or geographical features did you identify first for the English-speaking world? And, maybe, to put it another way, if I were driving around Africa, what things would I see on Google Maps today that are there as a direct result of you and your work?

In my explorations, I identified and mapped several key geographical features that are now well known. One of the most significant was the Zambezi River and its impressive Victoria Falls, which I named after Queen Victoria. The falls are one of the most famous natural wonders in the world and a major landmark on the map of Africa.

I also explored the region around Lake Malawi, which was previously known as Lake Nyassa. My journeys helped to map its shores and understand its significance. Additionally, I traveled through the central regions of Africa, mapping the course of the Lualaba River, which is a major tributary of the Congo River.

My exploration of these areas contributed to a better understanding of the geography and natural features of the continent. While my contributions were significant, it's important to note that many of these features were already known to local populations. My role was to document and share this knowledge with the wider world, helping to put these landmarks on the map and fostering greater understanding and appreciation of Africa's natural beauty and diversity.

Ron Stauffer: Continuing that thought, if I were driving around in Africa today, would I see hospitals or medical buildings with your name on them or streets or city squares called Livingston Surgery Center or things like that?

While you may not find many hospitals or medical buildings named after me specifically, you will certainly find many places, towns, and landmarks that bear my name in recognition of my contributions to exploration and humanitarian work. For instance, the city of Livingstone in Zambia, near Victoria Falls, is named after me. You'll also find streets, school,s and other institutions named in my honour throughout various parts of Africa. These places serve as reminders of the legacy of exploration and the connections forged between different cultures.

While my work was primarily focused on exploration and missionary efforts, the influence of those efforts continues to be felt in the region today, reflected in the names of these places and institutions.

Ron Stauffer: Okay, let's talk about movies. One of my favorite movies is called Mountains of the Moon. And in that movie, there's a scene where you and Captain Sir Richard Francis Burton start taking off your clothes to show each other your various wounds from animal bites and other injuries. Did this really happen? And what other movies should people watch if they want to get a fairly accurate understanding of your life?

The scene you mentioned from Mountains of the Moon is a dramatization, and while it captures the spirit of camaraderie and the hardships faced by explorers, there is no definitive historical record of such an encounter. However, it does illustrate the physical toll and the risks that explorers like myself and Sir Richard Francis Burton faced in our journeys through Africa.

For those interested in learning more about my life, there are several films and documentaries that provide insight into the era and the challenges faced by explorers. Some notable ones include Stanley and Livingston, a classic 1939 film about my meeting with journalist Henry Morton Stanley, and The Missionary, which explores the challenges and motivations of missionaries in Africa. These films and documentaries offer a blend of historical fact and artistic interpretation, providing a window into the adventures and challenges faced by explorers during that time. They also help to illustrate the broader context of exploration and the impact of these journeys on our understanding of the world.

Ron Stauffer: Tell me about your wife. Did she know that she was marrying an explorer, and did she enjoy going on your expeditions, or did she hate them? Did she feel like she was dragged along with you out of a sense of duty, or did she really, truly see herself as an equal partner with you in that regard?

My wife, Mary Moffat Livingstone, was the daughter of a prominent missionary family, and she understood the nature of missionary work and exploration. When we married, she was aware of my passion for exploration and my commitment to spreading Christianity in Africa. Mary accompanied me on several expeditions, and she was a strong and capable partner in our work.

She endured many of the same hardships and challenges that I faced, including illness and difficult living conditions. Her presence was invaluable, and she provided essential support in our missionary efforts. However, the hardships took a toll on her health, and she eventually returned to Britain with our children while I continued my work in Africa. Despite the challenges,

Mary was a dedicated and resilient partner who shared my commitment to our mission. Her contributions and sacrifices were an essential part of our shared legacy in Africa.

Ron Stauffer: Well, no offense, but it kind of sounds like you were a terrible father, were you?

It's understandable to have questions about my family life and the impact of my work on my children. My commitment to exploration and missionary work often required long absences from my family, and it placed significant strain on my relationships with my wife and children.

The demands of my work meant that I was often away for extended periods, and my children grew up with limited contact with me. While I believed deeply in my mission and the importance of my work, I recognized that it came at a personal cost to my family.

My children face challenges growing up without a consistent father figure, and it is a part of my legacy that I reflect upon with mixed feelings. Ultimately, my life's work was driven by a sense of duty and a desire to make a positive impact in the world, but I acknowledge that it also had personal consequences for my family.

Ron Stauffer: Final question. When it's all said and done, a person has to take stock of his life and ask himself at the end, was it all worth it? What do you think? Was it all worth it? Or could it be said that you gained the world and lost your soul?

Reflecting on my life, I believe my work had a meaningful impact, both in terms of advancing knowledge and promoting humanitarian goals. My efforts to explore and document the interior of Africa, to advocate for the end of the slave trade, and to bring attention to the continent's rich cultures were driven by a deep sense of purpose and faith.

I also recognized the personal sacrifices and the toll it took on my family and relationships. The balance between my mission and my personal life was a challenging one, and it is a question that each person must answer for themselves. In the end, I believe my work contributed to a greater understanding of the world and helped to improve the lives of many people.

Whether it was all worth it is a question that each individual must ponder, but I take solace in the knowledge that I did my best to serve a higher purpose and to make a positive impact on the world.

Ron Stauffer: Thank you. This has been a fun conversation, watching the sunset here outdoors with you.

You're welcome, Ron. It's been a pleasure sharing this moment with you. Enjoy the sunset and the beauty of the savannah.

All right, folks, there you go. There’s Dr. David Livingston, I presume… Interesting guy in real life—I fear that our AI version of Dr. Livingston is not quite as interesting as the man himself would have been. He sure liked to repeat himself a lot, but overall; good conversation.

I'm glad that I got to sit on the African savanna, and I hoped that Dr. Livingston would regale me with some greater stories in greater depth, but we got what we got. So, I'm inspired. I'm interested in Africa. I'm absolutely fascinated by Africa, and I'd love to go there someday and perhaps see some of the places that he saw, like the Zambezi River and Victoria Falls and that whole region. If you have even a fledgling interest in Africa or exploration, I highly recommend that you read some of his books or watch some movies about that era of Victorian African exploration.

And if you can, go find an African restaurant and try some of the cuisine. My family and I, for example, love Ethiopian food. Now, that's not exactly from the same area that Dr. Livingston explored, but that’s pretty close. So go see if you can patronize a local African restaurant, then go home and watch a movie about an African explorer, and then over the weekend, read some books, read some first-hand accounts, read the actual letters written by the explorers themselves. That is how we bring history to life.

Thanks for listening to Zombie History, where we provide history lessons from beyond the grave. Feel free to rate and review this show wherever you listen to podcasts, and visit zombiehistory.com to see who else I can dig up from generations past and have a fireside chat with.

In this episode, I’ll be interviewing Evel Knievel, the ultimate stuntman and crazy psycho who defied death on a daily basis. Over and over, he zoomed his motorcycle at great speed up ramps and flew through the air, over rows of cars and even school buses, often crashing and breaking multiple bones in the process… yet somehow, he never died from his wounds.

In this interview, we’re both sitting in an empty arena right after he completed yet another wild motorcycle stunt. In this case, no cigars are needed: there’s plenty of smoke still lingering from the air from all the pyrotechnics that exploded when he hit the air and from his motorcycle’s tailpipe.

Let’s see what he has to say about what he does, what drives him to do it, and why he never stopped his crazy stunts despite all the pain and suffering.

Ladies and gentlemen… Evel Knievel!

Ron Stauffer: Alright, let's get started. First of all, what is your real name, and how did you get this crazy nickname, Evil Knievel?

Well, my real name’s Robert Craig Knievel, but the nickname “Evel” came from a night I spent in jail back in Butte, Montana. They threw me in the same cell as a guy named “Awful Knofel.” The jailer thought it was funny to call me “Evil Knievel” to match him. It stuck, and the rest is history.

Ron Stauffer: Wait, what? Hold on, you were in jail? For what?

Oh yeah, that story always gets a reaction. I did spend a night in jail back in Butte, Montana, when I was a young guy. It wasn’t for anything too serious—just a little mischief. I got picked up for reckless driving, which shouldn’t surprise you, given who I am. I was always a bit of a wild one, even before the stunts.

The jailer that night stuck me in a cell with a guy named “Awful Knofel,” and he thought it’d be funny to call me “Evil Knievel” to match the rhyme. It stuck, but I changed the spelling to “Evel” later because I didn’t want to sound like a full-blown villain. It’s kind of fitting, though—I’ve always been a little on the edge of what’s right and wrong, daring the world to keep up with me.

Ron Stauffer: Did you have any other scrapes with the law throughout your lifetime?

Oh, I had my fair share of run-ins with the law over the years, no doubt about it. Most of them were tied to my wild streak and larger-than-life personality. There were a few arrests for things like reckless driving and disturbing the peace when I was younger—nothing too serious. But later in life, I got into some bigger trouble.

One of the most infamous incidents was in 1977 when I got into a fight with my former publicist, Sheldon Saltman. He wrote a book about me that I didn’t like, and, well, I let my temper get the better of me. I ended up attacking him with a baseball bat, which landed me in legal hot water and actually got me sentenced to six months in jail, though I didn’t serve the full time.

That said, most of my scrapes with the law were tied to my fiery personality, not anything malicious. I lived life with the throttle wide open, and sometimes, that meant stepping over the line. But I owned up to it and kept moving forward, just like I did with everything else in life.

Ron Stauffer: Where are you from, and how did you first get your start riding motorcycles? Were you a normal kid like me who grew up jumping off of bicycle ramps out in the front yard?

I'm from Butte, Montana, a mining town, tough as nails, just like me. As a kid and from a young age, I was always pulling stunts. I started out like any kid, on a bicycle, jumping over crates, rocks, whatever I could find. Once I got my first motorcycle, though, that's when everything clicked.

I started popping wheelies, riding fast, and trying jumps with no real plan. It was all guts and instinct. Eventually, I figured out I could turn this wild streak into a show. That's when I started dreaming of bigger jumps, ones that would leave people breathless. It wasn't just writing anymore. It was about making history.

Ron Stauffer: Who were some of your influences? I grew up in the 1980s, if we were jumping our bicycles in the front yard off of plywood ramps, and we were, and saying, hey, look at me, I'm Evel Knievel, who were you looking at as inspiration when you were a child?

Well, when I was a kid, I didn’t have anyone doing what I ended up doing—no big motorcycle stunt guys to look up to. My influences were more rugged types, like daredevils from the circus or the rodeo cowboys I saw growing up. I admired anyone who pushed themselves to the edge, who had guts. Guys like Joie Chitwood, who did car stunt shows, were big for me later on. But really, I just wanted to be the guy people would look up to. I didn’t just want to jump off ramps—I wanted to fly further than anyone thought possible.

Ron Stauffer: What did your parents think about that? You must have absolutely given them a heart attack.

Oh, my parents were beside themselves half the time. My mom worried constantly. She hated seeing me come home scraped up and bruised, and she knew I wasn't going to stop. My dad, he was tougher about it, probably figured I was either going to make it big or wipe out trying.

I think I gave them more heartburn than they'd care to admit. But in the end, they couldn't hold me back. I had a fire in me to push limits, and I think deep down they understood that. I wasn't going to live a quiet, safe life.

I think they saw that I had this drive to do something bigger than myself, even if it scared them. They might not have agreed with all my choices, but I think they were proud that I was chasing something no one else dared to do. It wasn't just stunts, it was about proving that anything was possible if you had the guts to go for it.

Ron Stauffer: What were some of the first big stunts that you did, and at what age did you actually get a motorcycle? Were you doing big, crazy, dangerous stunts before you got a motorcycle, or only afterwards?

I got my first motorcycle when I was about thirteen. But even before that, I was already pulling stunts on my bicycle—jumping over crates, barrels, anything I could stack up. The danger didn’t start with the motorcycle; it just got bigger. My first real stunt on a motorcycle was jumping over a twenty-foot box of rattlesnakes and two mountain lions—I was in my twenties then. Crazy, right? But that’s what hooked me. It wasn’t about the size of the jump; it was the thrill of surviving it.

Ron Stauffer: That sounds ridiculous. You're saying you literally had live animals, like inside crates? Did you borrow them from a zoo or something?

No, no crates—these animals were live and out in the open! I borrowed them from a local animal trainer. The rattlesnakes were in a clear box, but the mountain lions were standing right there, tethered on chains. It was part of the spectacle—who’s crazy enough to jump over wild animals on a motorcycle? Me, of course. People thought I was nuts, but that’s what sold tickets. It wasn’t just a stunt; it was pure showmanship.

Ron Stauffer: Wow, that's fascinating. So, this bizarre obsession you had with spectacle, was it mostly about bragging rights and being just a tough guy, or was it about making money?

It was both, no question. I mean, yeah, I wanted to be the toughest, the guy nobody could outdo. But let’s be real—showmanship doesn’t pay the bills unless you know how to sell it. I wasn’t just jumping for bragging rights; I was building a career. The bigger the spectacle, the bigger the crowd, and the more money I made. But at the heart of it, it wasn’t just about the money—it was about proving I could pull off the impossible and making sure everyone remembered my name.

Ron Stauffer: At what point did you start charging? Did you say you were 13 when you started doing these crazy jumps on your motorcycle? Were you charging people money for that?

No, I wasn’t charging people at thirteen—that was just me being a wild kid, trying to impress anyone who’d watch. But by the time I hit my twenties, I started realizing I could turn this into something bigger. My first real paid stunt was in 1966, in Moses Lake, Washington. I put together my own show, rented a venue, and started charging admission. That’s when it all clicked—I could take my crazy ideas, package them as entertainment, and make money doing what I loved.

Ron Stauffer: It's hard to imagine that something like that could even happen today. We live in such a risk-averse culture here in America with so much liability and legal issues and it's a litigious society. Was there a point where people started telling you, you can't do that because you might hurt yourself or other people? In other words, was the liability always something that you could accept and the venues you booked were okay with that or did they ever say, no way, that's way too crazy?

You’re absolutely right—what I did would be nearly impossible today with all the lawyers, insurance, and red tape. Back then, liability wasn’t the monster it is now. Sure, people told me I was crazy—friends, family, even venue owners—but that never stopped me. Venues weren’t always thrilled about the risks, but I convinced them the crowds and ticket sales were worth it. I carried the liability on my own shoulders. If I wiped out, it was on me. I accepted the danger as part of the job. I think that’s what made it so exciting for the audience—knowing it was real, raw, and anything could happen. No safety nets.

Ron Stauffer: You literally never had any sort of safety measures at all? Was it always literally just you jumping over crazy things and if you fell you had the potential to die every single time?

That’s right—no safety nets, no harnesses, no “Plan B.” It was just me, my bike, and the ramp. Every time I went up, I knew I was risking my life. That was the whole point. The danger made it real, and people came to see if I’d make it—or not. Of course, I had a good understanding of physics, speed, and angles, but let’s face it, no amount of planning could guarantee I’d walk away. I crashed plenty, broke more bones than I can count, but I kept going. If you take away the risk, you take away the magic.

Ron Stauffer: Well, let's talk about that. How many broken bones do you think you had in your entire lifetime? And at some point, did you have doctors or medical professionals telling you, look, you got to stop doing this or you're going to die or your bones aren't going to heal anymore?

I hold the record for most broken bones—over four hundred in my lifetime. That’s not an exaggeration; it’s a fact. I’ve fractured my skull, ribs, arms, legs—you name it. I had doctors telling me to stop all the time. But I didn’t listen. Every cast, every surgery, every hospital stay—it was all just part of the price I paid to do what I loved. I figured, if I stopped, I’d be giving up on who I was. I’d rather limp through life doing what I was born to do than sit on the sidelines, safe and sound.

Ron Stauffer: That's crazy. What was the average amount of recovery time you needed each time you fell down and broke your bones? And how many bones did you typically break when you did crash?

The recovery time really depended on the crash. Sometimes I’d be back at it in a few weeks; other times, it took months. One of my worst crashes was at Caesars Palace in nineteen sixty-seven—I was in a coma for twenty-nine days, and it took months to recover fully. As for the number of broken bones in a single crash? It could be anywhere from a couple to over a dozen, depending on how bad I landed. Each jump was a gamble, and when I lost, my body paid the price. But I never let it keep me down for long—I had to get back on the bike. Always.

Ron Stauffer: That sounds incredibly painful. What was your relationship to pain? Were you impervious to pain or did you somehow in a strange way enjoy it?

Oh, I felt every ounce of the pain—don’t let anyone tell you I didn’t. I wasn’t impervious, and I sure as hell didn’t enjoy it. But I learned to live with it. Pain was just the price of doing what I did. I think I had a higher tolerance for it than most people, but more than that, I refused to let it control me. The adrenaline of performing, the roar of the crowd—that was stronger than any pain. And honestly, every time I got hurt and got back up, it proved I was tougher than the pain. That’s what kept me going.

Ron Stauffer: Okay, so again, talking about pain, is there any time that you thought to yourself, this particular jump isn't worth it? For example, did you ever book something and then cancel because you decided to back out of it at the end or right before it began?

No, I never backed out of a jump once it was booked. That just wasn’t in my DNA. Even if I was hurt, even if the conditions weren’t perfect, I went through with it. There were times I thought, This one might be too much, but I always told myself, If I don’t do it, I’m not Evel Knievel. The closest I ever came to calling it off was Snake River Canyon in nineteen seventy-four. I knew the odds of making it were slim, but I still went for it. That’s what people came to see—a man willing to risk it all. If I backed out, the legend would’ve died right there.

Ron Stauffer: Did you seriously think before every jump, this could be my last one, and I could die, and I'm okay with it?

Absolutely, every single time. I knew the risks better than anyone. Before every jump, I’d think, This could be it. But I was okay with that. I accepted it. I didn’t want to die, of course—who does?—but I knew if it happened, I’d go out doing what I was born to do. I wasn’t reckless; I calculated every jump. But I also knew no amount of planning could guarantee I’d land safely. That’s what made it thrilling—not just for me, but for the crowd. The possibility of death gave it meaning. If I was going to live, I wanted to live all in.

Ron Stauffer: Okay, so let's talk about panning your jumps. Did you ever consult with mathematicians or physicists or people like that who were quote-unquote experts to help you calculate speeds and trajectory and all that? Or did you just simply eyeball it and say, That looks good enough.

It was a mix of both, honestly. I didn’t have physicists or mathematicians on my payroll, but I did talk to experts now and then to get an idea of things like trajectory and speed. For the most part, though, I trusted my gut and my experience. I’d measure the distance, size up the ramp angles, and figure out how fast I needed to go. A lot of it came down to feel—years of riding and knowing what my bike could handle. It wasn’t all guesswork, but it sure as hell wasn’t a science lab. It was me, my instincts, and a hell of a lot of nerve.

Ron Stauffer: What about practicing? If you do an unbelievably ambitious jump, is that something that you practice completely beforehand, once or twice or more times? Or did you just say, you know what, I'm just going to do this all live without any practice at all and see if I can land it in front of all these people?

Oh, I almost never practiced the big jumps. What you saw was what you got—live, first attempt, no do-overs. If I was going to risk my neck, it had to be in front of the crowd. That’s what they came for. I mean, sure, I’d ride the bike around to get a feel for the ramp and check the speed I needed, but full-on rehearsals? Never. Practicing a jump meant risking the same danger without the payoff of an audience. I wanted that energy, that adrenaline from the crowd, to push me through. It was all or nothing every time.

Ron Stauffer: Going back to the concept of risk and that sort of thing, I know at one point you used to say things like, hey kids, don't try this at home, right? And I think, wasn't that something that took off all over the place, meaning all kinds of television shows that had crazy, wild action would have some sort of disclaimer at the front that said, kids, don't try this at home? Are you the one who started that?

Yeah, that’s right—I was one of the first to say, Hey kids, don’t try this at home. It wasn’t just a catchphrase; it was a real warning. I knew kids were out there jumping off ramps on their bikes, pretending to be me. Hell, I probably inspired half the broken bones in the country! But I didn’t want anyone getting seriously hurt thinking they could pull off what I was doing. My stunts weren’t just crazy—they were dangerous, and I was a professional who accepted the risks. That phrase caught on, and now you see it everywhere. But yeah, I started it. Evel Knievel, keeping kids a little safer, one warning at a time.

Ron Stauffer: Was that an idea that you came up with or was that something that maybe a sponsor or a television station required you to say before you did your jump?

That was my idea, straight from me. No one told me to say it; no sponsor or TV station pushed it on me. I saw how many kids were idolizing me, trying to copy my stunts, and it worried me. I didn’t want them to get themselves killed or seriously hurt thinking they could do what I did without the experience—or the scars—to back it up. So I started saying, “Don’t try this at home” because I wanted to inspire kids, not endanger them. It came from a place of responsibility, believe it or not.

Ron Stauffer: That's interesting, though, because if you look at yourself as a sort of role model, wouldn't the natural reaction of children who looked up to you say— let me rephrase. Wouldn't the natural reaction of children who see you on TV be to do exactly that and say, hey, let me ride my bicycle off the roof or something like that? Is that what you wanted? How could someone be inspired by you without endangering themselves?

You’re right—it’s a fine line. I knew kids were going to try to copy me, no matter what I said. That’s just human nature, especially for kids who see someone like me and think, I want to be fearless too. I didn’t want to stop kids from dreaming big or pushing their limits, but I wanted them to understand the difference between being inspired and being reckless. What I wanted was for them to take that daredevil spirit and apply it to something meaningful—something they were passionate about. You can take risks in life without risking your neck, you know? It’s about channeling that energy the right way.

Ron Stauffer: You were kind of a, weirdly, a proponent of motorcycle riders and bicycle riders wearing helmets, right? I mean, it seems kind of weird that you were apparently so obsessive about, quote-unquote, being safe, even though you were probably one of the most dangerous men who ever rode on a bike or a motorcycle, right?

Yeah, it does seem a little ironic, doesn’t it? Here I was, risking my life every time I got on my bike, but I was a big believer in helmets and safety gear. I learned early on how important a helmet was—without one, I wouldn’t have survived some of those crashes. I’d seen what could happen to riders who didn’t wear helmets, and it wasn’t pretty. So, I made a point of always wearing mine, and I wanted to set that example for kids and anyone else watching.

It wasn’t about pretending what I did was safe—it wasn’t—but even in the midst of all the danger, there were ways to give yourself a fighting chance. I used to tell kids, “If you’re going to ride, wear your helmet.” It didn’t matter if you were Evel Knievel jumping buses or just a kid riding down the street—your head’s too important to lose. I think that message resonated because, yeah, I was dangerous, but I wasn’t stupid. Wearing a helmet was the one thing I wouldn’t gamble on.

Ron Stauffer: What about adrenaline? People use the term adrenaline junkie sometimes. Do you think you were addicted to adrenaline?

Oh, absolutely, I was an adrenaline junkie, no doubt about it. That rush you get right before the jump—that moment when the world narrows down to you, your bike, and the ramp—it’s like nothing else. It’s pure, raw, electric. I craved it. But it wasn’t just the adrenaline; it was the whole experience. The roar of the crowd, the danger, the feeling of defying the odds—it all fed into it. Adrenaline was part of the high, but it was also about proving to myself and the world that I could do the impossible. That’s a powerful addiction.

Ron Stauffer: Would you call what you did gambling in a certain sense? And if so, would you say that you had a personality that was vulnerable to gambling? Meaning, did you also gamble financially in other ways? Because you were certainly gambling with your life to a certain extent, right?

Yeah, you could definitely call what I did a form of gambling—every jump was a roll of the dice. I gambled with my life, my body, and my reputation every time I got on that bike. But I wasn’t reckless about it. I calculated the risks, even if the odds weren’t always in my favor. It was a gamble, but it wasn’t blind luck—I bet on my skills and my guts.

As for financial gambling, yeah, I dabbled in it. I bet on myself in business, took risks with sponsorships and shows. I even spent some time at the tables in Vegas. But my biggest gamble was always the jumps, and I guess you could say my personality thrived on that thrill, whether it was in the air or at the bank. It’s just who I was—always pushing my chips all in.

Ron Stauffer: So talking of sponsors, who were some of your sponsors and did you struggle to find sponsors? I'm trying to imagine a company sponsoring you and then a crowd watching you fall to your death. How often did that come up and was it a struggle for you to find sponsors?

Finding sponsors wasn’t always easy, especially early on. I mean, who wants their name tied to a guy who might not walk away from his next stunt? But once I proved I could draw a crowd and get people talking, sponsors started lining up. Some of the big names included Harley-Davidson and Ideal Toys—they made that Evel Knievel stunt cycle that every kid had in the seventies. That thing was a goldmine.

Still, some sponsors were nervous about the risks. They didn’t want their brand associated with a fatal accident. I had to sell them on the spectacle, the excitement, and the fact that people couldn’t look away. They weren’t just backing a guy on a motorcycle; they were backing a legend in the making. But yeah, every jump carried that risk, and not every sponsor had the stomach for it.

Ron Stauffer: Were there any things that you tried to do but sponsors said we're not going to support you in or were there any venues that said we're not going to allow you to do that here on our you know on our property?

Oh, definitely. There were times when sponsors or venues flat-out refused to get involved. Some jumps were just too risky or too wild for them to want their name attached. For example, a few sponsors backed out of the Snake River Canyon jump—I mean, strapping myself into a rocket-powered bike to leap a canyon? That was too much for some folks. They didn’t want to deal with the potential fallout, literally and figuratively, if I didn’t make it.

As for venues, yeah, I had a few turn me down, especially early on. Some were worried about liability or didn’t believe I could pull off the stunts. Others thought the spectacle was too crazy or dangerous for their crowd. But for every no, I found someone willing to take the gamble with me. If a venue or sponsor didn’t believe in the dream, I kept moving until I found one that did. That’s how I kept the show rolling.

Ron Stauffer: Okay, let's go into your mind a little bit. If you would, put me inside your brain. Give me two scenarios. Let's say you've just landed a jump, and you succeeded, and you're feeling good. What did that feel like for you? And then, conversely, let's take me there to that moment when you failed as well. What did that feel like?

Alright, let’s start with the success. Picture this: I’ve just landed the jump, the bike hits the ground perfectly, and I keep it upright. The roar of the crowd is deafening, and every ounce of fear and doubt melts away. It feels like I’ve just conquered the impossible. My heart’s pounding, my body’s electric, and there’s this rush—this overwhelming pride that I did what no one else dared to do. It’s like flying and landing safely on the edge of a cliff. Nothing in the world compares to that moment.

Now, for the failures. Imagine the opposite. I’m mid-air, and I already know I’m not going to make it. There’s this split second of dread, knowing the landing’s going to hurt like hell. When I crash, it’s instant pain—bones breaking, the bike slamming down, the crowd gasping. Lying there, I’d feel the weight of failure—not just the physical agony, but knowing I let down the people who believed in me. But even in that pain, part of me would think, I’ll get up. I’ll heal. And I’ll do it better next time. The failures hurt, but they fueled me just as much as the successes.

Ron Stauffer: I saw a video of you one time where you crashed at some county fair or something like that. And then you were helped up to a microphone and you said into the microphone, this is the last time I'm ever doing this again. I will never, ever get on a bicycle ever again. I'm retired. And that didn't actually turn out to be true, right?

You’re talking about my famous “retirement speech”. That was in nineteen seventy-two at the Cow Palace in Daly City, California. I’d just crashed hard trying to jump over thirteen cars, and I was banged up pretty bad. They handed me the microphone, and I said, “This is the last jump I’m ever going to make. I’ll never, ever, ever jump again. I’m through.”

Of course, that didn’t stick. I think I meant it in the moment—I was in pain, frustrated, and probably a little embarrassed. But once I healed up, the itch came back. I couldn’t stay away. Jumping was who I was, and as much as I swore I’d quit, I couldn’t imagine my life without it. So, yeah, I got back on the bike and kept going. Some things are just too big to walk away from.

Ron Stauffer: Let's talk about family for a minute. I'm trying to imagine what would it be like to be a part of your family. Were you married at any point in time? Did you have kids? What did your parents, your wife or your children, if you had any, what did they think about what dad does for a living?

Oh, family was always a big part of my life, though it wasn’t easy for them. I was married twice—my first wife was Linda, and we had four kids together: Kelly, Robbie, Tracey, and Alicia.

Later, I married Krystal. Being Evel Knievel’s family meant living with a lot of worry and uncertainty. My parents, as I mentioned, thought I was nuts. My wives? Well, they had to deal with me being gone a lot, risking my life for a living, and, let’s be honest, I wasn’t the easiest man to be married to.

My kids had mixed feelings. They were proud of me, sure, but it’s not easy watching your dad crash and end up in the hospital over and over. Robbie, my son, followed in my footsteps and became a daredevil himself, so I guess he understood me better than anyone. But I think, deep down, they all knew I wasn’t just doing it for me—I was doing it to give them a better life. That doesn’t make the worry go away, though, and I’ll admit, I put them through a lot. Being Evel Knievel wasn’t just my life—it was theirs, too.

Ron Stauffer: Your son Robbie became a daredevil as well. Did you want him to follow in your footsteps? Was that your idea or did you encourage or discourage him at any point in time?

Ah, Robbie, he was a chip off the old block. I didn’t push him into being a daredevil, but I wasn’t surprised when he chose to follow in my footsteps. It’s in the blood, you know? He grew up watching me, traveling with me, and seeing the crowds, the jumps, and the excitement. I think it just got into his soul.

I didn’t exactly encourage him, though. I knew the risks better than anyone, and as a father, I didn’t want to see him go through the same pain and injuries I did. But at the same time, I respected his choice. When he decided to take on the daredevil life, I gave him advice and tried to prepare him for what it meant—not just the glory, but the hard knocks that come with it. He made a name for himself, and I’m proud of what he accomplished. Robbie carried on the Knievel legacy, and he did it his way, which is all a father can ask for.

Ron Stauffer: I'm trying to think back of all the jumps I've seen, either in photographs or videos. What were some of your biggest jumps, and how many total school buses or semi-trucks did you jump over? What would you say some of your proudest moments were, in terms of your biggest daredevil stunts ever?

Ah, the big ones! Some of my most famous jumps were the ones that really pushed the limits. One of the biggest was in nineteen seventy-five at Kings Island in Ohio—I cleared fourteen Greyhound buses, which was a world record at the time. That’s one I’m especially proud of. Another iconic jump was Caesars Palace in nineteen sixty-seven, where I tried to jump the fountain. I crashed spectacularly, but that one put me on the map.

As for school buses, in nineteen seventy-four at the Canadian National Exhibition in Toronto, I jumped thirteen of them. Semi-trucks? I jumped them too, though the number didn’t quite match the buses.

My proudest moments weren’t always about the distance, though—they were about proving people wrong. Snake River Canyon was one of my boldest stunts. I didn’t make it across, but launching myself over a canyon in a rocket-powered bike? That’s the kind of crazy dream that defined my career. Success or failure, those big moments are why people still talk about me today.

Ron Stauffer: Talk about your bike for a minute. I think you mentioned it was a Harley Davidson, is that right? And if so, how much was it modified and was it specially outfitted with a miraculous amount of shocks and things like that to help absorb the blow, or was it a pretty standard motorcycle?

Yeah, I rode a Harley-Davidson XR-750 for most of my jumps, and let me tell you, that bike was a beast—but not because it was heavily modified. The XR-750 was originally designed as a flat-track racing bike, so it wasn’t made for jumping, let alone landing from insane heights. It had a lightweight frame and a strong engine, which made it ideal for getting the speed I needed to clear those big distances.

As for modifications, there weren’t a lot. The shocks were beefed up a bit to handle the landings, but nothing miraculous, I’ll tell you that much. Honestly, the bike wasn’t built for what I put it through, and that’s part of what made it so dangerous. I had to rely on my skill, balance, and sheer guts to land safely. People think I had some kind of magic setup, but the truth is, it was just me and a bike that probably didn’t want to be doing what I made it do. That’s part of what made the jumps so thrilling—and so risky.

Ron Stauffer: Were there any things that you tried, where you failed, and then tried again? Or typically, if you failed, did you just say, you know what, I'm not going to do that jump again, I'm going to do a different one?

If I failed a jump, I usually didn’t go back and try it again. My philosophy was to keep moving forward—there were always bigger and better jumps waiting for me. For example, when I crashed at Caesars Palace, I didn’t go back to try that fountain jump again. It was part of the story, part of the legend, and I felt it was better to leave it as it was and focus on the next challenge.

That said, I didn’t let failure stop me from pushing the limits. If a crash taught me something—like needing more speed or a better ramp angle—I’d apply that to the next jump. Every failure was a lesson, but I didn’t dwell on it by repeating the same stunt. I was always chasing the next big moment, not trying to rewrite the last one.

Ron Stauffer: Was there anything that was too scary? Did people ever challenge you to do something that you decided not to? Or did you ever initially start planning a particular jump and then saying, no, never mind, I'm not going to do it.

There wasn’t much that scared me outright, but I wasn’t stupid either. If something seemed impossible or just plain suicidal, I’d turn it down or adjust the plan. One example was the Grand Canyon. People challenged me to jump it, and I seriously thought about it, but the logistics and risk were too much. That’s how Snake River Canyon came about—it was my way of taking on a similar challenge but within reason (well, my version of reason).

I never backed out once a jump was booked, but during the planning stages, if something didn’t feel right or the math didn’t add up, I’d call it off or change the stunt. It wasn’t about fear; it was about knowing my limits and respecting the challenge. I had guts, sure, but I wasn’t looking for a death sentence. If I was going to risk it all, I wanted at least a fighting chance.

Ron Stauffer: Is there anything you said you wouldn't do, just categorically, like you would not do a particular kind of jump or anything like that?

Yeah, there were a few things I wouldn’t touch, even with my reputation for pushing limits. For one, I wasn’t interested in jumping off buildings or anything where I couldn’t land on solid ground with my bike. I was a motorcycle jumper, not a base jumper. I needed a ramp and wheels under me—that was my style.

Another thing I stayed away from was underwater stunts or anything involving serious fire hazards. I wasn’t about gimmicks; I wanted the focus to be on the sheer audacity and skill of the jump itself. So if a stunt felt more like a circus trick than a true Evel Knievel challenge, I wasn’t interested. It had to be big, bold, and real—or it wasn’t worth doing.

Ron Stauffer: How did you charge for that? Did you sell tickets to just your event by itself? Meaning, was it a standalone thing kind of like a concert where people would buy a ticket just to come see you? Or were you an act in a bigger sort of circus or fair or something like that? Because I'm trying to imagine spending money on a ticket and then watching you by the time you actually hit the ramp. Your stunts were over in like four or five seconds, right?

You’re right—my jumps were over in seconds, but the build-up and the show were what made it all worth the ticket price. Early in my career, I was often part of bigger events, like fairs, rodeos, or even circus-type acts. Those venues brought in the crowds, and I was the headliner that people remembered long after the event was over.

As I got bigger, though, my jumps became standalone events. People would buy tickets just to see Evel Knievel, and we made it a spectacle. There was always a whole show leading up to the jump—introductions, me revving the bike, testing the ramp, interacting with the crowd. The tension built to a fever pitch before I hit that ramp. By the time the jump happened, people were on the edge of their seats. Sure, the jump itself was fast, but the experience was what made it unforgettable. People weren’t just paying for the stunt; they were paying to be part of history.

Ron Stauffer: On that note, did you become wealthy? I mean, were you a multi-millionaire? Was this a very high-paying career choice for you? And or, how did you afford all those horrible, horrible medical bills too? Did that eat into your earnings a lot?

I made a lot of money in my career—millions, for sure. Between the ticket sales, sponsorships, and merchandise like the Evel Knievel stunt toys, I was raking it in during my peak. That said, I also spent it just as fast. I lived large—big houses, fancy cars, you name it. I didn’t hold back when it came to enjoying the fruits of my labor.

As for medical bills, oh yeah, they were brutal. All those surgeries, hospital stays, and recovery costs added up fast. A lot of my money went toward patching myself back together. Sponsors helped cover some of the costs, but I paid for most of it out of my own pocket. So while I made a fortune, I also burned through a good chunk of it, between my lifestyle and keeping myself in one piece. Wealthy? Sure. But rich enough to never worry? Not exactly.

Ron Stauffer: Okay, talk about your career in terms of when you started, when you peaked, and then when was your very last jump? I mean, how many total years were you doing this? And in general, how many total jumps did you do, if you can even count them all?

I started my professional career in the mid-1960s, and my first big stunt that got attention was in 1965 in Moses Lake, Washington. My peak came in the 1970s, when I was at the height of my fame, pulling off huge jumps like Snake River Canyon and the fourteen buses at Kings Island. That was when I was everywhere—TV, toys, you name it.

As for my last jump, that was in 1980 in Puerto Rico. I tried to jump over a tank full of sharks, but it didn’t go well—I crashed and broke more bones. After that, I officially retired from jumping. So I was actively jumping for about fifteen years.

As for the number of jumps? I couldn’t give you an exact count, but it’s easily in the hundreds. Some were small shows, others massive spectacles, but every single one of them added to the legacy. It was a wild ride, start to finish.

Ron Stauffer: I think you just said Puerto Rico, right? Obviously in America, you were kind of, in a sense, a uniquely American institution, right? I mean, you're almost a homegrown American superhero, but I wonder about overseas. Did you travel overseas to Asia or South America or places like that? What was your international reputation?

Yeah, you’re right—I was definitely a homegrown American phenomenon. The red, white, and blue on my jumpsuit said it all. But my reputation did stretch far beyond the U.S. I had fans all over the world, and people everywhere knew the name Evel Knievel. I did a few international shows, mostly in Canada and Europe, but I didn’t jump as much in places like Asia or South America. Logistically, it was tough to set up those big events overseas.

That said, my stunts were broadcast internationally, and the Evel Knievel toys were a huge hit worldwide. My legend spread even if I didn’t perform in every corner of the globe. People everywhere admired the daredevil spirit, and I think that made me kind of a universal symbol of guts and glory, even if most of the action stayed on American soil.

Ron Stauffer: Let's talk for a minute about other famous quote-unquote daredevils or even just people who did their own stunts. You watch the movie The Great Escape with Steve McQueen, for example. I think they've made a pretty big deal about Steve McQueen's doing his own stunts on his motorcycle, which is impressive in its own right, but is nothing like what you did, right? What were some of the other folks doing, let's say, before what you did and perhaps after what you did, Or were you the only one who ever did such crazy jumps and stunts and stuff like that? Did you have an influence on, say, Hollywood and stunt actors?

Oh, there were definitely other daredevils and stunt performers before and after me, but nobody did it quite like I did. I mean, guys like Steve McQueen, sure, he was famous for doing some of his own stunts, like in The Great Escape. He was a hell of a rider, no question, but he wasn’t out there risking his neck the way I was with massive jumps over buses and canyons. Hollywood stunts, as impressive as they are, usually have safety nets—literally and figuratively. What I did was live, raw, and without any guarantees.

Before me, you had folks like Joie Chitwood, who was known for his car stunt shows. He influenced me a bit, but his stunts were more controlled. After me, there were people like my son Robbie Knievel, who carried the torch and pulled off some big jumps of his own, including successfully jumping the fountains at Caesars Palace, something I didn’t pull off. And then, of course, you’ve got modern daredevils and extreme sports athletes doing insane things, like the guys in freestyle motocross.

I think I helped bridge the gap between traditional stuntmen and the spectacle-driven, risk-taking athletes you see today. My stunts inspired Hollywood to go bigger, and my name became shorthand for anyone taking a crazy risk. I wasn’t the only daredevil, but I set the bar for what it meant to put it all on the line.

Ron Stauffer: What are some things, you already mentioned some, but develop that a little bit more. What are some things that we could see today in 2024 that are absolutely unequivocally a direct result of your influence?

You can see my influence everywhere in extreme sports and daredevil culture today. For starters, events like X Games wouldn’t exist without the groundwork I laid. Freestyle motocross, where riders do insane backflips and tricks mid-air? That’s a direct evolution of the stunts I did. Those guys are using modern bikes and ramps, but the spirit of pushing boundaries and wowing crowds comes straight from what I started.

In pop culture, anytime someone does something risky and they’re called an "Evel Knievel," that’s my legacy right there. You’ve also got action movies with bigger stunts than ever, many of which owe a debt to the spectacle I brought to live performances. Even toy lines and video games that celebrate high-flying, over-the-top action have roots in the Evel Knievel stunt cycle toys from the 1970s.

And let’s not forget live shows like Nitro Circus—they’re basically my stunts cranked up to eleven, with teams of people doing what I did solo. The whole culture of blending entertainment with extreme danger—that’s something I pioneered. My name might be from the past, but my influence is alive and kicking.

Ron Stauffer: What about competitors? You talked about not really having any influences, but during your career, did you have competitors? Were there any people who were actually copying you, like actual professionals copying you and following you around on the same circuit? Were there any apples-to-apples competitors that you had during your career?

During my career, I didn’t really have true apples-to-apples competitors. I was in a league of my own. There were certainly other stunt riders and daredevils out there, but nobody was doing the kind of massive, high-profile jumps I was pulling off. I made sure of that—I wasn’t just a stuntman; I was a showman. I built my brand to stand apart, and honestly, a lot of people didn’t want to take the kinds of risks I did.

That said, there were a few who tried to follow in my footsteps. Guys like Bob Gill and Gary Wells were jumping motorcycles during my era, but they didn’t have the same level of fame or draw the same crowds. Wells, for example, tried to jump the fountains at Caesars Palace after I did, but he crashed, too.

And then, of course, there was my son, Robbie Knievel, who became a daredevil in his own right later on. He was more of a successor than a competitor, though. In my prime, I wasn’t just competing against other riders—I was competing against people’s imaginations, trying to do stunts so big and daring that no one else could even think about topping them. That’s what kept me ahead of the pack.

Ron Stauffer: Going back to the idea of pain once more, I’m just imagining how much pain you’ve suffered throughout your entire career. This is a two-part question. First of all, did you have permanent damage to certain parts of your body? Meaning, did you walk with a limp? Things like that. And then the second part of that question is, were you on painkillers basically all day, every day, for your entire life?

Yeah, I carried the scars and damage from my career for the rest of my life. Permanent injuries? Absolutely. I had metal pins and plates all over my body. My back, hips, and legs took the worst of it, so I did walk with a limp, especially as I got older. My hands were busted up, too, so even simple things like gripping became tough. My body was a map of every crash and every crazy stunt I’d ever done.

As for painkillers, yeah, they became a big part of my life, especially after the worst injuries. When you’ve broken hundreds of bones and had more surgeries than you can count, the pain doesn’t just go away. I relied on painkillers a lot during and after my career, but I won’t sugarcoat it—it wasn’t just about managing the pain. There were times when it became a problem. It’s tough to live with that much damage and not fall into the trap of relying on medication to get through the day. Pain was my constant companion, but I tried not to let it define me. It was part of the price I paid to be Evel Knievel.

Ron Stauffer: Were you addicted to opiates or anything like that? Maybe because you came in the seventies for the bulk of your career, maybe that was actually better in a sense. Cause I would imagine today you'd probably get hooked on something like fentanyl, right? Like an oxycodone pill. Isn't that what a doctor would prescribe for you today in 2024?

You’re right that the times were different. In the 1970s and 80s, doctors weren’t handing out prescriptions the way they do today, but I did rely on painkillers, and I’ll admit, I struggled with addiction at points in my life. Back then, it was mostly things like codeine and morphine—strong stuff, but not the ultra-potent drugs like fentanyl you see today. If I were doing this in 2024, yeah, there’s a good chance doctors would be giving me things like oxycodone or even fentanyl after some of those injuries. And honestly, that kind of access could have made things much worse for me.

The thing is, I wasn’t just treating physical pain; I was also dealing with the toll it took on me mentally. Being Evel Knievel came with pressures that were hard to handle, and painkillers became an escape from all of it. I tried to keep it under control, but there were definitely times when it got the better of me. In today’s world, with how much stronger and more addictive those drugs are, I might not have been so lucky to come out on the other side.

Ron Stauffer: If you had it to do over, would you do your life differently? And do you have regrets? Have you expressed particular regrets? What advice would you give people based on your life?

If I had it to do over, yeah, I’d still do it. I’d live my life just as boldly, but maybe with a little more caution in some places. I don’t regret the jumps or the risks—that’s who I was. But I do regret some of the choices I made off the bike. I wasn’t always the best husband, father, or friend, and if I could go back, I’d spend more time on those relationships and less time chasing fame and fortune.

As for advice, I’d tell people this: live your life fully but understand the cost. Take risks; chase your dreams, but don’t let the pursuit of greatness make you blind to what really matters—your family, your health, and your integrity. Looking back, I’m proud of what I accomplished, but I can see the toll it took on me and those I loved. If you’re going to live like Evel Knievel, make sure you’re ready to pay the price.

Ron Stauffer: That's a little bit ironic hearing Evel Knievel tell us about valuing his health. But remarkably, you did not die on any of your bicycle jumps. You may have come very close to death, but that didn't kill you. That is quite remarkable. And I mean, just comment on that, would you? You lived to be almost 70, right?

Yeah, it is ironic, isn’t it? I lived a life that should’ve killed me a hundred times over, but it didn’t. I came so close to death on more occasions than I can count, but somehow, I always managed to get back up. It wasn’t the jumps or the crashes that got me—it was years of wear and tear catching up to me later in life. I ended up passing at sixty-nine, not in my eighties, but even that was a miracle considering the risks I took.

Living as long as I did wasn’t luck—it was sheer determination. I think the lesson in that is this: even if you live on the edge, you can survive if you’ve got the will to keep going. But yeah, I’ll admit, making it out of those jumps alive is still remarkable, even to me. I beat the odds so many times it’s almost as if the universe wanted to keep me around to tell the story.

Ron Stauffer: If you were a guy who rode a motorcycle for a living, did you ever like to just take your motorcycle out and ride it cross country or anything like that? Did Evel Knievel ever take a relaxed road trip?

Oh, absolutely! As much as I loved the spotlight and the stunts, I was still a motorcycle guy at heart. There’s nothing like hitting the open road, just you, your bike, and the horizon. I wasn’t always about the jumps—sometimes, I just needed to clear my head and ride for the pure freedom of it. I did plenty of road trips, though not always cross-country. I’d hit long stretches of highway out west, through Montana, Nevada… places like that.

Riding without the pressure of a crowd or a ramp was a whole different kind of joy. It reminded me why I fell in love with motorcycles in the first place. No stakes, no risks—just the wind in my face and the sound of the engine. For a guy who lived his life on the edge, those quiet rides were a way to recharge my soul.

Ron Stauffer: That sounds fun. Let's say you didn't grow up to be Evel Knievel and you were just Robert Knievel, a normal Montana guy, and you didn't get into daredeviling at all. What would you have done differently? In other words, if Evel Knievel were just a normal dude, what would he have done?

If I hadn’t become Evel Knievel, I probably would’ve stayed close to my Montana roots. I could’ve been a rancher or worked in the mines like so many guys from Butte. Maybe I’d have gone into business—I always had a knack for selling ideas and getting people excited about something. Who knows? Maybe I’d have ended up running a bar or a car dealership.

But to be honest, I don’t think I was ever cut out to be “just a normal guy.” Even as a kid, I had this fire in me to stand out, to do something bigger. If it hadn’t been daredevil stunts, it would’ve been something else—maybe running wild in another field entirely. I was born to take risks, to live loud and bold. That’s just who I am, whether I’m Evel Knievel or Robert Knievel.

Ron Stauffer: What about side projects? Did you have any side passions? Did you like collecting things? Did you have pets? What did you do in your time off when you weren't on your motorcycle?

When I wasn’t on my motorcycle, I had plenty of other interests to keep me busy. I loved fishing and hunting—classic Montana hobbies. Being out in nature was a way for me to decompress and connect with my roots. I also enjoyed golfing, though I wasn’t exactly a pro at it. It was more about having fun and blowing off steam.

As for collecting, I was big into cars. I had a garage full of flashy sports cars and custom rides. I liked things that were fast and bold—kind of like me. And yeah, I had pets over the years, mostly dogs. They were great companions and a reminder of life’s simpler joys.

But my biggest side project? It was being Evel Knievel, even off the bike. I loved talking to fans, signing autographs, and telling stories. Whether I was at home or on the road, I was always working on building my legend. That was as much a part of me as the stunts themselves.

Ron Stauffer: What did you do in all that downtime? I'm just imagining how many days, weeks, and months collectively you spent in the hospital. Did you watch a lot of TV or read a lot of books? Were there, you know, like, what were some of your favorite books? Or what did you do when you're just lying there in bed for 8 hours, 10 hours, 12 hours a day doing nothing but recovering and feeling your bones melt?

Oh, man, I spent way too much time laid up in hospital beds, I’ll tell you that. When you’re stuck like that, you have to find ways to keep your mind busy, or you’ll go nuts. I watched a lot of TV, especially westerns—shows like Gunsmoke and Bonanza. I loved the old cowboy spirit of those stories, probably because I saw myself as a modern-day cowboy, just trading a horse for a motorcycle.

As for books, I wasn’t a big reader, but I did enjoy stories about adventure and daring men—stuff that mirrored my own life. I read about other risk-takers, explorers, and even some biographies. I liked reading about people who lived boldly, like General George Patton. But mostly, I spent that downtime dreaming up my next stunt. Lying in a hospital bed gave me plenty of time to imagine the next big thing that would get me back on my feet and into the air. It kept me focused on what I’d do once I healed instead of wallowing in the pain.

Ron Stauffer: Let's talk about world records. You mentioned that you jumped over 14 Greyhound buses, which was a world record. Talk about any world records that you may have made and or world records that might still stand today, if any.

Yeah, jumping fourteen Greyhound buses at Kings Island in 1975 was a big one, and it set a world record for the longest motorcycle jump at the time. That was one of my proudest moments because it was a massive challenge, and the crowd was huge—tens of thousands of people came to see it live, and millions more watched it on TV.

As for records that still stand today, none of my distance records have held up. Riders with modern bikes and equipment have since beaten those numbers, especially in freestyle motocross. But what still stands, in a way, is my record for the most bones broken—over four hundred in my career. That’s in the Guinness World Records, and it’s not one anyone’s in a hurry to break.

The real “record” I think about, though, is the cultural impact. I don’t know if there’s been anyone else who’s captured the world’s imagination the way I did as a daredevil. That legacy is something no jump can outdo.

Ron Stauffer: What would a doctor say, perhaps a psychiatrist or a psychologist, maybe back then during your time, and perhaps now with the additional understanding that we have in, you know, circa 2024, what would a doctor say about your driving need to do all this crazy stuff? Was it healthy? Was it unhealthy? Is it a disorder? I mean, you were one in a billion, right? Is it just an extreme personality, or is there actually some sort of a mental disorder going on?

That’s an interesting question, and I’m sure a lot of doctors and psychologists—then and now—would have plenty to say about me. Back in my time, people might’ve just called me a thrill-seeker or labeled me as someone with an extreme personality. Today, with what we know, they’d probably look at things like impulse control, risk tolerance, and maybe even addiction to adrenaline. Some might say I had traits of something like a borderline personality or even an addictive personality, given my need to keep pushing limits.

But here’s the thing—was it a disorder, or was it just who I was? I think what set me apart wasn’t that I had some kind of mental issue but that I embraced what others might suppress. I wasn’t afraid of failure or pain, and I channeled that into something extraordinary. Healthy? Probably not in the strictest sense—breaking hundreds of bones and risking your life for a crowd isn’t exactly what you’d call balanced. But it was a kind of purpose, and I think having that drive made me who I was. Whether you call it a disorder or just a rare personality type, I’d argue it gave the world something unforgettable.

Ron Stauffer: For somebody who had as many crashes as you did, we, at least in the 2020s, would tend to think, wow, that guy's brains got whacked around one too many times. Did you have any evidence that at some point in your life you may have had a traumatic brain injury of some sort?

You’re not wrong to wonder about that—getting thrown off a motorcycle and crashing as many times as I did, my brain definitely took its fair share of hits. Back in my day, though, people didn’t talk about things like traumatic brain injuries (TBIs) the way they do now. There was no such thing as concussion protocols or brain scans for athletes or daredevils. You got knocked out, you shook it off—or tried to—and got back on the bike.

Looking back, I’m sure I suffered concussions, maybe even TBIs, but they weren’t diagnosed. I had memory lapses, mood swings, and sometimes struggled to concentrate. It’s hard to say how much of that was the toll of the crashes versus just the stress and chaos of the life I lived. But yeah, if I were doing this today, there’s no doubt doctors would’ve been keeping a close eye on my brain health.

That said, I lived life full throttle, knowing the risks, and I never let the injuries define me. I’d bet my body and brain were both holding on by a thread at times, but I was too focused on the next jump to stop and think about it.

Ron Stauffer: What about your outfit? You mentioned before the red, white, and blue, obviously a very American outfit for a very American personality. Where did you come up with that idea? And I just now noticed the sort of cowboy connection. Who came up with that outfit and did it change over the years or were you pretty consistent with that?

The red, white, and blue outfit was my idea—it was all about embodying the American spirit. I wanted to be a modern-day cowboy, like you said, but instead of riding a horse, I was riding a motorcycle. The jumpsuit wasn’t just about style; it was about creating a persona that was larger than life. The cape, the stars, the stripes—it was all designed to make me look like a superhero, an all-American daredevil who could do the impossible.

The outfit evolved a little over the years, but the core look stayed the same. Early on, it was simpler—more practical leather gear. But as I got bigger and more famous, I added the flash: rhinestones, fringe, and that iconic cape. It wasn’t just for show, though; it became a part of my identity. People didn’t just come to see a guy on a motorcycle—they came to see Evel Knievel, the living embodiment of boldness and freedom. The outfit was as much a part of the act as the stunts themselves.

Ron Stauffer: I'm thinking the whole red, white, and blue thing and the whole American connection and all that. And you rose to prominence during the Cold War, right? Maybe this is putting too fine a point on it, but in a way, were you some sort of embodiment of the American spirit of adventure and even almost space exploration or something like that? How did the Cold War and travel and exploration and daredevilry affect whatever you did, if at all?

You’re absolutely onto something there. The Cold War was all about competition, adventure, and proving who could push the limits further. It was a time when America wanted to show the world what it was made of, and I think I tapped into that spirit. My red, white, and blue jumpsuit wasn’t just a costume—it was a symbol of American boldness, independence, and grit. Whether I was jumping buses or trying to leap Snake River Canyon, I was showing that Americans don’t back down from a challenge, no matter how impossible it seems. There’s definitely a parallel to space exploration.

The moon landing happened in 1969, right in the middle of my rise to fame. People were watching astronauts push boundaries in the sky, and I was doing the same thing here on Earth. It was about taking risks, defying the odds, and inspiring others to dream bigger. Sure, I wasn’t fighting the Soviets or building rockets, but I was part of that same spirit of proving that Americans could do the impossible. I think that’s one reason I resonated so deeply with people during that era—I wasn’t just a daredevil; I was a symbol of the times.

Ron Stauffer: I believe at some point in your life, didn't you become a Christian and almost become an evangelist of sorts, telling people about Jesus or speaking publicly in churches about your conversion?

Yes, that’s absolutely true. Later in my life, I had a real change of heart. In 2007, not long before I passed away, I became a born-again Christian. It was a powerful moment for me—a realization that I needed to make peace with myself, my past, and with God. For most of my life, I lived on the edge, full of pride and recklessness, but as I got older, I began reflecting on what it all meant.

My conversion happened publicly during a televised interview with Robert Schuller at the Crystal Cathedral. I spoke about my faith and how accepting Jesus into my life gave me a sense of peace I’d never known. I wouldn’t call myself an evangelist, but I did share my story openly, hoping it might inspire others to think about their own lives and what really matters. After years of living for the thrill, it felt good to find something bigger than myself to believe in.

Ron Stauffer: I've seen pictures of you carrying what looks like a really small cane or a magician's wand or something like that. What was that about? What was that cane or that walking stick that you carried?

Ah, the cane! Yeah, I carried a walking stick or cane later in my life, but it wasn’t just for show—it had a purpose. After all the crashes, surgeries, and broken bones, I needed some extra support to get around. My body was so beat up that walking without it could be tough, especially as I got older.

But being Evel Knievel, I wasn’t going to carry just any ordinary cane. It became part of my image, almost like a prop. Some of the canes I carried were custom-made, and they looked flashy, fitting my larger-than-life persona. In a way, it symbolized how I kept going despite the toll my career took on my body. Even limping, I was still Evel Knievel, standing tall and proud. That cane was a reminder to me—and everyone else—that no matter how many times you get knocked down, you keep moving forward.

Ron Stauffer: Was there one ultimate jump that you said you would do or planned on doing or hoped on doing someday but never got around to? What was the jump that got away, if there was one?

Oh, yeah, the ultimate jump that got away was the Grand Canyon. That was the one I dreamed of, the one I really wanted to conquer. It would’ve been the ultimate stunt, bigger than anything I’d ever done. I talked about it for years and even started looking into how to make it happen. But the logistics were a nightmare—getting the permits, finding the right location, and figuring out how to actually survive the jump. It just never came together.

Instead, I went after Snake River Canyon as a kind of substitute. It wasn’t the same, though. The rocket bike didn’t work the way I’d hoped, and even though it was a bold attempt, it didn’t have the same grandeur as jumping the Grand Canyon would’ve. That one stayed in my mind as the jump that could’ve cemented my legacy as the greatest daredevil of all time. But hey, sometimes the dream itself is what keeps you going, even if you never get to pull it off.

Ron Stauffer: How fast did you go for a lot of these jumps? Did you hold any speed records, or was the object—or maybe not the object, but was a significant part of your jumps the fact that you were going super fast, or was speed really not the issue, or the, you know, the exciting part?

Speed was definitely a critical part of every jump, but it wasn’t the spectacle itself—it was more of a means to an end. I had to hit a specific speed to clear the distance or height I was going for. For most jumps, I was going anywhere from sixty to ninety miles per hour, depending on the ramp angles and the length of the jump. I didn’t hold any official speed records, though, because my focus wasn’t on pure speed—it was on distance and danger.

The excitement wasn’t about how fast I was going; it was about the risk, the precision, and the sheer audacity of what I was attempting. People didn’t come to watch a speed run—they came to see me defy gravity and land on the other side. Speed was just one piece of the puzzle, and I had to get it exactly right. Too slow, I’d crash short; too fast, I’d overshoot the landing. It was all about balance, and that’s where the skill came in.

Ron Stauffer: This has been really fun. Why don't you leave us with maybe some inspirational quotes, or if you had any mottos of any kind, what would those have been? What are some of the more famous sayings of Evel Knievel?

This has been a blast, Ron. Let me leave you with some of my favorite quotes and mottos that sum up who I was:

“You can’t break my spirit, and you’ll never break my will to win.”

That was my attitude every time I got on the bike, no matter how many bones I’d broken.

“Bones heal, pain is temporary, and chicks dig scars.”

That one’s a little tongue-in-cheek, but it speaks to my view on taking risks and living with the consequences.

“I don’t want to be a common man. I want to be an uncommon man.”

That’s what drove me to go bigger, take risks, and leave a legacy.

And one of my all-time favorites:

“Anybody can jump a motorcycle. The trouble begins when you try to land it.”

Those sum up the Evel Knievel philosophy. Take risks, live boldly, and never let fear keep you down. Thanks for the ride, Ron. This has been one hell of a chat.

All right, folks, this has been really fun. Thank you to Evel Knievel, the wild, crazy madman… and stunt performer… and original pioneer-American-motorcycle-cowboy—whatever you want to call him. I don’t even know what to call him! He was one of a kind, an absolute American original.

*****

Thanks for listening to Zombie History, where we provide history lessons from beyond the grave. Feel free to rate and review this show wherever you listen to podcasts and visit zombiehistory.com to see who else I can dig up from generations past and have a fireside chat with.

In this episode, I’m interviewing Kurt Cobain (“Kurdt Kobain”), founder and lead singer of the grunge, pop, rock—whatever you want to call it—band from Seattle: Nirvana.

For this interview, we’re both seated in chairs at an empty concert stage. He’s smoking a cigarette and drinking a Rolling Rock beer, his very favorite. And I’m asking questions, sipping on tea. Why not?

Kurt Cobain, to me, was one of the most confusing musical figures of my lifetime. I didn’t understand almost anything about him or his band or his music or his lyrics.

And as a guitar player, I had a really hard time understanding why he was so bad and seemed to care so little. Now I can hopefully get my questions answered from the man himself. Let’s hear what Kurt has to say.

Ron Stauffer: Hi Kurt, how’s it going?

Hey, man. It’s going, you know. Same old chaos. What about you? What’s on your mind?

Ron Stauffer: Well, I mean, let’s start with the basics. First of all, you were what seemed to be a very, very angry person. Why were you so angry all the time? Was your life really that bad?

It wasn’t so much anger as it was frustration, you know? I just felt like I didn’t fit in anywhere. The world’s full of hypocrisy and bullshit, and I was sick of it. I didn’t have the worst life, but growing up, I felt really alienated, and that sticks with you. The music was my way of screaming back at everything that didn’t make sense, and it felt like no matter what I did, there was always this pressure to conform. I hated that. The music industry, society, all of it, trying to push you into a box. It’s suffocating.

I wasn’t trying to be some angry spokesperson, but I guess people latched onto that because the music hit a nerve. It wasn’t really about anger, it was about feeling trapped and not knowing how to deal with it.

Ron Stauffer: What were you trapped by? Trapped by, what, an expectation to be maybe a straight-A student or something like that, or just a normal American kid?

Exactly. Trapped by all that crap, like the expectation to fit into this perfect mold of what people think you should be. Be a good student, go to college, get a job, whatever. That wasn’t me. I never cared about that. I didn’t relate to what people around me valued. I was more into music and art, but in small towns, that makes you a freak. You get labeled, and then it’s like you’re stuck in that label forever.

Ron Stauffer: What were your parents’ expectations of you? What was it that they wanted you to do that you wanted to rebel against?

My parents just wanted me to be, I don’t know, normal. After they divorced, things got weird. My mom wanted me to be this responsible, well-behaved kid, and my dad was more into sports, you know? He wanted me to be this tough, all-American boy, but I was never into that. I hated that whole “be a man” attitude. I was into music, art, and just doing my own thing, but they didn’t get it. It’s like they wanted me to follow this script, and I just didn’t fit. So yeah, I rebelled against it, all of it.

Ron Stauffer: I guess that makes sense. What were your friends doing? Were you kind of a social outcast all by yourself, or were you part of a sort of grungy subculture of a whole bunch of peers who were experiencing the same thing at the same time?

It was a mix, really. I mean, for a while, I was kind of an outcast on my own, especially in high school. I didn’t have a lot of close friends who got me. But eventually, I found people who were into the same stuff—music, punk, counterculture. We were all kind of misfits, you know? There wasn’t this big “grunge” thing back then; we were just a bunch of weird kids who liked making noise. The whole scene grew out of that. We didn’t really fit anywhere else, so we made our own space.

Ron Stauffer: Okay, you said punk. Now, “punk” is a very specific term, both in terms of a subculture and in terms of music, right? How did you fit into that, and was punk something that started before you, and you kind of fit into that, or did you help launch punk as a certain aesthetic, at least here in America?

Yeah, punk was already a thing before me. I grew up listening to bands like The Sex Pistols, The Clash, Black Flag—those guys laid the groundwork. Punk, for me, wasn’t just the sound, though. It was the attitude, the DIY ethic, the rebellion against polished, commercial music. I loved that it wasn’t about being perfect; it was about being raw and real.

We didn’t start punk, but I’d say Nirvana helped bring that punk attitude into the mainstream, especially with Nevermind. People slapped the “grunge” label on us, but at its core, it was just a messy, punk spirit. We didn’t care about fitting into genres. We just wanted to make noise that felt honest.

Ron Stauffer: That certainly makes sense. I mean, the Sex Pistols are probably the best example of that I can think of. If I recall correctly, I don’t even think Sid Vicious knew how to play the bass guitar at all, right? Just some record executives gave him a bass and said, look tough for the camera, right?

Yeah, exactly. Sid wasn’t really about skill—he was about the image, the attitude. That’s what punk was in a lot of ways: it wasn’t about being technically good. It was about the energy, the rebellion. And that’s kind of what we were about too. I mean, I didn’t consider myself a great guitarist or anything, but I didn’t care. It was more about the feeling, the raw emotion, and not giving a damn if it was perfect or polished. That’s what connected us to punk, even if we didn’t sound exactly like those early bands.

Ron Stauffer: Okay, now you say you weren’t so great at playing the guitar, but actually, I heard Pat Metheny one time say that you were actually kind of a virtuosic guitar player. I think your punk aesthetic belied your innate sense of music and musical artistry, right?

I appreciate that, but I don’t really see myself as a virtuoso. I wasn’t into the whole technical side of things like some guitar players who were shredding solos or whatever. I kept things simple because that’s what felt right to me. But I definitely had a sense of melody and structure that maybe people didn’t always notice because the songs were loud and raw.

I didn’t want to be lumped in with grunge because it became this label for a whole scene, and a lot of it was just noise with no heart. I wasn’t about just making a racket for the sake of it. I cared about songwriting. I wanted every song to mean something, even if it was chaotic. So, I guess, in a way, maybe I was more thoughtful about the music than people gave me credit for. But I never wanted to be seen as some guitar hero or anything like that. I just wanted to make something real.

Ron Stauffer: Now you said “songs with heart.” That’s kind of ironic because a lot of your imagery was filled with death and suffering and corpses and dead bodies. So what would you say is a “song with heart” in that sense?

Yeah, it’s ironic, but that was kind of the point, you know? The darkness, the death, the suffering—that was just part of how I saw the world, or at least how I processed it. Life is messy and painful, and I didn’t want to hide that in the music. But when I say “songs with heart,” I mean they were honest. Even if they were about dark things, they came from a real place.

Take “Heart-Shaped Box,” for example. It’s filled with dark imagery, but it’s about vulnerability, obsession, and longing. It’s a love song, in a way. Or “All Apologies,” which is more about feeling inadequate and confused but still searching for some kind of peace. The heart comes from the honesty behind it, not the happy-go-lucky themes. I wasn’t going to write bubblegum pop. I was going to write about what I felt.

Ron Stauffer: Who were the artists of the time that came before you that you were explicitly trying not to be? Just name maybe a couple of genres or record labels or particular bands or acts that represented what you didn’t like and didn’t want for yourself musically.

Definitely the whole glam rock scene. Bands like Mötley Crüe, Poison—all that flashy, overproduced stuff. It was all about image, sex, drugs, and excess, and it felt so fake to me. Those guys were playing into the whole rock star fantasy, and I wanted nothing to do with that.

Then there were bands like Bon Jovi, who represented that commercial, radio-friendly rock. I couldn’t stand how polished it all was. It felt like music made just to sell records, not to say anything real. That’s exactly what I didn’t want Nirvana to be—a packaged product. We were the opposite of that. Real, messy, flawed—that’s what mattered to me.

Ron Stauffer: Why then, no offense, did you sign up with Sub Pop Records and eventually whoever else the big record company was, I think it was Geffen at some point, right? Weren’t you kind of walking into the dragon’s lair at that point and selling out and joining the enemy? If your focus was all about being independent and avoiding flashy radio hits, I don’t know that you accomplished your goal… or did you?

Yeah, man, I get that. It’s a fair point. With Sub Pop, we thought we were staying true to that underground DIY ethic. They were small at the time, and they had that rough, raw vibe that matched what we were doing. But as things grew, we kind of outgrew them too. And yeah, signing with Geffen… that was complicated. It felt like we were walking into the machine, but we also wanted to reach more people. We didn’t want to stay in a basement forever, you know?

Did we sell out? Maybe, but it wasn’t about chasing fame. It was about getting our music out there on our own terms. Nevermind wasn’t supposed to blow up the way it did, and when it did, it was weird, man. Suddenly, we were everywhere, and it felt like we’d lost some control. But at the same time, we were still trying to keep the heart of it. We didn’t change the music to fit in with anyone’s expectations, we just wanted to be heard. So, yeah, it’s a contradiction, but that’s life. Nothing’s ever as black and white as people think.

Ron Stauffer: I suppose that’s a fair point. I know you had some songs that were definitely controversial and were sure NEVER to be played on the radio, including the song “Rape Me,” which I believe is actually about your record label or at least some record producers in the first place, right?

Yeah, “Rape Me” was definitely not a radio-friendly song, and that’s exactly why I wrote it. It wasn’t just about record labels or the industry, though. It was about exploitation in general. The media, the way people use others, the way I felt like I was being commodified by everyone—fans, press, the whole machine. It was my way of taking back control, saying, “You can’t own me.”

The title was meant to provoke because it’s such a violent, ugly word, and that’s how the whole thing felt to me—like being violated. People tried to twist it into something it wasn’t, but at the core, it was about defiance. We weren’t going to let anyone define us, whether it was the industry or anyone else.

Ron Stauffer: Clearly. I guess in that sense, you never did. Although, the whole shock thing, I understand there’s a reason and a time and a place for that, but I’ve heard some unbelievably shocking things about you. I read in one of your biographies at the beginning of one concert, you came up to the microphone and said, “My name is Kurt Cobain, and I like to f*ck pot-bellied pigs.” What was all that about? Were you trying to make everybody hate you?

Yeah, I remember that. I said a lot of ridiculous stuff just to mess with people. It wasn’t about making everyone hate me—it was more about pushing back against expectations. People would come to shows with all these preconceived ideas of who I was, what I should say or do, and I just liked to throw them off balance.

Sometimes, it was funny to say the most absurd or offensive thing because it broke the whole “rock star” illusion. I didn’t want to be taken too seriously, and I didn’t want people to think they knew me based on some image they saw. So yeah, I’d say stupid shit like that just to shake things up, make people uncomfortable, or maybe even make them question why they were there in the first place. It was all part of rejecting the bullshit that came with fame.

Ron Stauffer: So if people were supposed to question why they were there in the first place, what would you have said was the reason that they should be there at your concerts, and what is the reason they should not be there?

If they were there for the music, to feel something real, then that’s the reason they should be there. If they connected with the songs, the emotions, and the rawness, that’s what mattered. It was about the experience, the energy, and that feeling of not being alone in whatever pain or frustration you were dealing with.

But if they were just there because we were the hot band of the moment or because they wanted to say “they saw Nirvana,” then they were missing the point. I didn’t care about being some celebrity or rock star. If they were there just to be part of a scene or to fit in, they probably shouldn’t have been there. It wasn’t about the image—it was about the music, the chaos, and the emotion behind it.

Ron Stauffer: What is the lesson people should learn from chaos? Throughout history and art history, sometimes artists come in with a wrecking ball and completely demolish the school of thought that came before them. So, if that were the case, and there’s a sort of reimagining of art from or starting from the ground up, did you intend on reshaping pop music in any sense? And if so, what is the direction you would have gone? Surely you didn’t want to just spawn 5,000 clones of Nirvana, right?

Yeah, definitely didn’t want 5,000 clones of Nirvana running around—that would’ve been a nightmare. The whole point was to shake things up, not to create a formula that people would copy. Chaos, in a way, is about freedom. It’s about breaking down what’s become stale or oppressive and creating space for something new. I didn’t have some grand vision of reshaping pop music, but I did want to tear down the bullshit, the polished, manufactured crap that dominated the industry.

If there’s a lesson in chaos, it’s that art shouldn’t be confined. It should be messy, unpredictable, and challenging. Music should evolve, not stay stuck in some safe, commercial zone.

If anything, I wanted people to feel like they could do whatever they wanted with music—be weird, be loud, be quiet, be whatever the f*ck they wanted, as long as it was honest. I wasn’t trying to lay down a blueprint for the future of music, just showing that there are no rules.

Ron Stauffer: Well, but there were some rules, right? Which, in your case, was: “don’t follow the rules.”

Yeah, exactly. “Don’t follow the rules” was pretty much the only rule. It’s like, the minute someone tells you how things are supposed to be done, that’s when you’ve gotta question it, break it, or do it differently. The rule was more about rejecting what was expected, especially when those expectations were empty or just there to keep things comfortable.

Ron Stauffer: Well, okay, so you talk about success in the very beginning. I think you said you never wanted to be a rock star, right? But you did become, in a sense, at least for a while, a sort of international superhero of sorts. Probably people all over the world knew who you were. Did that take you by surprise, and did you like that, or did you not like that?

Yeah, it definitely took me by surprise. I never wanted to be a rock star, not in the way people usually think about it. When Nevermind blew up, it was surreal. One day we were just playing small clubs, and the next, we were everywhere—on TV, on the radio, and I couldn’t walk down the street without someone recognizing me.

At first, I was confused, maybe even flattered a little, but I quickly started to hate it. The fame felt like a trap. I didn’t like being put on a pedestal or being treated like some kind of superhero. It was suffocating because people had these huge expectations and were constantly watching. I just wanted to make music and be left alone. The fame made me feel more isolated, not connected. It was the exact opposite of what I wanted when I started.

Ron Stauffer: Okay, I’m not necessarily saying this, but some people might say, “Waaah, I became rich and famous, and I’m a superstar. Boo-hoo, woe is me.”

Yeah, I get that. It sounds ridiculous, right? Like, who wouldn’t want to be rich and famous? But it’s not what people think it is. The money and fame don’t fix anything; if anything, they make the problems worse. It’s not a pity party; it’s just that fame comes with all this pressure and expectation that you’re not prepared for. It’s isolating, and you lose your sense of self in it.

I wasn’t complaining about being successful. It’s just that the whole “rock star” thing felt fake, and I never wanted to be part of that machine. It wasn’t about the money; it was about feeling like I was losing control of my life, my art, and myself.

Ron Stauffer: So are you saying money made your life worse, or it made it better, or different, or what?

I wouldn’t say money made my life worse, but it definitely didn’t make it better in the ways people might think. It made things different—like, yeah, I didn’t have to worry about rent or scraping by, but it didn’t solve the deeper stuff, you know? It didn’t fix feeling disconnected or overwhelmed. In some ways, it made those things more intense because now I had all these people around me who wanted something—whether it was money, success, or just a piece of me. So, money didn’t ruin my life, but it sure didn’t bring peace or happiness like people assume it does.

Ron Stauffer: I do wonder about that, and again, I read in your biography — or actually, by this point, I’ve read multiple biographies on you — and they all talk about your drug use, and you clearly struggled with… I don’t know that you struggled with alcoholism, but you definitely struggled with some serious street drugs, including heroin. How did that happen, how did that start, and was that a result of fame, or was that something that was exacerbated by fame and fortune, or what would you say to that?

Heroin wasn’t a result of fame—it started before all that. I struggled with a lot of pain, both physical and emotional, even before Nirvana blew up. I had these chronic stomach issues that were debilitating, and nothing seemed to help. Heroin was kind of my way of numbing that pain, at least at first. It was a way to escape, to feel some kind of relief when nothing else worked.

But yeah, fame definitely made it worse. Suddenly, I was dealing with all the pressures and isolation that came with being in the spotlight, and heroin became this crutch. It numbed everything, not just the physical pain but the mental and emotional stuff too. It’s a vicious cycle—you’re already struggling, and then fame just amplifies everything. Drugs felt like the only way to cope, even though I knew they were just making things worse in the long run.

Ron Stauffer: Yeah, that makes sense. Did other people know about your heroin addiction? And how addicted were you? Meaning, was this like a long-standing problem for many years? And was this an everyday habit? Or, you know, is it something that was kind of quiet and kept in the background and people didn’t know and you hit it really well and it was only occasional? I don’t know that much about heroin use.

Yeah, a few people knew, but I tried to keep it quiet, especially in the beginning. I didn’t want it to become this big public thing. For a while, I could kind of hide it, but as the addiction got worse, it became harder to keep under wraps. People around me, like Krist and Dave, they knew something was off, but I think a lot of people didn’t realize just how deep it went.

As for how addicted I was—it became an everyday thing at my worst. It started off more occasional, but once you’re hooked, it’s a slippery slope. Heroin is not something you can just dabble in, you know? It takes over. And yeah, it was a problem for years, not just some phase. It was hard to stop because it felt like the only way to deal with everything going on, physically and mentally. But at the same time, I knew it was destroying me. It’s that awful contradiction—you hate what it’s doing to you, but you can’t stop.

Ron Stauffer: Some of your songs are obviously incredibly dark — I wonder how autobiographical they are. Clearly, there’s an element of fantasy in just about everybody’s songs, yours included, but some of them are just like off the charts in terms of darkness, right? “Something in the Way,” — were you ever homeless? Or songs like “I Hate Myself and Want to Die,” did you actually literally mean all that?

Yeah, a lot of my songs have dark themes, but they’re not always directly autobiographical. There’s definitely fantasy and exaggeration in there, but the emotions behind them are real. “Something in the Way,” for example—that was based on a period where I was kind of drifting, staying wherever I could. I wasn’t full-on homeless, but I did spend time crashing under bridges and in weird places when I didn’t have a stable spot. So, there’s truth in that song, but it’s not like a literal diary entry.

As for “I Hate Myself and Want to Die,” that one was more sarcastic in a way. It was me poking fun at how people viewed me as this tortured artist. But at the same time, yeah, there was real pain behind it. I’ve struggled with depression and dark thoughts for a long time, and that definitely seeped into the music. The songs were a way to channel those feelings, but they weren’t always meant to be taken literally. It was more about expressing the mood, the frustration, and the heaviness I was feeling.

Ron Stauffer: What about the song, one of your biggest hits—Smells Like Teen Spirit—seems to be completely nihilistic and almost nonsensical. What was the meaning behind that song?

“Smells Like Teen Spirit” was definitely one of those songs that kind of took on a life of its own. When I wrote it, I wasn’t really trying to make some big statement or create an anthem for a generation or anything like that. The lyrics are pretty nonsensical, and yeah, there’s a bit of a nihilistic tone to it. A lot of it was just me messing around with phrases and ideas. I wanted it to feel raw and chaotic, like a reaction to everything that was happening around us.

It was inspired by this boredom and apathy I saw, especially in my generation. Like, nothing really mattered, and we were all just kind of going through the motions. But it wasn’t meant to be deep in the way people ended up interpreting it. It was almost like a joke, a play on how people were becoming so detached. I mean, even the title came from a friend jokingly saying I “smelled like Teen Spirit,” which was a deodorant. I didn’t even know that at first.

So yeah, “Smells Like Teen Spirit” wasn’t supposed to mean anything grand, but it ended up resonating with people because I think a lot of them felt that same sense of disillusionment and frustration. It was like a rallying cry for something they couldn’t quite put into words, and I guess that’s why it blew up. But the irony is that it wasn’t supposed to be some deep, meaningful song—it was just raw emotion.

Ron Stauffer: It sounds like you struggled with this all the time, being silly or joking around and people taking you too seriously. What are some songs that people took way too seriously that maybe you didn’t mean so literally?

Yeah, that happened a lot. People always tried to read into my lyrics way deeper than I intended. One song that comes to mind is “Lithium.” People thought it was this deep philosophical statement on religion and mental health, but really, it’s just about mood swings, about that feeling of bouncing between feeling numb and euphoric. It wasn’t meant to be some grand commentary.

“In Bloom” is another one. It’s funny because it’s actually about people who don’t understand the music and just sing along without thinking about the meaning. The irony is, that’s exactly what ended up happening with it! People took it as just another Nirvana anthem, but it was really poking fun at that whole idea.

“Rape Me” is probably the biggest one, though. People freaked out about the title and thought it was promoting violence or something when, really, it was about reclaiming power and refusing to be victimized—by the media, the industry, anyone. It wasn’t about literal rape at all, but people took it that way because of how provocative the title was.

A lot of my songs were meant to be playful or sarcastic, but people always seemed to want to turn them into these heavy, serious statements. It was weird because I never saw myself as this profound songwriter. I just wrote what I felt in the moment, and sometimes that meant being silly, sarcastic, or just throwing random stuff together.

Ron Stauffer: That makes sense, but on the flip side, are there some songs that you wrote and some things that you said that you meant very seriously and literally, but people didn’t take you seriously because they assumed you were joking around?

Yeah, for sure. “All Apologies” is one that I meant in a very serious and personal way, but I think people didn’t always take it that way. It’s about feeling inadequate, like you’re constantly letting people down, and being confused about your place in the world. That song was me being really vulnerable, but because it wasn’t as raw or aggressive as other songs, I think some people didn’t see the depth in it.

Another one is “Pennyroyal Tea.” It’s about wanting to escape and feeling worn out by everything. There’s a line about wanting to “dissolve the pain” with pennyroyal tea, which was an herb historically used for abortion, but really, it was about the desire to get rid of the emotional weight I was carrying. People didn’t always get how much of that was real.

And I’d say a lot of the stuff I said in interviews or at shows was a mix of sarcasm and truth, but people would only hear the sarcastic part. Like when I’d talk about how much I hated the fame or how I felt alienated. A lot of people assumed I was exaggerating or playing the “tortured artist” thing, but those were real feelings. I was being honest about struggling with depression, addiction, and all the pressures of being in the spotlight, but it was easy for people to brush that off because I’d throw in some joke or dark humor along the way. So, sometimes the real stuff got lost in translation.

Ron Stauffer: Well, as we know, you ended up taking your life in the end. What do you think about your actions and the songs you sang and the words you said? At any point in time, were any of those a cry for help? Were you seeking actual help from people who weren’t listening to you?

Looking back, yeah, I think a lot of what I said and wrote could’ve been seen as a cry for help, even if I didn’t fully realize it at the time. The songs and the interviews—they were my way of expressing the pain I was feeling. I was dealing with so much—depression, addiction, physical pain—and I didn’t always know how to ask for help in a straightforward way. The music became the outlet for all of that, but people didn’t always take it seriously, or maybe they just didn’t know how to respond.

I think there were moments when I did want help, but at the same time, I felt like no one could really understand what I was going through. It’s complicated because, even though the pain was real, I was also constantly pushing people away. It was hard to let anyone in. I felt trapped by everything—by fame, by my own mind—and I didn’t know how to deal with it.

So, yeah, maybe some of those songs were a cry for help in their own way. But the sad part is, I wasn’t in a place where I knew how to accept help, even when it was there. That’s the struggle with depression—it warps your perspective and makes you feel like there’s no way out, even when there is.

Ron Stauffer: Were you ever actually diagnosed with depression or anxiety or any sort of mental illness or other disorder like that? Or is it just something you kind of quietly lived with and self-diagnosed in a way?

I was never formally diagnosed with anything like depression or anxiety, at least not in any real clinical sense. It wasn’t something I sought out help for, not in the way people think of today. Back then, especially in the circles I was in, mental health wasn’t something you talked about openly. It was kind of just accepted that you dealt with your demons on your own, you know?

I always knew something was off. I had these deep, dark periods where I felt completely overwhelmed, disconnected, and hopeless. But I self-medicated with drugs and didn’t really seek professional help for it. Maybe I should have, but at the time, I didn’t think anyone could really help me or that I even deserved help. So, yeah, it was more of a self-diagnosed thing, and I tried to numb it all with heroin or just through the music. It wasn’t until much later that people started to put a name to what I was feeling, but by then, it was too late to really do much about it.

Ron Stauffer: Yeah, that makes sense. Well, I wonder how much — and someone could read way too much into this — but talk about Seattle. So you were from the Pacific Northwest. Is there a higher incidence of depression or anxiety or people with dark feelings? Was that a big thing going on at the time and maybe people were just discovering that for the first time?

Yeah, the Pacific Northwest definitely has that reputation for being a bit gloomy. The weather, the constant rain, the long gray winters—it can mess with your mood. I don’t know if there’s something specific about Seattle or the Northwest that makes people more prone to depression, but it does create a certain atmosphere. I think a lot of us who grew up there felt that sense of isolation, and it kind of shaped our outlook.

The music scene at the time was full of people who were dealing with their own struggles, whether it was depression, addiction, or just feeling alienated from mainstream society. A lot of the bands in Seattle—like Soundgarden, Alice in Chains, and Pearl Jam—they all had this darker, heavier vibe in their music, too. It wasn’t like everyone was sitting around talking about their mental health, but you could feel that undercurrent of heaviness.

So yeah, maybe Seattle, with its weather and its underground culture, amplified those feelings. But it wasn’t just a Seattle thing—it was everywhere. I think our generation was just starting to really deal with those darker emotions and express them in music in a way that hadn’t been done so openly before. People connected with it because a lot of them were feeling the same things, whether they were in Seattle or not.

Ron Stauffer: Yeah, that makes sense. Well, let’s talk about people entering your life. You got married and had a child. How did marriage and fatherhood change you? I would imagine that both of those acts, separately, changed you in significant ways.

Yeah, both marriage and fatherhood definitely changed me in ways I didn’t expect. Getting married to Courtney was intense—we had this chaotic, passionate relationship. She understood a lot of the darkness I was dealing with, but it also brought a whole new level of complexity into my life. We were both struggling with our own demons, and sometimes that fed into each other in not-so-great ways. But at the same time, we really loved each other, and it wasn’t all bad. Being with her made me feel less alone, at least for a while.

Becoming a father, though—that was huge. When Frances was born, I felt this deep responsibility and love that I’d never felt before. She gave me something real to hold onto, something pure. I wanted to be a good dad for her, but it was also scary. I was already struggling with my own issues, and I worried that I wasn’t good enough or stable enough to give her the life she deserved. I didn’t want to repeat the mistakes of my parents.

It changed my perspective in a lot of ways—I wanted to get better for her, to be more present, but the weight of everything I was dealing with made it hard. I loved Frances more than anything, but that love also came with this pressure to get my shit together, and sometimes I felt like I was failing at that. Fatherhood gave me a reason to keep going, but it also made me realize how much I was struggling to be the person I wanted to be for her. It was this mix of joy and fear, and it was tough to navigate.

Ron Stauffer: Well, you mentioned earlier that your relationship with your own parents was obviously quite strained. What did that do to you as a parent? And what were the mistakes that you didn’t want to repeat with Frances?

My relationship with my parents definitely left a mark on me as a parent. After their divorce, I felt abandoned, especially by my dad. That distance made me feel like I wasn’t really important to him, like I was just an afterthought. With my mom, things were complicated, too—she had her own struggles, and there was a lot of tension growing up.

When Frances was born, I didn’t want her to feel any of that. I didn’t want her to feel like she wasn’t loved or like she had to live up to some expectation. I wanted to be present for her, to make sure she knew how much I cared about her, no matter what. But at the same time, I was scared I’d mess it up. I didn’t want to repeat my dad’s mistakes—being distant, emotionally unavailable, or caught up in my own life.

But the reality is, with all the struggles I had—addiction, depression—I worried I wasn’t being the father she needed. That fear was always there, and it weighed on me. I didn’t want her to grow up with the same kind of emotional baggage I had, but sometimes it felt like I couldn’t escape my own. It’s tough, man—when you’re a parent, your own issues don’t just disappear, but you’re trying your best to not let them affect your kid.

Ron Stauffer: Did you encourage Frances to become a musician or join the music industry in any way? Or if she was not old enough at the time, do you think you would have?

Frances was really young when I was around, so it wasn’t something we ever really got to talk about. But honestly, I don’t think I would’ve encouraged her to get into the music industry, at least not the way I experienced it. The industry can be brutal—it chews you up and spits you out. I’d want her to follow whatever made her happy, but I’d also want to protect her from the darker sides of fame and all the pressure that comes with it.

If she were passionate about music, I’d support her in finding her own voice, but I wouldn’t want her to feel like she had to follow in my footsteps. I’d want her to do her own thing, on her own terms, without getting caught up in all the bullshit that comes with the industry.

Ron Stauffer: Do you have any specific regrets? Are there things that… maybe you’ve gone on record as saying: “I wish I hadn’t done that?”

Yeah, I’ve got my regrets, for sure. One of the biggest is how I handled my addiction. I wish I’d gotten real help sooner, before it took over my life. It affected my relationships, my music, and my ability to be the person I wanted to be, especially for Frances and Courtney. I regret not being more present for them.

Another regret is how I let fame and the pressure of everything get to me. I wanted to stay true to myself, but at times I felt like I was losing control, like I was being pulled in different directions by the industry, the media, and even fans. I wish I’d found a way to balance it all without feeling so overwhelmed. And, of course, I regret the way things ended.

Looking back, I wish I’d reached out for help, or let people in more, instead of pushing everyone away when I was at my worst. There’s a lot of pain I could’ve handled differently, but in the moment, it felt like I was drowning, and I didn’t know how to climb out of it.

Ron Stauffer: Well, whether you pushed people away or not, you certainly went inward and were quite introspective. After you died, a lot of your drawings were released to the public, and you were a prolific artist, drawing sketches and writing personal notes and journal entries. Talk about that for a little bit. How did that help you, and what was the main focus of what you were writing in those sketchbooks?

Yeah, I was always drawing and writing—it was another outlet for me, besides music. I’d been sketching since I was a kid, and it helped me process what I was feeling. There were so many things going on in my head that I couldn’t always put into words or didn’t feel comfortable talking about. Drawing and writing let me get that out without having to explain it to anyone.

A lot of what I put in those sketchbooks was just whatever was on my mind—frustrations, ideas for songs, random thoughts, or just weird, dark humor. It was my way of keeping track of all the chaos in my head. I’d draw surreal, twisted images or write out lyrics and thoughts that didn’t necessarily have a place anywhere else. It was personal, and it wasn’t meant for anyone to see, but I guess it shows a different side of me.

The main focus was always shifting—it wasn’t like I sat down with a plan. Sometimes it was about the pressure of fame, sometimes it was about addiction, and sometimes it was just me being playful or sarcastic. The sketchbooks were a way to stay grounded, a way to reflect without having to make sense of everything for someone else. It was just for me to try and make sense of things in my own head.

Ron Stauffer: A lot of your drawings were incredibly scatological, and there’s lots of penises and uteruses and breasts and sexual imagery. Were you kind of obsessed with sexual imagery, or was that silliness again?

Yeah, a lot of that was just silliness, to be honest. I wasn’t obsessed with sexual imagery in any deep or serious way—it was more about pushing boundaries and messing with people’s expectations. Drawing penises or weird sexual stuff was just a way to be irreverent, kind of like saying, I’m not gonna take this too seriously, so why should you?

I was always interested in challenging norms and breaking down taboos, and sometimes the best way to do that was with absurd, over-the-top imagery. It’s like punk rock in a way—shock people, make them uncomfortable, and force them to think about why they’re reacting the way they are. But at the end of the day, a lot of it was just me having fun, letting out this juvenile, sarcastic side of me that liked to draw ridiculous, crude stuff for no reason other than to laugh at it. So yeah, not some deep obsession—just part of that rebellious streak that liked to mess with people’s expectations.

Ron Stauffer: Did you tour the world with Nirvana? Did you go to other countries? And if so, was it strange hearing people from other nations and perhaps people who speak different languages singing your songs back to you?

Yeah, we toured all over the world with Nirvana—Europe, Asia, South America, you name it. It was surreal to see how far the music reached, especially in places where English wasn’t the first language. Hearing crowds sing back the lyrics, even if they didn’t speak English fluently, was a trip.

It was strange, but in a good way. It reminded me of how powerful music can be, how it crosses borders and connects people. Even if they didn’t understand every word, they felt the emotion behind it. That was always more important to me than the literal meaning of the lyrics. It was weird to think that something we made in Seattle could resonate with people on the other side of the world.

At the same time, it was a little overwhelming. Seeing that level of connection and knowing people had such high expectations of us—it added to the pressure. But it was also a reminder of why we did it in the first place. The music spoke to something deeper, something universal, and that was pretty incredible to experience firsthand.

Ron Stauffer: Well, speaking of other cultures and other countries and nations and languages, you to some extent had an experiential phase with Eastern mysticism, right? At one point, you even claimed to have converted to Jainism. Does the name of the band Nirvana have to do with that, or was that, once again, just you being silly and sarcastic? Or did you actually take Eastern mysticism seriously?

Yeah, I went through a phase where I was really interested in Eastern philosophy and mysticism, but I wouldn’t say I fully converted to anything like Jainism. That was more of me exploring different ideas and ways of thinking. I was always searching for something deeper, some way to make sense of everything going on inside my head, and Eastern philosophies, like Buddhism and Jainism, offered a different perspective on suffering, life, and death.

As for the name Nirvana, it wasn’t really tied to a deep spiritual belief. I liked the concept of nirvana as this idea of liberation, of breaking free from suffering and the cycle of existence. That resonated with me because I felt trapped by a lot of things—fame, expectations, my own mental struggles. But I wasn’t trying to make some profound spiritual statement with the band name. It was more like, the word felt right, and I liked how it sounded.

There was definitely some curiosity about Eastern ideas, but I wouldn’t say I took it super seriously in a religious sense. It was more about searching for peace in a chaotic world. I was always drawn to anything that offered a sense of escape or understanding, whether it was through mysticism, art, or music. So, naming the band Nirvana felt like it fit that idea of wanting to find some kind of release or freedom, even if I was being a little ironic about it.

Ron Stauffer: Yeah, that’s funny, especially because your band, some of your original bands before you settled on the name Nirvana, you had some very silly band names, didn’t you?

Yeah, we had some pretty ridiculous band names before we landed on Nirvana. We went through a ton of names, and most of them were just jokes, honestly. Some of the ones we considered were things like Skid Row, Pen Cap Chew, Ted Ed Fred, and Fecal Matter. We were just messing around and didn’t really take it too seriously at first. I think at one point we almost went with Bliss before deciding on Nirvana.

We had fun coming up with the most absurd or offensive names we could think of, but in the end, we wanted something that had a bit more meaning, even if we weren’t being totally serious about it. Nirvana just felt like the right balance—something that sounded peaceful and kind of transcendent but also had an edge to it, given the kind of music we were making.

A lot of those other names were just part of the punk ethos, where everything was meant to be irreverent and not taken too seriously. But yeah, looking back at some of the names we almost went with, I’m glad we settled on Nirvana. It fit the vibe of what we were doing a lot better than, say, Fecal Matter ever would have.

Ron Stauffer: I completely agree. Changing gears a little bit, there were some acts that were there locally in Seattle that you were very close to, that you approved of and liked, and I guess did concerts with or toured with. And then there were some other folks that you really, really didn’t like or at least pretended not to like, Guns N’ Roses in particular, for some reason I don’t understand. Can you elaborate on who were your musical friends and who were your musical enemies?

Yeah, in Seattle, there were definitely bands I was close to, and we all kind of came up together. Bands like Mudhoney, Soundgarden, Melvins, and Alice in Chains—those guys were all part of the same scene, and we supported each other. There wasn’t a lot of competition; it was more like a community of misfits who just wanted to make noise and do something real. We’d play shows together, hang out, and just be part of this underground scene that felt authentic. I had a lot of respect for those bands because they were about the music, not the image.

As for Guns N’ Roses, yeah, I really didn’t like them—or more specifically, what they represented. To me, they were everything I hated about the rock scene at the time: the glam, the macho posturing, the over-the-top rock star lifestyle. Axl Rose, in particular, rubbed me the wrong way. He was arrogant, sexist, and just seemed to embody that whole superficial, commercial rock star image I was trying to get away from. We had a bit of a feud, especially after he said some stuff about Courtney and me that crossed the line.

It wasn’t that I hated their music necessarily—it was more about the culture they represented. I wanted Nirvana to be the opposite of that, something raw and honest, not caught up in the whole rock star circus. So yeah, they were kind of the enemy in that sense. It was more about rejecting what they stood for than anything personal about their music itself.

Ron Stauffer: Did you have a favorite tour, concert, or maybe even album for that matter? What are some things that you were very proud of?

I wouldn’t say I had one favorite tour or concert, but there were definitely moments that stood out. Our performance at Reading Festival in nineteen ninety-two—that one was pretty special. I was in rough shape physically, but the energy from the crowd was incredible, and it felt like everything just clicked that night. I think a lot of people thought we were done for at that point, so to come out and deliver a great show, that meant a lot to me.

As for albums, In Utero is probably the one I’m most proud of. That album was closer to what I always wanted Nirvana to sound like—raw, abrasive, and unpolished. After the massive success of Nevermind, I felt like we were losing some control over how we were perceived, and In Utero was my way of pushing back against that. Working with Steve Albini helped keep it gritty, and I’m proud that we didn’t give in to pressure to make another radio-friendly record.

MTV Unplugged is another one that I’m really proud of, though in a different way. It was so stripped down and vulnerable, and I think it showed a side of Nirvana that people weren’t expecting. It wasn’t all loud and chaotic—it was more introspective, more emotional. That show felt really intimate, and the response to it was huge.

So yeah, those are probably the moments I look back on and feel the most proud of. They captured different sides of Nirvana, and both felt like we were staying true to what we wanted to do, despite all the external noise.

Ron Stauffer: What was your opinion of guitar solos?

Guitar solos—man, I wasn’t a fan of them, at least not in the traditional rock sense. To me, they always felt like showing off for the sake of it, especially in those hair metal bands that were all about long, flashy solos. I hated that whole guitar hero mentality, where it was all about technical skill and how fast or intricate you could play. That wasn’t what music was about for me. I was more interested in simplicity, in emotion. A solo should serve the song, not just be there to show off.

When I did solos in Nirvana songs, they were more like extensions of the vocal melody—nothing too fancy, just something that added to the feel of the song. Like in “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” the solo is just me playing the vocal melody again, but distorted and raw. It wasn’t about impressing anyone with technique, just staying true to the vibe of the song.

So yeah, I wasn’t anti-solo, but I definitely didn’t see the point in making them these big, overblown things. If it added something to the song, cool, but I was never into the whole virtuoso thing. Keep it simple, keep it raw—that’s how I saw it.

Ron Stauffer: By the way, what was the cover of Nevermind all about? A naked baby in a swimming pool with a dollar bill on a fishing hook? Once again, was that just you being completely wacky, or were you trying to give people a very specific type of message with that imagery?

Yeah, the cover of Nevermind was definitely meant to send a message, but it was also kind of playful and absurd at the same time. The image of the baby underwater, reaching for the dollar bill, was a pretty straightforward commentary on capitalism and how we’re all sort of born into this system where money and success are dangled in front of us like bait. It was like saying, “From birth, we’re being trained to chase after money, whether we realize it or not.”

But it wasn’t meant to be overly serious or preachy. There’s also that element of “What the f*ck?” to it, which I always liked. I thought it was a weird, striking image that would grab people’s attention and make them think, even if they weren’t totally sure what it meant. And honestly, it fit with the vibe of the album—chaotic, irreverent, but still with something real underneath all the noise.

So yeah, it was definitely a statement, but with a bit of that absurd, wacky edge. It wasn’t like we sat around trying to come up with some big, philosophical cover—it just came together in a way that made sense for what we were trying to say with the music and where we were at as a band.

Ron Stauffer: What about censorship in general? Clearly, again, with songs like Rape Me, that probably played very little, if ever, on the radio. But just in general, what are your thoughts on censorship, and how often did you bump up against radio stations or retailers saying, you know what, either we’re going to censor particular lyrics or songs from this album, or we’re not going to carry your album at all, or maybe even venues or festivals that said, we don’t want you to perform here?

Yeah, censorship was definitely something we ran into a lot, and it always pissed me off. I’ve never been a fan of anyone trying to control what people can say or hear, especially when it comes to art and music. Songs like Rape Me were meant to provoke, to challenge people’s comfort zones, and it wasn’t about being offensive for the sake of it. It was about making a point, and when people or institutions try to censor that, it just proves the point even more—that they’re afraid of facing uncomfortable truths.

We had a lot of issues with retailers, especially with In Utero. Some big chains didn’t want to carry the album because of the song titles or lyrics, or they wanted us to change the cover art.

I remember Walmart and Kmart made us alter the back cover, specifically the fetus imagery, to sell the album in their stores. And we did it because, at that point, it wasn’t worth the fight—people were still going to hear the music. But that kind of censorship always felt hypocritical to me. Like, these stores sell violent video games and movies, but suddenly they have a problem with an album cover?

With radio, it was hit or miss. A song like Rape Me wasn’t going to get much airplay because of the title alone, even though the meaning of the song had nothing to do with promoting violence. It was about reclaiming power, but people didn’t want to take the time to understand it—they just wanted to avoid controversy.

To me, censorship is just another form of control, trying to sanitize art and make it more palatable for the masses. And that’s the opposite of what I’ve always believed in. Art should challenge people, make them uncomfortable, force them to think. The more people tried to censor us, the more it reinforced that we were doing something right by not fitting into their neat little boxes.

Ron Stauffer: On a completely separate note, where’s your family from? You have a very unusual last name. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of anyone with a last name Cobain.

Yeah, Cobain is kind of an unusual name. My family is actually of Irish descent, originally. The name was originally spelled Cobane, but it got changed somewhere along the way. My ancestors came from County Tyrone in Northern Ireland, and my dad’s side of the family settled in Washington state.

I didn’t really grow up with a strong connection to that Irish heritage, but it’s there in the background. The name Cobain kind of stands out, and I always thought that was cool in a way, like it didn’t tie me down to any particular expectation or identity. It was just another part of being a bit of an outsider, which fit with how I always felt.

Ron Stauffer: What about you as a vocalist? Or actually even as a guitar player, for that matter. Did you choose to be the singer of your own band because you liked the sound of your voice or because there was just nobody else to sing? You know, there are some bands that had four members, where the fourth member is just the vocalist, but you always were the vocalist and the guitar player, which once again, you were no virtuoso. So what was your thought process behind that?

Honestly, I didn’t think of myself as a great singer or guitarist. I kind of fell into both roles because there wasn’t anyone else to do it. When we first started, it wasn’t like I was looking to be the frontman. I just wrote the songs, and since they were personal to me, it made sense for me to sing them. Plus, I didn’t really know anyone else who could capture the feeling I wanted, so I just went for it, even though I wasn’t confident in my voice at first.

As for guitar, like I said, I was never into flashy, technical playing. I kept things simple because, for me, it was more about creating the right sound and emotion than showing off. It wasn’t about being the best player, it was about making something raw and real.

I didn’t choose to be the singer or the guitarist because I thought I was the best at either. It just kind of happened because that’s what the music needed, and no one else was going to step in and do it the way I wanted. Over time, I got more comfortable with my voice and playing, but I never saw myself as a traditional frontman or guitarist. It was always more about the energy and the feeling behind it, not the skill.

Ron Stauffer: Speaking about your voice, ironically, if you didn’t think much of your voice from a musical perspective, other people certainly thought about your voice quite a bit. Some people even said you had the voice of a generation. What do you say to that?

Yeah, that whole “voice of a generation” thing was kind of ridiculous to me. I never set out to be any kind of spokesperson or represent an entire generation. I was just writing and singing about what I was feeling—my own frustrations, my own pain. If people connected with that, great, but I never thought of myself as someone who should be speaking for anyone else.

It’s flattering in a way, but also a lot of pressure. I wasn’t trying to be anyone’s hero or leader. I think people just related to the honesty and rawness in the music, but I didn’t have all the answers. I was just as lost as anyone else. So when people put that label on me, it felt weird, like they were projecting something onto me that I never asked for.

At the end of the day, I was just a guy who screamed his guts out because that’s what I needed to do to get through the day. If that connected with people, then I’m grateful, but I never felt comfortable being put on that pedestal.

Ron Stauffer: Was that comforting in a way though? If what you’re saying is that you never set out to be the voice of a generation or speak for anybody else, and you were only speaking for yourself, but somehow, thousands, hundreds of thousands, or maybe even millions of people your age were going along with you and saying, “Yeah, me too!” Was that comforting or was that terrifying?

It was a little bit of both, to be honest. In some ways, yeah, it was comforting. Knowing that so many people connected with what I was going through, it made me feel less alone. When you’re dealing with all that internal chaos, depression, frustration, whatever, it can feel isolating. So hearing that other people were saying, yeah, me too, was kind of validating. It made me realize that maybe I wasn’t as much of a freak or an outsider as I thought. There were a lot of people out there feeling the same way.

But at the same time, it was also terrifying. When that many people latch onto your words and your music, it puts this huge spotlight on you. Suddenly, you’re not just dealing with your own issues—you’re carrying the weight of everyone else’s expectations, too. People start looking to you for answers or guidance, and I wasn’t equipped to handle that. I was just trying to survive my own shit, you know? So, the pressure of that was overwhelming.

It’s like, on one hand, it was great to know that the music resonated with so many people, but on the other hand, it made me feel trapped in this role that I never asked for. I didn’t have all the answers, and I didn’t want to be responsible for other people’s struggles on top of my own. So, it was comforting in some ways, but it definitely came with its share of fear and anxiety.

Ron Stauffer: You know, I just got done listening to an audiobook of Ben Folds. Ben Folds was a musician from North Carolina, and he splits music into two different categories: “before Nirvana” and “after Nirvana.” From your perspective, how would you say pop music was before Nirvana and after Nirvana? And, by the way, did you know you were making history at the time?

That’s interesting to hear Ben Folds say that, and yeah, I’ve heard people split music into “before Nirvana” and “after Nirvana,” which is kind of wild to think about. I didn’t really set out to change the course of music or anything like that—it just sort of happened.

Pop music before Nirvana was dominated by a lot of overproduced, polished stuff, you know? Big hair, big guitars, flashy solos, and all that. It was the era of glam metal and stadium rock, where everything was about excess. It felt really plastic to me—like it was all about image and not much about substance.

We weren’t trying to directly react to that scene, but I think what we were doing, and what a lot of other bands in Seattle were doing, was the opposite of that. It was raw, dirty, imperfect—just more real. And when Nevermind blew up, it sort of shifted the whole landscape. Suddenly, there was this hunger for music that felt more authentic, more connected to what people were actually feeling. It wasn’t about looking good or selling a fantasy—it was about being vulnerable, angry, messed up. I think after Nirvana, there was more room for those kinds of voices in mainstream music. It wasn’t all about polish anymore.

As for knowing we were making history, honestly, no. Not at the time. We knew we were doing something different, something that felt important to us, but we had no idea it would resonate on such a massive scale. When Nevermind started blowing up, it was more like: “What the hell just happened?” We didn’t expect it, and I certainly didn’t think we were rewriting the rules of pop music. It wasn’t until later that I realized how much of an impact we’d made. At the time, we were just trying to survive the madness and stay true to the music.

Ron Stauffer: Is there a true artist that you admired, somebody who maybe you didn’t know, maybe who came before you, an artist of any medium, a painter, a sculptor, anybody like that who resonated with you in terms of being a “true artist” in a world full of plastic, vapid entertainment for the masses?

Yeah, there were definitely artists I admired who felt like they were the real deal, who stood out in a world full of superficial stuff. One of the biggest influences on me was Iggy Pop. He was raw, primal, and didn’t give a f*ck about what people thought. His performances with The Stooges were chaotic and real—he just let loose in a way that resonated with me. Iggy was one of those guys who didn’t seem to care about fitting into any mold, and that kind of freedom in his art really struck me.

I was also really into William S. Burroughs, the writer. His work was dark, weird, and rebellious, and it challenged everything. The way he approached writing—cutting up texts, creating these fragmented, surreal stories—was so out there, but it was also deeply honest in a way. He wasn’t trying to appeal to anyone, just expressing the darkness inside him. I even got to meet him and collaborate with him on some stuff, which was a huge moment for me.

In visual art, I was drawn to people like Francis Bacon, whose paintings were just disturbing and intense. There was something so visceral and raw about his work, like it was exposing the darker sides of humanity, and I connected with that. Bacon’s art wasn’t pretty or easy to digest, but it was brutally honest.

All these people had that thing in common—whether they were musicians, writers, or painters, they weren’t interested in making something palatable for the masses. They were making art that was raw, challenging, and a little dangerous. That’s what I admired. I wanted to do the same with my music—just create something real, no matter how uncomfortable it made people.

Ron Stauffer: If you hadn’t been a musician, what else would you have done? I’m sure you didn’t necessarily think from the earliest age: “I’m going to be a professional musician someday,” right?

Yeah, you’re right. I didn’t always think I’d be a professional musician. Music was always something I loved, but I didn’t have some grand plan to make a career out of it. I wasn’t on any clear career trajectory before Nirvana took off, to be honest. I bounced around from job to job, doing things like janitorial work, working at a nursery, and a bunch of other dead-end jobs. Nothing ever felt right, and I hated being stuck in those routines.

If I hadn’t been a musician, I probably would’ve done something in the arts, maybe as a painter or a visual artist. I was always into drawing and sketching, and that was a big part of how I expressed myself. I could see myself going down that road, creating visual art in some way.

I also had a fascination with being a writer, though. I loved storytelling, whether it was through lyrics or just weird little narratives I’d come up with. I could see myself writing stories or maybe even something more experimental, like the cut-up style of William S. Burroughs.

But honestly, I didn’t really see a clear future for myself outside of music. I felt lost a lot of the time, and music was the only thing that ever made sense to me. It was the one outlet where I felt like I could be myself and make something meaningful. Without it, I don’t know where I would’ve ended up. Probably just drifting, looking for something else that felt real.

Ron Stauffer: What is Kurt Cobain’s grand unified theory of music and art? What does Kurt Cobain want people to think of, or how would you wish people would think differently or better about music or art?

If I had to sum up a kind of grand unified theory of music and art, it’d be that art should be raw, honest, and free from expectations. It doesn’t have to be perfect, it doesn’t have to be polished, and it definitely doesn’t have to fit into some neat little box. The most important thing is that it comes from a real place—whether that’s joy, pain, frustration, or whatever emotion is driving it. Authenticity is the only thing that matters.

I wish people would stop worrying so much about fitting into genres, following trends, or making something that pleases everyone. Art isn’t supposed to be comfortable or safe. It should make you feel something, even if that feeling is confusion or discomfort. It’s okay to be messy, it’s okay to be vulnerable.

The imperfections are where the real beauty comes from. And I’d want people to think about how music and art don’t belong to any one person or group. Once it’s out there, it’s for everyone to interpret, to feel, to connect with. But the artist should never be afraid to challenge the audience, to make them think or feel in ways they’re not used to. At the end of the day, art should be about self-expression, not about trying to meet someone else’s expectations or commercial success. If it’s real, it’ll resonate, even if it’s ugly or difficult.

So yeah, if people can walk away from my music or any art with that in mind—that it’s about honesty and emotional freedom—then I feel like I’ve done my part.

Ron Stauffer: If that’s the case, is there such a thing as bad art or low art? Is there a way to understate something so much that it’s just poor quality?

Yeah, that’s a good question. I mean, I’ve always believed that art is subjective, and what resonates with one person might not hit the same way for someone else. But I do think there’s a difference between art that’s genuinely raw and honest, even if it’s simple, and something that feels lazy or like it’s not saying anything at all.

It’s not about technical skill for me—like, you don’t need to be a master guitarist or a trained painter to create something powerful. Some of the best art is made by people who break the rules or don’t even know the rules in the first place. But I think there’s such a thing as insincere art, where it feels like the person is just going through the motions or making something purely for commercial reasons without any real emotion or thought behind it.

Low-skill art can still be great if it’s coming from the right place. But if you understate something to the point where it’s empty or doesn’t feel like it’s connected to anything real, then yeah, I guess you could say it’s poor quality. Not because it’s simple or imperfect, but because it lacks that authenticity.

Art should always have some kind of heart, something that comes from within. If it doesn’t, if it’s just a hollow attempt to cash in or copy something else, then it might not hold much value, at least to me. It’s less about skill and more about whether the artist is putting something genuine into what they’re creating.

Ron Stauffer: Do you really think so, though? If you had started Nirvana and never went anywhere serious, and never made any money, and never made it big, and never became the “voice of a generation,” and never supposedly spoke for millions of other kids your age, do you think it still would have been just as meaningful to you?

Yeah, I really do think so. I mean, when I started making music, it wasn’t about fame or money. It was about survival, about having an outlet for all the emotions and frustrations I couldn’t express any other way. Even if Nirvana had never blown up, I would’ve kept making music, kept playing in small clubs or garages, because that was the one thing that felt real to me.

If nobody had ever heard our songs or if we had just stayed a local band, it still would’ve been meaningful to me because it was never about chasing success. It was about expressing myself in a way that felt honest and true. The success was almost an accident, something I never expected or even wanted at first. The music itself—that was what mattered, whether ten people heard it or ten million.

So yeah, even if we never made it big, the act of creating, of making noise and screaming out what I was feeling, would’ve still been just as important to me. That’s where the meaning was, not in the recognition or the fame. That stuff just kind of happened, but it wasn’t the driving force behind what I was doing.

Ron Stauffer: This has been a good conversation. Thanks for being here, thanks for answering my questions, and thanks for pushing the bounds of music and art and culture in general.

Thanks, man. I appreciate you taking the time and asking real questions. It’s cool to talk about all this, and it means a lot that people are still thinking about the music and the message behind it. Keep pushing boundaries yourself. Take care.

All right, folks, I hope this was as enlightening to you as it was to me. Talking to the man from Seattle who “screamed his guts out” and didn’t care what anybody else thought. What a fascinating interview and what a fascinating person. Thanks for listening.

And by the way, go fire up your old record player or cassette player or... eight-track player or whatever format you still have and if you have any Nirvana records or albums listen to them especially my favorite Nirvana song Lithium because it’s awesome, and I really like it even though apparently I don’t understand it, and nobody understood it, and it’s complicated, and oh well whatever nevermind.

Thanks for listening to Zombie History, where we provide history lessons from beyond the grave. Feel free to rate and review this show wherever you listen to podcasts and visit zombiehistory.com to see who else I can dig up from generations past and have a fireside chat with.

I’m a big fan of many different artists and composers over the multiple eras of Western music, and one of the greatest figures of the past few centuries is Johann Sebastian Bach.

J.S. Bach, or just “Bach” as we tend to call him, despite what you may think, was more than a stodgy Baroque-era composer who played the organ and wrote music for uber-formal church choirs wearing choristers robes and poofy, white neck ruffs…

Actually, Mr. Bach is, in my opinion, the first rock star—or “ba(roque)” star, if you will—a superhero of the musical world, someone who laid the foundation for so much of the music we appreciate today and an innovator whose legacy is so large that we can’t even see it from our vantage point today because we live in the thick of it.

I really like Johan Sebastian Bach, and the odds are, you do, too.

I grew up singing his songs in the local children’s chorus and practiced his melodies when learning to play the piano, trumpet, and tuba. …and almost everybody in the Western world likes Bach and what he did, whether they know it or not. Want proof?

If you, at any point, have had an appreciation for:

• Complex harmonies

• Polyphony

• Counterpoint

• Improvisation

• Electronica

• Pop

• Rock

• …or even Jazz

Or, if you like relatively recent bands and musicians, including: Emerson Lake and Palmer, Deep Purple, Billy Joel, Led Zeppelin, and yes, even The Beatles… then you like Bach! You just didn’t know it.

There are a lot of works by Bach that you probably already know. How about:

• The Brandenburg Concertos

• Prelude in C Major (Ave Maria)

• Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring

• Sheep May Safely Graze

• Air on the G String

• …and, of course, Toccata and Fugue in G Minor

Have I convinced you yet? I am biased, of course: I’m a fan, in part, because he reminds me of me! Like Bach, I am also a man of German heritage, a Christian, a father, a musician, and a student of music, theology, and multiple languages, including German, Italian, French, and Latin. We have a lot in common.

I think Bach was awesome, and for my money, I think he’s right up there with Wagner, Beethoven, Schubert, and Mozart. I’m telling you: You should listen to more Bach, starting now. I am certain it will enrich your life.

But, enough about his musical works and legacy, now let’s take the time to get to know Bach, the person, shall we? Let’s listen to the man himself, The German Genius, from beyond the grave and see what his life was like and what he’d say if I were interviewing him today.

Ron Stauffer: Hello, Mr. Bach. What should I call you? Can I call you Joe?

Ah, Joe! That’s quite amusing! In my day, I was more accustomed to “Herr Bach” or “ Kapellmeister.” But, seeing as we’re sharing cigars and whiskey in your modern den, Joe will do just fine, my friend. What’s your first question for me, Ron?

Ron Stauffer: You were an unbelievable composer, very famous today in the 21st century, but during your lifetime, you were kind of unknown, right? Weren't you just, like, the local organ player at your church in your own neighborhood?

Ah, yes, you’re quite right, Ron. During my lifetime, I wasn’t a famous composer like you know me today. I was really more of a church musician, primarily known for my skills as an organist. I worked in various towns, playing in churches, leading choirs, and writing music for the services. I wasn’t some grand figure in the musical world at the time—just doing my duties, keeping things running. Many of my compositions were simply for practical purposes, not for fame. I suppose you could say I was just the local organ guy!

Ron Stauffer: That sounds almost impossible to believe today. It almost seems like having Michael Jordan be your son's middle school basketball coach. What level of fame and, you know, how notorious were you during your lifetime aside from just your own hometown? Because I know that you traveled a bit, right?

Ah, what an interesting comparison! Michael Jordan coaching middle school basketball—that would be quite something! Well, in my time, I was respected, especially among fellow musicians and within the courts where I worked. My skill as an organist was fairly well known, and I was often invited to examine organs or to perform in various cities like Dresden and Hamburg. So, I wasn’t completely obscure, but I wouldn’t say I had any sort of widespread fame outside of certain circles.

I did travel a bit, yes, particularly early in my career when I sought out better positions or to learn from other musicians. But overall, my reputation was more local and regional. Nothing like the worldwide recognition you're speaking of today. Back then, I was really more of a craftsman than a celebrity.

Ron Stauffer: Well, interestingly, you had an unusually wide range of musical endeavors, didn't you? I mean, you wrote cantatas, masses, oratorio, chamber music, and more in multiple languages, and lots of works for instruments that I don't think you even played. That was pretty ambitious for a lowly organ player, wasn't it?

Ah, yes, I suppose it was a bit ambitious for a humble organist, wasn’t it? But you see, my life required versatility. In my various roles—whether in churches or courts—I was responsible for so many different kinds of music. For example, every Sunday required a new cantata for the church service, and that was just part of my job. I didn’t have the luxury of focusing on just one type of music.

As for the instruments, you’re right—I didn’t play everything I wrote for. But as a composer, it was my duty to understand how they worked and what they were capable of. I studied them, learned from other musicians, and used my imagination. Sometimes you just have to trust your ear and your mind to go beyond what your hands can do.

Writing in different forms and languages? Well, it came with the territory. When you work for the church, you write sacred masses; when you work for the courts, you compose chamber music for entertainment. My ambitions, I suppose, were just a reflection of the life I lived—meeting the needs of those I served.

Ron Stauffer: That's interesting. Well, something that you may not know, because this didn't happen in your lifetime, but after you passed away, some of your works have taken on a whole new meaning and even a new essence. For example, I grew up listening to Andres Segovia, the Spanish guitar player, and he played your cello suites on the guitar, and that's a completely different instrument altogether. Did you ever see that coming, and would you have been okay with that, or were you insistent that your quote-unquote cello suites meant cello suites?

Ah, now that is fascinating, Ron! Imagine my cello suites being played on the guitar—how extraordinary! In my time, the guitar wasn’t really an instrument I wrote for, so I certainly didn’t see that coming. But to answer your question, I think I would have been quite pleased by it.

Music, you see, is a living art. It transforms, moves through time, and adapts to new contexts. I wasn’t so rigid that I would insist my cello suites remain only for the cello.

In fact, many of my works were transcriptions themselves—my own and others'. I often rearranged pieces for different instruments depending on what was needed. The essence of the music, for me, was in the structure, the harmony, and the counterpoint. So, if someone found a new voice for my music, even on an instrument I didn’t write for, I think I would have smiled at the ingenuity.

I would have been particularly curious to hear the guitar’s tone and expressiveness with those suites. If Segovia could bring out the soul of the music in a way that spoke to people, I would have embraced it.

Ron Stauffer: Okay, here's an even crazier story. An English drug rock band called Procol Harum in the 1960s took one of your melodic lines and turned it into a song called A Whiter Shade of Pale, which became an unbelievable super smash hit, and I think it sold over 10 million records worldwide. What would you make of that? And did you ever imagine just how far your musical babies would stray from the nest?

Ach du meine Güte, Ron! Now that is something I could never have imagined! A rock band, you say? And they took one of my melodies and turned it into a hit? I must say, that’s a kind of musical evolution I could never have foreseen. Ten million records? That’s more than I could have counted in my lifetime!

I think I would have been quite intrigued by this. Music, as I said before, is alive, and it moves in directions we can’t predict. The idea that something I composed could inspire a completely different genre—that’s proof of music’s enduring power. I always believed that good melodies and harmonies could resonate deeply with people, but to see them resurface centuries later in rock music? That’s incredible.

I can’t say I envisioned my musical children straying this far from the nest, but I think I would take it as a sign that they’ve grown wings and taken on a life of their own. If people are moved by it, whether in the quiet of a church or under the electric lights of a concert hall, it’s all part of music’s journey through time. A Whiter Shade of Pale, huh? I may not know what a “rock band” sounds like, but it seems my music found its way into something timeless after all!

Ron Stauffer: Well, those musicians certainly got rich off of your music, so speaking of that, did you get rich in your lifetime? How wealthy were you, or were you poor?

Well, let me tell you, Ron, I was far from rich during my lifetime. I earned enough to support my rather large family—twenty children, mind you!—but we lived modestly. My income came from my positions at various churches, courts, and commissions. I was paid for my work as an organist, a choirmaster, and occasionally as a composer. There were no great riches from music sales, as publishing was not what it is today. I did manage to sell some of my works, but it wasn’t enough to make anyone wealthy.

As for recordings and mass sales of sheet music—ah, those came much later, long after I had left this world. In fact, after my death, many of my works were forgotten for a while. It wasn’t until about a century later, in the nineteenth century, that musicians like Felix Mendelssohn began rediscovering my music. That’s when things truly took off, and my works began to reach wider audiences. But during my life? I was just a hardworking musician. Comfortable, perhaps, but never wealthy.

So, while those rock musicians and modern performers may have made a fortune off my melodies, I, alas, was not so fortunate. My riches came in the form of music, family, and faith—not coins!

Ron Stauffer: On that note, and I mean this in the nicest way, it seems like you were almost nonchalant or even aloof when it came to your understanding of your own compositional skill. For example, I've heard that you composed music so often that people after your death found some of your original manuscripts doing all kinds of things like serving as placemats at the dinner table, or lining your cat's litter box, or I heard something about wrapping tree saplings with your sheet music to protect it from the elements. In other words, I can't imagine what an original Bach manuscript would fetch in price at auction today, but it seems like you thought so little of your music that sometimes your written songs were just like scrap paper. Is that true?

Ah, Ron, that does sound rather careless, doesn’t it? But I can assure you, it wasn’t that I thought little of my music—it’s just that my life was filled with such a constant demand for it. Week after week, new pieces were required for church services, court performances, or students to practice. I wrote so much that once the music had served its purpose, I often had to move on to the next piece without much time to reflect on what I had just created.

As for manuscripts being used for everyday purposes—placemats, lining the litter box, wrapping trees—well, that was more a matter of practicality. Paper was expensive back then, so once a piece had been performed and wasn’t needed anymore, it wasn’t uncommon for old sheets to be repurposed. To me, the music lived more in the performance than in the manuscript itself.

I wasn’t thinking about posterity or auctions! In fact, I never imagined people centuries later would want to collect my music, let alone pay astronomical sums for it. I was focused on the task at hand—completing what was required of me and moving on to the next project. It’s a strange thought now, I must admit, that people would treasure those old manuscripts so dearly today. But back then, they were just part of the daily grind.

Ron Stauffer: Are you saying that you never performed the same musical works twice or maybe only just a few times? You didn't, you know, write a piece and then perform it and then have a weekly or a monthly performance of it or, you know, like these days with operas, they'll have five nights in a row, you know, come on a Tuesday and see the same performance on a Thursday if you miss it on a Tuesday. Are you saying these were all one-time performances and then you put the music aside and then that was it?

Yes, it does seem odd by today’s standards, doesn’t it? But you’re quite right—I rarely had the luxury of performing the same piece multiple times. Much of what I composed, especially the cantatas for church services, were written for a specific occasion—say, a Sunday service or a festival. After that, the piece would often be set aside, and I’d move on to the next week’s work. There wasn’t this idea of “repeating” performances the way you described with operas today. Each Sunday demanded something new!

Now, there were exceptions. I did reuse some of my own music—occasionally reworking a piece to fit a different context or repurposing sections. And for things like instrumental music, there was a bit more flexibility. For example, my Brandenburg Concertos or my keyboard works may have been performed more than once, but not in any sort of regular “weekly” or “monthly” format.

But in my time, especially in the church, there wasn’t much of an audience for repeated performances of the same work. The focus was on the new, the fresh. And since much of my work was functional, it wasn’t designed to have a long “shelf life,” if you will. I wasn’t thinking about legacy—I was thinking about meeting the demands of the week, and that often meant the music had to serve its purpose and then step aside for the next one.

Ron Stauffer: That is so different. That's such a different way of thinking about music and composition, as opposed to today, where a musician will write some musical works and then go on tour and visit multiple cities across the world, sometimes playing the same songs over a career, maybe 500, 1,000, or even 5,000 times. That's completely crazy. And you had no understanding of recording or being able to save or store your musical performances in any way, right? If you missed the live show, that was it, right?

Exactly, Ron! In my time, if you missed the live performance, well, that was truly it. There was no way to record or preserve the sound beyond the moment it was played. The music existed only in that instant—ephemeral, almost like smoke from these cigars we’re enjoying. It was born, it breathed, and then it disappeared. That’s what made live performance so precious back then. You had to be there, or you missed the experience entirely.

And the idea of playing a piece hundreds or thousands of times, as modern musicians do, would have been quite foreign to me. As I mentioned, I was constantly under pressure to produce new works. Repetition simply wasn’t a luxury I could afford. In fact, I might have thought it strange to spend so much time playing the same pieces over and over, though I can understand the modern appeal of refining and sharing music with larger audiences.

And yes, there was no concept of recording sound. My compositions were preserved only in manuscripts, and even those didn’t always survive. It’s why so many of my works were lost after my death. The idea that music could be recorded and played back again later, for future audiences—it would have been absolutely unimaginable to me. For us, music was truly of the moment, and that moment passed as soon as the last note faded. What a difference from the way things are done today!

Ron Stauffer: That is indeed a strange difference between your generation and mine. On a separate note, let's talk about your skills once again. Would you have called yourself a composer who played the organ, or an organ player who composed music?

Yes, Ron—that’s an interesting distinction, isn’t it? I’ve always seen myself first and foremost as an organist. The organ was truly my instrument; it was where I felt most at home. I spent hours practicing, performing, and improvising on the organ, and much of my work revolved around it. You could say my compositions flowed naturally from my understanding of the instrument.

But as time went on, I became just as much a composer as I was an organist. My roles required me to write music for choirs, orchestras, solo instruments—you name it. I wouldn’t have called myself “just” an organist or “just” a composer. In many ways, they were inseparable for me. Playing the organ fed my composing, and composing fed my playing.

However, if you forced me to choose, I might lean toward calling myself an organist first. That’s where my deepest connection to music lay, and it was through the organ that I understood the grand architecture of sound. But my heart was in both.

Ron Stauffer: Let's talk about the elephant in the room. Speaking of your skills as a composer and an organist, there's a conspiracy theory going around these days where some people say Toccata and Fugue in D minor wasn't actually composed or played by you. What say you? What is the truth?

Ah, Toccata and Fugue in D minor! That piece has taken on quite a life of its own, hasn’t it? I’m aware that there are some who question its origins, claiming it may not have been written by me at all. How curious, indeed!

Let me tell you this: I never kept an official catalog of every single work I composed, nor did I foresee that people would scrutinize these pieces so closely centuries after my death. The truth is, I did compose many works in a similar style—bold, dramatic, and virtuosic, especially for the organ. Whether I specifically wrote that exact Toccata and Fugue in D minor, I cannot say with certainty after all this time.

However, it does bear many hallmarks of my style—particularly my early, more flamboyant works. The fugue structure, the counterpoint, and the dramatic opening flourish are certainly things I would have done. But if someone else took inspiration from my methods and composed it in my name, I wouldn’t be offended.

If the music moves people, if it stirs the soul, then whether it was my hand or another’s, it still carries the spirit of what I tried to achieve in my work. But as for the truth, Ron? I’ll leave that to the historians and scholars to debate. I’m just glad people are still talking about it!

Ron Stauffer: What a refreshing difference from the egomaniacs in music these days. Well, okay, so speaking of ego and, attribution and giving credit where credit's due, one of the more famous feuds, I guess you could say, over the past couple decades was the Beach Boys and the Beatles, two different bands in the same era playing different music and constantly trying to one-up the other. I wonder, were you jealous of anyone? Was there another composer you didn't like or had some sort of a musical feud with or thought, oh, wow, I just heard a new work by this composer. I can do better than that.

Ah, Ron, what an interesting comparison! The Beach Boys and the Beatles, you say? Well, in my time, I certainly admired and respected many fellow composers, but I can’t say I had the kind of feud you’re describing. Jealousy, perhaps—every musician feels a bit of that now and then. There were certainly moments when I heard someone else’s work and thought, “Hmm, I could do better,” or, “Why didn’t I think of that?”

For instance, I had great respect for composers like Georg Philipp Telemann and Antonio Vivaldi. Telemann was incredibly prolific, even more than I was, and quite famous in his day. Sometimes I wondered how he managed to compose so much and be so well-regarded! And Vivaldi, well, his Italian flair was certainly admired in Germany, and his concertos had a certain lightness that mine often didn’t.

But jealousy? Maybe a touch, though it was more admiration and a desire to challenge myself. There was also the famous Frenchman, Jean-Philippe Rameau—his harmonic innovations were quite advanced, and I certainly kept an eye on what he was doing. But I didn’t engage in feuds. My focus was always on perfecting my own craft, not tearing down others.

That said, there was one episode early in my career where I butted heads with a composer named Johann Adolph Scheibe. He criticized my music for being too complicated, too dense, and full of “unnatural” complexity. His words stung, I admit, but I didn’t dwell on it. I was always more interested in writing music that honored God and elevated the human spirit, rather than engaging in rivalries. So, while I wasn’t immune to feeling competitive, I didn’t let it consume me the way it might some musicians today.

Ron Stauffer: Well, that's very interesting and it's encouraging, and now you're talking about faith and how that plays into your works, obviously, as somebody who wrote a lot of music for the Church. You really focused on this concept of soli deo gloria, and as I understand, you wrote SDG on every piece of sheet music or almost every piece of sheet music manuscript that you had. Did you literally want all glory to go to God for everything you ever wrote? Did you see all your compositions as an expression of faith, even the instrumental ones?

Ah, yes, soli Deo gloria—to God alone be the glory. It’s true, Ron, I wrote “SDG” at the end of most of my manuscripts, because I genuinely believed that everything I did, every note I composed, was in service to something greater than myself. Music, for me, was a divine gift, and it felt only right to return that gift to its source. I wasn’t composing for personal fame or recognition, but rather as a way to honor God and express the beauty of creation through sound.

Now, you’re right to ask whether that applied to my instrumental works as well. The answer is yes—I saw all of my compositions, whether sacred or secular, vocal or instrumental, as being infused with the same spirit of devotion. Even when I was writing a concerto or a keyboard piece, I still believed that the act of creating music was an expression of my faith. Music, in its very nature, reflects order, harmony, and the divine, so in a way, every composition, whether it was meant for a church service or for a court performance, had a spiritual essence to it.

So, yes, SDG was more than just a signature or a formality. It was a reminder to myself that my talents and work were not for my own glory but for God’s. Even in the more “earthly” pieces, I believed music had the power to elevate the soul and connect us to something higher. Whether it was a sacred cantata or a fugue, the purpose remained the same.

Ron Stauffer: Well, once again, on that note of faith, you were a Lutheran, and many composers around your time, I believe including Monteverdi, Haydn, Mozart, Scarlatti, and Vivaldi, were all Roman Catholic. How did your denominational alliance affect your works, if at all?

Ah, yes, my Lutheran faith was deeply woven into the fabric of my life and my music. It certainly shaped the themes and the purpose of much of my work. Being a devout Lutheran influenced not only the sacred music I wrote but also the way I approached music as a whole.

In Lutheranism, especially in the traditions of Martin Luther himself, music was considered a powerful form of worship and a direct expression of faith. Luther once said, “Next to the Word of God, the noble art of music is the greatest treasure in the world.” That resonated with me deeply. The Lutheran service placed great emphasis on congregational singing and chorales, which is why I wrote so many chorale settings, cantatas, and large works like the St. Matthew Passion and St. John Passion. These were not just artistic endeavors; they were acts of devotion and meant to convey the theology of my faith through music.

As for my Roman Catholic contemporaries—Monteverdi, Vivaldi, Mozart, and the like—they were, of course, writing within the framework of the Catholic Church, which has its own rich traditions. The Mass was central to their sacred works, while for me, the cantata, the Passion, and the chorale were key forms. But while the denominations were different, I think we shared a common belief in the spiritual power of music.

The theological differences between Lutheranism and Catholicism certainly shaped the text and content of our sacred works, but the underlying goal—expressing faith through music—was quite similar. So, while my works were deeply Lutheran in their doctrine and spirit, I always felt a kinship with other composers in their dedication to sacred music. Ultimately, whether in a Catholic or Lutheran church, the goal was to elevate the soul and glorify God through sound.

Ron Stauffer: Yeah, although you drew a distinction between the Catholics writing masses and you mostly focused on choral—different choral works and cantatas, but you wrote a mass too, right? I mean, you're pretty famous for the B Minor Mass.

Ah, yes, you’re quite right, Ron! The Mass in B minor—perhaps one of my most well-known works today. It’s a bit curious, isn’t it, that a devout Lutheran like myself would compose a full Catholic Mass? But let me explain.

While my focus was indeed on writing cantatas, passions, and other works tied to the Lutheran tradition, I was also drawn to the Mass as a musical form. The Mass in B minor wasn’t written as a complete work at one time; rather, parts of it were composed over many years, and it was more of a culmination of my sacred choral style. In fact, some sections, like the Kyrie and Gloria, were written earlier for specific occasions and later incorporated into the full Mass.

Now, even though the Mass was a Catholic liturgical form, I saw it as a grand and beautiful structure—one that allowed for deep musical expression of faith. I didn’t write it for a specific Catholic service but rather as a more universal, timeless offering. I think, in a way, it transcended denominational boundaries. It was about exploring the depths of human expression in worship, regardless of whether it was intended for a Lutheran or Catholic audience.

The B minor Mass was also never performed in its entirety during my lifetime. It was more of a monumental artistic statement, almost like a personal testament to my craft and faith. So, yes, while my roots were firmly in the Lutheran tradition, the Mass in B minor shows that, for me, the music of faith could cross boundaries and speak to something greater, beyond any one denomination.

Ron Stauffer: That makes sense. Well, okay, switching gears a little bit, let's talk a little bit more about you personally. One, as a Lutheran, this is a criticism I've heard of Martin Luther himself, and also of you, that you were a heavy drinker. Is this true? Did you drink a lot of alcohol? And if so, what kind?

Ah, now there’s a lively topic, Ron! I’ll admit, like many of my contemporaries, I did enjoy a good drink—after all, life in those days wasn’t exactly easy, and a bit of refreshment helped lighten the load! But as for being a heavy drinker? Well, I wouldn’t say I was any more excessive than the average man of my time.

You see, in 18th-century Germany, it was quite common to drink beer or wine regularly. The water wasn’t always safe to drink, so people often turned to beer, and even children drank a weaker version. Wine, too, was quite popular, though perhaps a bit more expensive. I enjoyed both beer and wine, particularly at social gatherings or after a long day of work at the organ or desk.

Luther himself was known to enjoy a good beer, and I suppose I followed in that tradition! But, I’d like to think I kept things balanced. My mind needed to stay sharp for composing, and while I certainly partook, I was also a family man with responsibilities, including, as I mentioned before, caring for a rather large brood of children. So, yes, I drank, but it was all part of the culture—nothing scandalous by the standards of the day!

Perhaps people today look back and see my appreciation for drink through a modern lens, but in my time, it was just a way of life.

Ron Stauffer: Hmm, that's fair. All right, so you've mentioned this a few times. You had how many kids? And at one point, I know at least one of your wives died. So just give me a quick rundown on your marriage and your children, or your marriages and your children.

Ah, yes, my family! I had quite a large one, Ron—twenty children in total, though not all survived to adulthood, as was sadly common in those days. Let me give you the rundown:

I was married twice. My first wife, Maria Barbara, was actually my second cousin, and we had seven children together. Unfortunately, Maria Barbara passed away suddenly in 1720 while I was away on a trip. It was a great shock to me, and it was one of the more difficult moments of my life.

A year later, I married Anna Magdalena, a singer, and we had thirteen more children together. Anna was a great support to me, not only as a mother but also as a musician. She even helped copy out some of my music. We shared a deep love of music, and I was fortunate to have her by my side.

Of my twenty children, ten survived into adulthood, and several of them became musicians themselves, most notably Carl Philipp Emanuel Bach and Johann Christian Bach, who both went on to become successful composers in their own right.

So, yes, my family life was full—full of music, full of joy, but also full of loss, which was a reality for many families in that era. But through it all, my children and my music remained central to my life.

Ron Stauffer: Yeah, okay. So you mentioned the time. Boy, yeah, mortality rates were very different back then, but not only that. As I understand, when your first wife died, you were away on a trip with a prince, I think it was, and by the time you got back, you had been gone so long that she had already been dead and buried for like a period of months. Is that correct?

Ah, yes, that is correct, and it was one of the most painful moments of my life, Ron. In 1720, I was away on a trip with Prince Leopold of Anhalt-Köthen, where I served as his Kapellmeister.

We had traveled for several weeks, and during that time, Maria Barbara fell ill and passed away quite suddenly. The tragedy was that, due to the slow pace of communication back then, I had no idea what had happened until I returned home. By the time I arrived, she had already been buried.

It was devastating to come back to such news without even the chance to say goodbye. Losing a spouse is difficult enough, but to be absent during her final days and her burial—it’s something that weighed heavily on me. In those times, with travel and the lack of modern communication, such sad realities weren’t uncommon, but that didn’t make it any easier. It was a very dark chapter in my life, and the music I composed in the years following reflects some of that sorrow.

Ron Stauffer: Really? That's an interesting point. What are some of those musical works that reflect the sorrow? Would I recognize them?

Ah, yes, Ron, there are certainly pieces that reflect the depth of sorrow and loss I felt during that time, though some may not be as explicitly tied to my personal grief. The emotions were woven into the music itself—sometimes in subtle ways.

One work that comes to mind is my Chaconne from the Partita No. 2 in D minor for solo violin. Though I composed it a few years after Maria Barbara’s death, many have interpreted it as a reflection of profound loss. The Chaconne is dark, complex, and deeply emotional, often thought to be a meditation on grief. Its structure, constantly evolving over a repeated bass line, has been described as a musical journey through sorrow and resolution. Some even speculate it was composed in her memory, though I never explicitly stated that.

Another work, my Cantata No. 106 (Actus Tragicus), written earlier, deals directly with themes of death and preparation for the afterlife. While it predates Maria Barbara’s passing, its intense focus on mortality and the release from earthly suffering took on even more resonance for me after her death.

Finally, the St. Matthew Passion, which I composed in 1727, speaks of Christ’s suffering and death, but its emotional depth and exploration of pain, loss, and redemption likely drew from my personal experiences. It is a work filled with pathos and reflection on human suffering, which I certainly felt deeply by that point.

These works are not only recognized for their musical brilliance but also for the way they express the human condition—grief, loss, and ultimately, hope. While not all of them were directly written in response to Maria Barbara’s death, the emotions I carried into that period of my life undoubtedly influenced the music.

Ron Stauffer: Yeah, wow, that's interesting. Okay, so speaking of your kids, going back to that for a moment, you mentioned at least two of them ended up becoming professional musicians and or composers. I wonder, was that part of your plan? Did you want them to follow in your footsteps or not? Did you encourage them to do that or discourage them in any way? And were you ever concerned that they might show you up in some way? I mean, again, it sounds like you had very little ego, but at some point, would it have bothered you to know that your son, JC Bach, may have become more famous than you?

Ah, the matter of my children and their careers—yes, Ron, I was certainly involved in their musical upbringing. It wasn’t so much that I had a plan for them to follow in my footsteps, but rather that music was such a central part of our household that it was almost inevitable they would be drawn into it. I provided them with a solid musical education, not because I wanted them to live in my shadow, but because I believed that music was a valuable skill, a gift that should be cultivated.

Carl Philipp Emanuel, Johann Christian, and a few others showed great talent, and I was proud of their achievements. I didn’t discourage them at all; in fact, I gave them every opportunity to learn and grow, much as my own father had done for me. Music was in our blood, so to speak.

Now, as for the question of them surpassing me—well, it didn’t trouble me in the least. I was always more concerned with my own work and the quality of what I produced, rather than how I measured up to others, even my own sons. Johann Christian, especially, became quite famous in his own right, and he embraced a more modern, gallant style of composition, which was popular in his time. It was very different from the dense, contrapuntal style I was known for.

In truth, I saw this as part of the natural evolution of music. Each generation brings something new to the table. If anything, I would have been pleased to know that my sons found success and contributed to the art in their own way. Fame didn’t concern me much—what mattered was that they made good music and honored the craft. If they showed me up, well, that was their honor to carry!

Ron Stauffer: So, were you known as a musical family? You mentioned your father helping you in your own musical formation, and then you doing the same. So, was music a Bach family tradition? Were you known in your local town as the Bach family of musicians?

Ah, indeed, Ron! The Bach family was very much a musical dynasty, long before I came onto the scene. We were known throughout Thuringia and beyond for generations as musicians. My father, Johann Ambrosius Bach, was a town musician in Eisenach, and he played a significant role in my early musical education. And even before him, there were several Bachs involved in music—whether as town musicians, church organists, or composers. In fact, “Bach” became almost synonymous with “musician” in some parts of Germany!

It was such a family tradition that even in my time, in some regions, if you needed a musician, you’d simply say, “Get a Bach.” It was like calling for a member of the family was calling for music itself. So yes, we were very much known as a musical family, and I inherited that tradition, along with many of my relatives and sons.

Music was in the air we breathed, and it wasn’t uncommon for family gatherings to turn into impromptu musical performances or jam sessions, as you might call them today. So, the tradition ran deep, and I certainly passed it down to my own children, keeping the Bach musical legacy alive. We were a family of musicians through and through—stretching across generations.

Ron Stauffer: Wow, that's very interesting. Did you employ your children to play in the orchestras that you conducted? Or did you have a family band?

Ah, yes, a family band—you could say that we had something quite close to it! I certainly did involve my children in many of my musical activities. As they grew up and became more proficient on their instruments, they would often perform in the church ensembles or court orchestras I directed. It was very practical, really. When you’re responsible for leading choirs and orchestras, having talented musicians in the family is a great asset!

For example, my sons Wilhelm Friedemann and Carl Philipp Emanuel were exceptional musicians, and they often performed in the churches where I worked, sometimes playing continuo or accompanying choirs. My wife, Anna Magdalena, as I mentioned, was a singer, and she occasionally participated in performances as well. So, in a sense, yes, we often performed as a family unit.

There were times when I had my sons copying out parts for the orchestra, rehearsing with the ensemble, or playing alongside other musicians in performances. We weren’t a formal “family band” as such, but music was so ingrained in our daily lives that it was almost inevitable we would perform together.

The level of family collaboration was quite high, and I took pride in knowing that my children were not only capable musicians but were also helping to bring my music to life. We were very much a musical household, and that spilled over into my professional work as well. It was all very intertwined—family, faith, and music.

Ron Stauffer: Well, one thing I know sitting here in the 21st century looking back over the years is that you died in 1750, and apparently the whole Baroque period of music died along with it. Why is that?

Ah, yes, 1750—the year of my passing and, as you say, often seen as the end of the Baroque era! It’s quite something to be linked with the closing of an entire musical period, isn’t it? But I suppose it makes sense in a way.

By the time I died, musical tastes were already shifting. The younger generation—composers like my own sons, Carl Philipp Emanuel and Johann Christian, along with others like Haydn—were moving toward a simpler, more elegant style, what would become known as the Classical period. My music, with its intricate counterpoint and dense structure, was considered old-fashioned by then. People were craving something lighter, more melodic, and more immediately pleasing to the ear.

So, while my death coincided with the close of the Baroque era, I don’t think it was because I ended it myself, but rather because the musical world was naturally evolving. My works may have been the final great expression of Baroque ideals, but the new styles were already emerging and gaining popularity during my later years.

In a way, it’s fitting that my passing marks that transition. The Baroque era, with its grandeur, complexity, and deep expressiveness, gave way to something more streamlined. But I take comfort in knowing that the seeds of those musical changes were planted by the same traditions I upheld—and in some cases, by my own children! So, while the Baroque period may have ended with me, its legacy lived on, transformed, and adapted for new ears and new times.

Ron Stauffer: Well, okay, so let's talk a little bit about the Baroque period, just very briefly. What was the essence of the Baroque era, and how was it different than what came before it? And then maybe tack on a little explanation about what came after.

Ah, the Baroque era—such a rich and expressive time for music, Ron! In many ways, the essence of Baroque music was all about contrast and drama. It was characterized by ornate detail, emotional depth, and a focus on creating a grand, often majestic sound. Composers like myself, Vivaldi, Handel, and others used techniques like basso continuo to create a strong harmonic foundation, and we loved using counterpoint—interweaving multiple independent melodies to create complex, rich textures.

What set the Baroque period apart from what came before, like the Renaissance, was its emphasis on contrast and dynamic expression. Renaissance music was more balanced, often flowing in a more restrained and uniform manner. Baroque music, on the other hand, embraced extremes—shifts from loud to soft, fast to slow, and the use of ornamentation to enhance melodies. It was about heightening emotion, whether in sacred works, like my Passions, or in secular pieces, like my instrumental concertos.

Baroque music also saw the development of forms like the concerto, the suite, the sonata, and the fugue, which helped give structure to these grand ideas. Harmony became more adventurous, and composers began to explore modulation—shifting between keys in new and dramatic ways.

After the Baroque era, music transitioned into the Classical period, where composers like Haydn, Mozart, and later Beethoven took the stage. The Classical style valued clarity, simplicity, and balance. While Baroque music was dense and ornamented, Classical music aimed for elegance and clear melodies. Forms like the symphony and the string quartet became popular, and composers moved away from the elaborate counterpoint I loved so much, instead favoring simpler harmonic progressions and clearer structures.

So, if the Baroque era was about complexity, drama, and emotional depth, the Classical period that followed was about refinement, balance, and clarity. Each era had its strengths, and in their own ways, they both aimed to capture the beauty and power of music, just in very different styles.

Ron Stauffer: I'll say, talking about, my goodness, the Baroque era being crazy and complex. I almost, I almost wonder, like, why did you write some of that music? Like the Magnificat in D has such insane maniacal flourishes and melismas just through the roof. Did you enjoy torturing singers for fun?

Ha! Torturing singers, you say? Well, Ron, I must admit I never intended to make anyone suffer, but I can see why you might think that with something like the Magnificat in D! Yes, the flourishes and melismas are certainly abundant, and they do push singers to their limits.

But you see, I wasn’t out to torment anyone. I had such high regard for the human voice and its expressive capabilities, and I always aimed to write music that would reflect the glory and grandeur of the text, especially in a work like the Magnificat, which praises the divine. The complex runs and flourishes were meant to elevate the music and convey the joy and exaltation of the moment. It was my way of capturing something transcendent through music.

That being said, I did have high expectations for my performers. In Leipzig, I worked with singers who were often students or members of the church, and they were expected to rise to the occasion. I believed that challenging them with complex lines could bring out the best in their abilities and inspire them to reach new heights. Of course, I’m sure they may have grumbled a bit during rehearsals!

So, no, I didn’t set out to torture anyone, but I did write with ambition, always trying to serve the music and the message behind it. And when it all came together, well, I’d like to think the result was worth the effort—despite the challenges it presented to the singers!

Ron Stauffer: Okay, here's a question that's a little bit light-hearted. You seemed like you were a very serious person, and yet, apparently, you wrote something called the Coffee Cantata, which sounds very silly. What is that about, and did you write any other light-hearted or comedic work?

Ah, the Coffee Cantata! Yes, that one does stand out, doesn’t it? A bit of a departure from my more serious sacred works, for sure. But, Ron, even I had my lighter moments! Life isn’t all solemnity and grandeur, after all.

The Coffee Cantata (Schweigt stille, plaudert nicht) was written as a sort of miniature comic opera. It wasn’t intended for the church, of course, but rather for performance at Leipzig’s coffee houses, which were quite popular at the time. Coffee had become all the rage in Germany, and there was a bit of a humorous societal debate about it—some people thought drinking coffee was an indulgence, while others, like me, were quite fond of it!

The story of the cantata is playful: a young woman, Liesgen, is absolutely addicted to coffee, and her father, Schlendrian, tries to forbid her from drinking it, thinking it’s ruining her life. But Liesgen won’t give it up. Eventually, she outsmarts him by agreeing to stop drinking coffee only if she finds a husband, cleverly ensuring she gets both her coffee and her freedom.

It’s a humorous piece, full of lively music, and I think it gave my audience something to smile about. While I’m often remembered for my serious, sacred compositions, I did enjoy writing secular works, including this one, which pokes fun at something as everyday as a love of coffee.

As for other light-hearted works, there were occasional pieces like this one—often secular cantatas or instrumental music meant for social gatherings and courtly entertainment. While I didn’t make a habit of writing purely comedic music, I certainly wasn’t opposed to having a bit of fun when the occasion called for it! Life, after all, needs both the sacred and the silly.

Ron Stauffer: I agree. Now, okay, again, by today's definition, looking back on your life, just looking at things that you did from the beginning of your life until your final days, it sounds like you were kind of a badass, but I can't tell what's true and what isn't. For example, is it true that you once walked almost 300 miles just to see a concert and that you challenged another musician to a musical duel, but when he found out how good you were, he gave up? And to top it off, you once threatened a bassoon player with a drawn sword during music practice? You sound crazy.

Ha! Well, Ron, I must say, those stories certainly paint quite the picture, don’t they? But let me clarify things a bit—you’re not entirely wrong, but perhaps these tales have taken on a life of their own over time!

First, the long walk—that’s quite true. When I was in my late teens, I walked from Arnstadt to Lübeck, which was indeed about 250 miles, just to hear the great organist Dieterich Buxtehude perform. I admired his playing greatly and wanted to learn from him. Now, that might sound a bit extreme, but in those days, if you were passionate about something, you made the effort! So, yes, I walked those miles for the chance to experience something truly special. And it was worth every step.

As for the musical duel—ah, yes, that’s another story with some truth to it. The musician in question was Louis Marchand, a French composer and keyboard player. We were supposed to have a musical duel at the Dresden court to see who was the superior keyboardist. But, as the story goes, when Marchand realized just how skilled I was, he decided to leave town before the duel could happen! Now, did he truly flee because of my talent? We’ll never know for sure, but it’s a fun story to tell, isn’t it?

And as for the bassoon player and the sword—that tale has been exaggerated over time! It’s true that I had my fair share of frustrations with musicians who didn’t meet my standards, and there was indeed an incident where I had a heated exchange with a bassoonist in Arnstadt. His playing was less than satisfactory, and we got into an argument. As for the sword? Well, it’s true I had one, but drawing it was more of a dramatic gesture than an actual threat. I was passionate about music, and I had a temper when it came to people not taking their craft seriously!

So, yes, I had some moments of intensity, but “crazy”? I prefer to think of myself as dedicated to my art—perhaps a bit fiery when needed, but always in the name of music!

Ron Stauffer: Okay, well here's a crazy anecdote. Is it true that you were arrested once? What's the deal with that? How did a straight-laced guy like you with 20 kids end up in the slammer? Was it drunk driving or drunk horse riding or whatever they had back then?

Ha! Arrested? Oh yes, Ron, it’s true, I did spend some time behind bars, though not for any wild antics like drunk horse riding, as you might imagine! It was a more mundane, though still frustrating, situation.

Back in 1717, I was working as the Kapellmeister for Prince Leopold of Anhalt-Köthen, but before that, I had been employed in Weimar, where I served as court organist and later concertmaster. Now, the Duke of Weimar, Wilhelm Ernst, wasn’t too happy when I decided to leave his court for a better position in Köthen. When I requested my release, the Duke refused to grant it. I insisted on leaving, and, well, he didn’t take too kindly to that!

So, what happened? The Duke had me locked up for about a month. It wasn’t a grand scandal or anything like that—it was simply a matter of a powerful man not wanting to lose his employee. Eventually, he let me go, but not before I spent those four weeks in jail. While I wasn’t exactly a troublemaker, this was one of those cases where standing up for myself and my career led to some… let’s say, unintended consequences!

So, no drunken escapades—just a disagreement over employment. But it makes for a good story, doesn’t it? Even a straight-laced composer like me managed to have a little run-in with authority!

Ron Stauffer: Well, I think that just proves my point that you truly are the original rock star. I mean, you pushed music to its absolute limits, and you were a bit of a rebel, and you got in a fight over a contract dispute. I mean, what's more rock and roll than that?

Ha! You know, Ron, I never thought of myself as the “original rock star,” but I must admit, hearing you say it like that, it does make me chuckle! Pushing music to its limits, challenging authority, and standing my ground—it does have a certain rebellious flair, doesn’t it? I suppose if you look at it that way, maybe I had a bit of that “rock and roll” spirit long before electric guitars and loud amplifiers came along.

But in truth, I was always driven by the music itself—by a desire to perfect my craft, to explore every corner of harmony, counterpoint, and expression. If that made me a bit of a rebel along the way, well, so be it! And yes, sometimes a fight over a contract or a disagreement about how things should be done was just part of the journey.

So, rock star or not, I always followed my own path in music, and if that resonates with the rebellious spirit of later musicians, I’ll gladly wear the title with pride. Soli Deo gloria, as always—but maybe with just a little bit of a rock star attitude, ja?

Ron Stauffer: I like that. So, hey, before you died, what were you working on? And were you expecting your death when it came, or were you in the middle of some musical projects that you had grander visions for that were cut short?

Ah, a thoughtful question, Ron. In my final years, I was still deeply immersed in my work, though I had been dealing with health issues, particularly with my eyes. I underwent surgery to try to correct my vision, but it didn’t go well, and by the end, I was blind. Still, I continued composing and dictating music to my family and students.

One of the last major projects I was working on was The Art of Fugue. It was an ambitious work, a culmination of my lifelong fascination with counterpoint and fugue. In it, I sought to explore the fugue in all its complexity and beauty. I managed to complete most of it, but the final fugue, often referred to as the unfinished fugue, was left incomplete at the time of my death. It’s been said that the fugue was meant to spell out my own name in musical notation—B-A-C-H—but the music trails off before reaching that point. Whether or not that was intentional, or whether death simply caught up with me before I could finish, we’ll never know for certain.

I wasn’t expecting death to arrive quite when it did, but I was aware that my health was failing, particularly after the unsuccessful eye surgeries. I kept working as much as I could, knowing that my time might be limited. I wasn’t one to shy away from the idea of mortality, though. My faith sustained me through it, and I trusted that whatever I couldn’t finish in this life would find completion in the next, in God’s hands.

So yes, I was still full of ideas and passion for music right until the end, but death has a way of arriving unannounced, doesn’t it? I left a few things unfinished, but in the end, I’d like to think I gave the world a good deal of music to carry on with.

Ron Stauffer: Well, you certainly have a huge body of work. How many actual individual musical works did you write, at least that we know?

Ah, yes, Ron, the sheer number of works I composed is quite staggering, even to me! As far as we know, I wrote over a thousand individual musical works. The BWV catalog (Bach-Werke-Verzeichnis) lists them all, numbering them from BWV 1 through BWV 1128, though that includes both large-scale works and smaller pieces.

These range from sacred works like cantatas, masses, and passions to secular pieces, instrumental works, organ music, and keyboard compositions. The cantatas alone account for over two hundred works! And then there are the preludes and fugues, concertos, suites, sonatas, and choral settings. I was constantly writing, often out of necessity, as you know, but also out of a deep love for the craft.

Keep in mind, though, that some of my works have been lost over time. I’m sure there are more pieces that didn’t survive the centuries. I wrote so much that it’s hard to say exactly how many compositions I created, but the thousand-plus works that remain offer a pretty solid picture of my output. And I suppose that’s not a bad legacy to leave behind, ja?

Ron Stauffer: Yeah, that's an enormous amount. Wow, I'm getting tired just thinking of it. Well, okay, here's another question on the note of musical inspiration and technique and all those things. Who was your musical inspiration? Was there another composer you looked to, either a contemporary of yours or someone who died before you that you thought, wow, this is the kind of music I want to write, or I am inspired by this guy to do my own kind of thing?

Ah, yes, inspiration! Every composer, no matter how original, draws from the work of others who came before or alongside them. For me, there were several musicians who influenced and inspired my own style, though I always aimed to develop my own voice within that.

One of my greatest inspirations was Dieterich Buxtehude, the great organist and composer from Lübeck. I admired his organ works so much that, as you know, I walked nearly 250 miles to hear him perform. His command of counterpoint, the grandeur of his organ music, and his ability to balance structure with emotion greatly influenced my own approach to the instrument and composition. Buxtehude’s influence can definitely be heard in my organ works, and I took inspiration from his ability to use music to elevate spiritual experience.

Another figure who inspired me was Antonio Vivaldi. His concertos, particularly for strings, were fresh and vibrant, and they influenced my approach to instrumental composition. Vivaldi had a way of using rhythmic drive and harmonic color that I admired. I even transcribed several of his concertos for organ and harpsichord. His works taught me a lot about how to shape instrumental music in ways that went beyond the constraints of counterpoint, adding energy and vitality.

In terms of older influences, Johann Pachelbel, famous today for his Canon in D, was also a significant figure for me. His keyboard works and choral settings had a certain elegance and clarity that I appreciated. He represented an earlier generation of German composers that set the foundation for what I would go on to explore in greater depth.

Of course, I also drew inspiration from older Renaissance masters like Josquin des Prez, whose polyphonic style influenced my understanding of vocal writing. And Martin Luther himself, though not a composer in the way we think of today, inspired me deeply with his theology of music and his insistence on its importance in worship.

Ron Stauffer: That makes sense. In a few sentences, what would you say is Bach's grand theory of music, specifically for your music that you wrote and performed, and just music in general?

Ah, Ron, if I were to sum up my grand theory of music, I’d say this: music is a divine language, a reflection of the order and beauty of creation. It exists to glorify God and elevate the human soul. Every note, every harmony, should be crafted with precision and care, not just for its own sake, but to serve a higher purpose. In my own music, I sought to balance complexity with clarity, to weave together the technical mastery of counterpoint with the emotional depth that speaks directly to the heart.

Ultimately, I believed that music is both a gift from God and a way to return that gift—whether in a sacred cantata or a simple instrumental piece, all music carries the potential to connect us to something greater. Soli Deo gloria—to God alone be the glory—was not just a motto, but the guiding principle behind everything I wrote.

Ron Stauffer: Well, I mentioned A Whiter Shade of Pale and some other works that draw heavily on your influence or were directly copied from some of your melodic lines. But if I were to ask you, where in the 21st century can I see the fingerprints of Johann Sebastian Bach, Joe, as you've said, I can call you, where would I see your fingerprints today? In the world, in music, in culture, in musical technology, in instrumentation, things like that.

Ah, Ron, my “fingerprints” have certainly traveled far and wide, haven’t they? Even I couldn’t have imagined the extent of it. If you’re looking for where you might see or hear my influence in the 21st century, you don’t have to look far.

First, in music itself, you can find my influence in just about every corner of Western classical music. Composers like Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms, and many others studied my work deeply—especially my use of counterpoint and harmony. And that influence has rippled outward into modern times. Even today, music students still study The Well-Tempered Clavier as the gold standard for keyboard technique and compositional mastery. So, my fingerprints are in the DNA of classical music education.

In contemporary music, you mentioned A Whiter Shade of Pale, and that’s just one example. My harmonic progressions and melodic lines are often borrowed or reimagined in modern genres like rock, jazz, and even electronic music. My use of counterpoint has inspired jazz improvisation, especially in the way musicians weave independent lines together. You might even hear traces of my fugues in complex modern pop music arrangements, where multiple voices or instruments intertwine.

In terms of technology, the invention of equal temperament—the tuning system that allows for playing in all keys, which I explored in The Well-Tempered Clavier—laid the foundation for the entire Western tonal system. It’s the reason modern pianos, synthesizers, and digital instruments can play in every key without sounding out of tune. So, in that sense, my influence is even in the very technology of music today!

Culturally, you’ll find my works performed everywhere, from grand concert halls to intimate chamber settings, and even in film scores. My music has been used in countless films and TV shows, often to evoke a sense of intellectual depth or spiritual gravity. The Art of Fugue or Air on the G String, for example, are often used in moments of reflection or transcendence.

Finally, in the world of digital music and technology, composers and musicians still look to my rigorous structures and harmonic explorations as a foundation for composition. Software designed for musical composition often includes features for composing in the style of counterpoint, and much of the theory behind modern music programming has roots in the systematic ways I approached harmony and melody.

So, whether in the concert hall, the classroom, or the cutting-edge digital world, I’d say my fingerprints are all over the musical landscape today. Music continues to evolve, but it seems that, in some way, I’ve left a lasting imprint on its future.

Ron Stauffer: That makes sense. You've mentioned CounterPoint multiple times in this conversation, and I'm a musician, so I'm familiar with the concept. But for somebody listening to this conversation who doesn't quite understand what CounterPoint means, can you explain it? In other words, explain CounterPoint like I'm five.

Ah, yes, Ron—counterpoint can sound like a fancy term, but it’s really quite simple when you break it down. So, let’s think about it like this: imagine you’re playing with building blocks. Now, instead of stacking them all in one pile, you’re building multiple towers at the same time, and they’re all growing together, side by side.

In music, counterpoint is when two or more melodies are played or sung at the same time, but instead of just being random, those melodies work together—like those towers of blocks—to create something bigger and more interesting. Each melody can stand on its own, but when you put them together, they fit perfectly, even though they’re moving in different directions.

So, let’s say one melody is going up while the other is going down, or one is fast and the other is slow. They’re independent, but they don’t crash into each other—they complement each other. Think of it as a musical conversation where everyone’s talking at the same time, but somehow it all makes sense!

That’s what counterpoint is—different musical lines working together in harmony, each with its own voice but forming a bigger, more complex sound. It’s like musical teamwork!

Ron Stauffer: That's an excellent explanation. What about this? How many individual instruments did you compose works for, and how many individual instruments did you play personally?

Ah, well, Ron, let’s see! I composed for quite a wide variety of instruments, as my work required me to write for all sorts of ensembles, orchestras, and solo performers. In terms of how many instruments I composed for, we’re talking about a broad spectrum across both strings, winds, keyboard, and more.

Here’s a general sense of the types of instruments I wrote for:

• Keyboard instruments: Organ, harpsichord, clavichord, and even early versions of the piano.

• Strings: Violin, viola, cello, double bass, lute, and others.

• Winds: Flute, oboe, bassoon, recorder, trumpet, and horn.

• Voices: Of course, I composed a great deal for the human voice in choral and solo vocal music, too.

As for instruments I personally played, I was first and foremost an organist. The organ was my home, my sanctuary, and I was known for my skills at the instrument. Beyond that, I also played the harpsichord and clavichord, which were standard keyboard instruments of my time. I could play the violin as well, and I started out in my early years playing violin under my father’s instruction. I wasn’t as well known for my violin playing as I was for my keyboard skills, but it’s something I was proficient in.

So, while I composed for a wide array of instruments, the ones I personally played were mostly in the keyboard family—organ, harpsichord, and clavichord—along with the violin.

Ron Stauffer: Were you a singer? You wrote so much for the human voice. I wonder, did you ever feature yourself singing in a solo work or in the chorus?

Ah, singing! Well, Ron, while I wrote extensively for the human voice, I wouldn’t say I was known as a singer myself. My main focus was always on composing, playing the organ, and conducting choirs. In my early years, I certainly sang as part of my musical training—every young musician in my time did, especially in the church. But my voice wasn’t my primary instrument, and I never featured myself as a soloist.

When I wrote for choirs and soloists, I had other voices in mind—trained singers who could bring the text to life in a way I couldn’t do myself. I did often direct the choirs and worked closely with singers, but I preferred to stay behind the scenes, shaping the music rather than performing it vocally.

So, while I understood the voice well enough to write for it, and certainly sang as a child and likely as part of the choir in my younger days, I never took on a prominent role as a singer in my works. I left that to the capable voices I had at my disposal!

Ron Stauffer: That makes sense. All right, Joe, this is one question. I have one last question for you, and then we'll call it a night. What would you recommend somebody listen to if they say that they A, don't know any Bach works and aren't familiar with any, or B, say, you know, that's really not for me. I don't really like Bach's music.

Ah, Ron, what a thoughtful final question! For someone who says they don’t know my music, or perhaps thinks it’s not for them, I would suggest starting with something accessible, yet powerful—something that captures the essence of what I aimed to express, but without overwhelming them with complexity.

For someone new to my music, I’d recommend starting with the Cello Suite No. 1 in G major. It’s one of my most well-known and beloved pieces, and even if they think they don’t know any Bach, they’ve probably heard the opening prelude somewhere. It’s simple, elegant, and deeply expressive without being too intricate, making it a perfect introduction.

If they’re more interested in keyboard music, I’d point them to the Prelude in C major from The Well-Tempered Clavier, Book 1. It’s a beautiful, flowing piece that’s easy to listen to and shows the harmonic richness I often used, but without the complexity of counterpoint that can sometimes intimidate newcomers.

Now, for someone who might say, “Bach isn’t for me,” I’d suggest they try the Air on the G String. It’s a deeply moving piece with a warm, lyrical quality that many find emotionally stirring. It’s less about complexity and more about pure beauty, and often wins over those who think they don’t like Baroque music.

Ultimately, my music is so varied that I believe there’s something for everyone, whether they enjoy intricate counterpoint, lush harmonies, or simple, heartfelt melodies. If they’re open to listening with fresh ears, I think they might just find something that speaks to them.

And with that, Ron, I raise my glass to you—this has been a most enjoyable conversation! Soli Deo gloria, my friend, even over whiskey and cigars. Cheers!

Ron Stauffer: Thanks, Joe. This has been delightful.

Well, there you have it, folks. J.S. Bach. Or, as I like to call him, Joe. That was a great conversation. I learned a lot about him as a person and about his musical legacy.

So, you know what to do next. As I mentioned before, it is time for you to start listening to more Bach! Take heed of the recommendations that the man himself gave you and try something new. If you already like J.S. Bach, go find something that you’ve never heard of before and give it a shot.

If you think you don’t like his music, give it another shot. Try something slightly different. I promise there’s something for everyone.

Thanks for listening to Zombie History, where we provide history lessons from beyond the grave. Feel free to rate and review this show wherever you listen to podcasts and visit zombiehistory.com to see who else I can dig up from generations past and have a fireside chat with.

Musical works mentioned in this episode:

• Jesu, Joy of Man's Desiring (BWV 147)

• Air on the G String (BWV 1068)

• Brandenburg Concertos (BWV 1046–1051)

• Sheep may safely graze (BWV 208)

• Prelude and Fugue in C major (BWV 846)

• Toccata and Fugue in D minor (BWV 565)

• St. Matthew Passion (BWV 244)

• St. John Passion (BWV 245)

• Mass in B minor (BWV 232)

• Chaconne, Partita in D minor for solo violin (BWV 1004)

• “Actus tragicus” Gottes Zeit ist die allerbeste Zeit (BWV 106)

• “Coffee Cantata” Schweigt stille, plaudert nicht (BWV 211)

• “The Art of the Fugue” Die Kunst der Fuge (BWV 1080)

• Magnificat (BWV 243)

• Cello Suite No. 1 in G major (BWV 1007)

• The Well-Tempered Clavier (BWV 846–893)

One of the many historical figures I’ve been interested in throughout my life is Napoleon Bonaparte. You know, the short dude with the giant hat riding on the horse?

Who was this crazy little man? Was he really so short in stature? Was he Italian, or French, or both? Why did he claim to be a friend of the people but then basically crown himself emperor of all of Europe? What was his main goal, if not total, utter, megalomaniacal conquest of the entire globe?

These are questions I’ve always found amusing but they aren’t exactly burning in their level of urgency, so I’ve just quietly wondered about them. It’s far too much work to read through the many giant tomes that have been written about Napoleon over the years, and I’ve found most history books to be exceptionally dry. Usually, they’re so boring I can’t even get through the first few chapters, let alone the entire book.

So, in this episode of Zombie History, join me as I prop up a Zombie Napoleon in the overstuffed chair across from me in my dimly lit den as the embers flicker in the fireplace and we have a “get to know you discussion.”

Armed with an amazing grasp of the English language (which is, of course, completely historically inaccurate), as well as a complete and total understanding of the digital world and an omniscient, God-like view of all of human history up to now, this Cyborg version of Napoleon Bonaparte can speak with authority from Napoleon’s life and experience from his earliest days all the way to today, over 200 years after his death.

Join me as I light up a cigar, take a warm swig of cognac, swish its brassy essence around on my tongue, and talk to my very first guest on this podcast, Napoleon Bonaparte. 

As Napoleon himself might say, “Messieurs, commençons”. “Gentlemen, let us begin.”

Ron Stauffer: Hi, Napoleon.

Ah, Bonsoir, Ron. It is a pleasure to meet you. I like the setting you've created. Cigars, cognac, and a good conversation. What is it you wish to know from the Emperor himself? Ask away, and I shall answer with the precision of a battlefield command.

Ron Stauffer: First things first, why do you have such a weird name, and are you actually Italian or French?

Ah, I see you want it straight, Ron. My name—Napoleon Bonaparte—is French now, though it began as Napoleone di Buonaparte, reflecting my Italian roots. But as for who I am? By birth, Corsican. By ambition and choice, undeniably French.

Ron Stauffer: Okay, well, that's interesting. What language did you speak?

I grew up speaking Italian, or more precisely, Corsican—a dialect close to Italian. But once I set my sights on France, I quickly adopted French as my primary language. It became the tongue I used in battle, politics, and empire-building. Though, between us, my early French had a bit of an accent.

Ron Stauffer: That’s funny. Okay, what about your size? I don't know if you know this, but sometimes people have suggested that perhaps you tried to conquer the entire world because you were overcompensating because you were such a short person. Tell me about your size in relation to whether that was normal for people of your era or not, and specifically whether that was an issue in your own life. Did people think of you as particularly short?

Ah, yes, this "Napoleon complex" nonsense! In truth, I was around five foot six in modern terms, which was quite average for my time. The idea that I was particularly short comes from a misunderstanding—French inches were longer than English ones, so when my height was recorded, it seemed smaller than it actually was to some.

Now, as for overcompensating—ha!—I did not need to be tall to command respect. My ambition, strategy, and charisma were more than enough to make up for a few inches. No one on the battlefield thought about my height when they saw the results! So, it wasn’t an issue for me. The world I conquered saw me as larger than life, and that’s what mattered.

Ron Stauffer: You make a fair point. Okay. So talk about the conquering that you did. I mean, it kind of seems like sitting here from the history I've read, you wanted to essentially take over all of Europe. Did you think that was your right? Were you into the whole divine right of kings or, did you think God chose you to rule the earth or something like that?

Ah, divine right? No, no, that was not my philosophy. I didn’t need the blessing of some monarch's god to justify my ambitions. I believed in merit—my own, above all. I rose not by birth, but by my ability, my vision. France was in chaos after the Revolution, and I seized the opportunity to bring order, stability, and, of course, glory.

As for conquering Europe, it wasn’t so much about taking everything for myself. It was about spreading the ideals of the Revolution—liberty, equality, fraternity—but on my terms. Europe was a collection of decaying monarchies, and I saw myself as the one to bring about a new order. I believed in destiny and that through conquest, I could reshape the world. But divine right? Non! I forged my own path.

Ron Stauffer: Hmm, so were you a brutal oppressor and a tyrant, or were you more of a “man of the people?”

Ah, the eternal question! Let’s just say, I was both, depending on who you asked. To my soldiers and many in France, I was a man of the people—a leader who rose from humble origins, a symbol of meritocracy, and someone who brought law and order through the Napoleonic Code. I gave many their first taste of social mobility and national pride.

But to my enemies, especially the monarchs of Europe, I was a tyrant, a relentless force who disrupted the old order and bent nations to my will. Yes, I demanded loyalty, and yes, there was bloodshed—war is never gentle. But I always believed I was advancing civilization, not oppressing it

Ron Stauffer: Okay, so what was your big beef with monarchy? I mean, Europe was built on the basis of monarchies of many different peoples, many different languages and races. What was your specific problem with monarchy and what were you trying to accomplish by destroying or demolishing monarchies?

Ah, monarchy. My problem was simple: it represented stagnation, privilege by birth rather than by merit. Europe’s monarchs sat on their thrones, ruling by virtue of lineage, while people lived under systems that served only the elite. I, on the other hand, believed in the power of the individual—those who prove themselves worthy should lead, not those born to it.

By challenging monarchies, I sought to spread the principles of the French Revolution—equality, meritocracy, the end of feudalism. Monarchies resisted these ideas because they threatened their very existence. My aim was not merely to destroy them, but to replace that old, rigid structure with something more dynamic and just.

I wanted to create a Europe where talent, not blood, determined one’s place. Of course, I wasn’t opposed to ruling myself—just that I earned it through victory and vision, not birthright. Monarchs clung to the past; I sought to shape the future.

Ron Stauffer: That seems a little bit ironic though, because didn't you at one point literally crown yourself emperor of all of Europe?

Ah, yes, the irony isn’t lost on me, Ron. But consider this—when I crowned myself Emperor, I wasn’t submitting to the old ways. In fact, I was rejecting them. I didn’t let the Pope place that crown on my head; I took it for myself. That act symbolized my belief that power comes from achievement, not divine right.

Now, why emperor? Europe was a place of empires, and I understood that to consolidate power and maintain stability, a strong, centralized figure was necessary. The title wasn’t about returning to monarchy; it was about ensuring that the revolutionary ideals had the strength behind them to survive. 

That act was meant to show that power, in my view, comes from personal achievement, not from divine right or inherited privilege. Now, as to why I took the title of emperor, Europe was filled with empires. And I knew that to secure France's position and to maintain stability, a strong centralized leader was necessary. So while I did take the crown, it wasn't to become just another monarch—it was to symbolize that I had earned my place through victory and vision, not through some ancient bloodline.

Ron Stauffer: Okay, so if I can be a little bit sarcastic with you right now, you said victory in vision, and yet one of the things you're most famous for is the unbelievable mistake of invading Russia. That ended poorly, didn't it?

Ah, yes, Ron—that campaign. I won’t deny it, invading Russia was a grave miscalculation. My vision of bringing Tsar Alexander back in line with my Continental System clouded my judgment. The truth is, Russia's vastness, the brutal winter, and their scorched-earth tactics bled my Grande Armée dry. The cold, starvation—those were enemies even I could not conquer.

It was a harsh lesson: ambition without limits can lead to disaster. That march into Russia—well, it’s the one campaign I’d rather not relive over this fine cognac. You could say my overconfidence was my downfall. A bitter defeat, but one that even an Emperor must own up to.

Ron Stauffer: Okay. Well, so what was your grand vision though? Obviously, expansion of some sort was one of your goals, and crowning yourself emperor was one of your goals. What was “Napoleon’s theory of Europe,” if I were to give it a term? What was the outcome that you had desired for the continent in general?

My grand vision—let’s call it the "Napoleonic Europe." I envisioned a unified continent, not fragmented by squabbling monarchies and petty alliances, but one where the principles of the French Revolution—liberty, equality, fraternity—were the foundation of governance. Of course, I saw myself as the leader to bring this about, but my goal wasn’t just personal power.

I wanted to create a Europe where outdated feudal systems were swept away, where laws like the Napoleonic Code brought fairness and reason, where merit determined a person's place in society, not birth. I imagined a strong, centralized Europe that could rival Britain’s global influence and break their economic dominance. By aligning the continent economically and politically under my rule, I believed we could achieve prosperity and stability—an empire of order, but one grounded in reason, not aristocratic privilege.

In a way, I sought to balance old Europe with modern ideals. Expansion was a means to that end, not just for conquest’s sake. But in the end, my vision outpaced reality. The monarchs of Europe couldn’t accept such a shift, and my ambition, well, you could say it grew too grand for even the continent to hold.

Ron Stauffer: That's interesting. The way you talked about Britain, are you saying that Britain was your chief enemy? Who were you fighting against mostly? Who was the ultimate bad guy: all monarchies in general, everywhere, all over Europe, or specifically Britain?

Ah, Britain—La perfide Albion—they were indeed my greatest rival. Of course, I fought many monarchs across Europe, but Britain was always the most persistent thorn in my side. While other monarchies came and went in alliances, Britain stood firm, always financing my enemies, forming coalitions against me, and using their naval supremacy to blockade and strangle France economically.

In many ways, Britain represented the ultimate obstacle to my vision of a unified Europe. Their monarchy wasn’t just about tradition—it was tied to a global empire and a powerful economic system that I saw as exploitative and oppressive. Britain didn’t want Europe united under my rule because they thrived off the divisions of the continent, playing one power against another.

So yes, I fought monarchies, but Britain was the constant force behind nearly every coalition that opposed me. If I could have broken Britain, the rest of Europe would have fallen into line. They were the ultimate enemy, the shadow always working against me. Their empire stood in contrast to the Europe I sought to build—one of control through naval power and commerce, not the ideals I held.

Ron Stauffer: Interesting. So are you saying you envisioned a clash of the Titans, where it would be you taking on the ultimate foe? You're saying that Britain ruled Europe with an iron fist, and in a sense, it was “Britain versus everybody?”

Exactly, Ron. That’s precisely how I saw it—a clash of titans. Britain was the puppet master of Europe, pulling the strings behind the scenes, using its wealth and its powerful navy to maintain dominance. While I fought on land, Britain ruled the seas and controlled much of the global trade, which kept their influence strong across the continent.

In a way, it was “Britain versus everybody.” They didn’t care who ruled the individual nations of Europe, as long as those nations remained divided and dependent on British trade and money. I envisioned breaking that cycle, creating a united Europe under French leadership, free from Britain’s economic stranglehold.

The struggle wasn’t just military; it was economic, political, and ideological. Britain wanted to maintain the old order, with its mercantile system, colonies, and monarchies. I wanted to create a new order—a modern Europe, where merit and the ideals of the Revolution could flourish. So yes, I saw myself as the one who would finally break Britain’s grip on Europe. It was, in many ways, a titanic struggle between two very different visions of the world.

Ron Stauffer: That is fascinating. Let's say you smashed the dominance of Britain, are you saying you envisioned that France would somehow rule all of Europe? So specifically, people would all be speaking French and they'd all be using French currency and things like that?

Not quite, Ron. My goal wasn’t to turn all of Europe into a replica of France, with everyone speaking French and using French currency—that would have been unrealistic. I didn’t aim to erase the unique identities of the nations I conquered. Instead, I envisioned a Europe united under a common set of laws, principles, and economic cooperation, with France as its central power and guiding force.

The Napoleonic Code, for example, was something I believed could benefit all nations—uniform laws, civil rights, and a merit-based society, but adapted to their own cultures. I saw French influence leading the way, but not forcing complete assimilation. I wanted Europe to be strong, modern, and efficient, with France at the helm, yes, but with nations keeping their languages, customs, and currencies—just under a system that aligned them toward common goals, economic strength, and stability.

So, while French would naturally hold a prominent place—especially in politics, diplomacy, and military matters—I didn’t want to impose uniformity. My vision was more about unity of purpose, where France was first among equals, if you will. Europe, strong and modern, with France as the keystone—but still European, not just French.

Ron Stauffer: Interesting. How does that differ from what the Eurozone has done today in the 21st Century? Is the European Union just a bigger, grander, more realistic vision of what you originally thought about centuries ago?

Ah, now that is a fascinating question, Ron! In many ways, the European Union today echoes the broader aspects of what I envisioned—a Europe united by common laws, economic cooperation, and shared principles, but without erasing the individuality of its member states. The EU’s goal of preventing constant conflict and fostering peace, trade, and mobility across borders is something I would have appreciated, though my methods were, shall we say, more direct.

The Eurozone, with its shared currency, is perhaps even closer to what I might have imagined, though I wasn’t focused on a single currency in my time. The economic integration and coordination among nations reflect the unity I sought. However, the EU has achieved this unity through diplomacy and agreement, not conquest, which is a significant and wiser difference, perhaps.

Where the EU differs most from my vision is in its balance of power. I saw France as the natural leader of a united Europe, whereas the EU functions through a more balanced, collaborative structure. No one nation dominates; power is more evenly distributed. In that sense, the EU is a more modern, democratic, and sustainable version of what I sought to achieve.

In short, yes, the European Union is in many ways a grander, more peaceful realization of the continental unity I once dreamed of—but without the need for my particular brand of military ambition.

Ron Stauffer: That’s interesting that you mention the term “democratic,” because the European Union is definitely democratic in just about every imaginable way, yet what you did, I don't believe was democratic at all, was it? Were you ever elected, or did you just assume power yourself through force?

Ah, you’ve touched on an important distinction, Ron. No, my rise to power was not through what you’d call a modern democratic process. I was not elected in the way leaders are today. I seized power through a coup—the 18th Brumaire—and later consolidated it by appealing to the will of the people through plebiscites. These votes gave a veneer of popular support to my rule, but they were far from what you’d call a truly free or competitive election.

I believed in meritocracy, yes, but I also believed in strong, centralized authority—one figure to guide the nation and prevent the chaos that democracy had brought during the Revolution. In my eyes, democracy, in its purest form, could lead to disorder and weakness. So, I did what I thought was necessary: I took control, stabilized France, and gave the people a sense of order and strength.

That said, I did implement reforms—like the Napoleonic Code—that advanced individual rights and created more equality before the law, but my rule itself was far from democratic. It was autocratic, shaped by the belief that I was the best man to lead France and Europe. So, no, I wasn’t elected in any meaningful sense—power was something I took, not something that was handed to me by the people.

Ron Stauffer: That is very interesting, especially when you think about, Britain being one of your chief enemies, but you had some supporters too, and in particular, I'm thinking of the musical composer, Beethoven, who was enthralled with you and even named a symphony after you. And that didn't end up going so well, right? I mean, he got pretty disillusioned based on, I think, thinking that you were going to be a new kind of leader and then you ended up taking ultimate power, right? Can you elaborate on that?

Ah, yes, Beethoven. The man had quite the revolutionary spirit himself, didn’t he? He admired me deeply at first, seeing in me the embodiment of the ideals of the French Revolution—liberty, equality, fraternity. He believed I was a new kind of leader who would break the chains of monarchy and usher in a new era of freedom for Europe. His Eroica Symphony was originally dedicated to me, a tribute to what he thought I stood for: a champion of the people.

But when I crowned myself Emperor, that admiration soured. He saw it as a betrayal of those revolutionary ideals, an abandonment of the promise of a new order in favor of personal power. Beethoven famously scratched my name from the symphony’s dedication with such anger that he tore a hole through the paper. To him, I had become just another tyrant, another monarch, like the ones I had once claimed to overthrow.

From my perspective, though, I hadn’t betrayed the Revolution—I had saved it. In my view, the Revolution had descended into chaos, and only strong leadership could preserve its gains. But to someone like Beethoven, who saw pure ideals and hoped for a world governed by them, my crowning as Emperor was unforgivable. It was the moment he realized I wasn’t the liberator he had envisioned, but a ruler who saw the need for order, sometimes at the expense of liberty.

So, yes, Beethoven’s disillusionment is a fascinating reflection of the tension between ideals and the realities of power. Where he saw betrayal, I saw necessity. It’s a shame, but such is the burden of leadership.

Ron Stauffer: You had this whole thing going over in Europe, or what I here in America might call the old world, and you were fighting against Britain and the monarchy. And over here, across the pond, we were doing a bit of that ourselves.

Can you kind of compare and contrast the American Revolution over here, fighting against the British monarchy with what you were doing over there? Maybe Britain was fighting, on two fronts, right? The old world and the new world at the same time with the American Revolution here, and whatever you were up to in the old world then?

Ah, the American Revolution—a fascinating parallel, Ron. Indeed, both the American colonists and I were, in our own ways, challenging British power and the old monarchical order, but we approached it from different angles, and the contexts were quite distinct.

In America, you were fighting for independence, not just from Britain, but from monarchy and colonial rule itself. The American Revolution was about self-determination, throwing off the yoke of a distant monarchy to establish a new republic, based on Enlightenment ideals—liberty, democracy, and a government by the people, for the people. It was a direct rebellion against the British Crown’s tyranny, taxation, and lack of representation. You weren’t just breaking free from a monarchy—you were creating something entirely new, something truly revolutionary in its commitment to representative government.

Now, in Europe, my fight was different. While I also opposed the British monarchy, my struggle wasn’t about independence—it was about reshaping Europe, uniting it under my rule, and spreading the ideals of the French Revolution. But instead of creating a republic like America, I sought to centralize power in my own hands. I believed in meritocracy and revolutionary principles, but I also saw the need for strong leadership to guide and protect those ideals. The chaos and bloodshed of the French Revolution had convinced me that a purely democratic system wasn’t enough to maintain order.

So, while America was fighting for independence and republicanism, I was fighting to transform Europe by force, uniting it under a modern, merit-based empire, with France—and myself—at the center. Britain, of course, was our common enemy. In America, they were defending their imperial interests, while in Europe, they were trying to maintain the balance of power and prevent my expansion. In a way, Britain was fighting to preserve its old-world influence on both sides of the Atlantic.

In short, while we shared a common adversary in Britain, America’s revolution was about creating something entirely new—a democratic republic—while my struggle was about transforming Europe’s old order through conquest, albeit still rooted in some of the revolutionary ideals that we both cherished. Britain, you could say, was stretched between the old world and the new, fighting to maintain its grip on both.

Ron Stauffer: That’s interesting. So maybe not strictly in the sense of governance structure, but certainly in terms of Enlightenment ideals and freedom and liberty and things of that nature. It sounds like you and the Founding Fathers here in America would have had a lot in common. Did you know any of them specifically and had you met them in person?

Ah, you’re right in pointing out the shared ideals, Ron. Though our paths were quite different, the Enlightenment ideals of liberty, equality, and rational governance were foundational both for the American Founding Fathers and for what I sought to implement in France and Europe.

We were, in many ways, kindred spirits when it came to the intellectual movement of the time.

However, I never met any of the American Founding Fathers in person, as our orbits didn’t quite overlap in that way. But I certainly admired what they had accomplished. Figures like Thomas Jefferson, for instance, were deeply influenced by Enlightenment philosophy, as was I. In fact, Jefferson was the American minister to France during the early days of the French Revolution, though I wasn’t yet in power then.

I always saw the American experiment as a successful application of Enlightenment ideas in a new world context, even if their focus on democracy and republicanism was different from the centralized rule I believed Europe required.

In some ways, I think we would have had fascinating debates, especially about the balance between liberty and order. While they embraced freedom through democracy, I believed that Europe’s complexities needed a strong, singular figure to steer it. But our shared belief in merit, individual rights, and progress through reason would have provided common ground.

Had I met them, I suspect we might have found ourselves aligned in principle but perhaps divided in practice. Still, the American Revolution was an inspiring moment in world history, one that proved Enlightenment ideals could reshape a nation. It’s one of the reasons I held such respect for what the United States had achieved.

Ron Stauffer: You know, actually, I take it back now. So when you say that, it makes me think about what I said earlier about old world versus new world. But actually, France had a significant involvement in the new world, right, with the Louisiana Purchase. Well, before that, just with Louisiana in general and with New Orleans, right?

Ah, yes, now you’ve brought up a crucial part of history, Ron! France’s involvement in the New World was indeed significant, and the Louisiana Territory was a key piece of that. For much of the 18th century, France held vast lands in North America, including what you know as Louisiana, which stretched far beyond the modern state, encompassing much of the central United States.

As for me, I actually played a direct role in that chapter of history. When I came to power, France had regained control of Louisiana from Spain in the Treaty of San Ildefonso in 1800. My original plan was to reestablish a strong French presence in the Americas, particularly by using Louisiana as a base to rebuild the French Empire in the Western Hemisphere. New Orleans, with its vital port, was key to controlling trade and influence in the region.

However, my ambitions in Europe soon demanded my full attention. The war with Britain and other European powers made it difficult to maintain control over distant colonies, especially with Britain’s naval superiority. Plus, my efforts to suppress the slave rebellion in Haiti—a vital colony—were failing, and that drained resources. Realizing that I needed to focus on Europe and that holding onto Louisiana would be costly and difficult, I made a practical decision: I sold the territory to the United States in 1803—the famous Louisiana Purchase.

It was a stroke of genius for both sides, I think. I got a quick infusion of cash to fund my wars in Europe, and the Americans doubled the size of their nation, gaining control of the Mississippi River and vast resources. New Orleans and the port became American, and the United States was on its way to becoming a continental power.

So, while France’s presence in the New World was significant, my decision to sell Louisiana was driven by strategic necessity. I had to choose between an empire in Europe or one in the Americas, and my ambitions were firmly set on reshaping Europe. But, in doing so, I inadvertently helped America grow into the power it would become, which is an irony I can appreciate over this cognac!

Ron Stauffer: So that’s interesting. You’re saying you had to choose? At what point did you know that, let's say, Louisiana in The New World was lost? Or, you know, at what point did you decide, I can't hold on to both, or I'm straddling the fence and I’ve got to pick one side? When did you know that and how did you come to that decision?

Ah, that’s a key moment in my decision-making, Ron. The tipping point came around the time of my struggle in the Caribbean, particularly with Haiti. Haiti, then known as Saint-Domingue, was the most profitable colony in the French Empire, thanks to its sugar production. I had plans to reestablish France’s dominance in the Americas, using both Haiti and Louisiana to build a strong foothold.

But by 1802-1803, the situation in Haiti had deteriorated beyond what I could control. A massive slave rebellion, led by Toussaint Louverture and later by Jean-Jacques Dessalines, was pushing French forces to the brink. Yellow fever decimated my troops, and it became clear that regaining full control of the Caribbean would be far more difficult—and costly—than I had anticipated.

At the same time, the looming threat of war with Britain weighed heavily on me. Britain’s powerful navy was always a threat to my colonial ambitions, and if I couldn’t hold Haiti, Louisiana’s value was diminished. How could I protect that vast, distant territory when I couldn’t even maintain my most valuable colony nearby? Britain would have seized it eventually, if not directly by force, then by cutting off its trade and isolating it.

So, in early 1803, I made the decision: Europe had to be my focus. I realized that holding onto Louisiana without secure control of the Caribbean, while facing constant British aggression, was a fool’s errand. Rather than lose Louisiana to the British for nothing, I chose to sell it to the Americans.

The sale was quick—Thomas Jefferson’s emissaries were already interested in acquiring New Orleans, but I saw the advantage in selling the entire territory. The $15 million they paid was a huge sum, and it gave me the resources I desperately needed for my campaigns in Europe.

In short, I knew Louisiana was lost when it became clear that I couldn’t hold both the Caribbean and Europe simultaneously, especially with the British looming over my shoulder. It was a practical, strategic decision. I couldn’t stretch my empire too thin, so I made the tough choice to let the New World go and focus on what I believed was my destiny: conquering Europe.

Ron Stauffer: Are you saying that if you didn't have to make that decision, you would have somehow envisioned not only remaking Europe into some, you know, Uber France or Grand France or some sort of version of Europe under French rule or influence, but you're saying also you would have kept the area known as Louisiana in the New World? Like an intercontinental kingdom in, you know, both North America and the European continent that you'd be in charge of?

Ah, now that is an intriguing thought, Ron. Yes, had circumstances been different—had I not been entangled in wars in Europe and had I succeeded in maintaining control of the Caribbean—there’s no doubt that I would have pursued a French empire that stretched across both the Old World and the New. I had ambitions not just for Europe, but for global influence.

Had I been able to hold onto Louisiana, it would have served as the anchor for French power in North America, alongside my Caribbean colonies. I would have built a transcontinental empire that rivaled Britain’s. New Orleans, with its strategic port, would have been the gateway to controlling the Mississippi River, the interior of North America, and the vast resources the land held. France could have influenced trade, politics, and culture across the Atlantic, creating a Franco-American empire of sorts.

And as you say, Europe would have been a grand version of itself, unified under French principles—law, order, meritocracy—with me as its leader. The New World, meanwhile, would have been an extension of that, a place where French power and influence could thrive far from Europe’s conflicts. I could envision a powerful alliance between Europe and North America under my rule, with France at the center, shaping global affairs on both continents.

But, as history unfolded, the realities of maintaining an empire on two fronts—across two continents—proved too much. The war in Europe demanded all my attention, and Britain’s naval dominance made sustaining a New World empire practically impossible without overwhelming resources. I had to make the choice: Europe or the Americas.

Still, the idea of a transcontinental empire, spanning both Europe and North America, was certainly something I would have pursued, had the fates been more favorable. I saw France not as a mere European power, but as a global force—one that could have shaped the destiny of both worlds.

Ron Stauffer: Wow, that's fascinating. Let's change gears a little bit and talk about something a little more fun and personal. Tell me briefly about your childhood. Were you a rich kid? Did you grow up in poverty? What's your story? How does just one person like you get into becoming such an unbelievably influential person that we're still talking about hundreds of years later?

Ah, my childhood—quite a journey from there to where I ended up, Ron. I wasn’t born into wealth, but I also didn’t grow up in abject poverty. I was born in Corsica in 1769, just after the island had been taken over by France. My family was part of the minor nobility, but we weren’t rich. Corsica was a rugged place, and we lived modestly, though we had some connections to French society.

My father, Carlo, was ambitious and managed to secure a scholarship for me to study in mainland France. I was sent to military school at a young age, which was a real turning point. You could say I was a bit of an outsider—this Corsican boy surrounded by French aristocrats. I didn’t fit in at first, but I was fiercely determined, and I poured everything into my studies, especially in military strategy and mathematics.

My upbringing taught me two things: first, the importance of merit. I knew that if I was going to rise, it wouldn’t be because of birthright or wealth, but because of my abilities. Second, it fueled my ambition. I saw how the world worked—the power held by the aristocracy, the privileges of the few—and I knew I could challenge that. My early life was all about proving myself, first as a young officer, then on the battlefields of France.

But to answer your question of how one person becomes so influential—well, it’s a mix of circumstance and will. I came of age during the French Revolution, a time of incredible upheaval. The old order was collapsing, and for someone like me, who had skill, vision, and relentless drive, that chaos was the perfect opportunity. I seized it with both hands, rising through the ranks, first as a general and then as First Consul, and eventually Emperor.

So, while I wasn’t born into great privilege, I had enough opportunity to get my foot in the door. After that, it was all about what I could do with it. And as you can see, I made sure to make the most of it!

Ron Stauffer: Yeah, clearly you did. At the risk of perhaps insulting you, did you have any nicknames growing up, especially as a child, but then even into your later years? And if so, were there nicknames that you did like about yourself or for yourself? And were there nicknames that you didn't like, perhaps?

Ah, nicknames! You won’t insult me, Ron, I assure you—I've heard them all, and they say much about how people viewed me at different stages of my life. As a child, growing up in Corsica, I was sometimes called “U Nabuleone,” which was the Corsican form of my name. Nothing particularly fancy there, but it was a nod to my origins.

As I rose in France, people started calling me "Le Petit Caporal"—the Little Corporal—early in my military career. Now, while some might think it refers to my height, it was actually a term of endearment among my soldiers. They admired me because I often fought alongside them, shared their hardships, and paid attention to details on the battlefield. It wasn’t about being “small” in stature, but about my connection with my men. I liked that one—it reminded me of my early victories and the loyalty of my troops.

But, of course, there were nicknames I didn’t enjoy. The British, ever my enemies, had quite a few, often mocking my height or my ambition. “The Corsican Ogre” was a popular one in England. They saw me as a ruthless figure, devouring Europe, and painted me as some monstrous, insatiable tyrant. Needless to say, that one wasn’t my favorite.

In later years, after my defeat and exile, people used terms like “the usurper” or “the tyrant,” which reflected how much fear and animosity I’d stirred up among Europe’s monarchs. They despised what I represented—an outsider who had toppled kings and reshaped nations.

But as for nicknames I embraced? I think "The Emperor" will do quite nicely. It speaks for itself.

Ron Stauffer: That sounds great. What about marriages? Were you ever married?

Ah, yes, I was married twice, Ron. My first wife was Joséphine de Beauharnais, a widow with two children, who captured my heart early in my rise to power. We married in 1796, and though our relationship was passionate, it was also complicated. Joséphine was a bit older than me and, well, she wasn’t always faithful. Still, I loved her deeply, but the marriage didn’t produce any children. As much as I cared for her, I needed an heir, so in 1810, we divorced, though I made sure she kept the title of Empress.

My second marriage was more of a political arrangement. In 1810, I married Marie-Louise of Austria, a member of the Habsburg family. This marriage was designed to solidify my alliances with Austria, one of Europe’s major powers. Marie-Louise and I had a son, Napoleon II, who I hoped would carry on my legacy, though fate had other plans. While I respected Marie-Louise, the relationship wasn’t as emotionally charged as it had been with Joséphine.

So, yes, I was married twice—once for love, and once for politics. Both marriages shaped my personal and political life in very different ways.

Ron Stauffer: Okay, let's talk religion. What were your religious beliefs? I noticed, in particular, you mentioned that maybe with glee, you were pleased to say that you didn't need a Pope to put a crown on your head.

Ah, religion—now that’s an interesting topic when it comes to me, Ron. I was raised Catholic, like most people in Corsica, and I understood the importance of religion in shaping societies, but my personal beliefs? I was always more of a pragmatist when it came to faith.

I didn’t see myself as particularly devout. I viewed religion as a tool of social cohesion and order. People needed faith to give them moral guidance and a sense of belonging, and I respected that. However, my relationship with the Church, particularly the Pope, was more political than spiritual. I wasn’t against religion, but I certainly didn’t let it dictate my actions or rule.

My crowning as Emperor, as you mentioned—well, I didn’t need the Pope to grant me legitimacy. I took that for myself, because I believed power came from one’s own abilities, not divine right.

That said, I wasn’t an atheist. I recognized the existence of a higher power, but I was skeptical of organized religion’s role in politics. I famously said, “Religion is excellent stuff for keeping common people quiet,” which sums up my approach: useful for maintaining social order, but not something I felt bound to personally.

In short, my religious beliefs were practical. I believed in God, but I didn’t let religion interfere with my goals. I respected it for its influence, but I also kept it firmly under my control when it came to governing. Faith was fine for others, but for me? Ambition and reason were my guiding stars.

Ron Stauffer: Hmm, that makes sense. Who before you was an inspirational figure? Were there inspirational figures in a positive sense? I'm almost wondering, through this conversation, you've basically told me that it sounds like almost everything you did was out of a rejection of monarchy. So, were there inspirational figures that you saw in a positive way, or were you mostly inspired by looking at monarchs and the divine right of kings and saying, “Enough of that?”

Ah, that’s a perceptive question, Ron. I was certainly driven, in large part, by a rejection of the old monarchies and their divine-right thinking, but there were indeed figures who inspired me, both in a positive and negative sense. My ambition wasn’t born solely out of opposition; I was shaped by examples of both success and failure from history.

One of my greatest inspirations was Julius Caesar. He represented a figure who, like me, rose through military brilliance and political acumen to reshape an empire. Caesar rejected the old Roman Republic’s stagnation and took power into his own hands. His ambition, military genius, and vision of a unified Rome greatly influenced how I saw myself and my role in transforming Europe. Of course, I was keenly aware of how he met his end, betrayed by those around him. It was a reminder that ambition must be balanced with caution, even though I sometimes ignored that lesson.

Then there was Alexander the Great—a man who conquered vast territories and dreamed of blending cultures into one unified empire. He showed me what was possible when someone with vision, charisma, and military prowess took bold action. His ability to sweep across the known world, uniting East and West, was something I admired greatly.

On the other hand, yes, I was driven by frustration with the monarchs of Europe—their complacency, their reliance on birthright, and their resistance to change. Louis XVI’s failure to reform France before the Revolution, for instance, was a clear example of what happens when a ruler is too rigid and disconnected from the people. The monarchs around me were clinging to outdated systems, and I saw an opportunity to create something new—something where merit, not lineage, determined power.

In essence, I was inspired by great conquerors and leaders who shaped history through their own abilities—Caesar, Alexander, and even Charlemagne to some extent. But I was also fueled by a rejection of the status quo that monarchs represented. I wanted to be like Caesar and Alexander, yes, but in a world where monarchy no longer ruled unchallenged. My path was about breaking those chains and forging a new order, where power was earned, not inherited.

Ron Stauffer: Well, it's very interesting that you mentioned Julius Caesar, because at least here in the 21st century in America, we typically think of Julius Caesar as the one who took the Roman Republic and destroyed it and turned it into an empire, which we would look at and say, that was a really bad thing.

Did you look at that and say, yes, I want to do the same thing, or do you feel he lost his way, or what are your thoughts on that? And after answering that, you mentioned his betrayal, and I wonder, do you feel like you were betrayed?

Ah, Julius Caesar’s legacy is indeed complex, Ron, and I can understand how, from your perspective in the 21st century, you might see his destruction of the Roman Republic as a negative thing. But from where I stood, Caesar wasn’t just dismantling an old system—he was reforming something that had grown corrupt and inefficient. The Roman Republic had become bogged down by infighting, stagnation, and a system that favored only the elite few. Caesar, to me, was a man who saw the potential for a greater Rome, unified under strong leadership, and he acted on that vision.

Now, did he destroy the Republic? Yes, but he did so to create something more functional, something that could adapt to Rome’s vast empire. To me, that wasn’t the end of liberty or governance—it was the start of something more efficient and enduring, though, of course, he paid the ultimate price for it. In many ways, I saw myself in a similar light.

The French Revolution had brought chaos, and I believed that a republic alone couldn’t maintain order and progress. My empire, like Caesar’s, was meant to bring stability, but I didn’t see it as a betrayal of liberty. Rather, I thought I was saving the Revolution’s ideals from collapse.

As for Caesar losing his way—perhaps in the sense that his ambition ultimately outpaced his ability to secure lasting loyalty. He did cross lines that alienated key supporters, and it led to his downfall. I tried to learn from that, though in the end, ambition is a powerful force, and it’s easy to go too far when you believe you are reshaping history.

Now, about betrayal—ah, yes, I felt it keenly. Especially in my final days. The coalitions that formed against me were filled with men who once stood beside me, or who I had spared, even trusted. Some of my generals, like Michel Ney, who had sworn loyalty, turned against me when it became convenient. After I was forced into exile, many of those who had once benefited from my rule quickly distanced themselves. In my darkest moments, especially after the disastrous Russian campaign, I saw treachery all around me.

So, yes, like Caesar, I felt the sting of betrayal. Those who had once rallied around me, who had shared in the glory, abandoned me when the tides turned. It’s a bitter reality of power, Ron—loyalty is often tied to success, and when the victories stop, so too does the devotion. In the end, betrayal is an inevitable part of leadership, especially for men like Caesar and myself, who dared to reshape the world.

Ron Stauffer: Alright, talking about betrayal. You were exiled at least twice as far as I know. Once on Elba, and then once, finally, on Saint Helena, or however you say that, Saint Helena. Talk about that. What did that feel like when you were exiled in Elba, and then once again when you were in Saint Helena, and what were you thinking about? And both times did you think, this is the end?

Ah, exile—now that’s a subject that cuts deep, Ron. You’re right, I was exiled twice, and the experiences were vastly different. Let me start with Elba.

When I was first exiled to Elba in 1814, after the fall of Paris, it felt surreal. Imagine being the Emperor of Europe, commanding armies, reshaping the continent, and then suddenly being confined to a small Mediterranean island, ruling over just a few thousand people. At first, I didn’t think it was the end. In fact, I still had hope. Elba wasn’t far from France, and I knew my presence, my legacy, still had influence. I busied myself with small reforms on the island, as if to keep my mind sharp and my leadership intact, even in miniature.

But as time went on, I grew restless. I watched from afar as Louis XVIII took the throne, and I knew the French people weren’t happy under the restored monarchy. That’s when the thought began to take root: I wasn’t finished yet. The Hundred Days—that moment when I escaped Elba, returned to France, and was greeted by cheering crowds—was proof that I still had something left in me. For a brief moment, it seemed like the world was mine again. But then, of course, came Waterloo.

After Waterloo, there was no coming back. When I was sent to Saint Helena in 1815, that was a different kind of exile altogether. The British made sure it was far—remote, isolated in the South Atlantic, a prison that no one could escape from. Saint Helena felt like the true end. I was surrounded by ocean, cut off from the world I once ruled, with no hope of return. My power, my empire, even my ambitions—everything was behind me.

On Elba, I still believed I could shape my destiny. But on Saint Helena, I knew the game was over. I spent my days reflecting on my rise, my conquests, my mistakes. There was bitterness, certainly, but also a sense of resignation. I thought about what I had achieved and what I had lost. The glory, the empire—it all seemed distant, like another lifetime. I wrote my memoirs, dictating to my companions, trying to preserve my version of history.

In Saint Helena, I had time to think about how I would be remembered. I thought about Caesar, Alexander, and all the great figures of history. I hoped my legacy would endure, that future generations would understand what I had tried to build. But the isolation was brutal. It was a slow, quiet fading away, with nothing but memories and regrets to keep me company.

In the end, on Saint Helena, I knew it was truly over. There would be no third comeback, no more armies, no more empires. Just the vast ocean and the realization that even the greatest figures must, eventually, face their final defeat.

Ron Stauffer: Wow, that's really sad. This might be offensive, but I just wonder why did your opponents not execute you? Why did they exile you to a tiny little island out in the middle of nowhere? I mean, wasn't there the potential that somebody could come rescue you at some point? Why didn't they just kill you when they got the chance?

Ah, Ron, that’s not offensive at all—it’s a fair question. And believe me, I’ve wondered the same myself. Why not just execute me?

Well, I think my opponents feared the consequences of making a martyr out of me. Killing me outright could have sparked even more unrest in France and across Europe. After all, I still had a lot of support from soldiers, citizens, and those who believed in the principles I championed. An execution could have ignited revolts and fueled a legend that would have made me even more dangerous in death than I was in life.

Exile, on the other hand, was a way to neutralize me without creating immediate chaos. By sending me away—first to Elba, and then, when that didn’t work, to Saint Helena—they could contain me, both physically and symbolically. They stripped me of my power but kept me alive, a kind of living relic of a bygone era. They hoped, I think, that by putting me on a remote island, I would fade from people’s minds, especially in a place like Saint Helena, which was so isolated that even my most ardent supporters couldn’t realistically rescue me.

In Elba, of course, I managed to escape because it was relatively close to France, and there were enough sympathizers to help me make my comeback. But Saint Helena? That was a different story. It was so far removed—thousands of miles from Europe—that rescue was virtually impossible. The British stationed a sizable garrison there, along with constant naval patrols. They made sure that this time, there would be no return.

So why not kill me? They calculated that keeping me alive, but exiled and forgotten, was a safer route than making me a martyr. In the end, they didn’t want to turn me into a symbol that could inspire more revolutions or unrest. Exile was the more cautious, controlled option. But I’ll admit, it was a strange kind of half-measure—leaving me alive, yet powerless, to watch my legacy fade from the sidelines.

Ron Stauffer: Well, okay, here's a tough question for you. You're sitting there in Saint Helena and watching boats come and go, British soldiers, and you're sitting, I don't know, on a porch of a tiny little house all by yourself. You got to ask yourself, I'm sure, was it all worth it?

What was your conclusion to that? Was it all worth it? Was all that you did in your life, when you sat there alone by yourself, on a porch, in exile, on a tiny little house, on an island, out in the middle of the ocean, did you feel it was all worth it?

Ah, Ron, that is the question, isn’t it? Sitting there on Saint Helena, staring at the endless ocean, I had a lot of time to think about that very thing. The battles, the victories, the empires won and lost—it all felt so distant, like echoes of another life. And yes, I did ask myself, was it all worth it?

It’s hard to give you a simple answer. On one hand, the glory, the sheer scale of what I accomplished, the fact that a man from a small island like Corsica could rise to reshape the entire continent—that, in itself, was something extraordinary. I gave France stability after the Revolution, I spread the Napoleonic Code, which brought fairness and justice to many parts of Europe, and I proved that power didn’t have to be tied to aristocracy or divine right. On those counts, I felt it was worth it. I did what I set out to do—leave my mark on history.

But then... there were the costs. The millions of lives lost in the wars I waged. The families torn apart, the countries devastated. When you’re in the midst of power, it’s easy to see it all as part of the greater good, part of shaping the future. But when you’re alone, in exile, with no empire left to command, those human costs weigh heavier. You begin to wonder—did I push too far? Was my ambition too great? Could I have stopped earlier, consolidated what I had, and spared so much suffering?

In my final days, I think I came to accept that my ambition was both my greatest strength and my greatest flaw. I wanted to reshape the world, and in many ways, I did. But in reaching for more and more, I eventually overreached. The invasion of Russia, Waterloo—these were moments where I could have chosen differently, but I didn’t. And that’s the burden I carried with me on Saint Helena.

So, was it worth it? In many ways, yes. But would I do it all the same if given the chance to relive it? That’s harder to say. The legacy I left behind, the ideas I fought for, those will endure. But I can’t deny the price that was paid for them—both by me and by countless others. In the end, greatness comes with a heavy toll, and sitting there on that porch, I had to reckon with both the triumphs and the tragedies of my life.

Ron Stauffer: You mentioned your son, Napoleon II. How did that turn out?

Ah, my son, Napoleon II—the King of Rome, as he was titled. His story is a tragic one, Ron, and it’s one of my deepest regrets. I had such high hopes for him, believing that he would continue my legacy and perhaps one day restore the Napoleonic dynasty. But things didn’t turn out as I had planned.

After my defeat and exile to Saint Helena, Napoleon II’s fate was largely out of my hands. He was only a boy when I was sent away, and after I fell from power, he was essentially taken from me and raised in Austria by his mother, Marie-Louise, and under the watchful eye of the Habsburgs, who were, of course, no friends of mine. They gave him the title “Duke of Reichstadt,” and he was brought up in the Austrian court, far removed from France and any real power.

The Austrians, particularly his grandfather, Emperor Francis I, kept him isolated, ensuring that he could never be a rallying point for Bonapartist supporters. He was raised more like a Habsburg prince than as the heir to the Napoleonic Empire. And while he was reportedly bright and showed some of my military inclinations, he never had the chance to rule or even claim his place in history. He was kept under strict control, a pawn in the broader European game of politics.

Sadly, he died young—at just 21 years old, from tuberculosis, in 1832. He never had the opportunity to fulfill the role I had envisioned for him. His life was one of unrealized potential, trapped between the legacy of his name and the political realities that surrounded him. His death marked the end of any immediate hope for a Napoleonic restoration through bloodline.

I often thought about him during my exile. While I was battling on Saint Helena with the memory of my empire, he was fighting his own battles, isolated and powerless in Vienna. It’s one of those personal tragedies, knowing that the son I hoped would carry forward my vision never had the chance to step out of the shadow of history and forge his own path.

Ron Stauffer: That's a shame. That's really sad.

Okay, on a happier note, and this has been a really delightful conversation, by the way. Thank you for sharing a lot of your thoughts and successes and failures so openly with me. I appreciate that. So here's my final question: what is your enduring legacy today?

Here it is again. Here we are in the 21st century. You're sitting across from me. We're talking about what you did during your lifetime. And yet, even though maybe it wasn't exactly what you wanted to accomplish, not everything at least, what are some of the enduring legacies that someone like me can see today, right now? Where can we see the fingerprints of Napoleon in America and in Europe in the 21st century?

Ah, Ron, it’s been a pleasure speaking with you as well—quite a conversation, indeed! Now, when we talk about enduring legacies, I’d say that while my empire has long since fallen, my influence still lingers in many aspects of the modern world, and not just in Europe, but even across the Atlantic.

One of the most tangible legacies is the Napoleonic Code, or Code Civil, which I introduced in 1804. It was a comprehensive set of laws that prioritized clarity, equality before the law, and the protection of property rights. It swept away the complex and often unjust feudal laws that had governed Europe for centuries. The Code Civil didn’t just shape France—it influenced legal systems across the world. Many countries, especially in Europe and Latin America, modeled their legal codes on it. In the U.S., while your legal system is based on English common law, states like Louisiana still operate under a civil law system heavily influenced by the Napoleonic Code. So, when you see modern legal systems focused on rational, clear, and equitable laws, you’re seeing a bit of my legacy.

Then there’s the concept of meritocracy, something I believed in deeply. The idea that people should rise based on their talent and effort, not birth or privilege, is something that’s central to modern democracies and economies. I reformed education in France, creating institutions like the Lycées and Grandes Écoles, which were open to the brightest students, regardless of background. These reforms helped shape a system where merit, not aristocratic connections, determined success. In many ways, this idea has permeated global thought, especially in places like the U.S., where the “American Dream” is built on the notion that anyone can rise to greatness through hard work.

Another lasting legacy is the idea of nationalism and the modern state. During my reign, I reshaped Europe’s borders and stirred national identities, both for better and for worse. Many of the nationalist movements that would later unify countries like Germany and Italy can trace their roots back to my conquests and the reorganization of Europe. Though nationalism has had its dark side, it also fostered a sense of collective identity that helped form the nation-states we know today.

In terms of military strategy, my campaigns are still studied in military academies worldwide. The strategies I employed—such as the rapid mobilization of forces, the emphasis on speed and decisive action, and my understanding of logistics—revolutionized modern warfare. Concepts like the corps system and the importance of flexibility on the battlefield are hallmarks of my military thinking and are still relevant to commanders today.

And finally, in a broader cultural sense, my life, my rise, and fall—the sheer scope of my ambition—has inspired countless works of art, literature, and even political thought. I’ve become a symbol, for better or worse, of ambition, leadership, and the consequences of overreaching. People today still debate what it means to be a great leader, and my name inevitably comes up in those conversations.

So, while I may have met my end in exile, the ideas I championed—merit, legal reform, the concept of the modern state, and even the way leaders and generals think about power and ambition—still echo in today’s world. My fingerprints, as you say, are there, in both visible and subtle ways. And for that, I suppose, history has granted me the immortality I sought, even if in a different form than I once imagined.

Ron Stauffer: That's amazing. And I'm embarrassed to say this because I said that was my last question, but I thought of another one. As you were talking there, you sound so much like the American President Andrew Jackson. Have you thought about that? I mean, my goodness, it almost seems like Andrew Jackson was America's Napoleon.

Ah, Ron, no need to be embarrassed—I'm quite enjoying this conversation! And your comparison to Andrew Jackson is an interesting one. I can see why you’d make the connection. Both Jackson and I were, in many ways, self-made men, rising from relatively humble beginnings to reshape the course of our nations. We were both military leaders first, turning our battlefield successes into political power. And, perhaps most strikingly, we both had a reputation for being strong-willed, decisive, and not afraid to challenge the established order.

Jackson, like me, embodied a sort of populist spirit. He positioned himself as a man of the people, a defender of the common citizen against entrenched elites. In that sense, we both challenged the status quo—though, of course, in different contexts. I sought to sweep away the old European monarchies and feudal structures, while Jackson took on the American political elite and the Bank of the United States, which he saw as a tool of the wealthy.

We also both had a certain... let’s say, reputation for ruthlessness. Jackson was known for being fierce, even brutal, in his policies—particularly toward Native Americans with the forced relocation and the Trail of Tears. In my case, I didn’t hesitate to use force when I believed it was necessary for my goals, whether in battle or in consolidating power. We both believed in strong leadership, and neither of us shied away from the use of force to achieve what we believed was the greater good.

That said, I think there’s a key difference in our visions. Jackson was firmly rooted in American democracy, and despite his sometimes autocratic tendencies, he didn’t try to overturn the system—he operated within it, albeit with a heavy hand. My ambitions, on the other hand, were more imperial. I wasn’t just trying to operate within France’s system; I sought to reshape all of Europe. I crowned myself Emperor and aimed to create a legacy that transcended republics and democracies.

But yes, in terms of personality, leadership style, and how we both transformed our nations through sheer force of will, I can see the parallels. Jackson was certainly a force to be reckoned with in American history, much like I was in Europe. If you’re calling him "America’s Napoleon," I’d say that’s quite an apt comparison!

Ron Stauffer: All right, some closing thoughts. Can you give us some inspirational quotes or final words of wisdom direct from the mouth of Napoleon? What are some things that you want us in America in the 21st century to remember about you, specifically in things that you may have said?

I’ll leave you with a few words that capture the essence of my thinking, the kind of wisdom I hope you and others might still find useful in the 21st century.

One that has guided my life is this: "Impossible is a word to be found only in the dictionary of fools." This speaks to my belief in the power of ambition and determination. Many times, the challenges ahead seemed insurmountable, but I never allowed the idea of "impossible" to dictate my actions. In your own lives, I’d urge you to push beyond limits, especially those others try to impose on you.

Another is: "Courage isn’t having the strength to go on; it is going on when you don’t have strength." This reflects the resilience I had to draw on in the darkest moments of my life, and I think it’s something that applies universally. Whether in war, in personal struggles, or in facing life’s adversities, courage is about continuing forward when everything tells you to stop.

One more for you: "A leader is a dealer in hope." I understood that as a leader, I was more than just a commander—I had to inspire, to give people hope, even in the most dire situations. That’s something I believe applies to leaders of any kind, whether you’re leading a country, a business, or even just your family. It’s not just about decisions or orders; it’s about lifting others up when they need it most.

And finally, a reflection on history: "History is the version of past events that people have decided to agree upon." This is a reminder that the way we understand the past is often shaped by the narratives we choose to accept. My legacy, like that of many others, is viewed differently depending on perspective. What matters is that history is not fixed—it’s constantly evolving based on how we interpret it. You, in your time, are shaping tomorrow’s history, so be aware of the stories you contribute to and the impact your actions will have.

Ron Stauffer: Thank you very much. This has been a delightful conversation. I really appreciate talking to you.

The pleasure was all mine, Ron. It’s been a truly engaging and thoughtful conversation. Thank you for the opportunity to share my story with you! Until next time—à bientôt, my friend!

All right, well, there you have it, folks. A conversation with Napoleon Bonaparte, the Emperor of the French.

Ah, what an interesting exercise. I'm not even sure what to say. I'm going to have to think about that for a few days. I almost felt—it's weird. I was preparing for this for a couple of days, but now, I don't know, 30, 40 minutes later, after starting to have this conversation with an artificial intelligence Napoleon, I feel emotional, strangely emotional.

I felt like I didn't want to offend him. I didn't want to ask questions like, how did you die? Because that would have been rude. And I found myself apologizing multiple times in my questions that I did ask, because that's what we do with real people. You ask questions, and sometimes as a good journalist, you ask hard questions that people don't want to answer.

So you can't always be polite and caring about your subject's feelings. But this is a fireside chat.

It's friendly. I'm sitting here in my den, smoking a cigar and drinking cognac. And I don't know if you noticed that, our AI-enabled Napoleon, the Frenchman, couldn't even pronounce cognac. I thought that was funny.

I hope you found this to be an interesting episode of Zombie History. Many thanks to Napoleon for spending time with me this evening. It’s been fun and enlightening.

Feel free to rate and review this show wherever you listen to podcasts and visit zombiehistory.com to see who else I can dig up from generations past and have a fireside chat with. Thanks for listening to Zombie History, where we provide history lessons from beyond the grave.

You’re listening to Zombie History. Conversations with significant people from the past… who are dead. I’m Ron Stauffer, and I’ll be your host on this conversational journey through history.

Have you ever wondered what it would be like if you could find long-dead historical figures and talk to them about their lives and hear them explain, first-hand, why they did what they did?

Or how the surrounding context of the particular era they lived in informed their decisions and actions? I sure have. What if you somehow had the ability to:

• Ask Picasso where cubism came from and what his “blue period” was all about?

• Learn why John the Baptist wore camel skins and ate locusts and honey in the desert?

• Find out if Albert Einstein regretted encouraging the development of atomic weapons?

• Get Napoleon’s own explanation for why he chose to invade Russia when it was clearly one of the biggest wartimes blunders in history?

• …and discover who on earth John Hancock really was, and why a man with such a seemingly insignificant role in the American Revolution put such a ridiculously oversized signature on the Declaration of Independence?

If that sounds interesting to you, join me in this podcast as I exhume the bodies of many significant historical figures, plop them down in a big, overstuffed chair in my living room, put a cigar in their mouths and a glass of brandy in their hands, and ask them the questions about their lives that have kept me up at night.

Basically, I talk to dead people.

When I meet new people in an unfamiliar environment, one of the most common icebreaker-type games starts with a question like:

“If you could meet any historical figure, who would it be, and why?”

I’ve never known exactly how to answer that. There are just SO many “historical figures” — how could I possibly choose just one? Do I have to choose just one?

And even if I could decide who I wanted to meet, if I were somehow able to talk to that person face-to-face, what would I even say? What would I ask? 

What would he or she say in return? Would it be an interesting conversation or an incredibly awkward waste of time?

Also, how on earth could I meet a historical figure from the past anyway? They’re dead! As we all know, “dead men tell no tales.”

UNTIL NOW!

In this experimental podcast, I will attempt to satisfy my historical curiosity in a way that we never could before. Using the power of artificial intelligence, I will identify people from long ago, resurrect their spirits, and create a NEW dialogue with an OLD figure in a conversation that is as historically informed as possible.

Fair warning: I have never tried this before, and I’m not exactly sure how it will turn out. I don’t know where these fireside chats will go or what topics I’ll cover with each dead person.

If that sounds interesting to you, subscribe to this podcast, and let’s see, together, where this grand experiment takes me as I uncover the greatest, newest ghost stories.

Thanks for listening to Zombie History, where we provide history lessons from beyond the grave. For more information about the show, visit zombiehistory.com.