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He’s an earnest guy and, still, now 79, determined to find himself. He sometimes called just to check in or to talk, including on my birthday, when he called to sing to me. Most often, he was sincere, committed to getting at the story, and apologetic when he couldn’t remember some detail. We spoke weekly, sometimes daily, for months. When I read it,” he said, referring to this article, “it better be as funny as this, too.” (Happy, Creed?) He laughed, called himself a raging vole. I once asked what name was on his passport (William Charles Schneider– yes) and, after telling me, he launched into an angry five-minute rant about the indignity, when flying, of being forced into close proximity with charisma-corroding regular people who soak up all the “beautiful fucking light” he’s putting out.
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Like right now talking to you, I’m just a miserable piece of shit.” On his work ethic: “I have to admit I’m really one of those people. When Office cast-mate Kate Flannery calls while we’re talking: “It’s just Meredith trying to hook up.” Cole’s “False Prophets.” Somebody shoulda told me it would be like this… “Siri!” he yelled. Soon after, she beeped and began playing J. One day his iPhone’s Siri kept interrupting, “giving me shit,” he said. What else? I don’t have space here for all of his antics. I actually spent hours fact-checking before asking about it again months later. Have you ever heard someone actually cackle? It’s startling.Īlso, no matter how heartfelt his plea seems, don’t buy it if he ever tells you he wants the group in Finland to stop sacrificing small animals in his name. Was that a joke? I paused before asking about it, just long enough to betray my uncertainty. Thirty minutes into our first interview, offhand, he mentioned he’d hidden a cryptic message about COVID in one of his songs. Word., in the same way: Creed fucks with you. As I interviewed his friends and collaborators, several people cautioned me, unprompted, no joke, Word. He’s spry in conversation, with the energy of an adolescent and a maddening ability to veer imperceptibly into improvised bits. He’s a performer to his core and I often got the sense that, having been locked inside, he was grateful for the opportunity to entertain–both me and himself. But as we dug into his past, it became evident he was telling me a story much bigger than a pithy hidden-in-plain-sight piece. He was a month away from dropping his ninth solo album, Slightly Altered, and the idea was to pair a profile–Did you know Creed Bratton is a singer-songwriter?–with the release. COVID still felt as unpredictable as it did deadly and Creed, then 77, had confined himself to his townhouse. We started talking via FaceTime in June of 2020 (he’s in L.A. Those are just highlights of the highlights, and anyway, that's not the story, either.
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Like when he hitched his way, penniless, around the globe, formed a band in Germany, played gigs for oil camps in the Sahara, a brothel full of sheikhs in Beirut, smoked the most potent pot imaginable in Lebanon, chilled with Kirk Douglas in Israel, played some more music, came home, still penniless, formed another band, and then scored two certified gold singles and a gold album–all by the age of 26. He turned a non-speaking background role into a cult-favorite character on one of the most successful comedies of all time, but that’s not the story. He’s most well-known, of course, for playing the seedy, scheming octogenarian, with whom he shares a name, on the American version of the television show The Office. There’s so much of it, so much you need to know no matter where he begins. If you’ll listen, he’d like to tell you a story.