Conan O’Brien, We Need a Friend

Conan took over Late Night in 1993 when I was 11 years old. At the time I was a pudgy, unsure child who wanted nothing more than to write plays, wear head-to-toe denim, and listen to the Jurassic Park soundtrack on repeat and on tape but also to be adored all while having no one in the world somehow also notice my face, body, personality or freakishly long torso.

Then along came this 12-foot-tall, redheaded blizzard spiderling deliberately pointing out every flaw and freckle and I absolutely loved him for it.

At the time, Conan didn’t look cool. He was extremely tall, very pale, perpetually nervous, and his hair was fucking ridiculous. He didn’t have the effortless swagger we were taught cool people were supposed to have. But of course Conan was cool, because Conan was himself.

He was willing to be seen - warts, insecurities, ridiculous hair, and all - and then make the joke before anyone else could. That’s punk rock as hell. Especially now, when so much of entertainment and politics seems built around people desperately trying to convince us they are something they’re not. It’s hard to tell where the performance ends and the person begins. 

A few nights ago, I got to see Conan play with his new band, The Vigodas, at the Ojai Underground Exchange, an 80-seat venue. I don’t get genuinely giddy about shows very often anymore, but during this one I felt like a kid again.

And it wasn’t just because of Conan. His longtime producer Jeff Ross was there. His assistant David Hopping was there. And, lurking nearby with the warm, reassuring eyes of a recently unplugged Soviet-era robot, Jordan Schlansky was there. It felt like somehow stumbling into the world I had been watching since I was 11.

There’s something deeply Conan about becoming enormously successful and then deciding you’d really like to start a band, play the rockabilly music you love, and open for somebody else.

After the set, Conan didn’t disappear. He stood in the back of the room and moved along to the headliner just like everybody else. And I think that’s ultimately why I’ve always liked him. He feels like the cool older brother who somehow got into the party first and then told you the secret: everybody here is full of shit, including me, so relax.

Success usually makes people more polished and more distant. Conan somehow became more Conan. He kept being weird, kept humiliating himself, kept surrounding himself with the same people, and kept doing things because they seemed funny or interesting.

I’m 44 now. I’m still not particularly cool. I almost exclusively wear denim.

But maybe Conan’s lesson was never how to become cool. Maybe it was that the coolest thing you can possibly do is stop pretending and let people see the real you.

So go start the fucking band.