Taylor Goldsmith is the lead singer and songwriter of Dawes, the L.A. band he started with his brother Griffin in 2007. Until a few days ago, Taylor, Griffin, his parents, and Dawes’ former bassist Wylie Gelber, all lived minutes from each other in Altadena, California. Taylor’s main house is still standing as of this writing, but his parents, brother, and former bandmate Gelber have all lost their homes in the past few days as a result of the devastating Los Angeles fires. As of Friday, Goldsmith was staying in Sherman Oaks with his wife, Mandy Moore, and their two kids, before decamping to a rental home in Palm Springs in search of clean air. The following is his account of the past 72 hours.
We evacuated at 7 p.m. the night of the Eaton fire. We were told yesterday morning by two separate neighbors that our house is gone. They said, “Your house is gone, we see it on fire.” They were hysterical. We were hysterical. Their houses were gone, too. We were processing that. You always just think you’re going to be spared.
Then, a few hours later, I was texting with our old bass player, Wylie Gelber, who’s still one of my best friends and still lives in the neighborhood. Wylie was like, “Bro, I’m in Altadena right now. I have a gas mask on. I’m going to all of our friends’ cribs to see what’s there and what’s not.” He found out his house was gone. He found out my brother’s house was gone. Then he called me and was like, “Dude, I’m on your property. Your studio is a three-story fire. Your garage and guest house is rubble. But I’m standing at your door right now and your house is here. But your house is going to burn down soon. Is there a way in? Can I get you anything?”
I was like, “Dude, don’t risk your safety.” He said, “I won’t. What do you need?” I told him where my passports, wife’s heirloom jewelry and a guitar that means a lot to me are. My best friend Blake Mills gave me that guitar when I was 18 years old and all my friends pooled together to help pay for it.
Wylie was like, “All your doors are locked. I’m going to throw a rock through your glass door. Is that cool?” At this point, we had thought our house was gone, so yes. I was crying, because I felt so much love from him at that moment. Who would do this for another person? Even though he’s not in the band anymore, it made me feel like, “This is my brother for life and I love him so much and he loves me, otherwise he wouldn’t be doing this.” Wylie’s small act, especially in the midst of his own loss, was very overwhelming to me.
That gave us the courage to see if the studio fire touched the house, after all. Our house was spared, miraculously.
Few people are as lucky as we are. I ended up in a car with a sheriff and he said, “I’ve been doing this for 26 years and I’ve never seen it this bad.” There are parts of Altadena where it’s just blocks and blocks of everything gone. It looks like a nuclear bomb went off. Driving through it, there are wooden telephone poles on fire that are teetering, and you’re like, “Should I speed up or slow down to not get hit by this flaming telephone pole?”
I love Altadena. Everybody that is in Altadena feels like they’re in on the greatest secret in California, or even America. We’re so proud and feel so lucky to be here, still. Looking around, it’s like, “What do we do?” I look at the restaurants and neighbors we love and their determination and it inspires us. We want to stay and want to make it work. Obviously, our situation is very different for a lot of people. Some will have no means of rebuilding. I hope the town can come back, but right now it’s really just about how we get through the day. But we feel more love for and from Altadena than we ever have and we hope to stick around.
My mom and dad were a 10-minute walk. Griffin was a three-minute drive. Wylie was a three-minute drive. It was an idyllic little situation. Now that’s all gone. Griffin is having his first baby in six weeks and he doesn’t have a home. There is a fundraiser for him and a lot of people rallied around him. He’s a selfless person so part of him is uncomfortable with the whole thing. If someone wants to feel like, “But I’m sure there is someone who needs it more,” of course. There always is. But this is someone who needs it and if you want to be a part of it, then great. I urge him to not feel guilty.
Right now, there’s a bit of the Life is Beautiful thing where when my kids walk in, I say, “Guess what? We’re going on a road trip and it’s going to be fun!” I can’t put that on them. Our oldest is almost four and he’s aware of what’s happening but I try to keep reminding him that his school and our house is there. We try to shield things from them but sometimes you just can’t. Sometimes I’m hit hard with tears from memories: That one restaurant, or the house with Christmas decorations that made my kids flip out [and now] that house burned down. Right now, I love this place more than ever. I’m more committed than ever.
I’m definitely sitting in a privileged position of having a home to return to but I do feel like it’s so easy to see that temptation to fall into some new default mode of permanent depression or defeat or fear. It’s easy to see how someone gets embittered or broken and stays that way. But, mostly for my kids, I have to use this to make me better instead of worse to the extent that I am able. This is a gnarly tragedy and there’s no two ways around it. The amount of loss and harm and pain is unthinkable and unfathomable and unforgivable on a cosmic level. But at the same time, I just have to figure out a way to not let it suck me into the vortex.
It’s definitely weird to have people, even family, who lost their homes and you didn’t. It’s a very complicated, strange emotion. I would give anything to have it be Griff’s house that is still standing and not mine.
One thing I’ve felt in the past with fires where everybody was getting calls where it was like, “The news makes it seem like all of California is up in smoke.” And everybody here would be like, “Yeah, it’s bad, but it’s not what the news makes you think it is.” This is different. However bad they’re making you feel, that’s how bad it feels for us, too. If people are wondering, “Is it really as bad as it looks?,” it is.
“Today, there were tanks and military and they were like, ‘Nobody is going up. This is now a crime scene.’”
I don’t expect the whole world to stop and pay close attention to what’s going on here. The world is set up in a strange way where we’re forced to care about stuff that is so far. Of course I appreciate people’s compassion and regard. But I do hope people also enjoy their day. Go to a nice meal and be like, “We’re so lucky to have this.” If you want to find some heartache, draw a bigger circle. If you want to draw some gratitude, draw a smaller one. I appreciate everyone paying attention and reaching out but I also hope if anyone is in a position to go find some joy I hope that they can do so.
I’ve gone back to our house every day, but today there is no going up. Yesterday we were able to park at a street called Woodbury and then walk up to your house if you lived in the area. Today, there were tanks and military and they were like, “Nobody is going up. This is now a crime scene.” There are missing people and they have to check house by house for remains. Until they can do all that, nobody is allowed to walk up and down. I have no idea when anybody can get back up to our neighborhood.
People are so determined to fight for this city. I was so scared of that at first. I was so scared people will think this is insurmountable, but as of right now, a lot of people refuse to live in that space. That’s really beautiful, because I do think if we collectively walk away, it’s going to make it hurt longer, or permanently. This is a moment where we can overcome something and are able to withstand it and are able to believe in our community enough to not give up on it. I just feel like, even if there’s a certain amount of logic to being like, “How can we trust this area, ecologically, again?” I still think walking away is just giving up on it. What’s more brave than standing by your neighborhood and community and saying, “Yes, the risks are obviously here, but how do we meet the risks and stick by each other?” The love is crazy. Hopefully that’s enough to carry us over.
There’s a restaurant burning and the guy who owns it is like, “I’m going to do the best soup kitchen anyone’s ever seen.” Our buddy who runs a pizza place, he’s already thinking of ways to put on shows to support the community and help build stuff back. I know that John C. Reilly is championing the local Waldorf school and figuring out ways he can spearhead a rebuild. It’s inspiring to see this stuff. You’re waiting on cues from others. When we visited our house and saw that the main house was there, it felt like a gift, and maybe a sign. We feel like we belong here.
