Anthony Kiedis stared at the tracklist on the studio wall, a strip of gaffer tape with twenty names scrawled in four different colors of marker. Flea sat upside down on a couch, his legs hooked over the back, blood rushing to his bald head. John Frusciante tuned his ’62 Stratocaster for the seventh time that hour. Chad Smith drummed paradiddles on his own knees, impatient.
The second new track came from a darker place. John played a riff that sounded like a siren, and Anthony wrote about a friend who’d just relapsed—a man who called from a payphone, voice wet and shaking, saying he’d lost everything again. Save the Population . The chorus was a desperate prayer: “I want to save the population / But I can’t save myself.” greatest hits red hot chili peppers
“We need two new songs,” Anthony said, turning from the wall. “That’s the deal. A hits collection has to have something fresh, or it’s just a tax write-off.” Anthony Kiedis stared at the tracklist on the
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