Remembering War Correspondent Rod Nordland
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If there was ever a life designed to teach one how to face death, mine was it. Rod Nordlund wrote that while facing death from a glioblastoma, a lethal brain tumor. Life expectancy is between one and one and a half years, but with experimental treatments, he survived for six more years. He died last week at age 75. Nordlund was used to facing mortality from decades as a war correspondent for the New York Times, Newsweek, and the Philadelphia Inquirer.

In 1979, Nordland was part of the reporting team that covered the Three Mile Island accident, including visiting the site of contamination, a risk he was willing to take. That coverage won a Pulitzer Prize for the Inquirer. While there were wars and conflicts in Bosnia, Somalia, Kosovo, Iraq, Yemen, Afghanistan, Lebanon, Syria, Congo, Cambodia, he was there.

Nordland wrote about his life as a war correspondent and as a patient and how both extremes affected his relationships and family life. His 2024 memoir, Waiting for the Monsoon, is a reference to his first seizure while he was in India filling in for the New Delhi bureau chief of the New York Times. That seizure led to his diagnosis in 2019.

A recent review of Waiting for the Monsoon in The Guardian said, quote, This is a gripping memoir of a consummate foreign reporter and an inspiring journal of self-discovery when the cold breath of mortality is on the neck, unquote. We're going to listen back to Terry's interview with Nordland from last year when his memoir was first published. Rod Nordland, welcome to Fresh Air. We spoke years ago. Welcome back. Yeah, thank you, Terry. The neurologist...

who is your brain surgeon, told you that this tumor would kill you and that you needed to come to terms with that and that you needed to be honest with your loved ones about it. You were reasonably confident that you'd be among the 6% of people who survive more than five years. Why were you so optimistic and are you still? I mean, I tend to see worst-case scenarios, so I'd love to hear how you managed to see best-case scenario.

Well, I've always been an optimist and a very upbeat person. So I think that has been, doctors have even said it to me, it's my greatest strength in fighting this disease. There have been studies done of patients with terminal diseases in which they asked the people if they thought they would survive

And those that said they thought they would survive, even though they had a diagnosis that medically had doomed them, had better outcomes than people that just said, oh, well, and sat back and let it do its thing. So that gives me a lot of hope.

You were confident in war zones that you weren't going to get killed, even though you knew fellow journalists who'd been killed. You had some very bad close calls with death yourself. So what made you think that you were going to survive? I never understand this about war correspondents that...

I think you have to believe that you're being careful enough that you can survive, but it's a war and anything can happen. So what made you confident that you would survive some of the evidence to the contrary? Because I am the most careful person around and

No matter what conflict I was covering, I was always very conscious of putting safety of myself and the people that worked with me, putting that first. I like to say that I preach the virtues of cowardice when covering wars.

I never go to the front line. I think the front line in a conflict where there's a lot of explosions and high-speed projectiles flying around, I think that's a very dangerous place. And you have to be either an idiot or completely deluded to go there.

Much more productive is to go, say, to the headquarters or to the nearest hospital and talk to witness and survivors. And I've always made that my mantra, kind of. You faced down death several times in war zones. Tell us about one of the close calls. And I know you have several to choose from. You know, when I began working as a war correspondent, I was...

still 20-something and still in many ways an adolescent. And I think, like a lot of young people, I really didn't believe in my own mortality. And I think that's true of a lot of people who do that kind of work because otherwise, who would do it? I mean, who would jump out of an airplane into a parachute if they didn't have some belief in their

own immortality. So I lost that arrogance very profoundly when I was on a front line against my own rules in Cambodia on the outskirts of a refugee camp.

where there was a nasty little internecine war going on between factions that ran the camp and that lived off of the proceeds of the food and supplies they could steal. So those creeps were, you know, in constant conflict with themselves. And I found myself...

on the front line with a couple of them. I was standing shoulder to shoulder with one of these militiamen, and there were bullets whizzing over our heads. That expression, by the way, is quite accurate. That's what it sounds like, something whizzing over your head. And we just stood there like idiots, and one of those bullets hit the guy next to me and blew his brains out, quite literally.

His comrades then, you know, I had a rental car, and they ordered me to put him in the car and take him to the hospital. I mean, he was clearly brain dead. He was convulsing and bleeding kind of all over the Avis upholstery. He was rent-a-car. Yeah. Yeah.

As we used to say, what's the best all-terrain vehicle to use in a war zone? Answer, a rental car. Right. Okay, so you just told us about when you were a young war correspondent and the person next to you had his brains blown out and then you were forced to take him to a hospital even though you were sure he was dead. And I think there was a gun to your head while you were doing this.

And you certainly continued to be a war correspondent for many years after that. That was an early warning that, you know, you would be surrounded by the threat of death. Why did you keep...

doing it? Why did you keep staying in war zones after that? Well, I started doing it really differently. That taught me that I was, in fact, mortal, which is an important lesson that all young men should learn as soon as possible. After that, I never went to front lines anymore, especially with irregulars. And I stayed as far away from them as I could.

There were other times when you faced the possibility of death. You were in a Holiday Inn in Sarajevo during the conflict there, and you were staying on what was called Sniper's Row in the Holiday Inn because there was so much sniper fire there, firing at everybody. And you were told you had someone bang on your door and say, get out of the room and into the hallway right now.

Because they're coming down the street with mortars. And sure enough, as soon as you got into the hallway, your room was mortared. And you probably would have died there. Your bed was basically exploded when you got back in. Yeah, the whole room was rubble and shards of shells and

Yeah, that was another warning. And another time was when you were scheduled to be executed with several other journalists the next day, and a delegation from the International Red Cross happened to come by and rescue you. So, I mean, you had a lot of brushes with death. What are some of the differences in terms of your emotional state and your understanding of death between facing the possibility of it

doing your job in war zones as a correspondent, as a foreign correspondent, and facing it because of your brain cancer? Well, there are a lot of similarities. One of the most important things I learned as a war correspondent was that the first thing you had to be sure to do was to stay calm and not lose control of your emotions.

and just stay calm no matter what. And I think that's been a really good lesson for dealing with cancer, too. Now that you've faced mortality as a war correspondent and as somebody battling brain cancer, a very deadly form,

Has your acceptance of mortality changed? Like when you were in conflict zones, did you accept the fact that you thought you wouldn't die? You thought you wouldn't be killed, but did you accept the fact that you might be? Did you reconcile with the possibility of death? And now as a cancer patient, even though you've survived longer than the odds would have given you,

this is a deadly form of cancer. And even if you go into remission, it's likely to come back. So what's your level of acceptance of mortality now? And again, how does that compare to what it was in war zones? Well, I think in war zones, it was much more of a coin toss. And I think I became very good at playing the odds and weighing the risks.

and moderating them by the way I approach my work. But with glioblastoma, there's no coin toss. It's incurable, it's terminal, and it can be treated, but it can't be cured. And I've had some good treatment, but the treatment's also been sometimes really difficult and devastating.

So, I mean, I had to face reality that my death was, within a fairly short time span, highly probable. That had never been the case before. And I think it made me a better person for that. In what way? Well, because it made me look back on my life and things that had happened in my life and think about what was most important to me.

And it also made me want to, instead of being angry at my kids for siding with their mother against me in our divorce, instead of being angry at them, I was accepting. And just, you know, they also came to my bedside and I felt a lot of love from them, which was very encouraging.

Heartening. When you're a journalist, you have license to ask anything that you wouldn't normally ask people. And the way you describe it, that's also true for you with the brain cancer, because you feel like having a terminal illness allows you to ask things that you normally wouldn't ask about the meaning of life or about death. Do you see a similarity between those two licenses as a journalist and as somebody with a terminal illness?

Yeah, and I played that for all it was worth. I asked everybody I met what the meaning of life was. I even asked Alexa, who had a pathetic answer. I'm sure she had the best answer. What was the answer? The answer was to quote Eleanor Roosevelt, that the purpose of life is to live life to the fullest.

and to enjoy everything about it. That's somewhat of a lame answer. But at one time, I asked that question of a nurse, and she turned it around on me and said, what do you think the meaning of life is? So I said, well, I'm sorry, I'm going to have to punt on that, but I think the meaning of life is, as Raymond Carver said, to fill yourself up

on this earth. And that was my answer then, and it's my answer in the book, too. You met your partner, your current partner, in 2016. She's a poet and a human rights activist. You had planned a life together, and then, you know, about three years after you became a couple, your relationship was tested because of the brain cancer diagnosis, you know, and it's a form of brain cancer that's lethal, right?

And she has been with you the whole time, overseeing your health care, making all the arrangements that need to be made when someone is seriously ill. She's been amazing, yeah. She sounds amazing in the memoir, I have to say. And you were so upbeat about what you expected your outcome to be. You expected to be one of the survivors of

one of the small percentage of survivors. But you were given the advice to grieve, for you and Leela to grieve, not necessarily to grieve for imminent death, but to grieve for the kind of life you had planned that you could no longer have. Because what you can do now has been compromised. Places you can go to or travel to. So tell me about what it means to have grieved for the life that you could no longer have and to do that together.

I think it made us even closer than we were already. Was there a process? Were there things that you talked about that were helpful? Yeah, I think there's things we decided to do together. There are books that we read that we both found very moving, books on dying and death and on facing death, especially a book called The Five Invitations.

by an American Buddhist monk, Frank Ostoweski, his name Ayushi Mangle. He ran a hospice, a Zen Buddhist hospice in San Francisco at the height of the AIDS epidemic. The hospice was for people dying of HIV and for homeless people.

people who had no one to care for them or be with them. And he writes so movingly about how these people faced the awful ordeal of dying. And it's really inspiring. I recommend it to anybody who's got a friend with a serious illness. It really changed our lives. We read the book out loud to each other and

for days on end sometimes. How are you mentally preparing yourself for death? Because you know that this is a terminal illness and you never go into total remission. This is a cancer that recurs even if you're in remission. So far you've really beat the odds, but you know somewhere along the line it's inevitable. I mean, it's inevitable one way or another, but it's inevitable sooner. There's more of a deadline.

So how are you mentally preparing yourself for that? I think, you know, by repairing my relationships more than anything else and working hard on those, both my relationships with my friends and with my family and especially with my partner. Well, Rod Nordlund, thank you so much for talking with us.

And, you know, I wish you more life. Thanks. I plan to have some. War correspondent Rod Nordland, who covered four decades of war for The New York Times, Newsweek and The Philadelphia Inquirer. He spoke with Terry after the publication of his 2024 memoir, Waiting for the Monsoon. He died last week at age 75.

After a break, we'll listen to Terry's 1993 interview with legendary guitarist Buddy Guy, who has a cameo in Sinners, now streaming on various platforms. And I'll review the latest season of The Bear, now streaming on Hulu. I'm David Bianculli, and this is Fresh Air. Decades ago, Brazilian women made a discovery. They could have an abortion without a doctor, thanks to a tiny pill.

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This is Fresh Air. I'm David Bianculli, professor of television studies at Rowan University. Buddy Guy was one of the first blues guitarists to use electronic feedback and distortion, and his technique is legendary. In 1986, Eric Clapton called him the greatest guitarist of all time. Guy has a cameo in Sinners, Ryan Coogler's hit movie set in 1932 in the Mississippi Delta during the Jim Crow era.

Twins, both played by Michael B. Jordan, open a juke joint and try to keep the business going despite unexpected obstacles, including evil vampires. Buddy Guy plays the older version of blues musician Sammy Moore. Guy was born in rural Louisiana in 1936, the son of sharecroppers. He set out for Chicago as a young man and quickly became a central part of that city's blues scene.

In 1989, he founded his own club there, Buddy Guy's Legends, which is still going strong. Buddy Guy has won eight Grammy Awards and a Lifetime Achievement Award. In 1985, he was inducted into the Blues Hall of Fame, and in 2005, he was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Guy was one of the first guitarists to use electronic feedback and distortion before Hendrix and other rock guitarists. Terry asked how he developed that technique.

Accidentally. Actually, in Chicago there, we didn't have stages. We'd always go in the corner and play. And they had jukeboxes during the breaks, and they would play tunes. And that's how I learned by listening to other people, Great Smutty, Walter, Wolf, and so on. And I forgot to turn my guitar off one day, and a lady passed by, and her dress tail hit the G string, and it just stayed there with an extortion for about 20 minutes, and I said...

I'll never forget that. And I went up and it worked with me and I've been doing it ever since. Explain this again. Her dress touched the G string? Yeah. And I forgot to cut it off. And it was lying against the amplifier. You know, as I said, we didn't have a stage. We were just in the corner playing. And she'd get up from my table to probably go get a drink or use the bathroom or something like that. And I said, wow, I forgot to cut my guitar. It was right in tune with the particular tune that was playing on the jukebox.

So then how did you start using that yourself intentionally? Well, after I found out it would stay in the extort that long, I just went up one day and played and stood right there where it was, and it worked. Now, when you were recording for Chess Records back in the first part of the 60s, you were already doing some of this on stage, I think, but you've said that Leonard Chess didn't like that. He wouldn't let you cut loose. Well, first of all, you know, Leonard had gotten to the point where

that, you know, let's for an example, if you had to went in and say, I want to do some rap and now they would have shot you with a shotgun. But if you was in the streets, you know what the young people was asking for and what they was reacting to what you was playing. And I was like,

throwing the guitar down, missing notes, and it was ringing out with extortion and stuff, and people just going crazy saying, look at that, listen to that. And I would try to take it back and say, this is what's out there. And they would say, get out of here, you know, and I'm like saying, okay. And later on in his life, I think it was like three, four, six months before he passed away, he called me in and said, I want to talk to you. And he had found out because that was a Henrix, Eric and the Cream and so on playing that. He looked at me and said, how dumb could I be?

you've been trying to give me this stuff for so long. And I was calling it noise, not selling any millions. I said, you're kidding me. You know, and it was just like a joke to me. Well,

Well, Buddy Guy, I want to play one of your first records with Chess recordings. And you were saying that Leonard Chess wouldn't let you do what you really wanted to. But this is a really pretty good recording. It's called First Time I Met the Blues. It was recorded in 1960. Little Brother Montgomery's at the piano. Do you remember this session? Yes, that's Little Brother Montgomery's tune. Him and Willie Dixon got me together on that because I was with Cobra Records before that, and I got with Chess and the...

and that's the tune they brought me first. And I was more of a student, a listener, whatever you might say at that time, and I was doing whatever they thought was best for me in order for me to get a record out with the chess people, because otherwise if I went in there and said, look, I'm doing it my way, you probably wouldn't be talking to me now, because that was the confidence at the time to try to get recorded with. Okay, well, let's hear it recorded in 1960, my guest buddy Guy on guitar and vocals. The first time I met the blues

If you know I was walking, I'm down to the woods. Yeah. Don't you know I was walking? I was walking down to the woods. Yeah. If I found a place to, don't you know you're dead? You'd die behind the arms that you could. The blues got out the, if you know the rap is.

Let's go back to your very early years. Your father was a sharecropper. Did your parents want you to get off the plantation? Were you brought up with the sense of when you get old enough, you should really get out of here? My parents was like, I got two sisters and two brothers, five of us. And they was like sharecroppers and they would teach us all that when we got grown up,

If you go away, I want you to go away. Do better than we did. And if you marry an elephant, if you love him, we have to like him. And that's just the way they was until they passed away. They never was the type of people that had tried to chose what we should do or what not. They just told me, son, don't be the best in town. Just be the best until the best come around. Yeah.

Were there any musicians on the plantation where you grew up? Not really. It was a distant guy. My dad brought the first guitar for me from him and his mother, my grandmother. And as she was living, I was talking to you today, and you had a 10-minute conversation with her. She would figure out that we was related in some kind of way or another. Sooner or later, if you think back real deep religious-wise, I guess we are in a way of speaking, but...

She could figure that out, and this guy was supposed to be some kind of distant relative of ours, and that's just the way they had me feeling. And I kind of feel that way now with the music I'm playing and traveling around the world. Everybody I see looks and smiles the same. I just see you bigger, taller, smaller, different colors, but we're still walking around on two legs, drinking water and eating food and sleeping and talking.

So she got this guy to give you a guitar or teach you a guitar? No, my dad played 2.2 bucks for it. It had two strings on it. No, first he liked the guitar, so I was lightning slim, and I gave him my weekly allowances, which is 35 cents. Oh, you heard him playing, and you... No, he came through on a Sunday evening, plugged up on the storefront porch, and played Book of Chilla. Mm-hmm. So how did you get your first amplifier?

A stranger bought my first real guitar and my first real amplifier. He bought it for me. Actually, I was sitting on my sister's porch with the two strings trying to get my first year in high school. My mother had had a stroke, and a stranger passed and said, Son, I bet if you had a guitar, you would learn how to play. And this is a Thursday evening. I said, Probably so. And he said, What are you doing tomorrow? I said, I sit here every evening. And the next evening, he came by. He said, Let's go.

And I said, why? He said, I'm going by your guitar. And he took me downtown and bought the guitar. My sister came in and we were laughing. They was drinking the quarter beer and said, well, let's go in the country where my mom and dad at in the country bar with a country guitar. And the guy followed us out. Then strangely enough, him and my dad talked for 10 minutes and they grew up together as a boy. So who was he?

The guy's name was Mitchell. He grew up as a boy with my dad. And after he bought the guitar, my dad tried to trace him down. When he moved to Chicago and became a preacher, we never could track him down because I still owed him the money for the guitar. Still do.

So do you feel like you still owe him a lot of thanks? Do you feel like you were able to express? A lot. A lot. And I'm sure wherever he is at this point, if it's in a way that he should know, he should know I want to thank him and I owe my whole career to him.

You left the plantation when you were 21. You went to Chicago. No, no, no, no. I left the plantation trying to get to one-year high school and went into Baton Rouge. Oh, I see. And then I left Baton Rouge September 25, 1957, 8.40 a.m. in the morning. Wow, you really remember exactly the moment. I can't forget that. Tell me about that moment. My mother was sick, and she had had a stroke, and she kept telling me, if you don't, don't.

live my life around her because we were very close and I figured that you know I should stay and she said no and she learned how to make us understand some of the things she was saying because it affects your speech and she said go you know and I said okay if you happy I'm gone and she smiled and said go and when she heard the first record I made to tell me she gave him a big smile. Did you see her again after you left?

Oh, yeah. I went to see her every year until she passed away. She passed away April of 16, 1968. I had been jamming with Hendrix when she passed away. Oh, yeah.

So you went to Chicago. Why did you choose Chicago? I didn't go to Chicago to be a musician. I went there looking for better common labor employment, and I got there and got stranded. And why not being forced to play guitar? Because at one point in my life, I was too shy to even talk. You wouldn't get the answers you're getting now from me when I was about 20 years old, I can tell you that.

So were you playing on the street for money? No, no. This stranger met me on the street and led me, and I played a Jim Rees song for him, and he led me to this famous club. It was the 708 Club, and that's the address, 708 East 47th Street, and that was Otis Royce on stage. And he let me, went on stage, and I played a song, and somebody went and called money. And he come out, and I was telling him I was trying to get back to Louisiana because I was busted, hungry, and hadn't ate on the third day.

And he come and brought the salami and the loaf of bread and said, don't think about going back to Louisiana. Muddy Waters said that? Yeah. So what happened next? Then you started getting bookings? No, they start coming, yeah, well, at local clubs. It wasn't necessarily booking and traveling, but I got to work in that club and a few more. I had a million clubs in Chicago at that time and two million musicians. And you had to...

play the top ten on the jukebox, at least some of them, to get in the clubs. And fortunately, I could do that. I had to play the Ray Charles, What I Say. I had to play B.B. King. I had to play Muddy Waters. I had to play Bobby Bland. And I had the advantage of some of the guys because some of them would just want to be Muddy Waters or Howlin' Wolf or Little Walter. And I didn't stay at that. I tried to learn them all, Lightning Hopkins and everybody. And so I had a little advantage to that because I learned how to copy all of their music.

Tell me more about what the blues scene was like in Chicago when you started playing there. For six and a half or seven years, I didn't know what was the weekend. I had to go back and ask somebody when was Sunday, because we even had jam sessions start at 7 o'clock on Monday morning, and you couldn't get in the place. Were there, like, blues cutting contests? Yes, that's what it was all about. There were so many clubs still.

After someone decided to hire me in a club, Junior, Otis, Freddie King, Magic Sam, Earl Hooker, just to name a few of us, we all had gigs each night. Each club was packed. A lot of people was working at a big stockyard to steal a meal, and the shift was 11 o'clock, 7, 8 o'clock in the morning. That's why the blue money could work.

And in order for us to get together and play, we had to all say, let's start playing at 7 o'clock on Monday morning. Then nobody have a gig at night. And that's how we got to really jam together with Muddy, Wolf, Otis, myself, Junior, and everybody else. And that's why so many people would be there in the morning because they said, man, you go to this club on a blue Monday night, you see Muddy, you see Sonny Boy, you see Little Walter, man, what a jam. Blues guitarist Buddy Guy speaking to Terry Gross in 1993. More after a break. This is Fresh Air.

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This is Fresh Air. Let's get back to Terry's 1993 interview with legendary blues guitarist Buddy Guy, who has a cameo at age 88 in Ryan Coogler's supernatural horror film Sinners.

I saw you in Buffalo at the State University there. I guess it was the late 1960s. And the way I remember it, you started off on stage, but midway through the concert, you were like down the aisles, out the door, through the other end of the student union. And I think you maybe let us all outside and then back in again. I

I don't remember if I've exaggerated or not over the years, but you led us pretty far on that. Well, that's the same thing that was happening in Chicago. I had sense enough to know I couldn't challenge Muddy Waters enough.

Howlin' Wolf was some of those great giants who I was learning from. And I was just trying to get some attention to let someone know that I had something that... They were always sitting in chairs, matter of fact. The blues, B.B. King does it now. He was doing it the other night. He said, we're not tired. We're just sitting down to let you know our blues was played 42 years ago.

And I was like, I saw Guitar Slam, which I mentioned earlier, and I said, well, look, they can outplay me, but they can't outdo me. So I just started jumping up, laying out on my back with the guitar under my back. And, oh, you got to do this like an exercise. You know, you raise your back up off it and just pick the strings. If you can find a way to put your fingers in the right place, you can play it anywhere.

Did you have to get really, really, really long guitar wires from your guitar to the amplifier in order to walk as far as you did? Well, actually, I saw Guitar Slim with that. First of all, when I first got to Chicago, I would go to the shop to have this wire made. They wouldn't make it because they'd tell me it wasn't going to work. I said, well, give me the wire. I'll make it.

And I learned how to solder my own ends on there. And finally, one of the technicians came out and said, this guy's crazy. I don't believe this thing is coming through. And they used to examine my wife. One guitar player cut it in half one night because he figured I had somebody else behind the curtain playing.

It's funny, you've gone from being a younger person trying to establish himself and trying to figure out who he is and what makes him different from everybody else to being now one of the blues legends that everybody wants to emulate.

You've talked a lot about how you felt like you really had to work hard and outdo everybody else, you know, to call attention to who you were. Does that still motivate the kind of show that you do? I mean, because now you're a buddy guy and everybody knows who you are. Not quite everybody. You know, I'm not as well known as some people are.

who played a guitar there. I wish there were. Then maybe I wouldn't have to work so hard. But in another sense, maybe I don't want to be like that. It might stop me from working as hard as I do. Because if you come and see me, I want you to have 110, 20% of buddy guy, nothing less. Because if I get to the point I start...

Taking that from you, I don't think I want to play anymore. Do you still have the energy to do the kind of show you used to do? I don't know if I have as much as I had. I'm not going to lie to you and tell you I feel like I was when I was 17 years old. But when I pick up my guitar, I feel like I'm 14.

Let me ask you about the influence of B.B. King on your playing and what the influence has been and where the point of departure is. You've known him a long time. You've been on stage with him a bunch of times. Tell me a little bit about his influence on you and also how you feel very different from him. Well, let me put it to you like this.

His influence should be on every guitar player that picks up a guitar. Because he told me when I first met him, he didn't learn how to use the slide. And we all, Eric, Stevie, myself, Albert King, Albert Collins, we all squeezed the strings together.

And I tell him every time I get a chance to talk with him, he's the one that invented that, squeezing the string, inventing it the way we do. And on tour with him now, it's like, boy, the guy's going to school in his first year and grade school. I'm still learning from him. And as long as he around, I still think his name should be on every guitar that's put out there. Oh, yes.

Buddy Guy, I have one last question for you. We started recording this interview at 9.30 in the morning, and there are very, very few musicians who will wake up to do a 9.30 in the morning interview. You're on the road. You're in the middle of a tour. How the heck did you get up this early? Well, honestly, I'm still a country farm boy, and I don't want to change that in all of my life. I don't care how late I stay up or what. I still get the sleep that I think I need.

But it's just the thrill of my life. I love this as well as I do my get-together. Get up at 5.30, maybe even at 5 in the morning and go out and take a big, deep breath of fresh air and say, I remember when I had to get up like this and go feed the hogs, chickens, and cows, and I still get the fresh air. And I got two little dogs whenever I'm at home, and I don't need an alarm clock.

Buddy Guy, thank you so much. It's really been such a pleasure to talk with you. Well, thank you very much, and I enjoyed every minute of it. Don't wait so long next time. Blues guitarist Buddy Guy speaking to Terry Gross in 1993. He has a cameo in Ryan Coogler's supernatural horror film Sinners, now streaming on various platforms. His new album, Ain't Done With The Blues, is scheduled to be released on July 30th, Buddy's 89th birthday.

Coming up, I review the latest season of The Bear, now streaming on Hulu. This is Fresh Air.

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The Nintendo Switch 2 is already the fastest-selling video game console of all time. That's despite the technology behind it lagging years behind its competitors. Without saying it, Nintendo is selling a culture. On The Indicator, we unpack the unusual business strategy that transformed a tiny Japanese toy company into a global multimedia giant. Listen to The Indicator from Planet Money wherever you get your podcasts.

On NPR's ThruLine. School teachers are going to be the ones that rebuild our society in a way that is more cohesive. Basically, where soldiers set down their arms, school teachers need to pick up their books. How the U.S. Department of Education tried to fix a divided nation. Listen to ThruLine wherever you get your podcasts. This is Fresh Air. I'm TV critic David Biegun-Cooley. The bear is back.

This week, the Hulu streaming service launched season four of the intense and astoundingly excellent series about a talented chef trying to launch a successful high-end restaurant in Chicago. Jeremy Allen White stars as Carm, who returns home after his brother Mike's death to save the family's beef sandwich shop, then expand it into something more grand.

The creator of The Bear is Christopher Storer, who won an Emmy for directing the show's hectic holiday dinner flashback episode called The Fishes. The series has an especially talented cast and even a deep bench, with lots of guest actors and regulars racking up Emmy nominations and wins. At the most recent Emmys, The Bear won 11 awards, the most ever for a comedy series in a single season.

and that beat the awards set by The Bear at the previous Emmys, where it won ten. That's an amazing accomplishment. It's also a somewhat bizarre one because, and I say this every time I review this show, The Bear is not a comedy. I've seen all ten episodes of the new fourth season, and the first genuine comedy-style dialogue exchange didn't happen until episode five.

But that's my one and only complaint about The Bear, that it should be winning all these Emmys as a drama, not a comedy. But the quality and the artistry and the ambition, those are givens. Most impressive, perhaps, is that Christopher Storer and his writing staff are playing the long game and have a clear idea where they're going. Last season ended on a cliffhanger, with the restaurant staff awaiting its first influential review.

This season charts the staff's ups and downs, but as much off the job as on it. And there are constant callbacks to everything from a chicken wishbone to the movie Groundhog Day and its intentional monotony. The restaurant staff is working to meet and exceed expectations, while the show's writing and production staff is working just as hard to defy them.

So much happens to so many characters in this season of The Bear, dealing with the past as well as the future, that I don't want to play any excerpts that could reveal any secrets. Rest assured, though, that this season includes one expanded episode that finds a reason to reunite the show's extended cast of guest players, including Bob Odenkirk, John Mulaney, Brie Larson, and Sarah Paulson.

And as this season gains momentum, there are shared scenes between key characters that once again are sure shots to gain Emmy nominations. Scenes between Jeremy Allen White as Carm and Jamie Lee Curtis as his mom. And between Carm and Io Etaberi as his head chef, Sidney. Eben Moss-Bakrak as Richie. Liza Colon-Zayas as Tina. John Bernthal as Carm's late brother, Mike.

All of them already are Emmy winners for their work on this show, and all of them shine brilliantly once again. But the only season four taste of the bear I'm willing to present is from the very first scene of the very first episode. It's a flashback, with Carm and his brother Mike in a kitchen, stirring some tomato sauce and talking about food, as a radio plays in the background.

Karm is visiting after working successfully at a Michelin-starred California restaurant and is explaining to his brother why he's so passionate about his chosen vocation. Every one of our good memories, they happen in restaurants, right? Like the Homer's ice cream after baseball. Omega, after that weird birthday party with Mom. You know, we couldn't stop laughing. Look, Mike, all this good shit, it happened to us in restaurants because...

Restaurants are special places, right? People go to restaurants to be taken care of, right? They go to restaurants to celebrate, to relax, to not have to think about anything else for a minute. People go to restaurants to feel less lonely. This new season of The Bear is all about turning Carm's new restaurant into just such a place. There's a lot of pressure, financial and otherwise, and it's all depicted so you feel every bit of it.

Sometimes there are rapid-fire montages of food prep. Other times, lots of times, there are lengthy dialogue scenes between two people shot in extreme close-up. I should mention how unusually emotionally real all of these characters seem and how much you end up caring about them. Abby Elliott as Carm's sister, Oliver Platt as his uncle, and even some new cast additions like guest star Rob Reiner as a potential investor.

Finally, the choice of music on the soundtrack is inspired. Songs by Paul Simon and Lou Reed, Van Morrison and R.E.M., Bob Dylan and The Who, are played in ways and in spots that make you respond to the lyrics in a new context. Call the bear a comedy if you must, but I won't. Watching this new season, I cried more times than I laughed.

Yet however you characterize it, The Bear, right now, is the best series on television. You got the look of love lying in your eyes. That wasn't crazy motion till you calmed me down. It took a little time to calm me down. To keep up with what's on the show and get highlights of our interviews, follow us on Instagram at NPR Fresh Air.

On Monday's show, Terry talks with Jeffrey Seller, who played a key role as a producer of the Broadway musicals Rent, Hamilton, In the Heights, Avenue Q, and the revival of Sondheim's Sweeney Todd that starred Josh Groban. His new memoir, Theater Kid, is about his life and offers a behind-the-scenes look at what it's like to produce a Broadway musical. I hope you can join us.

Fresh Air's executive producer is Danny Miller. Sam Brigger is our managing producer. Our senior producer today is Thea Chaloner. Our technical director and engineer is Audrey Bentham, with additional engineering support by Joyce Lieberman, Julian Hertzfeld, and Adam Staniszewski. Our interviews and reviews are produced and edited by Phyllis Myers, Roberta Shurock, Anne-Marie Baldonado, Lauren Krenzel, Teresa Madden, Monique Nazareth, Susan Yakundi, and Anna Baumann.

Our digital media producer is Molly Seavey Nesper. Hope Wilson is our consulting visual producer. For Terry Gross and Tanya Mosley, I'm David Bianculli.

Pop Culture Happy Hour, NPR's easy breezy laid back pop culture podcast has brought you the best in culture for the past 15 years. That means we spent the last 15 years talking about what exactly? Bad reality TV, actually good Marvel movies. Actually awful Marvel movies. Reboots. Hot music. Prestige dramas. Netflix slop. That's 15 years of buzzy pop culture chit chat and here's to many more with you along for the ride.

Listen to Pop Culture Happy Hour on the NPR app or wherever you get your podcasts. On the Planet Money podcast, the economic world we've been living in for decades was built on some basic assumptions. But the people who built that world are long gone. And right now, those assumptions are kind of up in the air. Like the dollar as the reserve currency. Is that era over? If so, what could replace it? And what does that mean for the rest of us? Listen to the Planet Money podcast from NPR wherever you get your podcasts.

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