The first time that I had a conversation with Matthew McConaughey was in 2014. He was fresh off a string of enormously successful projects: Dallas Buyers Club — it earned him widespread praise and numerous accolades, including the Academy Award for Best Actor — and HBO’s smash series True Detective, and he had the hugely anticipated Interstellar about to hit the Big Screen. He was excited to talk about a memorable trip to West Africa and a charity that he and his wife Camila, had launched — the just keep livin Foundation — that focuses on empowering high school students to lead active lives and make healthy choices to become great men and women. To say that Matthew McConaughey is a world of energy and vision is an understatement. McConaughey is both passionate and strategic. He has managed to artfully balance his decades-long career, his foundation work, his (almost) 10-year marriage, and his role of father to his three children, and most recently, he has added author to his title with his bestselling memoir Greenlights (2020). With that Texan friendliness that warms the spirit through and through, Matthew McConaughey continues to rise above celebrity and invest his time and life into the things that truly matter most. As we sit down again, there is once more a lot to chat about.
What is the first road trip that you remember doing with just you and your dad?
I’m the youngest of three. I’ve got an older brother, 66, [another] brother, 57, and then I’m 51. My 66 [year old] brother, became best friends with my dad; he was coach of the baseball teams, etc., and they ran together. My middle brother too. When I came along, dad had become more successful [professionally] and we moved to Longview, up in east Texas, a big oil booming city. And he was busier, [often] on the road. He was still there for me as a dad, but he wasn’t like my baseball coach.
I remember really enjoying whatever solo time I could get with him, I relished it. He would sometimes take me on these traveling business trips to go meet people, either to make a pipe deal or to meet people that he was trying to collect money from; he thought that bringing his youngest son along might shame them into paying him back. Sometimes it did work, I must say. So, we’d get on the road… he drove this truck, it had the horn on the front — the hood ornament — and it was on a spring. I would always grab that horn and turn it around so that it was facing him. And he wouldn’t notice it for days and days. And then all of a sudden, a day or week later, he’d be in his car, and he’d be like, “Damn it! Who turned that damn thing? Boy!” He knew it was me; it became a running joke.
This is what I remember about those trips: he had a book with all of his numbers and pen scratch of people that he was going to meet [from] his business relationships. But it was all mismatched, scribbled. It was my job to organize it. I had very good penmanship. So, on those trips, I’d sit over on the right and transcribe his business books and contacts over to a different book. He loved to ride with the driver’s side window down, AC on high, radio on, smoking a cigarette, leaning over to the right, with a box of fried chicken in the middle. He would grab a piece of that chicken with his cigarette in hand, while he’s just driving, and he always drove about five miles under the speed limit. He’d drive like 51 in a 55 with the right side of his tires about two and a half feet over the line on the shoulder. He loved to take his time.
I remember we’d sit there and eat chicken, and he’d drive; we’d be listening [to music], AC on full blast, windows down, radio one digit off frequency… then we’d finish the chicken and… I’ll never forget this: he had a roll of paper towels and a bottle of Windex, because the chicken was all greasy, right? He’d stop and get the Windex, and he’d go, “Ch-ch-ch-ch,” all over, and get those paper towels and wipe down the windshield, the top, the basin, the console, the steering wheel, everything, and he just kept driving, and kept listening to that station that was one digit off frequency. (Laughs)
Looking back now, do you think that those were times that you got to know him better, not just as your dad, but as a man?
Yeah, I mean, even the stuff we didn’t say; just being with him, and not with my two older brothers. It was always us as a family. But just he and I, me riding shotgun, which I didn’t get to ride shotgun much, because if the whole family went, I was in the back. But just he and I riding shotgun. I’ll never forget this — a big approval moment for me on one of those road trips, where we went as a traveling salesman — I put in my Tears for Fears cassette, and I turned up “Shout”; I loved that song. And we were driving, and I’m listening, jamming… I’m gonna share my music with my dad, and I’ll never forget, he sat there and started going, “Shout, shout, let it all out.” And he reached up on the nob and he cranked it up, all the way, and sat back and started raising his voice, “Shout,” and he looked over, and when the song was done, he goes, “Damn buddy, I liked that one, that’s a good one.” And I remember being like, “Yes! I just shared music with my dad!”
Those were also our trips where he had the birds and the bees talks with me. He talked about respect of self and respect for women.
Was it uncomfortable for you?
No, they were more cool, because again, the fact that it was my dad and I solo, that superseded any discomfort. It made me feel like I was having a rite of passage; that my dad was saying that I was about to start a stage where that kind of intimacy was going to begin, and here’s what to do and not do. So, I think, just the fact that he was sharing those with me was like… I’m getting wisdom from my father.
Your eldest son Levi is around the same age you were when you took those trips with your Dad. Do you feel that this stage allows you to reflect even more on those times with your Dad that you were talking about?
Yeah, well you know, I hadn’t even thought about it until you brought it up. And I just went, “Oh yeah.” It just reminded me of something that happened this morning… I’ve got three children, right, and how do you spend time [with them]? They like to have [you] full time, but I have one that’s looking for the individual papa, right now, even if it’s just five minutes. “Hey, want to watch me play my favorite game?” He’s needing that, you know? And I was needing that in those times from my Dad. That was my time with Dad, nobody else’s. It was really important.
You’re a big fan of Airstreams.
Yes! This one is a Smithsonian.
Stained glass window in the back, that right there is from an S-33 submarine, it’s a panel with all my lights and switches on it, that right there is my world map that’s all backlit, and you can put magnets on any part of the world where you’ve traveled. This is my galley over here, obviously, and it’s got bourbon cask floors for the runway. I designed this one from the shell. I got nothing but the shell off the assembly line in Ohio and designed this whole floor plan on a napkin in a bar about 19 years ago. I still have that napkin.
What sparked your interest in the first place?
You know, I remember that I had gone from a car to a van. I had a van that I talk about in the book called Cosmo. And I tricked Cosmo out, I customized it. I had [a] speaker, I could record ideas. I had the hole in the back with a funnel where you could pee out the back without having to pull over. I had a couch in the back that leaned into a bed, and I had a desk in the back. I’d pull into someone’s office or be on the set of a movie, and I’d stay in Cosmo, because I had everything I wanted.
As I got comfortable with that amount of space, I remember I was driving with my buddy Gus, we were headed north on the 101, north of Los Angeles. And there was an Airstream; we were going northbound, and there was a truck pulling an Airstream on the southbound, and I remember looking at it going, “Wow, look at that! That’s those Airstream trailers I’ve heard about. How cool is that? Man, that’d be awesome to get one of those one day.” And my buddy Gus, who was my manager at the time [said], “Well, McConaughey, you can if you want.” I go, “What do you mean?” He goes, “You got the money, you can.” I was like, “I sure can, can’t I?” My first one was a 28-foot International... CCD. I lived on the road in that one for four years. The idea of having my life in this minimal amount of square footage was very exciting. I learned through life that too many options can be more stressful. The idea that I could have my life hooked up to the back of my truck or van, and I can go where I want, when I want, pull into a beautiful place, love it, and whenever I feel like going [again]… (snaps fingers)
You leave.
Boop, later. Time to go find new backyards.
When you were on the road for those four years, were you taking film assignments and other projects?
So, I would like… I had one parked at a studio in LA once, I parked on our lot in New York, I parked in Alberta on set, I parked and lived in Gadsden, Alabama, on a set, and I parked and lived in New Mexico one time for some work. In between there, what was really cool, was taking my meetings on the road.
So, I’ll pick you up... I’m headed towards Tucson, Phoenix, or maybe if it’s a longer trip, we’re gonna talk for longer, El Paso, whichever way I’m heading, and I’ll pick you up at Albuquerque airport at 10AM tomorrow morning. You and I will chat on the way. And I would time it out before you and I set up our meeting, by how long our meeting was going to be, and you’d get your departure ticket out of the next airport. So, I’d pick you up at one, keep driving, you and I’d chat about the project, which is a great place to talk to someone about creative ideas or business. And then I’d drop you off at the next airport and you catch your departure flight out. So, I got to keep moving.
And most people agreed to that?
Loved it! They loved it, and trust me, in every one of those meetings, I think I ended up getting what I wanted. I won all those negotiations, because the office that they were in, they were like, “This is wild, but this is cool man.”
Do you think you would ever switch from an Airstream trailer to an RV motorhome?
I’ve thought about it, there are pluses with an RV. I mean, to set it [trailer] up and break it down, which I like to do, again, taking my time, it’s about a 45-minute gig. It’s like a boat, so to lock everything down so that it handles bumps on the road, to unplug the water, the electricity, bring up the stabilizers, hook up the truck, back it up, hook it up, about a 45-minute gig for me when I’m in. Today, it would probably be an hour and a half because I haven’t done it in a while. But that’s to set up and that’s to breakdown. RV is, man, pull up, press button, “Boop!”, stabilize, you’re there. The other great thing about the RV is, “Hey family, you’re riding here with me.” It’s against the law to travel with your family in a trailer, so I can’t have my family in this Airstream while I pull it.
I never knew that.
While I’m pulling, yeah. So, we’re all packed in the truck, and then when we get there, we come here. RV is, you’re driving and, “Hey buddy, can you make me a ham and cheese sandwich?” You know? And you’re right here. You’re talking and driving, so there is convenience to it, and you get to cover more ground, and you don’t have the 45-minute setup, 45-minute breakdown to leave. But they’re just not as beautiful once you’re in.
Camila and I have talked about it. But we’ve got to get these kids shepherded out of the house first before we’re like, “Okay.” And that’s a thought, you know, if we go into that next season of our life and the kids are out of the house, Camila and I might be like, “Okay, now let’s hit the road.”
You tend to get recognized when you overnight at a campground, I’m sure. But you’re a pretty laid-back guy, so folks must tend to relax around you and not get too starstruck.
That’s the goal.
Do you have to work extra hard to create that experience?
No, and I’ve gotten better at it, I can do it. I can get someone who may be like, “Hey, wow!” I can get them to baseline quicker now than I could 25 years ago. I’ve learned to… early in the conversation… for instance, if you came over here like, “Hey man!” I’d respond, “Yeah man, I’m out here just like you, wide-open country, enjoying some beautiful quiet time in private. How about you?” And they’re like, “That’s what I’m enjoying too! Sorry, I didn’t mean to bother you.” “No, you’re not bothering me.” Then I ask them a question: “Where are you coming from?” Then they’re like, “Well, I’m coming from Oregon.” You know, cool, “What’s the prettiest thing you’ve seen?” Now we’re in a conversation, but we’re in a conversation where they know that I’m not about to ask them to be best friends and move in, but we’re having a trailer park… there’s an understanding in trailer parks that everyone’s out doing their own thing. If the door is open, come on over, but if the door is shut, the unsaid rule is that you don’t go unsolicited and knock on someone’s door. And if you do, they have every [right] to go, “Hey man, door’s shut.”
Have you found that the kids are starting to enjoy road travel more? I find that there is always a struggle to get them to put down the electronics.
That’s something I think all parents are trying to balance somewhat. You know, it’s like, even for adults, we leave, take off to the destination, and we carry our habits that we have [with us]; we take our proverbial video games. A road trip initiates you. And for me, it’s usually about the afternoon of day two or day three, that I start to go, “Oh, I forgot to even look at my phone. Oh, I didn’t even want to open my laptop. Oh, pull over whenever we want. Oh, look at that, cool, let me do a U-turn.” It’s a great initiation — a road trip — and I think it happens that way with the kids too. They start off, they want to pull out an iPad and start playing a game before you’re even out of the damn driveway. But after about a day and a half, they start to look around, you pull over a few times, a story happens, somebody screws up, a joke happens, you see an awesome sight, you see a black bear on the side of the road or a beautiful river you didn’t know about that you decide to hop in and go swimming in; all of a sudden those iPads are like a distant second place for entertainment.
Have you been to Amarillo and the smaller towns along the Texas Panhandle, Route 66?
I have! I had a real audio trip there on, it was on Route 66 I believe… it was a very gentle breeze of a day, it was really quiet. And I pulled over because I was writing something down, I had a thought, so I pulled over. I’m writing, you can see the horizon all around, and I hear this sound (light tapping). It’s getting louder on my left ear, it was, (taps louder). And it went on for like twenty seconds, it was like a slow rise in volume until it got to where it was like going, “Pat, pat, pat”, and I was like, that is one of the slowest ramp-ups of volume coming up on my left ear. And as I turned to the left, this little kid rode by on a bicycle, and he had two playing cards close lined on his spoke. And the fact that I heard it, like, 25 seconds back, very faint, and it got that loud right in my left ear, it was just like… beautiful, beautiful.
What do you appreciate the most about Texas and Texans?
I’ve covered almost all the states for sure. I’ve done that drive out west and back here to Austin 40-something times. I’ve gone north, I’ve traveled across 70, across the 40, all the way on the 10. I have done 66. I mean, Texas is, you know, you’re gonna see a hell of a lot more Texas flags in Texas than other state flags anywhere. And they’re gonna be next to the American flag. But there’s a certain identity that we have here in Texas; you have expectations as a Texan. It’s still a renegade state, it’s not a tyrant state, but it’s a renegade state. We like it when people pick their own way to go, but the hospitality is across the board. I hear more and more [from] people that are not from Texas, but come to Texas and are living here now… I always like asking, “What is it?” “Man, this infinite optimism you guys have, wow.” I go, “You didn’t have that [in your home state]?” They’re like, “No!” I never saw that; it was just inherent. Or a friend of mine said the other day, “Texan friendliness is a real virtue.” And I’m like, “And you can tell that much difference from where you’re from?” He’s like, “Oh, night and day.”
You started keeping journals at around the age of 14. You don’t hear about a lot of boys actually keeping journals. What prompted you to start recording your thoughts, feelings, and experiences so young?
I think a couple things; even at that young age, I was having those existential questions of like, “What are we doing here? What does success mean?” Which later on in [Greenlights] I talk about, [how] for me it became fatherhood. “Oh, that’s why I called my Dad’s friends ‘sir’! Cause they were all fathers.” But I didn’t know that at 14. So, I had big questions.
And then secondly, it was regular 14-year-old shit: “Why do I have these pimples on my face? What’s this fuzz growing over my pecker?” You know what I mean? I was going through a pubescent sort of awkwardness and just jotting it down. And then it became, I’m in a movie theatre, watching a movie, and I hear something that cracks me up and I laugh out loud. And after I quit laughing, I notice that I was the only one who laughed — in the entire theatre. And then later in the same film, the whole theatre cracks up and I’m like, “I didn’t think that was funny. Am I weird?” So, I was just writing idiosyncrasies, things that I found weren’t matching with the world, and then trying my best not to judge myself on it. I slowly started to find my own identity through some of those, and just continued to write.
So why now? What made you feel safe to write your memoir Greenlights at this point?
I got more selfish. I mean, selfish in saying, “Hey, I love being an actor, but I’m doing somebody else’s script, directed by someone else, lens in a camera by someone else, edited by someone else, packaged and then put up there to share with you.” Cool, but that’s four filters. Can I get rid of those filters? Well, the written word is only one filter, it gets rid of three filters. It’s not live interaction, which is zero filters, but it’s one filter, so that’s getting rid of three filters, that’s getting more selfish. Go have a look and see if you have a story worth sharing.
I told myself, “Nah, you know what, when I die, Camila or somebody will open up that treasure chest and if something’s worth sharing, they’ll share it.” Which was kind of a cop-out. And I was like, “Well, maybe you don’t have a book worth sharing, but why don’t you go off and look yourself in the eye at who you’ve been, see what you remember, see what you forgot.” And I went off and did that.
You completely went off the grid to write your book.
I went out first to Fort Davis Mountains, where I was conceived, out near Marfa, and stayed in a little cabin. I went there because I love the desert. I love how clean the desert is and how alive it becomes at night. I’m stimulated in the desert. I went to a place with no internet connection. I went to a place with no cell reception. I went to a place where nobody could find me, even if they tried. So, I would be stuck with me, and who I’ve been the last fifty years.
I knew that when I would get bored, the only place I had to go for entertainment was who I’ve been or the stories I’ve written. I knew that when I wanted to reach out late at night, call somebody or go somewhere, I didn’t have the ability to. So, because I put myself where I inevitably didn’t have those choices, it was like, “Whoop.” Or relatively speaking, “Let’s go figure out. Let’s have a deep look at who we’ve been over the last 50.”
I was actually averaging about 17-hour days. The hardest challenge was just telling myself to go to bed and let my mind turn off. I got the fever early on and I just said, “What’s the gig? Let’s go.” I started writing and took about five of those trips… it was a total of 52 days.
What was your writing process like?
I found seven themes through writing of the last 40, 50 years, seven things that my mind went to. There were more about these seven things than anything else: there were stories, people, places, prescribes, poems, prayers, and bumper stickers. So, those seven stacks were there in front of me, and now I said, “I’ve gone through it all, found what was really kind of there, the columns of my last 50 years of writing.” That’s where I found how to put the book together. Let’s make the stories the narrative, let’s make prescribes, poems, prayers sort of flash-forwards to flashbacks, sort of callbacks to where stories came out.
That’s where the title Greenlights came from. I was like, “Aw geez, you’ve done some fun stuff, you’ve done some crazy stuff, you’ve done some wise stuff. Boy, you took a lot of chances that paid off, you pulled some stuff off, you worked hard to get what you want, you got lucky, you fell down.” And I was like, “Oh, but every time I fell down… Dad dies, year in Australia, not studying my lines trying to wing it in that movie that turned out to be a four-page monologue in Spanish.” Very soon after I was like, “Oh, you had time for great success now, because you learned from that failure, and if you wouldn’t have been that embarrassed or that hurt at that time, I don’t know if you’d have jumped up to succeed and have the courage that you did soon after.” So, that’s when I was like, “Oh sh*t, it’s all green lights.” And that’s where the title came from.
