Over
the course of my career as a music journalist, I interviewed lots of
hotsy-totsy rock stars, most of them quite badly. Around those I admired, I’d be hopelessly
tongue-tied, and usually got hopelessly bored within a couple of minutes of
sitting down with those in whom I’d no interest.
Early
in my career, I spent an awkward half-hour making small talk with Jethro Tull’s
not-very-distinguished guitarist Martin Barre in his underwear (that is, he was
wearing his BVDs, and I my own frilly nylon panties, the idea for which I’d
gotten from The Kinks) waiting for Ian Anderson, the true object of my affection,
to materialize. When he did, he turned out to be pretty irascible. I
complimented him on his multicolored leather patchwork jacket, and lamented that
garments of such stylishness were unavailable in the USA. He’d bought it in
Minneapolis.
I interviewed Mick Jagger at his rented home in Bel-Air about an album I hadn’t
heard, and would later wish I'd continued not to have heard. He was charming and patient. Realizing, after a while, that I was too in aw of him to pose an
interesting question, he switched on the TV and we passed an enjoyable hour
watching a terrible Western interrupted every 45 seconds by the colorful local
automobile huckster Cal Worthington, whose dog Spot was a tiger.
In
the 80s, while writing for the fervently irreverent Creem, I took to provoking
my conversational partners. My first question to Pat Benatar was what she liked most about being abnormally short. Her publicist crawled back out of her rectum
long enough to give me a very dirty look. I asked Queen’s drummer if he wasn’t
embarrassed by Freddie Mercury’s harlequin leotards, or by Queen’s sounding
vocally like a men's glee club. After a while, he realized I wasn’t going to
ask him anything not intended to antagonize him, but remained a good sport until I told him I needed to take some photographs. As I was about to click
the shutter, he stuck his tongue out, and then suggested I vacate the
premises. I was pleased to oblige, as there are few groups I’ve ever detested
as fervently as Queen.
The
Beach Boys launched one of their regular, ultra-cynical
Brian-is-back-and-better-than-ever! campaigns. I found it sickening, which I
made clear when I interviewed them. Talking to Carl Wilson was as interesting
as talking to a soggy phonebook, but I unleashed my main obnoxiousness on Mike
Love. He may be one of the great villains in American popular music history
(and may not), but I had to admit that decades of meditation (or something) had
made him imperturbable. It was Jerry Schilling (if I’m remembering his name
correctly), a one-time Elvis acolyte, who snarled malevolently.
Nicest
person I ever interviewed: Steve Howe of Yes. He was so charming that I forgave
his membership in Yes. Most miserable: Ray Davies, who spent the whole of our
last conversation looking about to burst into tears. Shyest? Bryan Ferry, who
stared at a spot on the carpet midway between us for the entirety of our
interview, and had a handshake like a plateful of overcooked linguine. Most
generous? Ike Turner, who gave me an enormous bag of very potent cannabis at
the end of our conversation, during most of which he had two Ikettes on his lap,
one on each leg. Most paranoid: Ray Davies, who tape-recorded our conversation,
presumably so I wouldn’t put words in his mouth. (And here I’d hoped that he
regarded me as a friend!) Most verbose: Well, you’d think Pete Townshend (most
common headline on rock magazine covers in the 1970s: Part 2 (or 3, or 4, or 5!) of Our Pete Townshend Interview), but
actually Peter Noone, once the Herman of Herman’s Hermits. I came into his
house, marveled at his tininess, and turned on my tape recorder. Around 55
minutes later, I switched it off without having had to ask a single question.
Most boring: the LA billboard sexpot Angelyne, who had a grab-bag of
purportedly cute standard responses, but desperately needed new writers, or the
lead singer in A Flock of Seagulls, or Adam Ant. The Flock guy was so self-inflated and tiresome that in my article I berated the reader for having nothing better to do than
read it.
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