Don't Even Know Why I Did It

One of the earliest steady writing gigs I had back in the mid-80s was with a little "alternative" music magazine called B-Side. For the most part, each issue was just a collection of interviews with rock stars?most of them from the goth/industrial scene. Every other issue, it seemed, had an Al Jourgensen cover story?and those that didn't had a Peter Murphy cover story. n Those

people didn't interest me much, so I just talked to the people I wanted to talk to?Killdozer, GG Allin, Henry Rollins. And the editors let me do that. Most of the time, my stories were cut way down and stuffed in the back, but that was okay. I wasn't paid anything either, but I didn't care, figuring it was a good way to amass clips. Only twice was I actually given assignments. Both, it turns out, involved former members of X, and both, it turns out, were given to me because no one else wanted to do them. The first one was simple enough?go see Exene Cervenka's very first solo performance, then talk to her backstage afterward. I admit with some embarrassment now that I wasn't that big an X fan in my younger days?and Exene was the primary reason why. Her voice just drilled through my skull like an awl. As a result, I bought the first X album, then stopped listening to them.

Anyway, the record company sent me a tape of her new solo album, and I didn't care much for that either, but I'd do it. It was a job. But Jesus?remove the John Doe buffer, put that whiny screech of hers out there all by its lonesome, and let her do spoken-word pieces, too? Yeeessh. So I sat through the interminable show at Philly's Chestnut Cabaret, then worked my way backstage after, as I was asked to do.

Exene was chatting with a line of fans at her dressing room door, but when I approached and explained why I was there, she gave me a blank look. Apparently her publicist hadn't warned her about this. Nevertheless, she was very nice about it (there's no denying she's very nice). She invited me in, offered me a soda and sat me down on the couch, asking me to wait a moment. Then she left to track down the club manager so she could get paid. I waited patiently on the couch, chatting occasionally with her backup band. An hour passed, and Exene never returned. As the band started packing their gear, trying to figure out where they could get some beer at 3 in the morning, I asked Tony Gilkyson?who replaced Billy Zoom on guitar for the last few X albums before becoming Exene's second banana?a few basic questions, put my notebook away and went home.

The next day I wrote up my interview with Gilkyson (which, I thought, was informative and funny) and turned it in as an Exene interview, which is how it ran. Pictures and everything, even though she barely spoke a word to me beyond, "I'll be right back."

A few months later, having firmly (I thought) established myself in a few other places as an Angry Young Man Out of Time, a crankpot, a hatemonger, B-Side's editor called again and asked me to interview John Doe, who had his own first solo album coming out. Again I agreed, even though I knew or cared little about Mr. Doe at the time (my opinion has since changed considerably).

A few days before the interview was scheduled, the record company sent me the disc. The thing to understand here is that this is all taking place in the midst of the compact disc revolution (when record companies realized that they could make them cheaper, yet sell them for more!). Since, however, the takeover wasn't complete yet, I was still clinging tight to my vinyl. I didn't have a CD player?and, at the time, had no intention of ever getting one. So when the John Doe CD arrived in the mail, I stared at it for a few minutes, then put it away. Then I called the p.r. woman's answering machine and said, "Hey, what's the deal with this? I played it at 33, I played it at 45?damn thing sounds like shit!" (I didn't leave my name, or give her any other context. Just thought I'd let her mull that one over for a while.)

I went into the interview as cold as I've ever gone into any interview before or since. I hadn't heard the record, I knew little about his previous band and nothing at all about him personally. All I really knew for sure was that he'd had a bit part in Great Balls of Fire. I was a kid, a nasty kid, who was a little too sure of his abilities without any serious justification.

Mr. Doe, when I got him on the telephone, was nice and pleasant as can be. Smart, funny?he talked about his farm, where some of the new songs came from, his old band and his acting career.

Meanwhile, I made fun of his album cover. Worse, I accused him of plagiarizing it from Route 33, an album by another country punk, Charlie Pickett. (Doe said he knew the album, and liked Charlie Pickett, but never considered the cover art similarities until I brought it up.) I asked boring, pointless questions, which he answered with a thoughtful directness. He was extraordinarily patient.

After he hung up the phone, I sat down to write an absolutely slanderous story. I called him names, said he was stupid and boring, wondered why anybody would ever be interested in this man's music?even though I'd never heard it. Oh, I was a little son of a bitch. Nothing wrong with being a son of a bitch to someone who deserves it, but John Doe did not deserve it.

I turned in the story to B-Side, and they ran it as it stood. With pictures and everything. The day after the issue hit the newsstands, I found a message on my answering machine?several, actually?from Mr. Doe's publicist. At the end of her last message, she said, "And if you're wondering, yes, this is about that John Doe story." As if I hadn't figured that much out.

Rather than take responsibility for what I'd done, I called my friend Grinch?a man who, at the time, had fewer morals than I did.

"Grinch, here's the deal," I told him. "Call this number and tell the woman who answers that you're me. That's all I'm going to say. After that, feel free to do and say what you want. Just be yourself."

He laughed that evil, dark laugh of his, took the number and hung up. Ten minutes later, my phone rang again. It was Grinch, as I expected?and he was laughing so hard I could hardly understand what he was saying. The only phrase I caught was "...so I said, 'Eeehhh, blow it out yer piss flaps, baby!'" Then the laughter rolled on for a long, long time before I caught another phrase: "I made her cry!" Then we both laughed. It seemed that phase one of my plan had worked like a charm.

Phase two came the next day, when I called the public relations woman back and introduced myself.

There was a silence. Then, her voice cold as stone, she asked, "Yes?"

"Oh, umm...well, I'm returning your call?"

"I think you said more than enough yesterday."

I was sweet as molasses. I was all wide-eyed and innocent. "Yesterday? No, ma'am, you must be mistaken. See, I apologize for not getting back to you before this, but?" Then I paused for dramatic effect. "Wait?you said yesterday? You got a call from me yesterday?"

"I'd think you would remember."

"Oh, ma'am no?I'm sorry?did...did this person who called you...was?forgive my language here?but was he a real asshole?"

"That's putting it mildly."

I paused again, then whispered, "Oh, God?it's happening again. Not now. The doctors said it wouldn't come back... This can't happen now?" Then I hung up, mighty pleased with myself for having made that poor woman's day just a little more surreal.

Two days later, I received another call from B-Side, informing me that my services at the magazine were no longer required?or more specifically, desired. And what's more, because of my little stunt, the label in question would no longer allow any of their artists to speak with anyone at B-Side.

Seems I'd ruined things for a whole bunch of people. And back then, I must say, it made me proud. It was a job well done.

Now, however, some 15 years later, I can't think back on that whole incident?and I do, a couple times a week?without sharp pangs of regret and shame. Not for losing the B-Side gig. Hell, rock stars with anything interesting to say are few and far between. And not for the phone prank?that I kind of liked. But rather for my own arrogance at the time, and for what I did to poor John Doe, who really didn't deserve it?especially in a world in which so many other people do. Worst thing about it is, I don't even know why I did it, why I chose him. I could've done the same thing to Exene, or Rollins, or any number of other more deserving "rock stars"?but I chose the friendliest one of the lot and spit on him (and his beleaguered publicist). Maybe it all goes back?as so many things did in those days?to that line from Miss Lonelyhearts?the one about the kitten, whose soft helplessness makes you ache to hurt it.

Of course, Lord knows if he ever noticed it at all.