Foot Notes

Item #1: Don't Do What I Did

Let’s face it, Van Cliburn Punched Me in the Mouth is a vanity project. If you ask about it, I’d say something like, “Well, I’ve done a lot of interviews, mostly with musicians, over the past fifty-odd years. So I figured I’d share how they went by posting gently-edited transcripts, along with commentary that may be helpful to other folks who aspire to spend their lives asking questions.”

But to be honest, like pretty much all autobiographies and a distressing amount of pop culture criticism, Cliburn is also about the person behind the byline — in other words, a first-person homage. It’s like, “Hey, look at me! I’ve hobnobbed with all kinds of famous people! That practically makes me famous too, right?”

That’s why you may notice that there’s something missing from Cliburn. What you’ve (hopefully) been reading here represents some of my better work over the years. But you’ll not see transcripts that are so embarrassing I’d just as soon pretend they don’t exist. You probably never will.

As bad as they were, though, they can be as illuminating as the good stuff. So my project has broadened to include lessons I’ve learned from assorted total or near disasters. I learned from them here. We begin a few episodes that make me cringe even now, decades later.

Check the Batteries!

There is no more bush-league mistake than assuming your recorder — dedicated or in your phone — is recording. I should have absorbed that way back in Journalism 101 at USC: My teacher, a crusty, no-nonsense newspaper guy named Allan Casson, took the class to a real-world press conference somewhere in L.A. When we arrived, everyone whipped out their pens and started scribbling notes. So did I, only to find that mine had run out of ink. Desperate, I turned to Mr. Casson and pleaded to borrow his pen. He handed it to me, then pulled back.

“That’ll be five dollars,” he said.

You would think I never again failed to check all the appropriate equipment — pen, pad, cassette recorder, spare batteries and tapes. You would be mistaken. For example …

Years ago I was hired to profile Cheap Trick for USA Today. For 45 minutes or so, we had a spirited back-and-forth; the guys were apparently having a good time and I was congratulating myself on what a great piece this was going to be.

It would have been, too, had I bothered to check the recorder and noticed that something was wrong. Either because the tape had somehow tangled or the AAAs had died, I got nothing. My only recourse was to call the publicist, thank her for the opportunity … and beg for one more, due to my forehead-palming mistake.

Thankfully, each member of the band agreed to cover the same ground, this time by phone as they had already scattered out of town. What I got wasn’t as great as my first go-round would have been, but it was good enough for the paper to run. Through my negligence, I also achieved something no other inquisitor had experienced: a lighthearted but semi-annoyed scolding from Rick Nielsen. The result was of course that I never made that mistake again.

… until a couple of years later, when I spent an hour or so with Lady Antebellum, also a USA Today assignment.  I’d already met them several times, the first being at their CMA Festival debut. So the vibe was comfortable from the start: I walked into The GreenRoom PR headquarters and greeted Hillary Scott, Charles Kelley and Dave Haywood with, “Hey, hey, Lady A!” A few handshakes and hugs, a smattering of small talk, then we sat around the office kitchen table and got down to business. It wasn’t until I got back home and found that I had made the same bonehead mistake.

You can guess the rest. More Homer Simpsonesque doh exclamations, more groveling before publicists. This time I could finagle a phoner with only one member of the trio, Kelley. Once again I came back with decent enough content to make USA Today happy.

But no humiliation has endured as long as the one dating back to the early Nineties, when I managed to gather three top Nashville session players for a Keyboard Magazine feature. Each of these guys — Matt Rollings, John Jarvis and Mike Lawler — spent each day rushing from one studio to the next to lay tracks behind country music stars. So time was money for the city’s elite backup players. I’m still impressed that they could coordinate their calendars so that they could meet with me.

For nearly an hour they traded stories, made each other laugh and offered helpful insights. When we’d finished, I thanked the guys and they started getting ready to head for their respective gigs. It was only then it occurred to me to check my recorder, where I finally noticed that the tape had snarled right after I pushed “Record”. I remember my face flushing and my heart racing as I stammered, “Uh, guys? I’m so sorry, but we’ve got a cassette malfunction here.” I knew they didn’t have time for a redo. Plus, attempts to recreate a lost interview inevitably fall short, as the focus shifts from spontaneity to duplicating what had been lost.

They conferred quietly, then Matt said, “Hey, stuff happens. Let’s go again.”

My guess is that each one could relate because they’d all done multiple passes, so they stayed with me for our Take Two, apparently missing their next sessions on my behalf. This alone was amazing, but in one respect what followed was unlike any interview I’ve ever done. We didn’t even try to repeat anything; instead, for the next hour or so, their comments, and therefore my questions, were absolutely fresh. There were new humorous stories — remind me to share the one where Mike stripped naked in the studio to inspire everyone to nail the next take. There were tips on finding work, developing a ‘hired gun” mentality … a lot of great stuff, and none of it was dredged from what they had said before.

The point of all this is to echo the words of R. Crumb’s immortal guru, Mr. Natural, who often advised readers to “always use the right tools for the job.” To which I would, “and make sure they’re fully charged.”