the iggy non-interview

after a conversation with young esperanza, i facebooked the following:

Chris' daughter says that his uncomfortable and unpublished IHOP interview with iggy pop was actually the peak moment of his existence.

i've been encouraged to tell the tale, but it is a long and twisty story that i've never been able to write about. still, said daughter characterized the moment as the peak of my existence -- and it was quite literally the termination of my career as a music writer.

i'd had some warm and wonderful experiences interviewing folks like nick lowe and some crazy/beautiful backstage experiences with folks like the suburbs and some guitar shop and hotel brush-with-fame experiences with folks like eric clapton and eddie van halen. but i met my match with mr. james newell osterberg, jr.

i may be getting some details wrong, but please cut me a li'l slack -- it was my freshman year of college and it was a very, very late night. i still can't piece together the evening's events in any kind of narrative, so i'll try a little 5-7-5 hokku:

i wrote about bands,

for the daily cardinal

and other papers.

i was no critic --

more of a fan with a big

vocabulary.

i went to the club,

headliners in madison.

i wore a cool hat.

when i got backstage

-- cool hats can get you backstage --

they told me to wait...

but to wait outside.

so i waited a long time,

for my "interview."

then he just popped out,

leading hungry drunk people.

i could eat with them!

i know where to go:

the international house

of pancakes, next block.

much food was ordered,

maybe three plates per person,

iggy holding court.

not speaking to me,

so much as speaking near me,

saying funny things.

before the food came,

iggy's cigarettes were lost!

i was a suspect.

though i did not smoke,

i was a thief and liar.

my hat was not cool.

tons of food arrived,

but nobody was hungry,

so nobody paid.

we blew that IHOP,

iggy back to his tour bus,

me back to my room.

no review to write,
i found another major,
sociology.

at the cardinal, i'd often file a story very late at night and it would magically appear in the hands of my classmates before their 8:50 lecture. though i sat at my typewriter and tried to channel lester bangs, i had nothing. nothing. i was creeped out, disillusioned, and resolute in my belief that the evening's real story had nothing to do with music. so, i decided that chasing around musicians was not in my long-term plans. of course, i'm still a fan.