Adventures in Rock Journalism
I know, it’s been a long time and I have abandoned my child. I am a bad mother. Like Britney Spears…well maybe not as bad. The last impression I left you with was a story called Murderabilia, so if you are still visiting this blog: thanks for bearing with me.
So, as you all must have read or noticed, I am on a quasi kamikaze mission to become a rock journalist. Having recently semi finished journalism school; I pride myself on the fact that at least this part of the profession has not been tainted by sour professors and a close to zero opportunity job market. Despite five years of enduring both good and crappy writing classes and having my spirit broken down so many times, I still want to be a journalist. A rock journalist, mind you.
In accordance with this life goal, I am currently writing for the website of a radio show that showcases, you guessed it, rock music. I am currently producing (or so I like to think because the truth of the matter is that I am still just a journalist) a couple of really elaborate stories on a “new” subculture of punk called Taqwacore. For this, I am interviewing some of the musicians that form this scene. Well, mainly the high profile bands because my educated guess is that this goes much further than I can reach from my small little corner of the world.
But this is where the stories start: actual interviewing. When I conceptualized the project, I did not factor in my inexperience on “live” interviews. Yes, I am a reporter, but usually I edit myself out of the news. We are taught that we don’t exist and that is what we present to the public, for the sake of objectivity. Never mind that there is actual editing going on in those sound bites and we pick and choose the information that we give out. Anyway, in a philosophical cue worthy of Aristotle or Plato, my producer (remember Clerks Loving Friend?) gently reminds me that I do exist:
Producer: “You did great but you need to stop laughing. You sounded like you smoked some weed. Did you smoke any weed?”
Me: (Eyes wide open, high pitched sound) ‘NO.”
Now, this is the part where I die.
But, let me do a recap first: The guys were from State M. I am in Island P. First task, figuring out time difference, which meant we stayed till at least 10 o’clock at night at the station. No problem there. Second task: cell phone lines are a bitch. There were two of them and one phone, what a conundrum. Third task: actual interview. I was well prepared with hours of research and very elaborate and specific questions on the table directly in front of me. I was also very, very, extremely nervous.
Now, the interview went very well. The guys were awesome and extremely intelligent and well informed. I am impressed. The questions were dead on. On the other hand, I have not reviewed the interview. I am paralyzed by panic thinking that I may have ruined amazing sound bites by laughing. Yes, laughing. It was a conversation, but, as a nervous laugher (and by my producer’s account of the events), I laughed at extremely weird cues…which are followed by awkward silences. I hear crickets.
Now….THIS is the part where I die.
This is the reason why I am not a comedian. I have been told that we journalists take ourselves way too seriously, but then again: isn’t it a serious profession? This proved me right. To my credit, I think most of the interview is salvageable. And, this embarrassing experience taught me a valuable lesson: kill your idols. I tried to be “the cool interviewer” and I failed. Miserably. So, from now on, I’m sticking with what I know and fuck it. The rest, I’ll learn like I learned on this experience, by making mistakes and correcting them.
This takes me to interview number two. This is another punk band from State I, City C. Time difference: check. Weird cell phone lines: check. This time, I knew exactly what to expect and knew better not to laugh. So I did not. Little did I know that I would find a very nervous interviewee who spoke very good Spanish but insisted that he was terrible at it. And, you know what he did? He laughed. For at least 10 of the thirty minutes our interview lasted. I felt bad for the kid, mainly because I was him two weeks ago. Full circle.
More interviews are on the way so I better get cracking. But not before I leave you with one final though (like Jerry Springer):
Apparently interviewing is like riding a bike. You start, fall down, get back up and wear knee pads and a helmet next time you ride. You know you’re going to fall down again, so it’s better to prepare oneself for the ground. And to the Lester Bangs (I hope he doesn’t tell me anything yet), Rob Sheffield’s and Robert Christgau’s of the journalism world: if you tell me that your careers have been flawless, allow me one last word: liars.
