by Jancee Dunn
She told me that she once attended her superintendent’s Tupperware party because she saw that he was inviting other people in her building and thought that nobody would come. “I was right,” she said as we walked toward the farm. “Four people showed up, and one was his sister. There was a deli platter and about twelve bottles of wine for the five of us. And the super is a recovering alcoholic, so he doesn’t drink.” She sighed. “I ended up buying a hundred and twenty dollars’ worth of Tupperware.” As we continued to walk, talking intently, I learned that she had an encyclopedic knowledge of the history of baseball, gritty films of the seventies, and Halloween collectibles.
She shielded her eyes from the sun, gazing in the direction of the barn, where the family matriarch was sweeping the floor in preparation for the square dance.
“I have to find my parents,” she said. “They’ll want to be getting back soon.”
My heart sank. “You’re not going to the square dance?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “I guess you’re staying here?”
I nodded. “I’m in that big cabin,” I said, pointing to a ramshackle building near the farmhouse.
She looked appalled. “The one with the burst pipe? I heard all about it on the hayride. How many people are in there?”
“Fourteen,” I said. “Let me show you my horror.” No one was in the cabin. Julie gingerly stepped in. Her foot made a squishing sound because the carpet was flooded with sewage from the burst pipe. Empty beer cans littered the living room. A rustic plaque of a Pa Kettle type hung on the wall, inscribed with the words, “I’d have to git better just to die.”
“This is where I’m sleeping tonight,” I said, pointing to a lumpy plaid sofa that smelled of long-ago ass. I bit back the impulse to ask her if I could stay with her at her parents’ house.
She surveyed the room with her hands on her hips. “I am aghast at these conditions,” she said. “I’m not a backpack-through-Europe type of person, let’s put it that way. My idea of camping is a hot dog at Riverside Park. But this…” She held up her hands. “This is an outrage.” She checked her watch. “I’m sorry to do this to you, but I really have to find my parents.”
“I’ll help you,” I said quickly. Outside, she made her way to a couple who looked as uncomfortable as we did.
“Ready to go?” her mom said.
Julie gave me a note. “Here’s my number,” she said. “Call me anytime.” She put both hands on my shoulders. “You can get through this,” she said quietly.
She called me the day I got back to make lunch plans. “Quick,” she said. “Turn to channel two. There’s a squirrel licking a lollipop.” I fumbled for the remote control.
The newscaster gave a hearty chuckle on the voice-over. “How many licks will it take for this little fellow to finish?”
“So where should we go?” she asked. “I warn you, I like to go to places that have been around forever.”
“I do, too,” I said. Not that I had actually been to any places that had been around forever, aside from rock clubs that only smelled like they had. I heard a flushing noise.
“I had to flush the toilet because I was cleaning my hairbrush and I just put in a big wad of hair,” Julie said. “I wasn’t going to the bathroom or anything.”
“I understand,” I said.
We soon made a habit of visiting the least happening spots in the city. Julie, already living in Manhattan for years, had been everywhere in town but had an affinity for quirky places from a gentler time. Our first meeting was at Rumplemeyer’s, an ancient ice-cream parlor on Central Park South that had pink walls and a long counter with a soda fountain. There were stuffed animals for sale, and candy, and the whole place breathed a faint but reassuringly musty scent. We sat at one of the little round tables in the back and had ice-cream sundaes.
The following week she took me to Kaplan’s at the Delmonico, a deli that had been around for nearly a century. “My father used to bring me here in the seventies,” she said, pointing out the old-fashioned deli counter with yellow lights, the display case filled with Dr. Brown’s soda. “All the waitresses call you ‘sweetie.’” It was fake-wood-paneling heaven, and when you couldn’t finish all of your colossal pastrami on rye, the waitress would wrap the pile of meat up for you and tuck in some extra bread so you could have a whole new sandwich later on.
Then we would walk to one of the small, chronically underloved museums in the city: the Merchant House Museum on the Lower East Side, a perfectly intact nineteenth-century house from a Bygone Era that typically had exhibits of Victorian mourning jewelry made out of human hair, or the Abigail Adams Smith house, where workers gave tours in period costumes. To the world, Julie and I coolly displayed all the trappings of hipsterhood, but around each other we let our geek flag fly.
We called each other four times a day. We developed a shtick: If one of us picked up the phone, the other began talking as if we had just been in mid-conversation.
“Hello?”
“I just took a cab to work, and when we stopped at a light, my cabdriver opened the window and poured out a cup of urine,” I said. “Is this common?”
“What? No. I would say that it isn’t.”
“What are you doing?”
“Deciding if I’m going to go to Alan’s party.” Alan was a fortyish typist at the insurance company where Julie worked who had a heavy Brooklyn accent and a wet-look hairpiece. There was a fussy dignity to Alan. He wore a smock because he didn’t want to get the typewriter ink on his polyester suit. Once when I visited Julie at her office, Alan approached her desk, holding out an open box to us.
“Care for a Vienna Finger?” he asked.
Alan was known around the office for his holiday-themed parties at the Bay Ridge apartment that he shared with his elderly mother. His latest was in honor of Halloween, but sometimes he changed it up and threw an Autumn Party.
“You wouldn’t want to come with me, would you?” Julie said.
“What, are you kidding me?” I said. “I’m in.”
That Saturday I took my first trip to Brooklyn when we rode the subway out to Bay Ridge. Alan met us at the door, throwing it open the moment that Julie knocked. “Thank you so much for coming,” he said in his decorous way. The entire apartment, from the shag carpeting to the walls, was pink, which nicely offset Alan’s sizable collection of porcelain clowns.
“This is for you,” said Julie, handing him a box of Godiva chocolates.
“Thank you,” said Alan. “I appreciate it.”
We walked into the living room, which was decorated with an explosion of plastic Halloween gewgaws and orange and black crepe paper. A few of Alan’s neighbors introduced themselves and we chatted with two receptionists from the office who had come. “Where’s his mother?” I asked quietly.
“She’s stashed away somewhere,” said Julie. “It’s like when you’re in seventh grade and your parents stay upstairs and you have a party in the basement.” We made our way to a table that was covered with foil trays of Italian-American specialties. On the subway over, Julie had briefed me on the menu. “Part of the party ritual is to rave about Alan’s cooking,” she had said. “It’s basically old-man Italian food. The big thing is fritto misto, which is battered, deep-fried vegetables. It’s like having some broccoli in a doughnut. The other thing is rice balls.”
Julie handed me a paper plate with a ghost on it. “Well,” she said. “Let’s dig in.”
Alan came up behind us, bearing yet another tray heaped with chicken Parmesan, and slowly lowered it onto the table. “Alan,” Julie said, holding up a hand. “Alan. These rice balls. Really delicious.”
He puffed up. “I can’t give out the recipe,” he said.
“Alan.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry.” After the meal, Alan brought out the Godiva chocolates that Julie had given him and slowly walked around the room, displaying them to each guest, who would say, “Ooh, fancy” or “Don’t they look delicious.” Nobody actuall
y got to taste them because Alan left the cellophane on the box.
“I used to work in catering,” said Julie, watching Alan as he vanished into another room to stash the chocolates away. “There’s an expression that they use called ‘parading food.’ Before everybody eats their salad, all the waiters parade around displaying the salad to everyone at the tables. It’s a very big part of the caterer’s oeuvre. I don’t know why anyone would want to see their food before they’ve eaten it, but apparently some people like this parading of the food. Alan is one of those people. This is a chance for him to parade his food.”
Indeed, the festivities peaked when Alan emerged from the kitchen holding a Halloween cake shaped like a jack-o’-lantern. Slowly, solemnly, he circled the room, exhibiting the cake to each person as though it were the Queen’s jewels.
“Beautiful,” I said when it lingered in front of me. Then he took out a camera and had us all surround the cake for a group photo. After that, Alan had a neighbor take a more serious solo shot of him alone, holding the cake.
Later, as we got our coats, I whispered to Julie, “I had the best time.”
She nodded. “Me, too. It’s almost like going to the Lower East Side tenement museum and seeing an actual family living there. You know? It’s a slice of life you would never see. This isn’t a goof. And it’s endearing. It’s touching to see the effort he went through.”
She handed me my coat and smiled. “I couldn’t bring just anyone, of course. I knew you would have the right spirit.”
Booze: At Least As Important As Your Tape Recorder
If your subject is a reluctant interview, do everything in your power to get a drink into their hands. Alcohol liberates the tongue and blurs the time so that your allotted hour slips by unnoticed and stretches into six. Optimally, you should remain sober while your companion gets plastered, so as the evening progresses and your woozy new pal begins to spray your face with a light coating of spittle as he or she talks, surreptitiously switch to a mocktail. Around midnight, make a big show of “feeling dizzy” and wobble off to the bathroom, where you shut yourself in a stall and coolly take notes.
Only once did I deviate from my own advice, during a Lollapalooza tour stop in Atlanta. The bill was especially good that year: the Beastie Boys, the Breeders, L7, A Tribe Called Quest, Smashing Pumpkins, George Clinton and the P-Funk All-Stars. I flew down to interrogate the Breeders’ Kim Deal for Rolling Stone’s special “Women in Rock” issue. I was to ask her the typically weighty questions that were posed to all participants: How has the role of women in rock changed over the last four decades? How are you affected by misogynistic lyrics in rock and hip-hop?
I met her backstage at the venue, where she sat on a battered couch in an oversized T-shirt and stained jeans, joking around with various crew members and musicians. As a former Pixie and member of the Breeders, Deal was one of my heroes. I loved the sound of her sweet, husky voice, and the way she smiled onstage as she played bass as though she was having the best time in the world.
Deal was perfectly friendly, but she was not in the mood to hold forth about being a victim of the patriarchy.
“So,” I said nervously, fumbling with my notebook. “I know that these aren’t the most freewheeling of questions, but maybe we can find a way to have a good time with them.”
Silence.
“Do you feel like there is a glass ceiling in the music industry?” I began.
She groaned. Everyone around her laughed. I tried another question.
“What effect has being a woman had on your music?”
She rolled her eyes. “Do I have to answer this now?”
I considered. “I guess not,” I said.
“Good,” she said, producing a bottle of vodka and taking a swig. “Let’s go see the Black Crowes. They’re playing on the second stage.” She held out the bottle. I glugged it down, figuring that I could get her to hold forth later, once she’d loosened up. After a few more lingering swigs, she jumped up, exhorting me to follow. We had to plunge into the crowd on our way to the smaller stage. As we waded through, a Gothy gang of teenage girls surrounded us, clamoring for autographs.
“I’m nobody,” I told them. “My signature is worthless.” They looked at me suspiciously, then, suspecting that I was simply being modest, shoved pens and paper at me with greater urgency. Feeling foolish, I signed as Deal smirked nearby. Then she’d had enough. “Come on!” she shouted, and dragged me back into the crowd. The Black Crowes were just tuning up. A few hands appeared out of the solid wall of fans in the audience, offering joints to us. Pot made me paranoid, tired, and hungry (three things I usually was, anyway), but, of course, I puffed away.
A publicist hurried over with beers for us, which stayed magically full, Alice in Wonderland–style, throughout the show. Joints! Beers! Crowes! Vodka! Joints! Beers! Crowes! Whoops, feeling a little dizzy. No, I’m fine, it’s cool. Just going to crouch here for a sec.
“Let’s go see the Beastie Boys,” Deal shouted over the cheering crowd as the Crowes’ set ended. She charged through the mob of fans with me in hot pursuit. She certainly seemed loose. I had to strike.
I paused on a stretch of lawn that ran between the stages, and shouted for her to stop. “Seriously,” I pleaded, pulling out my tape recorder, “can you just answer a few questions? Only a few. Who were your musical heroes?”
“Later!” she said.
“Now!” I slurred. The lawn was lurching dangerously. Storm’s a-brewin’, I reckon! Better bring her into port!
“No!” she shouted, laughing crazily. Suddenly the ground shifted and we were wrestling on the lawn of the Lakewood Amphitheater. What made the scene even more surreal was that as we tumbled on the grass, a tall black man in diapers, a member of the P-Funk All-Stars, ambled past without giving us a second look.
“You will answer my questions!” I hollered, panting. I had no authority whatsoever. I begged, I threatened, I made jokes, but she wasn’t having it. At some point, you just have to let it go.
Then, as the distant strains of the Beasties’ “Sure Shot” started up, she wriggled free and broke for the stage where they were playing, urging me over her shoulder to follow. All doors were open to us as we headed backstage, then slipped off to the side of the stage, the Beasties mere feet from us. She pulled me next to the largest speakers I had ever seen and we danced through their entire electrifying set, to the amusement of a good portion of the audience, who had a full view of our rhythm-free flailing and leaping. This is the best interview I’ve ever done, I rejoiced.
Back in New York, my editor Karen studied my manuscript with a frown. “This is the worst interview you’ve ever done,” she said. “What happened? It looks to me like she answered a handful of questions. Where’s the rest of it?” I explained the saga of my struggle, conveniently leaving out the part about acting like a coal miner with a Friday-night paycheck.
“I’m sorry, but we’ll have to kill this,” Karen said, shaking her head. “There’s nothing there.” Even so, Kim Deal was a Woman Who Rocked. She just preferred to show me, rather than tell me.
9.
“Just hear me out,” my friend Tina was telling me at lunch. “Go to the audition and if it’s not for you, don’t do it.” Tina was an executive at MTV whose low-key manner belied her high-octane job. Being around her always made me feel like we were in a secret club, filled with intrigue and excitement. (A typical staccato phone message: Yello, Tina calling. Here’s the thing. I have a meeting at three, but how about we go shoe shopping at four. Check the schedule. Circle back.)
As we split a piece of chocolate cake, Tina said that MTV was starting an all-music channel called M2 (later to change to MTV2). They were searching for a female on-air personality who had a decent knowledge of music. The list of New York–based lady rock journalists is a concise one, so my name inevitably came up. “I know you don’t like doing television, but this could be fun,” she said.
Sometimes, if I wrote a story for Rolling S
tone that made some sort of splash, I would be called upon to do an interview for one of the celebrity news shows. I usually wriggled out of it, because I found the whole process excruciating. First, a crew would show up at the office and film you faking some activity so that filler footage could run while an announcer said, “Jancee Dunn is a reporter at Rolling Stone.” Usually the producer would instruct you to type at your computer, or chat on the phone to a nonexistent “source,” or, the worst, stride purposefully down a hallway with a “stop the presses” expression on your face. This usually involves multiple takes because the producer will tell you that you’re smirking, or look slightly demented, or that you’re staring at the camera when you should act as if you’re lost in thought, mentally writing your next story’s lead paragraph as you walk along.
Then, for forty-five minutes, you dutifully answer a producer’s detailed questions. That night, the extensive footage is narrowed down to one dopey, truncated micro-quote (“Sarah Michelle Gellar is a great girl, and—”) before your answer is awkwardly cut off. Then they cue up the garish music and they’re off to the Cannes Film Festival, where the stars light up the red carpet!
“I’m horrible on TV,” I told Tina. “Trust me.”
“Just give it a try,” she said. “It’s only part-time, so you can keep your job at Rolling Stone. I’m going to have a producer call you to set it up.”
Two days later, the producer phoned to give me instructions for the audition, which was to take place, terrifyingly, on the street outside the MTV studio in Times Square. “Don’t wear white, because depending on the lighting, it might glow,” he said. “No patterns or stripes, because they can look animated, almost, on camera. You know how it can look like it’s moving? And you’ll probably have to read off of cue cards, but there won’t be a lot written on them, so don’t worry.”