That time I almost interviewed Bonnie Raitt 

(Part I)

 

 

In the early 1970s, when I was 19 or 20, I had a freelance gig writing for a magazine called Music Canada Quarterly — not a very lyrical title; it sounded more like a government database than a cultural journal. I interviewed some famous — and moderately famous — musicians, and wrote about them, for very modest, or no pay.

I had no journalistic training but I loved to write, and I was cheap. And I was a musician who had played in a pretty good band, so I could at least sound as if I knew what I was talking about. I had never really aspired to be a music journalist. As someone who had had shot at being the one on stage, I considered interviewing musicians a big step down. Still, it was better than working. 

One of the most famous people I interviewed was Bonnie Raitt. In 1974, she played at Massey Hall (Toronto’s main concert venue), opening for Jackson Browne. My assignment was to interview Raitt in her dressing room after her set, an arrangement made with the blessing of the publicist at Warner Bros., her record label. I was a huge fan of both Raitt and Browne, but was disappointed to learn that Browne was not doing press interviews on this tour. Still, an interview with Bonnie Raitt would be a great honour, even though the timing meant I might miss part of Browne’s set.

I had a good seat, about four rows from the front on the right-hand side. I had probably bought the tickets myself — as this job offered few perks — and I had come with my then-girlfriend, Vicky, who must have been impressed when I got up from my seat after the opening set to find my way to my interview.

From the backstage area an usher directed me to go down some stairs and pass under the stage then go up two flights to the dressing room. While I was going through the corridor under the stage, I noticed a man coming toward me. It was Jackson Browne, who must have observed my briefcase and figured I was with "the press." I wanted to say something, but he averted his eyes as he passed me. 

I found the narrow staircase leading up to a second floor. There was a traffic jam near the top of the stairs: journalists trying, like me, to get an interview. A short, stocky guy in his 30s with an overwrought walrus moustache, wearing a vest over a sleeveless shirt was grilling each person. The critic from the Globe and Mail, a slight, pasty guy with a soft, English-accented voice asked the gatekeeper if he could have a “brief word with Miss Raitt.” The Globe writer left, as he had to file his review, with or without a quote, that night.

The gatekeeper talked to somebody else then turned to me and demanded, “And who are you, sir?” I’ll never forget the almost incriminating, condescending sir.

“Music Canada Quarterly,” I said, then gave my name. Damn! I should have said my name first. Worse, my voice had quavered. I gave him the name of the publicist who had arranged the interview, and the prick with the Moustache seemed satisfied.

“Don’t let him intimidate you. He’s an asshole,” said a voice from behind me. I turned around. It was Larry LeBlanc, a freelance music journalist I had seen at other events. “He thinks he’s King Shit but he’s just the stage manager.” 

LeBlanc told me about a time he was lining up a photograph of a famous singer from backstage, and the Moustache came up from behind him and slapped him hard on the shoulder. “I turned around and told him, ‘If you ever do that again I’ll knock your teeth out’.” 

LeBlanc’s assignment tonight was to interview Raitt for CBC Radio. He told me he had done a pre-interview with her in his apartment that afternoon, and she had asked him if she could take a nap at his place because she was exhausted from travelling from the previous show. I was in awe of this guy. Bonnie Raitt had slept on his couch!

When we were allowed into the dressing room, I saw that it was actually a suite: a large outer room with a couch, chairs and a coffee table, where band members and others milled about, smoking cigarettes and drinking beer, and a smaller, inner room, which served as Raitt’s more private space. LeBlanc and I sat in the outer room waiting for our chance to do our interviews. The blue Fender fretless belonging to the bass player, Freebo, leaned against the wall beside me. I thought: “Wow! I could just reach out and touch Freebo’s bass!” Freebo looked over and flashed a friendly smile. Maybe I should interview him.

For some reason, (Toronto singer/songwriter) Murray McLaughlin was there, making his presence known, trying to be the life of the party.

A handler came over and told us Raitt was tired and didn’t think she could handle two more interviews. By now the roar of the crowd, followed by the music of Jackson Browne, came wafting in through the building’s 84-year-old walls and floorboards. I was going to miss his set. Vicky would be sitting alone in the fourth row, thinking her cool boyfriend was interviewing Bonnie Raitt.

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