I Blow It. And Then Blow It Again.

In early 1970, Mr. J.R. Young wrote in Rolling Stone a series of record reviews that were more (very) short stories. On retainer to Warner Bros, I stole his idea for the text of an advertisement for Joni Mitchell’s Ladies of the Canyon album. Mr. Gil Friesen, who’d been Herb Alpert’s tour manager, and had become in charge of such matters for A&M Records, was smitten by the review, and invited me to lunch, over which he offered me twice the money Warner Bros. was paying me, I accepted the offer on the condition that he not expect me to be on The Lot (originally Charlie Chaplin’s) except when it suited me. “I can write anywhere,” said I.

“It’s a deal,” said he.

Within a few months, I demanded a raise, to what as I write this would be a yearly salary of 100,714.91. I was 23 years old. I bought myself a red Porsche convertible to drive around in while avoiding The Lot, which I visited primarily to book time for my band in A&M’s recording studio or on its soundstage. I had fooled the most beautiful young woman in Los Angeles into believing me good boyfriend material. I was scared shitless that someone would recognize that I was an imposter, but concealed my dread by acting like an arrogant little shit.

A&M had some glorious artists — Joe Cocker and the Move and nascent Supertramp — and some OK ones — Cat Stevens and Free and Spooky Tooth — and The Carpenters. I felt that if I wrote an advertisement that caused someone to buy a Carpenters album, the devil would appear at my door demanding my soul, this at the moment the Carpenters were the label’s biggest act.

Decades later, I appreciate Karen Carpenter’s singing as quite beautiful, and even soulful in its own way. At the time, she and her cornball brother, whom someone had convinced not to keep calling himself Dick, sounded like the obverse of rock and roll, to which I (who’d been obsessed with the West Side Story soundtrack album the first 10 months of 1964, the Beatles on Ed Sullivan notwithstanding, and before that had adored the Fleetwoods.) was stupidly devoted.

I’m not sure I’ve ever heard anything worse than:

Faster, you three! Faster, I say!

Presumably not being a great aficionado of the scene of Pride and Prejudice in which Mr. Bennet urges his daughter to stop singing and playing the pianoforte, Gil didn’t tell me, “That will do extremely well, child. You have delighted us long enough.” But the message was identical. Adjusting for inflation, it was the best-paying and cushiest job I would ever have.

And boy, did I blow it.

Seven years later, a member of an Australian production company conspiring to make a documentary about the London new wave scene saw the above photo (i’m the cute one) in a San Fernando Valley recording studio, and rang to ask if I might be interested in hosting the documentary. My second major band had just broken up, and I was getting on in years (I was creeping up on 31), and I’d found London thrilling the first two times I’d visited, so I said, “Well, possibly.” Cagey, cagey me!

I thought wry understatedness might be just the ticket. When the Australians backer saw the footage of me interviewing The Jam, The Clash, and Ian Dury, and getting a succession of passers-by in Brixton to identify Bob Marley as their favorite reggae artist, although many were reluctant, he mistook my wry understatedness for hopeless lack of pizzazz, and Leon Russell wound up getting the job. The film’s never being shown took a little of the sting out my having blown it again.

A very little.