9-03-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians -- Starter Job #198 (Schmoozin’ with the Stars, take 5)

As I recall, Stipe liked to talk with me because he was very into my rock writing with Creem Magazine -- he was a fan of Trixie A. Balm! -- and very interested in Patti Smith (even then!). It was very flattering for him to talk with me and be so friendly because you could tell that he and the band were special and headed for great popularity. . . .

So, here’s another of Michael Stipe and Rick down south around the time of that gig in Winston-Salem, North Carolina (see the Chesterfield sign above Rick’s head?). . . sure wish I had some pics of the dB’s, too, ‘cause I really loved that band, loved their songs even more than REM’s and was friends with Peter and Will (I guess sorta friends, we were friendly and had a mutual friend, Stephanie).

 (photo by L.E. Agnelli)

2-12-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #40 (Summer of Sam & the Big Blackout)

A reader has requested that I write about the Summer of Sam. Hmmm. There are a few things I remember about it. . . Summer of 1977, in New York City. I had moved to “The City” just a year previous, was still in school (attending Hunter College), getting homework done, writing up a storm as Trixie A. Balm, and playing in the newly-formed New Wave pop band, Nervus Rex.

That summer, after breaking up with my other beau, JW, I was dating a young man who lived in the West Village, also wrote for Creem, loved to sing Everly Brothers harmonies and play the harmonica. He was a gentle soul whose initials, BA, were the same as my dad’s.

He didn’t like my being in a band and throwing away my writing career -- although he never seemed to have much positive to say about my writing. He saw that Shawn had designs on me. . . and when the big blackout happened in July (the 12^th or 13^th?), I was at the Krushenick’s loft, rehearsing music with Shawn. The blackout was pretty exciting -- I love candles and flashlights -- and I doubt we were very prepared for anything like that.

I stayed over and slept on the Krushenick’s couch that night -- it seemed too dangerous to go outside, and travel by subway up to East 65^th street (my then address) was prohibitive.

I know that BA was angry at me for not going home, but really, what could I do? And we didn’t have cell phones, so calling people was kind of out of the question. . . anyway, it was kind of a mess (though on a way smaller scale than the city, where looting and burning on Broadway reached epic proportions). I wrote a short story called “But Uptown’s Too Far. . .” and I’m not sure what happened to it, but I do remember writing it as a sort of apologia.

Meanwhile, back in Queens, my mom was worried sick over all that “Son of Sam” stuff going on. . . she always urged me to be careful and carry around mace or something for self protection. I didn’t tend to hang around at night by myself (even though I’d feel alone in my head quite a lot), and going out clubbing meant going somewhere we played, like CBGB’s or Max’s Kansas City.

I do remember the day that Elvis Presley died, August 16, 1977. On a sticky hot summer’s night, BA and I were walking around the village, on Eighth Street, crossing Sixth Avenue. I have no idea why I remembered that particular moment; memory is a tricky little beast. (And Shawn, we only started dating later in ’77, remember!)

My little apartment on East 65^th Street was kind of dark and small -- and I didn’t like being there too much. When I had a deadline -- which was often -- or some homework to do, I would gladly stay in, but otherwise, I’d try to hang out anywhere, even on my building’s stoop. I had no air conditioning, but luckily, it wasn’t roaringly hot in the apartment, being as it was out of the sun and on a lower floor (second floor, in the back, no elevator, of course!).

My neighbor, Kenny, and I became sort of friends. He and his family owned and ran a little newspaper store on First Avenue, around the corner from 65^th Street. He was a small, rather neurasthenic man, who wore glasses, had thinning hair, and was really into “juicing” -- using a juicer to extract vegetable juices.

. . . Not too exciting, but that’s all for now!! Next blog: Meeting Dianne Athey. . .

2-08-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #36 (Growing Up in Public at CBGB’s pt. 2- 1975)

Like I said last blog, Wolcott had a great description of early CBGB’s in his excellent new book, Lucking Out, My Life Getting Down and Semi-Dirty in Seventies New York:

“At CBGB’s, rough democracy reigned. There were no separate tables for press seating (unlike at the Bottom Line), no backstage VIP playpen, no caste system, no dress code, everything informally in flux, not even any strict restrictions on entering and reentering the club, which allowed everybody to circulate, spread their germs. The one checkpoint that had to be crossed was Roberta Bayley’s station at the front of the club. . . Reddish haired, pale, white thin, beautiful, smart, quick, Roberta was (to put it in Mad Men terms) the Joan of CBGB’s, the goddess gatekeeper who had the authority of decree, the power to banish.”

Yup, that pretty much sums it up. I like JW’s comparision of Roberta to Joan of Mad Men. . . and true, Roberta was also at times haughty, standoffish, and severe with people. I probably envied her skill at dealing harshly with people because I had a hard time dealing with anger, confrontation, and unkindness. She put people in their place effortlessly, remembered names, had great skill at dealing with one and all. Put it this way, she could be a smart bitch and I admired that!!

Luckily, I wasn’t much on her bad side, so getting by Roberta and into the club wasn’t a chore. I tried to make small talk sometimes, but I’m not really good at that with everybody and I think she had other fish to fry (I always try to respect when people are busy at their jobs & believe me, working the door at a place like CBGB’s on a popular night could be a Promethean task). I do know Roberta was very highly regarded on the scene, and her photography grew in depth and reputation; she was part of several prestigious photography shows in the past decade, along with shooters-in-arms Stephanie Chernikowski, Godlis, Ebet Roberts, Laura Levine, Joe Stevens, and George DuBose.

Come to think of if, my shyness aside, I really liked hanging out with the photographers, writers, and musicians. All of these creatives were kindred souls to me, and the general zooeyness of a place like CBGB’s was mitigated by these new-chum comrades-in-arts. To be honest, I guess we were kind of an avant-garde in the truest sense: we were on what a friend calls “the bleeding edge,” which precedes the cutting edge: and those on the bleeding edge aren’t as fortunate as the following wave. You see, the cutting edge gets kudos and the cash, whereas bleeding edge suffers derision and a gash. . . back to the topic, now.

Especially in the summer, much of our time at CB’s was spent outside, on the wide sidewalk, milling and/or mulling about. The honest-to-God Bowery bums next door at the Palace hotel would sometimes toss bottles out their window down at the street (maybe not always AT us, but that would depend on how soused or pissed off those Bowery bums got).

With all that intensity and intrigue indoors at CBGB’s, you really needed a break every now & then. Besides, how could anybody hear over all that loud rock music? LOL. Yeah, I might sound like an old duffer but hey, it always felt weird, trying to converse while not really hearing well and worrying about whether your talking into their ear was deafening or perhaps, unwittingly seductive (as in the old adage, “blow in my ear and I’ll follow you anywhere”). Ah, the perils of CBGB-ness!

Out on that sidewalk and inside the club, I met and became good friends with more than a few interesting people there: Stephanie Chernikowski, Fran Pelzman, Mary Harron, Judy Wilmot, Billy Ficca, Fred Smith, Tish and Snooky, and, of course, Chris and Tina. I’d talk to almost anybody, especially if they were nice, and wound up chatting with dozens, maybe hundreds, of others who I might still know by name and/or sight -- but perhaps I should describe the big macher of ‘em all, Hilly Kristal. . . next blog.

2-06-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – #34 (More Adventures of A. Balm: Trixie saves resident Punk Legs McNeil from himself. . .)

(You know, if I had a PUNK tee shirt or knew where my PUNK mags were, I'd have included that here. But then, I'd have to be way more organized with my archived artifacts. What fun it THAT??! Someday, definitely. . .)

Time to recollect about those guys at PUNK Magazine in NYC in ’76. John Holmstrum and Legs McNeil were really nice guys, but Legs of course was a real character who had writing talent, brilliance, dyslexia, self-destructive tendencies, and a sense of humor: hence, he was PUNK Magazine’s mascot of sorts and “resident punk.” (He later wrote a Punk & New Wave classic, Please Kill Me -- which really is apropos!)

At any rate, around Halloween I was invited to a dress-up party at Fran Pelzman’s apartment uptown. I was dressed as my fantasy of Zelda Scott Fitzgerald (I’d just read Zelda by Nancy Mitford and related to the former Belle’s “artistic temperament,” I guess) on the golf course. I had these saddle shoes (golf shoes!) with big cleats on them from my fave thrift store, and lord knows what else, probably some strange hat and a pleated skirt.

Legs came as himself, but he’d been drinking more than usual (!!). So, along toward the middle of the party, Legs asked if I’d be okay to drive his (mother’s) car downtown after the party. “Sure,” I piped, “I’m cool.”

“Now Trixie, really, are ya?” Legs lurched, swaying and peering from under that mop of then-splendid dark hair.”

La Trix confided, “Yeah, uh, you know I don’t drink?” in a hushed tone worried others might hear she wasn’t a hard drinking, cool chick. Legs looked a little more at ease. Trixie went on, “You know, I had a car until a few months ago. It died on the Pelham Parkway. . . I called it Elenore.”

“Yeah? Nice name. Y’see, I don’t care if I drive and kill myself, but I just wouldn’t want to kill the other people,” Legs slurred. “So you’re sure now, you’ll drive?”

“Yeah, you bet.” Odds were I’d get there safely as usual with the angels riding on my shoulders, ‘cause that’s the ol’ Trixter’s style --

As it was then, is now, and ever shall be, Amen!

2-05-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #33 (Rock Writer L.E. Agnelli Meets Bananarama)

. . . Couldn’t say the same for another Brit pop group I interviewed, years later, for CREEM. More about that, next time?

-- That’s where I left off on the last blog, and sure enough, I have a little story about the time I talked to Bananarama, the professional-attitude-antithesis of those delightful guys from 10cc. This was in 1984, and CREEM’s Dave DeMartino asked me to interview these very popular London popsters, who I’d go out on a limb and call precursers to the Spice Girls. I’d gone back to my normal name, so Trixie didn’t really interview ‘em -- but L.E. did all right, considering!

At any rate, re-reading the interview is hilarious, because this was one story where I figured out the best way to do it was just to quote directly and describe their facial expressions and vocal inflections. They were quite annoying, I thought, but in an effort to be fair, the “disclaimer” in my piece ran like this:

“Three hungover, hungry, still-jetlagged lasses from London, a.k.a. Bananarama, meet an ebullient but spacey female rock journalist who looks like a Greenwich Village Beatchick circa 1960. They have never heard of CREEM Magazine, and when I describe it, Sarah deadpans, ‘Oh, it’s like the NME now.’”

Further disclaimer: I’d gone to seek my aberrant fortune and lived in London, England, for a year and a half, from mid ’81 to the end of ’82. Living there, I had to hear B-rama’s super slick, catchy, annoying “music” way too much when I lived there, and I met so many unkind, stuck up people just like them in my travels.

Perhaps in a way I was trying to get back at people like them who’d hurt me. . . but on the other hand, CREEM magazine was so perfect for “taking the piss” and making fun of so many popular musicians. I do have quite the sense of humor and even, to this day, I laugh my head off re-reading parts of this article, which I’ll try to post with the blog.

Ah, the arrogance of youth! It’s all here. . .

Enjoy. . . and remember, that song, “Bobby DeNiro’s Waiting”? That one’s actually all right in my book!

2-04-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #32 (Rock Writer Trixie A. Balm Meets 10cc)

Well, sooner or later, it had to happen: I’d meet some English rock musicians to write about. And how I explained the group 10cc (pop/art/rock) was pretty darn good, if I don’t say so: “a serio-nutty quartet. . . imageless image. . . Mavericks from the northern slums: Gritted teeth, passionate playing, keen rivalry, ‘no hard feelings.’”

Sometimes when I re-read my Trixie A. Balm stories (some of which were luckily “preserved” in a cute little volume I made called Confessions of a Teenage Rock Scribe), I realize how right I was to follow a career in rock music writing. I really “got” it. And talking to other musicians was just very natural for me.

I was re-reading a story I wrote for Circus Magazine, “10cc’s Obscene Phone Call. . . “ (hmm, how’s that for a catchy header??)

At any rate, meeting one half of the Mancunian-origin foursome (from Manchester, England -- in the north) in the persons of Eric Stewart and Kevin Godley, I was “practically oblivious to my role as interviewer” due to the very relaxed, jovial, ad-lib vibe in the room. These guys were very charming and down to earth, and I really enjoyed asking stuff like, “Did you become involved in music because making it in the visual arts was too discouraging?”

Eric Stewart’s answer: “Most of the rock groups are littered with failed artists, artists who can’t work in art. So music’s just an extension of it.”

The interview occurred in a “pseudo-ritz Manhattan hotel suite -- imitation French Empire sofa and chairs, plush mustard carpeting, squat coffee tables cluttered with ashtrays, coffee cups and assorted Danish, horrendous décor.”

I must have listened very thoroughly to the How Dare You album, one that, at least initially, joined the ranks of other banned-in-the-U.S.A. imports such as Lawrence’s Lady Chatterly’s Lover and Miller’s Tropic of Cancer.

Now, in my cynical later years, I wonder if the banning was a publicity ploy to get more press for the album?!! Oh well. Maybe I just think more like a publicist.

I’m pleased to report that these guys -- who’d been pro musicians, hit writers, and recording artists already for over a decade -- Kevin Godley and Eric Stewart, were easy to

Interview/work with. They could have reeked of attitude and been miserable if they’d wanted to, but no. . . they were cool.

So as much as I find 10cc’s music not to my taste, I had to admire their graciousness and talent, withal.

. . . Couldn’t say the same for another Brit pop group I interviewed, years later, for Creem. More about that, next time?

1-27-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #25 (Rock Writer Trixie Meets Kindred Spirits in Downtown NYC)

There’s no shortage of great and kind hearted, kindred souls I’ve met through the years. Luckily, it started early on for me. If they were famous, I wasn’t intimidated because I realize that people are people and there’s always some common thread. Especially if a sense of humor, passions, or a goal can be shared.

Sometimes, their goal was more publicity. Oftentimes, my goal was to be able to write about stuff I love, and be paid for it . It was a very symbiotic world, for a while.

So when I’d meet musicians and I was in my Trixie A. Balm persona, I’d talk about anything that might be common ground: music, instruments, what they’re wearing, good places to eat, our families, places to play, whatever. And, of course, I’d get details about their projects that needed publicizing, be it a new album, a tour, a controversial incident onstage (or off).

You see, I was determined to be a friendly and well liked person. Early on in life, I thought I had a problem with making friends. I needed to change that; I was a lonely kid. I’d read self-improvement books about graphoanalysis (change your handwriting, change your personality -- I slanted my writing backward to become less “forward” in temperament!) and astrology. I read a book (Norman Vincent Peale?) that said, “Ask them about themselves! The sweetest sound in a person’s ears is their own name.” I read about Oscar Wilde, who was a wildly popular party guest because he was a “brilliant conversationalist” who just listened, and listened -- and occasionally threw out an apropos witticism. Cool.

That’s how I became a really good listener. I stopped discussing me, me, me. When people are nervous or egotistical, ill-bred or or coked up or just plain borderline psycho, they can’t stop talking about themselves. That’s kind of annoying, right?

Anyway, because of my listening skills and writing “power” (I freelanced for several music publications that were well known), I was accepted into the rock press and the musician circles. I was useful, and not too hard to be around. Although shy, I hid it and liked telling people’s stories.

How cool to be invited over to Lisa and Richard Robinson’s Upper East Side digs and rub elbows with David Johansen and Cyrinda Fox! Lisa was a famous syndicated rock writer, and she and her husband ran Rock Scene and other magazines. Richard Robinson enjoyed prestidigitation on the side (he was an amateur magician, and Lisa was a great yakker and schmoozer. She was kindhearted and very sharp. Her sister, Deena Schwartz, worked in the office and did some ghostwriting for her, I believe).

IN the mid ‘70’s, after the NY Dolls, David Johansen did a solo album or 2 and went into acting. He was very glamorous and good-looking, always in tight rockstar garb, and Cyrinda Fox (who later became the wife of Aerosmith’s Steven Tyler?) was a beautiful, willowy, rock 'n' roll blonde. So sexy but cute, too. I don’t recall specific conversations, but the drinking and the laughter and the background music in smoky rooms made it a very heady environment -- I guess you’d call it garage-y ‘70’s rock, with New Wave thrown in.

I went to more than a few parties like that. Sticking to my yucky diet sodas or hot milky coffees, I never could get into drinking (not until one night at The Ritz at the age of 23 or so -- but I never overdid it). But certain kinds of smokables were helpful to fuzz the edginess for me. . . helped me to relax.

But the night I saw my writing idol, Tom Wolfe, make a cameo appearance at a party, I kind of freaked out. Even though I met and talked with many celebrities in Trixie days, the only time I was absolutely tongue-tied was when I met Tom Wolfe in person at at party on the Upper East Side, I think at Dave Hickey’s place. Wolfe walked in, resplendently white-suited and low-key. I could barely breathe or stand in the same room. Omigod my idol!! Another time I’d meet him, surely, but at that point I was very tired and unsure what I could possibly say to not sound like an idiot. Besides, I wasn’t well attired, and I could tell from his writing that he’d notice that and I might be crushed if he were to not be amused with me.

So I waited almost thirty years to meet him, at the Southampton Writer’s conference. That’s the picture you see of us, above.

Next: how Chris and Tina of Talking Heads became friends (my side of the story -- I can’t speak for them!)

1-26-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Non-Job #24 (Being Trixie. . . Knowing Your Rock Writer Pt. 2)

Being Trixie A. Balm was pretty cool, as my writing voice was very assured, kind of glib, and maturer than my years (my vocabulary & powers of description were certainly advanced). My enthusiasm as the “ultimate fan” was definitely marketable according to Robert Christgau. And who can blame him? Having a “hook” is always valuable -- and that’s what many of us still strive for when writing, a hook to grab readers and a hook to grab listeners when making music.

But, once people met me in person, most of them were kind of shocked. I wasn’t the image of the Trixie they imagined. I looked like a teenager for years (baby face, sure), and strove to be as skinny and tough and funny as possible: a 110-pound waif with long, light brown hair and big brown eyes. I dressed like a hippie prepster, and had a predilection for loud, melodic rock & roll (Mott the Hoople, Jefferson Airplane, The Zombies, The Buckinghams, The BoxTops, Left Banke), baroque music (Bach), and vintage country (Hank Williams, Tammy Wynette, Loretta Lynn, Patsy Cline).

But, as a music writer, I was sent all kinds of releases and I listened as impartially as I could to so many elpees (on vinyl!). I heard reggae, “boite” music (or cabaret), heavy metal, celtic, R&B, and so much new stuff -- including a poppy rock band called The Dictators, who seemed pretty jokey but the songs were good and the Turtles (!!) were one of their more defined influences.

My editor at Creem Magazine sent me the album and asked for a review. Now, Sandy Pearlman (who worked with Blue Oyster Cult) was involved with The Dictators, so I was predisposed to like them. Sandy Pearlman was a real character, a tall guy with thinning sandy hair who wore perpetual dark shades and tried to look tougher and cooler than he was, I reckoned. A very intelligent, sharp-witted humorist, too.

Anyhoo, The Dictators debut, Go Girl Crazy, had so much attitude, so fun & kind of silly. I had to laugh. So I wrote the review in a tough greaser chick voice, like a true Queens girl (I was actually a defecting Queens girl, as I worked on improving my accent and never hung out with “the gang” -- I was a busy, creative loner). That Creem review inspired Adny Shernoff to come to Purchase, NY to visit me in my summer rental (with a house full of hippie-ish college students). Then he invited me to come to the Bronx to meet the guys: Handsome Dick Manitoba, Ross “the Boss,” and Scott “Top Ten” Kempner.

I recall feeling kind of shy around them, and tried to talk guitars and stuff. They liked the Beach Boys and the Stones, and they liked to drink beer. I don’t remember if we smoked anything together, but I was probably relieved when I went home because I felt kind of socially awkward. . . truth was, I battled with social anxiety most of my young life.

Writing, being alone, was very easy for me -- as was transcribing interviews. I do believe I have a knack for putting people’s words into words, sentences, paragraphs, stories. Hard to think that people actually like working, but for me, retreating into writing mode was such a relief.

Isn’t it almost unfathomable that my career took a turn to the public when I joined a band and started playing out? People can be such walking contradictions (or oxymorons)!

I’ll talk about some of the other rock writers & more of the people I interviewed next, I promise.

1-25-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Non-Job #23 (Being Trixie. . . Knowing Your Rock Writer Pt. 1)

I love hanging around young people; their sense of self importance usually makes me giggle, although when in a darker mood I just want to roll my eyes and walk away. . . taking long walks are very therapeutic indeed.

I remember being young(er), but I don’t think I had too much of a sense of self importance, as my Catholic upbringing cautioned against thinking too much of yourself. Humility was a virtue; as was patience, compassion, and a vow of poverty, chastity, and obedience: none of these virtues were mine, and I’m still working on a few of the more appealing ones.

Do these kids want to hear about me playing pool with a very tall, shy, gangly Joey Ramone at CBGB’s? Or playing pool with a rather drunk Alan Lanier of Blue Oyster Cult in an Atlanta, GA, hotel barroom? Or watching/hearing Jonathan Richman jamming in a basement in Boston before he hit it big as a beloved solo cult artist? (I’m not a hotshot pool player but it does pass the time, and as for the Boston visit with Jonathan Richman, I felt awkward and excited and after having a small Greek salad and cranberry juice in a little dive diner with him, I threw up, in a bathroom.)

Ah, well, it all depends on who the audience or person is -- some younger people dig that whole “Spirit of ’76,” which is cool. Some people -- whatever their age -- are wiling to stop talking for a few precious minutes to let others get a word in edgewise, even to listen and learn a little something.

Most of my life, I ask the questions (I’ve done over a hundred interviews, mostly with music people) and I feel comfortable as the questioner. Still, it’s very flattering when others ask ME questions. In fact, I am indebted to people who are curious about others & their lives; I am especially indebted to younger people who ask me what NYC in the ‘70’s was like & that whole music scene.

Thanks to Lenny Kaye for interviewing a jejune young Trixie and using Lauren Agnelli in print. That was so sweet of him to make me “Know Your Rock Writer” in Rock Scene magazine (and for Stephanie Chernikowski to take that, and many other, cool pics of me back then).

Sure, my perspective is personal AND flawed, and I admit it! But it’s at least entertaining to me and, possibly, to others. If it’s good for YOU, thanks again for reading.

I’ll continue on 1-26-12 with a story about what it was like for me as Trixie A. Balm . . . and why I had to write.

1-14-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #12 (More Back to Trixie Days with Lou Reed)

Like I said, the day I interviewed Lou Reed, that was an entirely different story. . . and certainly one I enjoy retelling:

I can only imagine that the editorial staff of the Village Voice was having a pretty wacked-out editorial meeting one day in ‘75, because Richard Goldstein – not even a music editor – approached me to interview Lou Reed for the Village Voice. My first interview as a rock writer! Wow.

For Trixie A. Balm to interview this legendary curmudgeon seems pretty wacky now in retrospect, doesn’t it? I mean, here I was, a kid really, OK eighteen but I looked fourteen, and dressed like an original young hippie/eccentric, very thrift store, with straight, waist-long light auburn hair. I loved Berlin and Sally Can’t Dance, and knew almost nothing about Reed’s previous group, The Velvet Underground. He would have hated to talk about it, anyway (his publicist, Barbara Carr, warned me not to bring the Velvets up – as if I could, given my lack of background and youth!).

SUNY Purchase classmate and photographer Ron Fortunato was in tow as lensman, and we drove down from SUNY Purchase one exciting day to be subjected to Mr. Mumbles himself, Lou Reed, as he vented, vented, vented.

Being my very first interview, I’ll bet editor Goldstein was either feeling very silly or assigned it on a dare from a colleague. . . whatever happened, the piece didn’t run in the Voice so Danny Fields, bless his heart, suggested I send it to the VV’s competitor, The Soho Weekly News – and thank God SWN ran it!

In the large conference room at RCA records, Lou tilted his chair back, pointy Italian motorcycle boots crossed on the table, mirrored shades and three-day stubble on his chin. A real punk poseur. The interview was going, er, just grimly until I broke down and started to cry in anger and frustration. I never could have planned it; instinct took over and I blurted out at him, “You’re not the only person, y’know, who’s gone through shit, who’s been in the mental hospital, who’s suffered –“ Bless his innter sensitive nature, Lou became at once kind and even articulate. He actually dropped his whiny, surly pose, sat up, and acted like a human being, mumbling slightly less, but HUMAN. After the interview, he invited me to a rehearsal his band was doing at SIR studios in the West ‘50’s. . . . of course I went!

Scratch a Pisces, get a cold fish or a Christ-symbol – I suppose.

1-10-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #8 (Forming a popular New Wave Band in the Late Seventies: Nervus Rex)

It sounds kind of overly dramatic to say things like “On that fateful day” and all, but really: it WAS a fateful day when I connected with the young man who posted that Village Voice ad looking for people to start a “Talking Heads/CBGB’s type” band with. 20 years old, shy, blue eyed, always preppily dressed (NEVER in jeans), Shaun Krushenick, a.k.a. Shaun Brighton, was the only child of a well known artist, Nicholas Krushenick, and his aspiring actor wife, Julia. A really sweet but not-smart Collie dog, Cody, completed the family, who lived in an honest-to-goodness Soho artist’s loft at 168 Mercer Street between Houston and Prince.

After a phone talk, Shaun and I met up at CBGBs one chilly night in December. He shifted on his feet and most of his responses were a low-key chuckle, “heh heh” kind of thing. I made him nervous, but he was nervous anyway, very wired, with a quick, very high intelligence. He had a baby face and mop top hair; later on I’d see his Paul McCartney eyes imitation where he pulled down the corners of his eyes to resemble those famous droopy orbs. Shaun was also kind of immature, emotionally. . . not that I was a paragon of maturity at age 21 (or even now!).

Once we met, we talked, and figured out our musical tastes were cool. Then we had to play and sing together, and as nervous as we were, that worked, too. We sounded good singing together. So, over the course of the winter months, we planned this new wave pop band. Six months in, I changed my hairstyle (from reddish brown medium length blunt cut to a dyed black pageboy with bangs – people swore I was partly Asian, which I got a kick out of but no, I was just a rock ‘n’ roll NY mutt).

After much deliberation and study of the British rock papers (New Musical Express – the NME – and Melody Maker were de riguer in our circles), we settled on a band name, NERVUS REX. In true punk style, we chose it because it was on a “Top Ten List of the Worst Band Names” in the NME. We thought, how cool: and how fitting, ‘cause we were definitely nervous wrecks at first.

I also figured that I’d have to phase out my Trixie A. Balm rock writing if I was going to be a pop star – or a pop tart – a working musician and rocker, not a rock writer. I thought it was a question of journalistic ethics. At first my Trixie associations were skeptical of my career change (as was my mother, who was nervous of me being an aspiring writer, too), but then they heard us, were supportive, and came in useful.

Stay tuned to this blog for further adventures of “The Rex” as we fight the good fight for coolness, ‘70’s music, and a piece of the ol’ American pie. . . .

1-8-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #5 (Working at the Strand Bookstore, Broadway & 12th Street, in Greenwich Village)

So. I have a rockin’ start to a creative writing career at the tender age of 18. Some wag calls me “The Downtown Joyce Maynard.” I take an instant dislike to Joyce Maynard, as she’s writing for The New York Times and besides getting great gigs, has a rumored affair with writing legend J.D. Salinger. Not that I want my personal life to sully my career or credentials – that would be against my independent nature -- but I do wind up with a semi-secretive relationship (because I wouldn’t want my personal life to sully my career or credentials!) with a fellow Village Voice writer whose intellect and sense of humor were great aphrodisiacs. (His memoir book that came out recently, Lucking Out, mentions none of his ‘70’s flames by name because, “it was a decision on my part to leave my romantic/sexual/personal life as blurred as possible, not only because I didn't think it'd be that interesting to the reader but because I didn't want to embarrass anyone I had been involved in. They might have moved on with their lives, be embarrassed at having the past brought up, you just never know, so I decided to play it safe.” – entirely forgivable, then.)

And even though ol’ Trixie A. Balm wrote for the Voice, Creem, Circus, Gig, and many other fine music publications. . . Lauren still needed another job to supplement income during college. She did what any aspiring writer and junior boho in New York with any sense of history would do: Look for work at the world famous Strand Bookstore, in the Village.

Tom Verlaine of Television (New Wave Art Rock geniuses) worked at the Strand, as did Patti Smith, and countless other infamous and famous alums cut their teeth in that venerable used book emporium. At any rate, to the Strand I went and got a job in the office in the basement, fulfilling people’s book orders sent in the mail (remember snail mail?). We would type up these forms, throw them into a suitably sized box, then send them upstairs to the “pickers” to pick the books and bring them back for us to finish the order (when a title wasn’t available, we’d have to notate that) and then we’d have to look up the price on the inside cover of the book, tally up the order, and add tax and shipping.

Keep in mind this was the era before ANYTHING was automated; everything had to be done manually, though of course accuracy never suffered on that account at the Strand!! Or, at least, it didn’t suffer much.

Anyway, I met one of the coolest people who became a friend and bandmate to me; Miriam Linna, originally from Ontario, was living in New York, and working at the Strand. She had just been given her walking papers (the nerve of ‘em!) the ultra cool retro rockers The Cramps, and was a sad lil’ drummer gal. I had just spent several months brainstorming a new band, Nervus Rex, with Shaun Brighton. We needed a rhythm section, and so it seemed like kismet to have met the fabulous Miriam Linna and be friends with her.

The pay at the Strand was probably minimum wage, like $2.30 an hour, but it was on the books. I worked there for a few months in 1977. . . then one day I was talking in a too-loud voice at my desk when there was a boss-bashing session. Fred Bass, our boss at the Strand, just happened to be standing behind me at the time (who knew?!), so I was canned, pretty much, on the spot. Oh well. Probably taught me a lifelong lesson: to NEVER badmouth the boss on premises – and to keep my voice volume better modulated, generally.

1-7-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Starter Job #4 (Village Voice freelance Rock Writer) & 1-6-12 (Happy Birthday, daddy!)

Okay, so it’s the summer of 1974. Beloved father dies, eldest daughter goes to her first rock concerts with her beau, Ira, from the hood in Bayside, Queens. They go to hear Mott the Hoople at the Uris Theater on Broadway, and David Bowie at Madison Square Garden. After attending my second rock concert, ever, I felt compelled to write a concert review, using as may “fifty dollar words” as I could muster, inspired no doubt by the effete stylings of Melville or something from the 19^th century. “Cynosure” was one of my favorite words, but I digress.

I mailed off my proud three-page double-spaced review to “Music Editor, Village Voice, NYC 10013.” I had just turned 18 that spring, and in the fall was heading off to college at SUNY Purchase. I was glad to have something to do to get my mind off that terrible loss of my father. I had no idea how to pitch a story or even the name of the editor. But I did it.

In early September, a letter came to my mom’s house, in Queens, from Robert Christgau, the new music editor of the Village Voice, responding to my review and telling me to “think more and write less.” God bless you, Robert Christgau!! It was one of the darkest times in my young life and it felt like a true miracle. He said to give a call, so I phoned Christgau from SUNY Purchase (at a pay phone down the hall in my dorm) and he assigned the new Jefferson Starship album & concert for me to review. With a new sense of purpose I dragged out my electric typewriter and GOT TO WORK.

For the next four years, while attending college (four different locations – a glutton for punishment, I transferred a few times due to changing location and interests), I wrote for hire as rock writer TRIXIE A. BALM.

Trixie A. Balm was a name I dreamed up on the LIE one night driving with the chunk-a chunk-a roar of tires against the buckling asphalt expressway, sitting beside my high school sweetheart, the aforementioned Ira (heck of a piano player and band leader at the time, although the band had a terrible name, “Chords Melody” – really!). “Trixie,” I thought, was a name so unlike me, so very like a peroxide blonde honky tonk angel, and “A. Balm” was a play on words that could mean “A bomb” or “a soothing unguent-type balm.” That, plus the initials T.A.B. were my favorite beverage at the time, Tab soda.

Trixie wrote for the Voice, Creem, Circus, Gig, National Screw, and many other fine publications. . . and earned her way through college on inspiration, perspiration, and a definite talent for a turn of phrase. This was a rockin’ start to a creative writing career.

1-6-12 Survival Jobs for Writer-Musicians – Remembering Dad and his Jobs on the Occasion of his Birthday (he would be 81 years old if still alive)

My father, Bernard F. Agnelli, was the first of three boys in a second-generation northern Italian immigrant family. His grandfather’s name was Bernard; his father’s name was Joseph: both names figure prominently in several generations. When I moved to Chester, CT, I found out that other Agnellis, our “country cousins,” settled there at the turn of the 20^th century. They were farmers who raised very impressive horses, I’m told. But Bernard Agnelli and Mary Corno, his wife, moved to New York City, where their children assimilated into American life and became executive secretaries (Aunt Toots) and Chief Financial Officers (CFOs) of the Bell Newspaper Syndicate (Grandpa Joe).

Grandpa Joe Agnelli married a non-Italian, Muriel Nissen, whose writing and cooking talent and frequent bouts of migraine headache I inherited. Of their three sons – Bernie, Joey, and Artie – our dad was the best and the brightest, purportedly. They dwelt in a nice little house in St. Albans, Queens, where Bernie met Bobbie (Barbara VDL), our mom.

But mostly, the Agnellis – and our dad – were mysterious. . . that’s the best word to express my frustration at how little we know about them, REALLY. The few dimly recalled facts that remain make interesting reading, nonetheless:

B.F. Agnelli attended St. Francis Xavier High School and Fordham University, majoring in Philosophy and Ancient Languages (Greek and Latin). Jesuit-trained, he thought for a while that his vocation was to be a Jesuit priest. For one year dad attended seminary (in Paris, France), but he came home and decided to marry mom instead.

When first married, dad worked as a reporter for the Bergen Evening Record in New Jersey. Then he went into the Army Reserves in Fort Benning, located in Columbus, Georgia. He was a lieutenant and wrote for the Fort Benning paper. Back in New York two years later, dad started working as a “P.R. Man” for Burston Marstellar, Western Union and Diamond International. He then became Publicity Director for the NY Blood Center. From there, he spent two years doing publicity for the Singapore Investment Center, and our family very nearly moved to Singapore in 1968 (mom wouldn’t hear of it – she loved Queens). After directing PR for the tiny but mighty new nation at the tip of the Malay Peninsula (Singapore!), dad went to work for J. Walter Thompson. About this time, he also went to night school for graduate courses in Economics. He became the head of a new business-focused division at J. Walter Thompson, Dialog. Bernard Agnelli, now the father of four, was doing well.

Then, at age 43, he passed away, a massive heart attack. And his daughter, Lauren, published her first piece, “Intimate Yet Objective: An Elegy to Bernard Agnelli.” Published in the local paper, The Little Neck Ledger, this In Memoriam piece was five hundred words typed on a Smith Corona electric machine, and was my first experience of the Red Smith adage: “Writing is easy. You just open a vein and bleed.” It is unlike the below adapted prayer -- one of many fun creative writing exercises I enjoy doing because it’s close to lyric writing, finding the right length/syllables word with the right sound and the right meaning, and maybe getting a chuckle or two.

Our father, who art in heaven, Bernard be thy name; thy kingdom done, thy had some fun on earth, if he is in heaven. Give us this day our daily blog, and forgive us our travesties, as we forgive those who travesty henceforth. Most of all, daddy, lead us not into tarnation, but deliver us from Tivo, Amen.

I love you, dad – Happy Birthday again.