Fish Story

A couple of years ago I was a staff writer for the weekly Hollywood tabloid, Entertainment Today. I wrote book and music reviews. The editor would suggest articles but it was always my choice, since I wasn’t getting paid. I did get to keep the books. Some were good, and I got press passes to clubs in Silver Lake and Hollywood like the Echo and the Troubadour. It was mostly indie music... not really shoegazer or emo stuff, more like Wilco but younger and West Coast, some of it better than others.

The Wiltern Theatre is an art deco movie palace at the intersection of Wilshire and Western in downtown Hollywood. One hot October night, I went there to do an interview with Bjorn Baillie the singer for, La Rocca an Irish rock band.

I saw the two public relations people making their way toward me on the crowded sidewalk and waved to them. At first they seemed confused. They weren’t expecting a guy in his late forties? I recognized T— from his press release photo. He introduced me to J— an attractive twenty-something woman and his partner in the small, PR firm that represents Dangerbird Records. One of their bands, The Silversun Pickups is very successful and La Rocca’s doing okay. Their music has been featured on the American teen dram, One Tree Hill.

J— smiled asking, “Are you a fishing guy?”

Now I was confused. Then I realized my shirt had hooks and trout swimming across a long sleeve ocean. I’m not exactly sure what I was thinking when I made that wardrobe selection. It’s not like the bluegill were biting on La Cienaga.

There was little chemistry among the three of us. Maybe it was the difference in age, or maybe they were nervous about the show, but they smiled when I told them that I liked the band. We walked around the block to the back of the aging theater. The sidewalk was full of busy work-a-day sorts, suits mixing with work shirts, and in the crowd I saw a slow-moving elderly couple. The old man wore a thin tie and a pale brown fedora. She had on a house dress and held his hand as they made their way. I wondered if they were remnants of the post war neighborhood; if they bought their house in the forties to be nearer downtown and just never moved out. The woman smiled as we passed, while T— and J— were talking about the Arctic Monkeys.

When we got to the stage entrance, T— called the stage manager on his cell phone and a skinny muscular man with a head-set wearing ripped jeans and a tight Misfits t-shirt came out. In fact, from then on, it seemed as if everyone was wearing jeans and t-shirts.

And then there was me in the fish shirt.

The roadie checked his list then led us backstage. On the way he looked over his shoulder, raised an eyebrow and flicked his wrist using his other hand to work an imaginary reel in a fly-casting motion. I gave him a thumbs-up, as we walked under the Klieg lights to the green room.

J— took charge of the situation. She pointed at an ice chest full of beer and fruit juice and asked me, “Do you want a water?”

I grabbed a Heineken and sat on the couch.

“Bjorn will be down after the sound check,” she said.

I thought Bjorn was a strange name for an Irishman, but I’m not a rock musician. We sat making small talk for a bit, until the door opened and a man, who looked to be in his early thirties with wiry red hair walked in. He came right over, hand stretched out, and saying, “You must be the guy from the paper. You’re a fuckin’ fisherman, are you? You want another beer?” He says to J—, “This the guy you told me about, the one that’s going to make us famous?”

The band members and their friends poured in and the intimate conversation was replaced by clinking glasses and laughter, then Bjorn pulled me into the hall and asked if I wanted to do the interview in the balcony.

T— and J— told him that they'd see him at the after party. Then, thanking me for coming, they said, “Maybe we’ll see you later,” knowing I hadn’t been invited to anything “later.”

Bjorn grabbed a couple of beers and we headed to the top of the empty theater, while the headliner took the stage for their sound check. He used a bottle opener on his key chain. “You shouldn’t ever be without a fuckin’ church key,” he told me.

I hadn’t heard the term “church key” in nearly thirty years. It’s something my old man would have said. I set my recorder on the seats between us and started asking questions. The usual ones came first. “How’s the tour been? Are you planning to release a new CD? Where do you get the inspiration for your songs?” I asked about the lyrics and he told me he had been writing songs since he was fifteen. His passion for writing had a familiar texture to it, and, for a moment, I felt as if he traveled the 6,000 miles just to chat. Like he came to America to sit on a warm L.A. night, in the purple velour of the old green balcony, and talk about the importance of creativity. If you wanted an interview to go well, that is how it would go. I asked Bjorn if he always wanted to be a singer-songwriter.

“Actually,” he said, forgetting the expletives, “I wanted to be a journalist. I took journalism in college. I came out knowing how to put together an obituary. So, I guess I could be a teacher,” he laughed so hard he coughed and then added, “At least YOU have your fishing to fall back on.”

The stage manager walked up the aisle, just as we finished the interview. Bjorn was thankful for the publicity and told me to come backstage afterward and have something to eat. I said that maybe I would see him later, but having caught my story, I pulled in my line and left after the show.

TMD
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