Chapter Text
April 1982
For the first time in my career, I was sitting in front of an editor of Rolling Stone. His name was Bill Crowe, and he looked like a university professor with the flamboyant dress sense of Elton John.
I clutched my shaking hands together on my lap, trying to hide my nerves under a tight smile, and glanced around his office, the shelves covered with vinyls and books, the festival posters hung on the walls. The room smelled like leather and cigarettes.
“So, Trish Jefferson…” he drawled, breaking the silence, peering at me through his heavy frames. “I imagine that you are aware that Lennon and McCartney are releasing a new album in a few days-” He stopped.
I knew that the two former Beatles had announced the release of a joint album, their first collaboration since the break-up of the band in 1970. The first single for the LP, Now and Then, was climbing the US charts towards number one.
I nodded, tongue tied. Maybe this was Crowe’s way to begin a conversation, a form of journalistic small talk at the most prestigious of all rock magazines. I had written a few album reviews for Rolling Stone in the past months, glorified hundred-word blurbs for new artists. However, this was a major release, and the review of the upcoming album would be entrusted to one of their star journalists, or maybe to a bestselling author or a renowned rock’n’roll critic.
“They’ve requested you,” he said, “for an exclusive interview next week in London.”
My stomach dropped.
In the summer of 1980, in the haze of a New York City heatwave, I decided to become a music journalist. Since then, I had covered festivals and concerts, talked with upcoming artists about their projects, shared my thoughts about new releases. I had penned a few stories about music fans, too. My work had been published in local newspapers and, sporadically, by Rolling Stone and some other national magazines. But nothing as big as an interview with Paul McCartney and John Lennon, not even close, not in a million years.
I stammered, blood rushing to my face, heart racing, the first question that popped into my mind. “Do you know why I’ve been chosen?”
He barked out laughing and proceeded to light a cigarette.
I had never written anything on their music, either as part of the Beatles or after the band’s breakup, even if, like many journalists, I kept weaving references to them when writing on other musicians. My only direct connection was an article I had written for a local magazine in December 1980, when Lennon was lying in the hospital, recovering from the attempt on his life. I had gone to the Dakota and interviewed fans and onlookers about John Lennon, his life in New York, his time in the Beatles, what his music and his activism meant for them. Was my article, clumsy and imperfect as it was, the reason I had been selected?
“I offered their press team the names of our best and brightest,” Bill Crowe said, after a while. “You might be too wet behind the ears for this endeavor.”
I bit on a nail to distract myself, hoping I was displaying my most opaque professional mask. It was better on the radio, when my audience couldn’t see my face. Or when I had gotten comfortable, night after night, imagining the lives of Tuesday Lady, JP and Old Friend, the long-haul truckers and the big city insomniacs, talking to my listeners as if they were all regulars, as if we were all the same.
Crowe spoke again, probably sensing we had got off on the wrong foot. “Let me see, I have a note here somewhere.” He shuffled papers on his cluttered desk. “One of their agents mentioned something about a radio show called The Jukebox. Does it ring a bell?”
“Yes, it does.” I broke into a real smile, relief and wonder flooding my body.
After his recovery, John Lennon had quickly moved back to London, separating from Yoko Ono and bringing their young son with him. But in the summer of 1980, he was still living in New York. Could it be that he had heard my radio show that summer and somehow remembered my name? A woman could dream.
“I accept,” I said, looking straight into Bill Crowe’s eyes, recovering my voice. “Of course, I’ll go to London and interview them. Of course, I will.”
Like Elvis sang, I was all shaken up because, once more, music was about to change my life.