True Story

I got into writing about entertainment accidentally. Years ago, when I was just out of college, my first and nearly last writing gig was at a small weekly paper: my hometown paper. I wrote about town council meetings, new school openings and the occasional drowning. It was an internship, a hastily put together one at that, I did the summer after graduation.

My first real job was working sales and a board op shift at a tiny, low-watt talk radio station in Beckley. Any kind of writing I did, at that point, was on my own and I was interested in writing novels, not articles for the local paper.

I bounced around a little, moved, and eventually took a job at a radio group in Bluefield. I wrote radio ad copy and oversaw production. After a few years, I took a much saner, though dull, job with West Virginia Public Broadcasting. It was a television gig. The people were great, but there wasn't a lot for me to do a lot of the time.

To keep my mind active, I started looking for things for me to also do. I asked the editor of Graffiti if I could write for him. He shrugged and said, "sure, but there's no money in it." It didn't really matter. So, for him, I wrote about witchcraft schools, old lesbian couples and nazis. It was a pretty good time.

I moved to Charleston.

Eventually, this led to a conversation with the features editor at the Gazette. At the time, he was looking for entertainment stories. He asked if I knew anything about local bands. I lied and said, "sure."

Really, I only knew one band called Liquid Harvest. A guy I worked with at my second job played in the band. They were just getting started. I was just getting started. I asked if I could write a story about them. They dove at it.

The article went over well and I was in. Of course, I didn't know what I was doing, didn't know the scene or the players, and started pitching ideas based on the posters I saw up on lamp posts. A few of my stories began turning up in the paper.

Maybe because I worked at West Virginia Public Broadcasting, some of the people at Mountain Stage wondered if I wouldn't like to write about the people they were bringing in. They wanted promotion, same as everybody else. I barely recognized some of the names, but I said... well, sure. I needed money and the freelance gig was easy money. It was a lot easier than shelving books and I was writing.

I've learned a lot along the way.

So, really I fell into this. If my editor had asked me about a gardening story, I might have gone that direction. It might have also ended my career sooner. I know even less about horticulture than I do about music. As it turns out, there are huge holes in my music education. I annoy my friends at Mountain Stage and the occasional musician buddy with a blank stare or a shrug when they mention someone they see as a treasure, an idol or an icon. Everyone was a little pissed I didn't instantly recognize Duck Dunn.

I don't play an instrument either. I have no interest in learning and have no talent. This was shown to me in great detail in high school. To me, the point of playing is to be heard. You can play only for your own pleasure, but that's really just masturbation. Jerking off is fine, but after a while, if that's all there is, it makes you want to put a gun to your head.

I still love music. It's magic to me, good magic most of the time. I study it now, read books and articles about music, but I don't take it apart. I'm not a musicologist, not a historian, not an expert; just an average guy who hits the scan button on his car radio when he's bored. I listen to all sorts of things. Some of it is crap, but my tastes have evolved. I know why I like things and why I don't. Occasionally, someone has to explain to me slowly and using small words why something is important. Occasionally, I return the favor by telling them why it isn't.

I'll be your host here.