Stop me if you've heard this one.

Over the past couple of years, I've heard just about every possible line from publicists, agents and show managers about why a particular artist can't do an interview.

Really, "no, I don't want to" is fine. I'm okay with that. It's honest. Virtually everything else isn't.

Last summer, I was told to interview Blues Traveler. I wasn't particularly enthusiastic about it, but I wasn't against it. I did the leg work and made some calls. The record label sent me an advance copy of the new album and I made my humble petition to speak with the lead singer, John Popper.

You always ask for the face of the band. While the other guys in the crew are more than likely fine, you want the one person the average listener would likely choose as the band's representative. In the case of Blues Traveler, this is John Popper. He is who people know and who the average listener would want to hear about. Popper writes most of the songs, almost all of the lyrics, sings and plays harmonica. Only the occasional music wonk would give a rat's ass about the other guys. It's not a reflection on them as musicians. It's how the band was marketed and thus, how the band is seen by the public.

Publicists, agents and promoters often get selective amnesia about this and want to pretend every band is just like the fucking Beatles. They want you to believe everyone is equally important or pretty close to it. Mostly, they're not. It doesn't mean there isn't a good story. It doesn't mean a good writer can't make the sidemen compelling, but it almost always means somebody is full of shit.

Anyway, the word back from the publicist was, "Sorry, John is very busy with this tour, but I can get you the drummer."

So, I scratch my head, then fire back... "That will be fine, but riddle me this. If John is too busy with the tour to talk, how is it the drummer has any time? They would be on the same tour, right?"

At this point, the publicist has a meltdown. She gets flustered and weird. There isn't a good answer. Yes, they're both on the same tour and playing the same number of shows. She makes some odd, panicked noises that seem a little threatening.

The inconvenient truth was John didn't want to do interviews then. He probably didn't want to waste all his good stuff on a little paper in West Virginia --not for a non-ticketed show at a small city festival. He'd rather save it just in case somebody like Rolling Stone or Paste calls up. A publicist would rather press lit cigarettes into their open asshole than admit to this.

So, I shrugged. I did the interview and it was fine. I resented how things played out, but I got over it. I had to. Meanwhile, against our agreement, she offered the same interview to the folks across the hall. We ran them the same day. This is a big no-no, particularly since we asked specifically not to get the same band member. My editor is livid. I am livid. I bring this up and she writes a very nice apology that means very little to me except not to trust her ever again.

Then, I shake my head and remember Blues Traveler used to be on the radio a lot. They opened for The Rolling Stones and were one of the better acts to appear at Woodstock 94. Now, they're playing places like (the always suspicious) Monkey Bar and the (currently defunct) Charleston Regatta. It's hard to feel much sympathy. They kind of deserve it.

Reports and rumors

I've been bemoaning the weak music schedule rolling through West Virginia for the last six weeks. By now, we should be seeing some concerts getting booked. So far, it's looking pretty slim. About the high point, so far, is Dokken (kind of a poor man's Def Leppard) is playing the new Tequila Rocks in Huntington. This is supposedly happening June 20.

Time to party like it's 1987. They'll probably do that song from "Nightmare on Elmstreet 2" -a classic.

Otherwise, same weekend... some place called Canvas,WV is having a musical throw down you could probably call the economic rehabilitation tour, featuring Confederate Railroad, Kentucky Headhunters, Aaron Tippin and Sammy Kershaw. Yee-fucking-haw!

Mid-June in the mountain state is looking like a good time to upgrade your Netflix or visit friends in Ohio.

Ticket count

Just in case anyone was interested, there are only 899 tickets still available for the FestivALL show with Booker T and The MGs in June.

Tickets went on sale last week. At this rate, they will probably be on sale next week, too...

I'm curious as to how well this show is going to sell. The band was top-shelf in their day. I mean, they impressed The Beatles... that's something, but they are a bit long in the tooth. I understand the rationale and sure, it's Danny's money (or his cousin's money). That's why they call it "The Mayor's Concert," but I've never been a huge fan of 60s soul and R&B.

I'm just not that cool.

crowd surfing

I enjoy watching crowds. It doesn't always pay to talk about who goes to a show, who pays the tickets and who makes an ass of themselves. The hardcore fans of kd lang gave me a ton of shit last year when I essentially suggested they behaved like tubby lesbian fratboys and were disrespectful to the artist they'd come to see, not to mention the average ticket holder.

Audiences are sensitive to being watched, but for someone like me, seeing the crowd is part of the fun.

The crowd at the Municipal Auditorium was old, ancient and bordering on fossilized. Everybody seemed to smile. There was lots of waving to friends. I'd smile and wave too if I was enjoying my second or third decade in retirement or maybe I wouldn't. Maybe I wouldn't have any idea where the hell I was. Sudden movement might seem very traumatic and confusing.

Many of the people at this show certainly moved with strained deliberation. Some of them were fragile and fearful. You could see it in their faces. A misplaced step or a stumble might not kill them, but it would certainly invite slow, festering pain. Maybe at that age, feeling good is a treat. It might be good enough just not to ache.

From what they tell me, whenever the Community Music Association puts on a show, they dredge the local retirement homes, load everybody over the age of 70 into a bus and haul them down to the municipal auditorium on some kind of field trip. I sort of wonder about that. Do these visits have anything in common with the junior high field trips to the lake or the box factory? Do you have to bring a bagged lunch from home? Are their chaperons to keep the kids from making out in the back of the bus on the way back?

Every crowd has an odor. A musical or theatrical performance at the Clay Center will sometimes smell like cologne and soap. A hillbilly rock show at The Empty Glass will smell like old beer, sweat and cigarettes. It's not always the people. An ocean of beer has been poured over the floor at The Empty Glass and people smoked for decades in the place before the city clamped down on nicotine. The smell is not going away.

This show at the Municipal smelled like powdered flowers and dust, but the cloying floral cloud couldn't hide the scent of sour urine beneath it. It was like catching a concert at the wake of a distant relative.

Still, they were the most polite bunch I've ever seen at a show. They clapped when they were supposed to. They clapped when they probably weren't supposed to, but no one moved too quick for the usual standing ovation toward the end. A standing ovation in this town is cheap. Just about every gets one at the end of the show. A successful bowel movement at the Cultural Center will get you a standing ovation.

They were surprisingly restrained, which I took for honesty.

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.