It must’ve been the summer of ’82.
I know it was summer because it was Chicagofest, a now-defunct seasonal festival of food and music. In fact, it may have been Chicagofest’s swan song as former Mayor Jane Byrne, who championed it, lost her bid the next year for re-election to Chicago’s first black mayor, Harold Washington, who put an end to Chicagofest because it was a huge cash suck.
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Years ago when I was a music critic I had some pretty awful interviews.
The worst was after putting in a request to talk to a band from Detroit (I’m going to be nice and not name names). They didn’t call when scheduled. Not surprising. They never call when they’re supposed to. Then, three days later I get a call from the front man — right in the middle of deadline. He sounded annoyed when I mentioned that it was not the most convenient time to speak to him and I was unwilling to reschedule so I said, fine, let’s do it now. It quickly grew apparent he was bombed. And irascible. He started mocking my questions. Then he basically hung up on me. I called the publicist at his record label, who said, “Oh no. Not again.” He’d done the same thing to other reporters.
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