The privilege of private conversation

This afternoon, I've been plunking on the Web, waiting for a client to get back with me so I can finish a project. The name Michael Hedges popped into my mind, so I thought I'd see what the Web had to offer these days on one of the greatest and most amazing guitarists I've ever witnessed.

I remembered the day in about 1987 when I left our four-plex at the corner of 19th and Kentucky in Lawrence to search out Mr. Hedges. My magazine article writing class had empowered me with a bit of courage, just enough to call Windham Hill and ask for an interview. Mr. Hedges was playing that night at the old theater downtown.

Windham was nice enough to send me a splashy, mostly black-and-white press kit with a couple of 33 rpm albums. The Mr. Hedges on these glossies was clean cut, wearing a turtle neck. I drove down Mass St. to the Eldrige Hotel across from the theater, where he was to be staying.

Has Mr. Hedges arrived? I asked, legal pad, pen and microphone in tote. No, was the response. So I sat and waited. And waited. And began to fume.

An hour later, I made my demands, I had an interview scheduled with the record label, after all! They were little help. I walked across the street to the theater, explaining to the person at the window when my appointment time was. I had an interview to do. It would be my first beyond the campus, someone who was neither student nor professor.

As I stood there, begging and pleading to know where he was, a guy working on setup for that night walked by, overheard the conversation, and said Michael was staying at the Halcyon, a B&B between downtown and our apartment.

Jumped in my yellow Rabbit, and headed south. The Halcyon didn't have a straightforward front entrance. I knocked on doors, walked around, finally landing at the basement. A man wearing nothing but a towel around his waist peeked out the door. His hair was wild. He looked like a messy, long-haired creature from some B movie. Not the co-founder of Windham that he was.

It was Hedges. Not expecting me, nursing along a bad cold, just moments before, ready to jump in the tub. He excused himself, dressed, and invited me in.

We walked through a foyer or great room, and I believe there were two bedrooms, one on each end. He seemed excited that they'd given him the entire level. We went into the bedroom on the east side of the basement, where there was a twin bed or two. On the floor sat a massive black guitar case and a plastic ring from a juice or milk bottle. The odor was stale, male college dorm.

Hedges excused himself again, blew his nose and apologized. We started the interview. It was the first time I'd used this tape recorder, much less any recorder, during an interview. I had maybe a dozen conversations that could be loosely called interviews behind me. This would be one of my biggest and most important.

I pushed Record, and off we went. I can't recall all that was said, although I'm sure I asked him about his craft, his music, his family. He deeply loved his wife and kids, that much was apparent. I took scant notes, since the recorder was capturing it all for me.

Or so I thought. After I left the Halcyon, drove down Tennessee those few blocks back to our place, punched Play, and nothing. Absolutely nothing. I must have pushed Play instead of Record. In retrospect I should have written down what I recalled... I still have those scant notes. They serve as a reminder never to rely on an electronic device to get a big story. At least I learned that lesson early on in my writing career. I have never forgotten it.

Aside from the faux pas, getting to meet the man and sit in the room where he'd slept while being within a few feet of that giant harp guitar with dual necks was quite amazing.

We went back to the theater that night for the concert. Of course I was still scribbling notes, with much more ferocity than earlier in the day.

And then, when I finished searching for Hedges on the Web today, I remembered... I remembered how he had died in November, only a few months after Rich Mullins, another musician I'd had the privilege of meeting one-on-one for an interview. (More on Mullins later.) Two incredibly talented, individualistic individuals who created music like no others. And the irony of it all... their lives being shortened so drastically. Mullins, dead at 41. Hedges, at 43. Both in car accidents. Neither won the prestigious awards of their crafts. Mullins, a multi-Dove nominee, Hedges, a Grammy nominee.

Sometimes life is just too thick to pick up with a fork. Sometimes you just have to watch it there as it sits on the plate, and shake your head in disbelief.