Today was the strangest day. Literally the strangest day. I had set up a phone interview with one of my musical heroes, the incomparable wolfman that is Jon Spencer. I’d met him once before at a Heavy Trash show, and by my own account and several others he is one hell of a nice man. But this time I had to interview him. We had to talk about him. What could I ask him that hadn’t already been asked? Could I turn it into more of a conversation resulting in loose, personable quotes? And how do I do it all while not flipping my lid? This is the man, after all, whose music helped guide me through some of my worst times growing up. His work has never failed to remind me that even in my darkest spots I’m still breathing, my blood is still pumping, and that the life-affirming power of rock and roll is epic. He’s like a fucking shaman, a witch doctor with a brew so potent and downright nasty that it must be good for you. And I was not confident that I would be able to talk to him without spilling my guts about my sentimentality regarding his fierce badassery. I was going to have to rein myself in, because it could easily turn into a weepy gush fest. His music has meant that much to me. And I spent all day agonizing over how it would go.

So, how did it go?

Fine. It went fine. We talked for half an hour about various things. He was disarmingly polite. I choked a couple times and blamed it on allergies. But he’s a wordy guy. I could tell early on that I wouldn’t have a problem with quoting him. He said some lovely things about music and art and what it means to him, which I would much rather have than a recounting of the recent reissuing process. But still I was so wrapped up in how not to make an ass of myself that sometimes I couldn’t pay much attention to what he was saying, ie. hard to ask follow ups. I suppose this is why I rarely ask to interview the people to whom I actually have an emotional attachment. (This is why I asked to interview Sara Romweber two years ago instead of her killer baby bro, Dex. Worked beautifully.) It’s just hard. It’s really hard. And I hope he didn’t come away from the experience feeling like he just wasted 30 minutes of his life, pissed that he can’t have it back.

You know what? He’s probably already forgotten it. But my star struck neuroses will always remember it.

And no, I did not mention that I am Jennifer Biscotti, or whatever it was they were calling me.