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Mirrored from the latest entry in Daron's Guitar Chronicles.
When I returned to Boston it was definitely winter, not fall, anymore. Christian handed me the cassette tape from the answering machine. “There’s a ton of calls on here,” he said. “I had to put another tape in the machine.”
I sat in my room with the phone, returning most of them the first day I was back. I sat on the floor with a notebook for writing down people’s numbers, and played the messages back on my Walkman. Landlord, telemarketers… one was from Carynne with her new number saying congrats on the Spin cover and if we needed a road manager to call her. Hmm. Two from Patty Marshfield at BNC, but she didn’t say about what. One call from a local promoter about a Christmas fundraising show. Two from a local radio station about the same show. A couple from miscellaneous club bookers asking me to call them. One from the asshole music publisher we’d blown off long ago who didn’t seem to grasp from the article that we didn’t need his services. Some from random publications looking for press kits who should have known to call BNC, not me. Two New York booking agencies. And an inordinately large number of hang-ups. Serial killers? Wrong numbers? Fans? It seemed an awful lot of people had seen the article and wanted on to the bandwagon.
The first person I called was Ziggy. He wasn’t home. I left a message on his machine that we were picking up rehearsing tomorrow afternoon.