Edie Brickell's Destiny Denied
I'm not aware of too many things, I know what I know if you know what I mean.
A tale as old as time: photographer boy meets pop star girl, sparks fly, girl meets Paul Simon at the SNL after-party, and boy never sees girl again. Shut up, it is TOO one of Shakespeare’s lost plays. Or at the very least serves as the basis for a sub-plot in Pericles. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
The initials MTV stand for Music Television, something it’s hard to remember thirty some years after they started playing reality shows in lieu of music videos. Back then it was really the only place to see videos. And I happened to be watching one night with some Deadhead friends when a new group called Edie Brickell and New Bohemians came on. Edie was super cute, to be sure, but so was everyone on MTV. No, the thing that struck me and my pals was Kenny Withrow’s guitar solo. Derivative doesn't even begin to cover it; it was like a note for note homage to Jerry Garcia. Ridiculously, delightfully so, to be sure, but undeniably Jerry. Not just Jerry, but Shakedown era Jerry: pretty much a straight rip from the actual song, if not the vibe.
So when I got the assignment to photograph them I figured, correctly, that they were big Deadheads and we’d have that in common. Indeed, like many men seem to do with the common language of sports, I was able to do with the Dead. I’d photographed Jerry, after all. And had excellent anecdotes at the ready: Jerry imitating a tree sloth, Jerry rocking the tweed atop his ubiquitous black t-shirt. We shot in my Fourteenth Street studio, which I worked in for about a year. It had the picturesque Hudson River views from the roof that you see attached. It also contained several different textured walls and nooks for shooting while the rest were hanging out.
The client, and therefore the photographer, wanted Edie, with the New Bohemians a grudging afterthought. Of course, the Bohemians in question and probably Edie herself, were more in a “we’re in a band” frame of mind. They were an affable bunch and didn’t really mind letting Edie be the front woman. I tried to pay attention to them as well, though of course I was fixated on the glamorous lead.
Brickell was a compelling figure, quite young of affect, but comfortable taking the lead if she must. The gestalt was of a girl and her five unruly knuckleheaded brothers. They seemed resigned to sit around strumming my guitar while Edie did her thing and glowed for my camera. And glow she did. We shared an easy rapport as we chatted between rolls. And despite my own long history of what the kids these days call skibiddy rizz, I did sense a connection. No matter how charming the palpably adorable rock ingénue seemed to find me, I knew better than to fall for a touring musician. This was before cellphones, and trying to get together with someone in a band on tour was an endless game of answering machines, missed messages, and phone tag. We shot our final roll, said goodbye, agreed to hang out, exchanged phone numbers (I probably gave them my card) and that was the last time I ever saw them.
Oh, except for a few weeks later, I was in Washington visiting my dad, and happened to notice EB and the NB were slated to play the 9:30 Club that very night. Get out of town. No, seriously, sometimes you have to get out of town. I called my publicist friend in NY and asked if I could get on the list. “Of course, it’s DC,” she replied, “how many Plus 1’s you want to bring?” Well, none, all my friends had moved away by then anyway. But I was delighted to jump on my bike and swing on down to my favorite little local venue.
And it was everything one could wish for. I gingerly plodded downstairs to the shabby-ass green room straight out of Spinal Tap. Wallowing in self doubt, continuously and repeatedly thinking I should just go home, I was stunned to be greeted by a shout of welcome. The publicist was right, it was pretty much just the band and a couple girlfriends. Luckily no boyfriend with Edie, and she seemed genuinely happy to see me. Showtime, and I shlepped up that narrow stairway, peeled off to find a likely spot from which to watch the show. They may have been lacking cronies in the dressing room but an enthusiastic crowd had packed the joint and the band played an amazing show. Beyond that infectious hit, New Bohemians could rock a joint. And they did.
Of course, all I was wondering was when I could get a chance to talk to Edie. Watching an artist captivate a crowd is intensely erotic. Getting to go backstage, invited by said artist is intoxicating. I high fived all the dudes, and left them to their girlfriends. Then fixed my attention on the still-incandescent Edie. I am never happy in tiny little spaces so I was relieved more than anything when she gestured with a head tilt to me to enact an Irish goodbye. Thought to grab a couple/four long-neck Rolling Rocks from the ice chest before following her up that narrow staircase like a puppy.
There was a dissipating crowd of well wishers outside too, of course, but we took shelter in the tour bus. As the door thunked shut we were immediately enveloped in the thick silence of money and deep pile carpet. We both nervously chuckled and clinked our beers and Edie launched into a bus tour, but in the style of a shelter TV show. Gestures at sofa, “And here’s our “lounge” area,” in that soft Texas accent. I’m now afraid of Texans but back then it was just one more adorable thing. Did I mention she was adorable? I was so hard crushing when we got around on the tour to the beds, it’s a wonder I could remember to keep breathing. Each band member had one, they consisted of long coffin-like bunks with a little curtain and a rail so you didn’t fall out. We both blushed and laughed at the same moment as we realized she was basically showing me her bed. At this peak, sexually charged moment, as I had just decided to lean in for a kiss, BAM, the bus door whoshed open and more than a dozen revelrous band mates flowed in like turbulent water, absolutely torpedoing the moment. Bus was departing, apparently Richmond beckoned. But they had just booked a gig in New York, appearing on Saturday Night Live, we could hang out then. I think Edie honestly believed it, as did I as I waved goodbye to Edie and her Bohemians, mounted my steed, and pedaled back to my dad’s.
I watched that appearance on SNL, wondering as I did so when I would hear from Edie. Another guy was watching that night too from right in the studio. And when Paul Simon stepped out from behind that camera and introduced himself, all thoughts of your lovable dreadlocked correspondent went right out the window. It’s all for the best though, ‘cause if I hadn’t been free to fall in love with my lovely and patient wife I might have missed out on all this (gestures around).
It's like the elusive Snow Leopard in that Matthieson book. He doesn't ever see it and that somehow makes it cooler.
Ain't that just the way?