As This Ain’t the Summer of Love just reminded me, today is the anniversary of the death of Joey Ramone. To me, Joey’s death played two roles. On the one hand, as an avid Ramones fan since the 6th Grade, I was crushed to learn that one of my heroes had fallen. On the other, Joey’s passing coincided with me finally convincing the higher-ups at TIME Magazine – where I’d been working since mid-90’s - to let me do some more hands-on reporting (up until that point, I’d been simply a news desk editor with precious little creative input). The sorry event of Joey’s death provided a fitting opportunity for me to contribute.
As it happened, at that morning’s story meeting, the editorial staff sat around discussing how to handle the passing of Joey Ramone. Traditionally, when a public figure died, the magazine sought out a fitting contemporary to compose a eulogy. Several editors jumped right in suggesting “Johnny Rotten,” largely oblivious to the fact that John Lydon has rarely-if-ever expressed a kind word about the Ramones. Moreover, roping the notoriously thorny Lydon into penning a eulogy for a mainstream American news weekly seemed like an unlikely task at best. Buoyed by my boss’ recent show of support for my abilities, I spoke up. “We should get Bono.” For the first time at a story meeting, I suddenly had the floor.
I reasoned that since Bono had been floridly outspoken in the past about the Ramones’ influence on the nascent U2 (however remote their respective sounds might seem), he'd be a great fit, further citing Bono’s tireless penchant for pithy, printable soundbytes and the simple star-power of his name. “Alright, Alex,” the deputy managing editor said, “Make it happen.”
Within seconds, I was back at my desk making phone calls. After slogging it out as an ersatz “freelance music journalist” since 1989, I knew the procedure for petitioning publicists and record labels, but never before had I been calling under the mighty auspices of TIME Magazine. Where before I’d have been put on hold interminably or simply told to call back some other time, I was now plugged right into the matrix. I only had a few days to make this happen before the magazine went to print, and U2 were on tour in Europe in support of their then-new album All That You Can’t Leave Behind. It was going to be a difficult game of tag, but I was determined to make it work.
With my news desk buddies gamely picking up the slack of my normal gig, I spent the next two days attempting to pin down a time with U2’s people for Bono to call me. It was going to be down to the wire. Friday was the only conceivable time. I confirmed with the U2 camp, stalled with my editors and feverishly made sure my tape recorder worked, hoping to God that I didn’t blow this.
After a tense Friday morning, Bono finally called. He rang from a tour bus somewhere in Germany. His voice was hoarse and raspy and he sounded exhausted, but very generous and professional. I politely told him about the spacial limitations and word counts we were working under and suddenly we were off and running. Bono waxed rhapsodic about the profound effect of the Ramones on his life and his music, barely pausing for a moment’s breath. When the connection was momentarily lost, Bono promptly called me back, needlessly apologizing like a mad man. In the end, he gave me a dizzying amount of information (I still have the tape), and kept apologizing and offered to call me back to work on revisions the next day. I thanked him profusely, but told him that the deadline was looming. “Well, I have your number,” he laughed and that was that.
I spent the rest of the day transcribing and managed to submit the piece on time. It hit the stands the following Monday and became my first reporting credit for TIME (though you’d never know it from the online version). I only wish we’d have had more space.
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