GUEST BLOG—By Richard
Pietschmann—www.callmedick.com--When
Gary Shandling died recently, I found myself thinking about his wonderful The
Larry Sanders Show. But then,suddenly, Hey,
didn’t I interview him? popped into my brainpan. I was a busy boy back then
doing the journalism thing, and writing about the famous, semi-famous and
not-quite-yet famous at such a rapid clip that I moved on quickly to the next.
Had I really interviewed Shandling, or was that some celebrity fever dream?
That’s when
I remembered the big plastic box of cassette and micro-cassette interview tapes
that I hadn’t been able to part with. I found the box and pulled off the lid.
Stacks of tapes stared back, more than 100 of them. Would Shandling be in
there? I’d have to burrow in to find out.
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| L.A.-based reporter, entertainment writer and screenwriter Dick Pietschmann and wife, Patti Pietschmann, who is an award-winning writer specializing in world travel. |
Right on top
were cassettes labeled “Ronstadt,” and that set my mind wandering back to a
1980s sit-down with the well-famous singer. It had occurred in the office of
her manager, Peter Asher, which was on Doheny Drive in West Hollywood right
around the corner from The Troubadour, the seminal music club where Linda had
started her climb to renown. I had seen her perform there, barefoot on stage,
several times. In the interview, I remember her telling me that she had moved
to Marin County in Northern California and had a cow there named Luna. She was
dating some governor. Some things you never forget.
Here are other memories from those old tapes:
Here are other memories from those old tapes:
There was
Mil Batten, former New York Stock Exchange chairman. I sat in his huge Wall
Street office in while the amiable West Virginian shared his views on many
subjects. One was the impending breakup of AT&T, intended to erase its
monopoly status and increase competition. Worst idea ever, Batten said. Why?
Because the “Baby Bells” produced by the breakup would inevitably coalesce over
time to form other near-monopolies, he said. That, of course, is exactly what
happened. And one of them is now named AT&T.
I picked up
a cassette labeled Robert Redford and recalled that we had once compared
backgrounds–he wanted to hear about me first before talking about himself–and
found that we had both lived as kids in Los Angeles’s Beverly Glen Canyon. Then
I smiled and remembered that the actor and director had later called me at home
to fill in some gaps in our discussion. My wife Patti picked up the phone
and asked the name of the person calling
for me, and when she heard “Bob” Redford was on the line, the look on her face
was as if she had just heard the word of God. It was a priceless moment.
I met Quincy
Jones for lunch at at a favorite restaurant of his, Wolfgang Puck’s Chinoise in
Santa Monica. The music producer did talk about his projects, including one
with Michael Jackson, but mostly he talked about food.
When
Esa-Pekka Salonen came to California as new music director of the Los Angeles
Philharmonic, I was the first writer to interview the Finnish conductor and
composer. He had barely gotten off the plane from Finland when I picked him up
after a rehearsal at UCLA, and while I drove him to the Music Center in
downtown Los Angeles I thought it would be funny to welcome him to Los Angeles
by playing the Monty Python song honoring his homeland. It begins: Finland,
Finland, Finland; Pony Camping or Trekking; Or just watching TV; Finland,
Finland, Finland; It’s the country where I want to be. He had never heard it. I thought it would be
hilarious. He didn’t agree.
My dubious
inspiration for interviewing blue-eyed soul singer Boz Scaggs was to go on a
saloon crawl with him in San Francisco, where he lived. It devolved into a long
night of hopping between drinking establishments, in one of which we met a
genial biker who told us he had that day changed his name legally to Joe
Dirte’, pronounced Dir-tay. A couple stops later, after an unfortunate
encounter for Joe in the Balboa Cafe, he ended up stuffed rear-first into a
trash can, both legs and arms poking out. That’s where we left Joe, grinning up
at us.
David Geffen
has a fearsome reputation for ruthless business practices, but the billionaire
music and film business entrepreneur has never been anything but cordial to me.
Once we met for a luncheon interview in his Beverly Hills mansion, which he
told me was actually rented from actress Marlo Thomas. His staff served us pork
ribs, I recall, and afterward he promised that he’d always take my call. I’m
keeping that in my back pocket until I need investors for my next can’t-miss
inspiration.
For decades,
Steve Allen was admired as a nonstop creative force in television, publishing
and songwriting. His output was so prodigious it was easy to imagine he had
little need for sleep. But the most surprising thing he told me was that he was
worthless unless he had 10 hours of sleep every night.
Once I went
on a road trip with the Los Angeles Lakers, during which I learned how boring
such multi-city jaunts really were–grinding travel and hotel time punctuated by
a few hours of game, usually every other day. In Atlanta, some players used the
down time to go to a shoe store patronized by many NBA players. I remember
Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and teammate Gail Goodrich sitting on the edge of a baggage
carousel playing chess. During a team shoot-around on a practice court in
Cleveland, I found an unused basket and was throwing up a few awkward baskets
when I felt a presence behind me. When I turned around it was Kareem, staring
down and me and shaking his head sadly.
Robin
Williams always seemed a hyperkinetic whirlwind of energy and quips, as he was
on the set of Mork and Mindy while I watched the show’s taping prior to our
interview afterward. But when I was shown into his trailer later, Robin was
slumped in a chair, exhausted. He was perfectly pleasant, but it seemed
draining for him to simply answer questions, much less crack jokes. His
performances exacted a tremendous toll.
Before I
knew better, I assumed that classical music artists were serious and solemn
even when not playing for an audience. James Galway set me straight about that.
I met the flutist from Northern Ireland on board the long-gone small French
ship Renaissance during a remarkable two-week classical music cruise in the
Caribbean. Galway was one of the solo artists, who also included Daniel
Barenboim, Maurice Andre’ and Gidon Kremer. The entire English Chamber
Orchestra was also on board. From the first lunch at a big round table with
several of the musicians, it was clear that classical artists knew how to kick
back. One night gathered in a cabin and fueled by multiple bottles of good
Champagne, Jimmy, Daniel and a few others grabbed their instruments and engaged
in an impromptu jam session. I never looked at classical music the same way
again.
Before I met
Tom Waits in the seedy West Hollywood motel he called home, I thought the
singer-songwriter-actor’s down-and-out persona was calculated. But I changed my
mind when I entered his disheveled ground-floor apartment, carpeted from wall
to wall in crushed beer cans. Pushed against one wall was the battered upright
piano on which he composed such bleary paeans to drinking and disappointment as
Closing Time and The Heart of Saturday Night. Even that distinctive gravel growl was
authentic. When we went for a late-night drive in his pink Cadillac convertible
many hours later, I understood how wrong I had been.
I didn’t
know it at the time, but English artist David Hockney lived very close to us in
the Hollywood Hills, our mutual canyon immortalized in his Nichols Canyon. It
was close enough that I could walk to my interview with the acclaimed painter
and collage artist. He couldn’t have been more pleasant. He let me into his
house and introduced me to his beloved dachshund Stanley. He showed me his
high-ceiling studio with its north-facing windows and unfinished works
scattered around. We sat next to his backyard pool, its bottom painted in those
trademark squiggles, and talked of California and England, of fame and privacy,
of creative energy and ennui.
Yes, along
with many others, Gary Shandling was there, too. I had interviewed him. But I
can’t tell you a thing about it. Some things you never forget. Others you just
can’t remember.
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