I took a deep breath and dialed the number. After a few clicks and crackles in the silence, the other end started ringing.
“Hello, Creem Magazine, Maureen speaking,” a woman’s crisp voice answered.
Holy Toledo.
I swallowed hard.
The woman repeated herself. “Hello? Is anyone there?”
I heard some clattering in the background and a few people laughing. If I didn’t say something soon, she was going to hang up.
“Yes,” I said quickly. “Um, yes, hi. Hi…Maureen? This is Dawn Emerson. I got a message from you last night, I think?”
There was a pause then she laughed. “Oh, sorry could you repeat yourself again? Dawn, you said?”
“Yes, Dawn Emerson.”
“Of course! Dawn. Sorry, I’m dealing with a few hacks here blowing smoke in my face.” She gave a little cough. I had to wonder what the hell was going on at Creem Magazine. Maybe they really were a bunch of hooligans like they painted themselves.
A bunch of hooligans who called me.
“Anyhow, Dawn do you mind holding? I’m just going to patch you through to Barry, mmkay?”
Before I could say otherwise, the line went silent. Barry. Barry Kramer, the pusher of rock and roll on America’s impressionable minds. The founder of hooligan central. The man I’d always hoped would be my future boss, who’d have me sharing a house with the likes of Lester Bangs and Lisa Robinson. See, that’s why I dug Barry. He put women like Lisa, Jann U, and Patti Smith to work for him. He didn’t subscribe to the Big Ears bullshit that women didn’t know rock from Adam.
The wait was agonizing. I started to fear it was a prank after all. Maybe Todd or some jerk got Creem to call me for kicks. Maybe Maureen had actually hung up on me. Maybe they were all laughing at me while I waited, sweating in the kitchen, reeking like stale cigarettes and yesterday’s ride.
Before I chewed off all of my split ends, there was a crackle on the other line and I straightened up, heart thumping.
“Hello, is this Dawn Emerson?”
“Yes,” I said pathetically, in a voice barely above a whisper. “This is she.”
“Dawn, this is Barry Kramer. I’m the editor at Creem Magazine.”
“I know.”
“Good,” he said. His voice was smooth and youthful, not as intimidating as I had imagined. “I figured you would. Listen, Dawn, we’ve had something rather unusual fall into our lap and it involves you personally.”
“I’m listening,” I told him, wondering what the hell he was talking about. How could anything involve me? The mystery was warping my brain.
He cleared his throat. “First of all, I wanted to say I’ve read your work and I really dig it. You show great potential and all that kind of stuff. Your live review of Bad Company was engaging to say the least. I got some copies of your school’s paper and the interviews are far-out. How did you manage to get Moe from Khaki Toast?”
“I ambushed him after a show,” I told him. I didn’t add the part where I bribed a roadie with ten bucks to let me backstage. I may not flash my boobs at rock stars, but I’m not above a little bribery. I had always thought it was too bad that the interview was wasted on such a small paper, but if Barry had seen it…well, this changed everything. My heart swirled at the thought of my idols actually reading my writing all this time.
“Well done,” he said. “I like a woman with balls. And I hope you have big enough ones for what I’m about to ask of you.”
He paused. My mind reeled.
“The reason I’ve read your pieces is because you were brought to my attention by Jacob Edwards. Have you heard of him?”
The name was familiar but I couldn’t place it.
“It doesn’t matter. He’s the manager of Hybrid and I know you’ve heard of them. I read your glowing review of Molten Universe and your little ditty on the evolution of their sound. Pretty insightful stuff, especially for a band that’s just coming into their own. We think they’re ahead of their time and so do you. And so does Edwards. He wants you to write for us, joining Hybrid on the road for a few weeks next month.”
“Come again?” He didn’t, couldn’t, have just said what I thought he said.
He laughed appreciatively. “Hey, it was a surprise to us too. From what I understand, Edwards caught wind of your work, loved what you said about the band, and he thinks a female voice would help win over the female fans. Hybrid is too aggressive for a lot of rock chicks, even though they have Noelle in the band, and that whole Graham and devil worshiping rumor definitely hasn’t helped. I mean, it works for Led Zeppelin, but as hard as these guys try, they aren’t Led Zeppelin.”
That was actually a line from my review: People keep trying to make comparisons between Hybrid and Led Zeppelin. I say, let the comparisons stop with their third album, Molten Universe. They aren’t Led Zeppelin. This album showcases a unique brand of metal, more grinding, thunderous and—gasp—sexual than the English rockers. In this case, Hybrid is heavier than lead.
It wasn’t groundbreaking writing but it obviously struck a chord with someone. I just didn’t think it would be with the actual band themselves.
And suddenly this was all too good to be true.
“Dawn? Are you there?”
“Yeah,” I said warily. “I’m here. I’m just…are you sure you have the right Dawn?”
“Do you think I have the right Dawn?”
Good question. If I could eventually get over what was actually being asked of me, if I could pretend this was all real, I had to wonder if I was strong enough—good enough—to actually take this on. Writing for Creem Magazine? Going on the road with an actual f**king rock band? And a band I actually loved, a band who was slowly joining the ranks of Black Sabbath, Led Zeppelin, and Hendrix in the shrine of my heart?
I couldn’t afford to doubt myself.
I had to be made for this.
I pushed uptight, worrywart Dawn somewhere in the back of my mind and said to Barry, “Yes. You definitely have the right Dawn.”
“That’s what I thought.” He didn’t sound as relieved as I would have thought. I guess this was a story he could either take or leave. “Obviously, we’ll be paying you too for the story, if that helps. But the expenses for the hotels on the road and your food and all that stuff, that will be taken care of by Elektra, their record label. We’d probably want to run this story in the October issue, you know to take on a spooky slant or something like that, which means you’ll have to turn over your copy at the end of August, beginning of September at the latest. You’re green, so I expect we’re going to have a lot of editing and fact-checking to do over here. Also, this is just a one-off thing. We don’t know if you’re the next Cameron Crowe or not, and we’re not about to make any commitments beyond this story.”