If you ever worry about your digital footprint, things you wish you’d never said that live on and on in the multiverse of the internet, maybe you shouldn’t. Hell, I’ve written scores of articles that have flat disappeared.
Sometimes it’s a relief. I once did a hybrid review-profile of Loudon Wainwright III that referred to his onstage mention of one of his children, when in fact he was talking about his dog.
You better believe he let me know about it later, but in a friendly one-on-one email. No fatuous correction was demanded. Maybe only because he was surprised to find that, otherwise, the write-up was “a good one,” as he put it.
I’d quote more from that email, but it disappeared from my account.
Aside from attending a show at the Stephen Talkhouse, the article first involved a phoner, and he was so unpleasant I rang off after just 15 minutes. I remember an oblique reference to what a sad life I must have. Point taken, but as he was obviously talking to a fan, I took exception. Or was that in fact the problem?
Today I’d say Wainwright is a contrarian. At the time I thought he was what they call on the sets of Hollywood a “prick mother.” But then my older brother, a teamster in the TV and movie biz in the Pacific Northwest, informed me that what I’d encountered was a “performer’s personality.” You know, when you alone are the show, there are certain expectations of others. Don’t take it personally.
Speaking of the Northwest, in 2000 I was living outside Bellingham, Wash., and that’s where I first saw Loudon Wainwright play. He really is an East Coast guy, he just doesn’t have the same following out there, so when he walked onstage and saw the small audience, his shoulders noticeably slumped. He recovered enough to note with some pleasure a bottle placed on a stool for his enjoyment. “Ah, a local brew,” he said, hoisting it to examine the label.
I’m not going to belabor it, but at this point the guy may be our best living lyricist. When it comes to stories of family life? The passing of generations? Or for that matter humor? It’s not even close.
And now I see he’s returning to the Talkhouse. Hey, mofo, you know what? I’ll be there.