What I miss most about working in a newsroom

What I miss most about working in a newsroom
                        

For more than 40 years, I’ve made my living writing for newspapers, and as in every other profession, there are two kinds of workers: one that cares and one that doesn’t.

Oh, there are gradations of caring and exceptions to that rule, but to me it’s just that simple.

You’re either willing to go above and beyond, or well, you just show up and do the minimum.

I don’t know what it’s like being part of that second class because I’ve always wanted — no, needed — to be in the upper echelon. Part of it is that I was raised to excel, and though I’ve had my share of failures, it wasn’t because I didn’t aim high and fly toward the sun.

But then again, you know what happened to Icarus.

A newsroom is a fantastic place to work, but it’s not for everyone. If you’re not willing to try something you’ve never done and tend to hide behind a wall of excuses, you’re not going to make it.

It’s a meritocracy without mercy.

This is why, I suspect, I miss it so much, the daily not knowing what’s next.

When I wrote sports, I covered country music shows.

When I wrote entertainment, I covered the highway patrol.

When I wrote news, I covered high school football.

The key was always saying yes to something new.

Anyone can say no; in fact most people do just that. It would never occur to them to step the least little bit out of their comfort zone and take a chance.

Newsrooms are — or should I say “were” — places of high-voltage pressure, a tightrope waiting to be walked, the next best thing to asking a pretty, smart, kind girl to the prom.

This is where I must confess to being a coward.

For reasons I’ve detailed in this space many times, that nonoptional high school experience was just a bridge too far for me.

It wasn’t that I lacked nerve, though I’ll admit to falling on the short side of the cocky/confident divide, preferring to emulate James Dean as opposed to, say, Marlon Brando.

Or to put it in a musical context, I was more a Jackson Browne guy as opposed to a James Brown player.

And that brings us to the Hooters and Earth Day 1988.

Not much was going on in the newsroom that spring afternoon. I was eating a meatloaf sandwich at my desk, scanning the wire for the latest on the presidential primaries, never giving much hope that Democrats might take the White House for the first time since Jimmy Carter won in 1976, the country reeling from Watergate.

“Hey, Mike,” my editor said. “You know the Hooters, right?”

“Sure,” I said. “Big debut album in ’85, huge hit with ‘And We Danced,’ from the Philly Main Line … Ardmore, I think. Why?”

“They’re going to be playing at the college,” he said, “some kind of Earth Day concert.”

“Cool,” I said. “You want me to cover it?”

“Actually,” he said, handing me a slip of paper, “I’d like you to interview this guy. You probably know the name.”

And I did.

Eric Bazilian was the Eric Scholz of the Hooters, having founded the band, written most of their songs and, in addition to being the lead singer, contributed to the sound any way he could, playing guitar, bass, mandolin and sax.

True, they were no Boston when it came to sales, popularity and critical acclaim, but the Hooters were a pretty accomplished group.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’ll call him now.”

“He’s expecting you,” my editor said, heading back across the newsroom. “I sort of figured you’d say yes.”

Speaking of yes, in years to come I’d sit down with Alan White for an impromptu interview with the band’s drummer, which was an amazing interlude. He was a true British gentleman, and I remember listening as he described a small stream that ran right through the middle of his home in the English countryside.

I’d also had the chance to talk with Joseph Shabalala, leader of Ladysmith Black Mambazo, right around the time South Africa was exorcising the demons of apartheid.

Plus I’d had a one-on-one with Crystal Gayle, which was heavenly.

So I knew a thing or two about interviewing musicians.

Eric Bazilian couldn’t have been nicer or more courteous as he listened to my questions and gave thoughtful answers, though I could hear the smile in his voice when I asked him about the band’s name and how some people interpreted the word “hooters.”

“Yeah,” he said, “I get that a lot. But it’s not about a woman’s, um, bosom. A hooter is an instrument, kind of like a harmonica, a kazoo and an accordion all smashed together.”

“Your signature sound,” I said.

“Exactly,” he said. “You know our stuff.”

As we neared the end of our chat, I figured I’d lob a softball question his way, figuring he’d knock it out of the park.

“So,” I asked, “about this Earth Day concert. You guys must be into the whole ecology thing, saving the planet, all that.”

There was a long pause.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said.

To Eric Bazilian, the April 20 show at the college was just another gig, a stop on a tour of small towns and had nothing to do with Earth Day. Could have been Mother’s Day for all he cared.

That’s what I miss most about working in a newsroom.

You never knew what was coming, but you could be sure if you were brave enough to meet whatever challenge awaited, you’d feel better about yourself than when you woke up that morning.


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