The rock critic had just vomited all over his bed. It was 3:04 a.m. 1986 in New York City and the scribe had come off a three-day benderpalooza of self-prescribed medicines for the wounds of a break-up with a prevaricating witch. He hated his job, he hated his life – and more importantly – he hated rock 'n' roll.
As he gathered the soggy bed sheets to throw out the window, the 24-hour television set broadcast that voice. He turned and saw this dame for the first time and recognized the cry of a street angel whose epic vocal power contained human history, the strength of steel, and the vulnerability of someone insisting on freedom when she knows damn well she might not get it.
He dropped the sheets short of their eleven-story descent and sat at the edge of the bed to watch the tube. There she was – someone named Johnette Napolitano from some L.A. band called Concrete Blonde. She was beautiful and whip smart and had confidence and poise and wit. Again, there was that voice. ''Mmmph. Hope for rock 'n' roll after all,'' he muttered, knowing full well he was talking about his own sorry ass.
Twenty-seven years later Johnette Napolitano is talking to the rock critic on the phone from her home in Joshua Tree, California. He wants to know about that voice. ''When I was in junior high school and started goin' to parties, I wasn't the most socially graceful creature at all. So I'd take my guitar around and the one thing I know is that whenever I'd start singing, everyone would shut up and listen.''
Shut up and listen. Shut up and listen. And so they did.
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- $25-$160
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