When I Grow up

Juliana Hatfield

Description

By the early nineties, singer-songwriter and former Blake Babies member Juliana Hatfield’s solo career was taking off: She was on the cover of Spin and Sassy. Ben Stiller directed the video for her song "Spin the Bottle" from the Reality Bites film soundtrack. Then, after canceling a European tour to treat severe depression and failing to produce another "hit," she spent a decade releasing well reviewed albums on indie labels and performing in ever-smaller clubs. A few years ago, she found herself reading the New Yorker on a filthy couch in the tiny dressing room of a punk club and asked, "Why am I still doing this?" By turns wryly funny and woundingly sincere, When I Grow Up takes you behind the scenes of rock life as Hatfield recounts her best and worst days, the origins of her songs, the source of her woes, and her quest to find a new purpose in life.
Chapter 1: August 1: Hoboken.

Chapter 2: Vision.

Chapter 3: August 2: Philadelphia.

Chapter 4: In the Woodshed.

Chapter 5: August 3: New York City.

Chapter 6: Angel Girl.

Chapter 7: August 4: North Bergen to Boston.

Chapter 8: The Interview Interview.

Chapter 9: August 5: Cambridge.

Chapter 10: Sassy.

Chapter 11: August 7: Cleveland.

Chapter 12: Big Money.

Chapter 13: August 8: Columbus.

Chapter 14: The Story of "My Sister".

Chapter 15: August 9: Indianapolis.

Chapter 16: Cool Rock Boys.

Chapter 17: August 10: Chicago.

Chapter 18: Guns and Roses and Me.

Chapter 19: August 11: Iowa City.

Chapter 20: My Idol.

Chapter 21: August 12: Minneapolis.

Chapter 22: The Harpsichord.

Chapter 23: August 13: Minneapolis to Kearney.

Chapter 24: Hair and Makeup.

Chapter 25. August 14: Denver.

Chapter 26. August 15: Denver to Wendover.

Chapter 27. Jeff Buckley.

Chapter 28. August 16: Wendover to San Francisco.

Chapter 29. August 17: San Francisco.

Chapter 30. The Telecommunications Act of 1996.

Chapter 31. August 18: San Francisco to Los Angeles.

Chapter 32. August 19: L.A.

Chapter 33. Demons.

Chapter 34. August 20: San Diego.

Chapter 35. Windows.

Chapter 36. August 21: Tucson.

Chapter 37. Begging to Be Dropped.

Chapter 38. August 22: Albuquerque.

Chapter 39. August 23: Albuquerque to Oklahoma City.

Chapter 40. August 24: Lawrence.

Chapter 41. Hunger.

Chapter 42. August 25: St. Louis.

Chapter 43. The Last Leg.

Chapter 44. The Year of No Music.

Chapter 45. How to Walk Away.

Epilogue.

Sujets

• Styles
• Genres
• Años 1990
• Blake Babies
• 1990s in music
• Juliana Hatfield
• 1990s
• Rock
• Music

Informations

• Publié par: Turner Publishing Company
• Date de parution: 03 novembre 2008
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9780470443347
• Langue: English

Extrait

Table of Contents
 
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
Prologue
 
Chapter 1 - August 1 Hoboken
Chapter 2 - Vision
Chapter 3 - August 2 Philadelphia
Chapter 4 - In the Woodshed
Chapter 5 - August 3 New York City
Chapter 6 - Angel Girl
Chapter 7 - August 4 North Bergen to Boston
Chapter 8 - The Interview Interview
Chapter 9 - August 5 Cambridge
Chapter 10 - Sassy
Chapter 11 - August 7 Cleveland
Chapter 12 - Big Money
Chapter 13 - August 8 Columbus
Chapter 14 - The Story of “My Sister”
Chapter 15 - August 9 Indianapolis
Chapter 16 - Cool Rock Boys
Chapter 17 - August 10 Chicago
Chapter 18 - Guns N’ Roses and Me
Chapter 19 - August 11 Iowa City
Chapter 20 - My Idol
Chapter 21 - August 12 Minneapolis
Chapter 22 - The Harpsichord
Chapter 23 - August 13 Minneapolis to Kearney
Chapter 24 - Hair and Makeup
Chapter 25 - August 14 Denver
Chapter 26 - August 15 Denver to Wendover
Chapter 27 - Jeff Buckley
Chapter 28 - August 16 Wendover to San Francisco
Chapter 29 - August 17 San Francisco
Chapter 30 - The Telecommunications Act of 1996
Chapter 31 - August 18 San Francisco to Los Angeles
Chapter 32 - August 19 L.A.
Chapter 33 - Demons
Chapter 34 - August 20 San Diego
Chapter 35 - Windows
Chapter 36 - August 21 Tucson
Chapter 37 - Begging to Be Dropped
Chapter 38 - August 22 Albuquerque
Chapter 39 - August 23 Albuquerque to Oklahoma City
Chapter 40 - August 24 Lawrence
Chapter 41 - Hunger
Chapter 42 - August 25 St. Louis
Chapter 43 - The Last Leg
Chapter 44 - The Year of No Music
Chapter 45 - How to Walk Away
 
Epilogue

Copyright © 2008 by Juliana Hatfield. All rights reserved
Published by John Wiley & Sons, Inc., Hoboken, New Jersey Published simultaneously in Canada
The names of some characters and locations have been changed.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without either the prior written permission of the Publisher, or authorization through payment of the appropriate per-copy fee to the Copyright Clearance Center, 222 Rosewood Drive, Danvers, MA 01923, [phone], fax [phone], or on the web at www.copyright.com . Requests to the Publisher for permission should be addressed to the Permissions Department, John Wiley & Sons, Inc., 111 River Street, Hoboken, NJ 07030, [phone], fax [phone], or online at www.wiley.com/go/permissions .
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:
Hatfield, Juliana. When I grow up : a memoir / Juliana Hatfield. p. cm.
eISBN : 978-0-470-44334-7
1. Hatfield, Juliana. 2. Singers—United States—Biography. 3. Guitarists— United States—Biography. I. Title. ML420.H19 [A3 2008] 782.42164092—dc22 [B] 2008027940
Acknowledgments
Thank you: Jeff Kellogg at Pavilion Literary Management, Eric Nelson at Wiley, Grub Street, Gary Smith, Tom Johnston, Bobbie Gale, Jennifer Trynin, and Dinny Roberts, without whose encouragement and counsel this book might not have been written.
Prologue
Some club owners and promoters opt to give the band drink tickets, good for complimentary beverages at the bar, instead of setting up a spread backstage. A long strip of those little generic “admit one” tear-off tickets is given to the tour manager, who then distributes them to his charges. Usually we’d get about four tickets each, which was normally enough. I’d only need one of mine—one drink per night was generally all I ever had—and I’d give the rest to the others, and everyone was happy. And if one of them ran out of tickets before the night was over, before he was done drinking, he could always find a girl to buy him a drink. (People always want to buy drinks for the band.)
The dressing rooms in these small rock clubs are often unwelcoming and unpleasant. The drink tickets make sense because bands would rather be out in the club hanging out at the bar, mingling with the people, watching the opening act. The tickets are better for the club, too, than schlepping a big cooler with ice, and a bunch of beers, sodas, and waters into the dressing room.
An up-and-coming band commands bigger guarantees, and the rider is nonnegotiable. They get the bottles and the ice backstage, no discussion. But when you’re in my position, you go along with the drink ticket compromise. And you try to be grateful that you are being given anything at all, for free. You can usually find what you want at the bar.
On one particular night, on a headlining solo tour in 2004—no band, no crew; just me with one guitar and one little Fender Champ amp—I had just finished my soundcheck and was looking forward to relaxing in the basement dressing room, reading the New Yorker in the quiet before the doors opened and the people came, and the house music system was turned up really loud, and started pounding on the walls of the dressing room.
After I’d settled down on the the dirty, beer-scented, cigarette-burnt couch and tucked my feet under me Indian-style, Ike, the big bald bouncer and club owner’s right-hand guy, walked in. He’d been assigned drink ticket distribution duty. He ripped off four from the ticket roll in his hand, handed them to me, and said, “These are good for well drinks and beer at the bar.” (“Well liquor” is the cheap, generic stuff clubs use when you order a mixed drink without specifying a brand of liquor.)
I said, “Okay. But how about if I want to get, say, a shot of good tequila? Will two tickets get me that?”
Ike looked at me skeptically and said, “Well, tell me exactly what you want and maybe I can work something out, but these tickets here are just for well alcohol and beer. But, like I said, I can probably arrange it beforehand with the bartender and the owner if you want something else.”
It was still early and I didn’t know exactly what I was going to want to drink, if anything, later in the night. So I said to Ike, “Forget it. Never mind. Thanks.”
I didn’t want to get into an argument with Ike. He was quite tall and muscular. Mean-looking. He obviously considered this drink ticket business a very serious matter. I didn’t. In monetary terms, the difference between one performer having one good free drink and not having any drink was negligible. Either way, the night’s bar take would be pretty much the same.
Did they think I would try to deplete their inventory of expensive tequila? Did I look like a lush, sitting quietly, reading my New Yorker ? Did they think that if they let me have that one shot, it would be like opening the floodgates? That I would think, “Hey, I figured out a way to scam these suckers into giving me top-shelf liquor with the drink tickets! I’m going to run to the bar and drink them into bankruptcy!”
About an hour and a half later, I decided I wanted a shot of Patrón. I went to the bar, money in hand, fully prepared to pay for it. Otherwise it was much too complicated. (Prearrange it with the owner, the bartender, and the bouncer, and still only the promise of “maybe”? Were they kidding me?)
The handsome young blond bartender poured me a shot. The bar was empty, except for the bar staff, since the doors hadn’t opened yet. I had my wad of cash in my hand and said to the bartender, “How much?”
He said, “You’re playing, right? It’s on the house,” and he smiled.
I said, “You sure?”
He said, “Yeah.” (“Ah, how nice,” I thought. “A sensible human being.”)
So I said thanks, tipped him two dollars, and went back to the dressing room to sip my shot in peace.
About two minutes later, Mark, the owner of the club, walked in, looked disapprovingly at my shot glass sitting innocently on the low table in front of me, and started to explain to me how the drink tickets were supposed to work. It was the exact same spiel Ike had given me: “I just wanted to let you know that the drink tickets are good for just well liq—”
“Yeah,” I interrupted. “I know. Ike told me. But I wanted a shot of Patrón.”
Was Mark spying on me? Did someone rat me out? How did Mark even know I’d gotten a drink? I hadn’t seen him in the bar area.
“Well,” Mark continued, “these tickets don’t get you Patrón.”
“Well, I wanted to pay for it. I really did.”
“ Believe me,” I thought, “I really wanted to avoid this. I didn’t want you coming after me to lecture me and scold me like I was a misbehaving eight-year-old. It’s not my fault the bartender wouldn’t take my money. Not my fault the bartender was just being cool.”
Then Mark said, accusingly, almost hatefully, “Yeah, the bartender’s cute, huh?”
Mark seemed to be implying that since the bartender was