In Bono’s new book, he has a lot of very kind things to say about poet/singer/songwriter Patti Smith. She’s been a major influence on Bono’s life and work, as she has been for so many artists across various disciplines for half a century, but every time I see her name, all I can think about is the day twenty-three years ago when she had the great misfortune of running into me and I messed up everything.
Here’s that anecdote which, like all of my anecdotes, makes me look like an idiot…
One day in 1999, I picked up a copy of The New Yorker in a doctor’s waiting room and read a profile of Texas Governor George W. Bush. The article left me with a few impressions: that Bush was the inevitable Republican nominee for President in 2000, that he would be hard to beat in the general election, that he was not up to the job and that he was a dick.
It painted a picture of a cruel and small-minded man who had captured the hearts of the press by projecting “likeability”, had sown up the wealthy donors by promising to make them wealthier, had locked in the support of christians by talking about Jesus all the time and attracted significant support with latinx voters by claiming to speak Spanish. The notion that George W. Bush was conversant in Spanish was, in the words of Texas journalist Molly Ivins “a minor example of the media’s stupefying lack of skepticism in their reporting about Bush”. Yes, that was frustrating.
Reading that article, it seemed like George W. Bush’s road to the White House was going to be a breezy downhill coast, especially given that the Democrats were almost certain to nominate Al Gore. What was it about poor Al Gore that made him so effortlessly repellent? I have no idea. Maybe Senator Daniel Patrick Moynihan got it right when he said in 2000 “nothing is the matter with Mr. Gore, except that he can’t be elected president.” Yeah, exactly.
Of course Moynihan wasn’t technically right because Gore won the national vote and actually more people voted for him in Florida too it turned out so actually yeah, he was totally wrong and probably shouldn’t have said that. But it sure seemed right when he said it in September of 1999 standing next to former New Jersey Senator Bill Bradley, who was gaining momentum against Al Gore for the Democratic nomination and had just received his highest profile endorsement to date.
I remember deciding, right there and then, that Bill Bradley was the only man who could save us from a George W. Bush presidency, that the fate of the nation rested on Bradley defeating Gore.
The next day, I found out where Bradley’s campaign headquarters were, in an office above Madison Square Garden if memory serves, and presented myself as an eager volunteer. There were only two people there, a young man and an even younger woman, and they looked at me like I was insane. Was I not wearing pants? Was I unknowingly covered in blood? It was that kind of look. I guess this wasn’t the normal way volunteers signed up for a campaign? But it also seemed like maybe I was the first person who had ever volunteered for the Bradley campaign, because these two staffers had no idea what to tell me to do. They finally got me to leave by handing me a stack of voter registration forms and telling me that if I wanted to, I could show up at a speech the Senator was giving that week and introduce myself to another staffer who could put me to work. That sounded great. My career in politics had begun!
After several days of failing, and mostly forgetting, to register any voters, I showed up at a ballroom near Lincoln Center for Senator Bradley’s speech. The man in charge of the event exuded big Ivy League Democrat energy. In tan jeans, a tie with no jacket and rolled up sleeves, he was ready to join Jack and Bobby for a game of touch football on Hyannis Port at any moment. But first he had to find something for me to do.
The ballroom had a main entrance where most of the staffers and volunteers would be stationed to greet people, but there was also a side entrance, and Hyannisport walked me over there. He told me to stand guard over a set of propped open double doors. I was not to allow anyone to walk through them until he personally came over and told me that I could. Easy enough, I thought, as I quietly wrestled, yet again, with the feeling of being unwanted by the Bradley campaign. Why was I shuffled off, all by myself, to this side entrance? Again, was I not wearing pants?! (I definitely was)
Soon enough event-goers began to head my way. I made eye contact and said things like “they’re not letting people in yet, sorry” and the even less authoritative “I’m not supposed to let anyone in here until they tell me to, so…” followed by a shrug. Some people chose to stand awkwardly near me waiting to be allowed in, others wandered off, probably to try their luck at the main entrance. Some peeked into the ballroom through the open doors and, noticing some activity in there, either protested – “there are people in there”, to which I repeated my directive, or they shot me a look and left.
But then there were some people who simply breezed right past me and in through the doors, tossing a fig leaf of an excuse over their shoulders as they went. A few of them said “I’m a journalist!” Well, so what? Hyannisport didn’t tell me “don’t let anyone in here unless they say they’re a journalist”. But what was I supposed to do? I don’t know, but I do know what I did. I meekly shrugged or rolled my eyes or tried in vain to slow them with a “welllll…” as they walked by.
I distinctly remember then very corpulent Manhattan Congressman Gerald Nadler walking toward me smartly dressed and arm in arm with an attractive blond woman and looking like a 1920s political cartoon about graft. When I told him they weren’t letting people in yet, he said, with a tone of mild pity for how dumb I was “I’m an elected official”. He and his companion did not seem to notice my withering smirk as they passed me.
The general level of activitity around me had been steadily escalating since I took up my lonely post by the side door and it seemed to me like Hyannis Port would be along any second now to give me the go-ahead to start letting people in (without having to smirk at them as they entered). But there was no sign of him yet.
As I continued to wait, a woman dressed all in black with long grey hair and a guitar case on her back walked up. This was a noteworthy sight. No one else had brought a guitar. But rules are rules, instrument or no. “They’re not letting people in yet” I said and she responded “oh okay” and stood there with me.
After an awkward moment of silence, I chimed in to explain “they told me not to let anyone in until they give me the go-ahead, so…”. She nodded politely, but also peered into the ballroom where the number of people had grown. I shrugged and smiled as if to say ‘yeah, I know, it’s weird, there are people in there but this is what they told me to do, oh well’ and she smiled back.
We stood there awkwardly together as more people approached and heard my “they’re not letting people in yet” line, which I was now tossing off with more confidence. Some people walked away, others joined me and the guitarist. When a man juggling multiple cameras stormed past us – “I’m a journalist!” – I shook my head at the guitarist and the others waiting with us – ‘some people, huh?’ – but I didn’t get back the kind of amused agreement I was looking for. These people wanted in and now understood that the rules were fuzzy. The moment felt odd. And the energy around us was clearly building, like an event that was definitely about the get started. It was weird that Hyannis Port hadn’t come by to let me open the side entrance. But he hadn’t, and I had my instructions.
Of the handful of compliant people who had gethered with me, some now stomped off in frustration, others just walked brazenly through the door, like a driver who has waited long enough at an unchanging red light. But the guitarist stayed with me. Eventually, she broke our awkward silence to say “Um, I’m supposed to perform in there before the speech actually. They were expecting me a little while ago”. I wasn’t quite sure this was true. Why would Senator Bradley want this hippie lady to give any sort of performance before his speech in this lovely ballroom? It seemed unlikely. Perhaps she was confused, but either way, this was a matter for Hyannis Port to sort out and he would be along any second.
I explained that to the guitarist and there we stood she and I, staring off into space, shuffling our feet, me smiling placidly, her looking confused and helpless and slightly annoyed. And that’s when we heard, from inside the ballroom, an amplified voice, with an enthusiastic “good afternoon ladies and gentlemen!”. This was followed by a surprisingly loud round of applause and hoots and hollers from a BIG crowd. It sounded like hundreds of people.
The guitarist suddenly looked at me with surprise and alarm. The event had started!
As the amplified voice continued on with crowd energizing opening remarks, I gave the guitarist one final shrug and then held my hand out toward the door as if to say ‘please, be my guest’. She let out a sigh and, with shoulders slumped in defeat, walked into the room. If, in fact, as she’d claimed, she was supposed to perform before the event, she had missed her chance. Oh well. I followed her in, my work for the day completed!
I don’t know why Hyannis Port never came back to tell me I could start letting people in the side entrance. Maybe he forgot. Or maybe he noticed the steady stream of people walking past me and into the room and decided it wasn’t necessary to tell me anything. I don’t know, but one thing I did find out that day is that Bill Bradley was the most boring an uninspiring public speaker in the history of discourse. He really could have used some kind of pre-speech performance to get a little energy in that room.
And of course, I would later learn that the guitarist was Patti Smith and that, were it not for my ineptitude and her patience and surprising respect for arbitrary rules, she would have performed her song “The People Have The Power”, which Bill Bradley had been using as a campaign anthem.
So I fucked that up.
A few years ago, I had the opportunity to tell Patti Smith’s manager that story and he said it was perfectly consistent with her general decency as a person. I asked him to apologize to her for me and he said “no need, no need”, but I really wish someone would.
