I'm Lindsay Ferrier, a Nashville writer with a passion for family travel, exploring Tennessee, and raising kids without losing my mind in the process. This is where I share my discoveries, along with occasional deep thoughts, pop culture tangents and a sprinkling of snark. Want to get in touch? Use the CONTACT form at the top of the page.
May 8, 2014
I was 21 years old and had just been hired out of college as a TV news reporter at a station in Columbia, South Carolina. I’d be shooting, writing, and editing my own stories– or at least, that’s what the news director told me when I accepted the job.
When I arrived for my first day of work, I discovered that the news director had only managed to get me on the payroll by telling everyone else that I was a new photographer– something the station definitely needed, since there already were seven reporters on staff and only one photographer to share between them. In retrospect, I feel sort of bad for my boss- I think he only hired me because I had worn him down with a months-long barrage of phone calls, e-mails, and resume tapes. Perhaps due in part to his questionable hiring skills, he was fired two weeks after I arrived. That afternoon, the assignment editor called me into my former boss’s office.
“You can stay if you want,” he sighed, “but only as a photographer. We don’t need any more reporters.”
This news was devastating. I had moved four hours from home, signed a year-long lease on an apartment I could barely afford, and spent a sizable chunk of my meager savings on a television-worthy wardrobe. The cameras and tripods and lighting kits back then were massive and heavy, and I would be expected to carry all that gear around in 100 degree weather each day, shooting stories for other people. It was a most exquisite form of torture.
Things were very bad indeed, but I resolved to do the best I could and wait for an opportunity to convince them that I deserved to be in front of the camera, instead of behind it. That opportunity came a few weeks later when the reporter for the 11pm show called in sick. None of the other reporters were available to fill in.
“If you want to work a double, you can do a story for the 11 tonight,” the producer told me. She looked dubious.
“Of course I’ll work a double!” I said eagerly.
“Okay,” she said. “There’s a Crosby, Stills and Nash concert tonight at the municipal auditorium. Go cover it. I’ll send Arnold with you to shoot it.”
I practically ran out the door to the news van. Arnold followed wearily behind me.
“What’s your plan?” he asked once we were in the car.
“My plan is to go to the municipal auditorium and see what there is to see,” I said airily. This was my big break and I was determined to somehow make it memorable.
Nowadays, if I were put on a last-minute story I’d check the Internet on the way there and pull up relevant background information. But this was 1997– and smartphones didn’t exist. I had heard of Crosby, Stills and Nash, of course– I knew that they they’d had some hits before I was born. But I had no idea what those hits were.
What I did know was that I was going to do whatever it took to blow this story right out of the water. My career depended on it.
We arrived at the auditorium two hours before the show was set to begin. Our news van was emblazoned with the station’s call letters and we had no trouble gaining admittance into the section of parking lot reserved for crew and equipment. No one was around, but I did see a large tour bus near the back entrance.
“Bingo,” I said softly. “Park here, Arnold.”
I grabbed my reporter’s notebook and pen and headed for the bus. “What the heck are you doing?” Arnold asked, trailing behind me.
“I’m going straight to the source,” I told him over my shoulder. I rapped smartly on the door of the bus. No one answered.
Undaunted, I knocked again. No one answered. I knocked a third time and heard stirring inside.
A man answered the door with an irritated look on his face. “What is it?” he asked.
“Hello, sir,” I said. “I’m with the ABC affiliate here in Columbia and I’m doing a story on the show tonight. I’d like to talk to…” I paused, realizing I didn’t know any first names. “Either… Crosby, Stills, or Nash. Or all three!” I added quickly.
“You know,” the man said, “this is not how you make an interview request.”
“Yeah, I realize it’s very last minute,” I said, thinking quickly. “I fought hard to do this story tonight, sir. My bosses wanted me to do a story on the city manager getting arrested for smoking pot in his daughter’s elementary school cafeteria– but I said No. Crosby and Stills and Nash are in town. All three of them. This… THIS… is news.”
He paused and looked at me for a long time. “The problem is, they’re all asleep,” he said finally. “And they never, EVER do interviews less than two hours before the show. They have to prepare, mentally.”
“I could be quick,” I said. “It would just take a couple of minutes.”
“I’ll ask when they wake up,” he said. “But don’t get your hopes up.” I smiled gratefully and he closed the door.
I stood there on the burning asphalt of the parking lot for the next twenty minutes, staring into the reflected glass of the bus’s windows with a bright, hopeful grin on my face. I would not, could not give up. THIS WAS MY BIG BREAK.
Finally, the door opened again.
“David’s gonna do it,” the guy said with a surprised laugh. “He said you can set up in the green room and he’ll be in in a few minutes. C’mon, I’ll show you where to go.”
Arnold and I followed him to the green room and quickly set up the camera and lights.
“Which one is David?” I whispered to Arnold as I extended the tripod legs.
“David Crosby,” Arnold replied, scowling. “How could you not know who David Crosby is?”
“I do know who he is,” I said, “I just didn’t know his first name.” Before I could grill Arnold any further, a small entourage entered the room.
“Hello, MR. CROSBY,” Arnold said loudly to the old guy in the group, no doubt noticing the confused look on my face.
“Hello,” David Crosby replied. He sat down in the makeup chair and I went to him and held out my hand.
“Hi there, Mr. Crosby,” I said. “Thank you so much for doing this interview. The people of Columbia are huge fans of your group. Huge.”
“Yeah,” he said. He didn’t smile, but I could swear I detected some merriment in his eyes.
“So, let’s get started, if you’re ready,” I said. I was so excited about landing the interview that I didn’t really have any specific questions in mind– I figured I’d just wing it.
“So… What exactly can your fans expect tonight?” I asked. He gave a vague, TV-friendly soundbite. I nodded with what I hoped was the air of a young Barbara Walters.
“Uh, what’s your favorite song to perform?” I asked next. I have no memory now of what he said, because each time he answered, I began frantically grasping for another question that wouldn’t betray the fact that I had never actually listened to Crosby, Stills and Nash before.
Unfortunately, David finished talking before I could come up with anything good.
“Uhhhhh,” I said, stalling. “How did you come up with the name of your band?”
“What?” he said sharply. The room grew very quiet.
“I mean, I know that it’s your last names,” I stammered, “But… it’s not in alphabetical order, which seems like it would have been the fair thing to do.”
More silence. Then, David laughed… and the rest of the room laughed with him.
“I guess we just thought it sounded good,” he said.
“Better than Stills, Crosby, and Nash?” I said. “Or… Nash, Crosby and Stills?”
“Pretty much.”
“And then there’s Young,” I pressed. “Only now there’s… no Young. What happened to that guy?”
David was grinning by this time. “Young is… doing his own thing now,” he said.
“Well, that’s good,” I said. “Just as long as he’s happy.”
“You got any more burning questions?” he asked.
“Nope,” I said. “I think we’re good. Thank you Mr. Crosby.”
“Okay then,” he said, and we were done.
I made my on-air debut that night with a wrap-up of the event, complete with my exclusive interview with David Crosby.
I was allowed to report quite a bit after that, and by autumn, I was promoted to morning anchor. I can only assume that my stellar interviewing skills convinced my bosses I was Destined for Greatness.
I had completely forgotten about my David Crosby saga until I saw him on the news the other day- and then the memories of my first big story came bubbling to the surface. At the time, it seemed like a daring display of tenacity and grit.
Now, it just seems ridiculous.
David Crosby, wherever you are, I don’t know what possessed you to agree to an interview with a 21-year-old idiot in Columbia, South Carolina that afternoon, but I’d like to thank you for doing it… and I’d also like to apologize for my ignorance.
Rest assured that I’ve listened to your music now– and I think it’s great.
Image via Richard Abrahamson/Flickr
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Har! Great story!