Graham Parker Learns To Speak

Backstage at the Roxy Theatre, Graham Parker is coughing, spitting, smoking, growling, guzzling honey (of course he’s drinking—whattya expect?); trying practically any ruse to stave off a vicious attack of laryngitis before the second set. Your loyal correspondent, vainly attempting to salvage an interview, has begun to hastily scribble multiple choice questions on the remnants of his famous writer’s note pad.

Hi, I'm Graham Parker, and I can't talk but I can produce primal screams upon demand that will turn your short hairs straight. And I can look tough without pinning my cheek up onto my forehead. And you will not overhype me the way you did Bruce Springsteen.

The questions have been uninspired (Well what would you ask? How did the blues arrive in Chicago—‘The Mississippi? The Missouri? The Dan Ryan? TWA?).

Worse still., some imbecilic local butter queen has been promoting the medicinal properties of peyote. “It’s great for your throat, man,” she assures us, interrupting my learned dissertation on the evils of air conditioning. “Just go to New Mexico—they grow lots there. You can find it along the road.”