In 1982 I was working at an office job by day and playing in a newly formed punk rock band by night. The previous Saturday the band had met in a Soho loft. We were getting our photos taken for the press kit we hoped would lead to some working gigs. When we wrapped up the photo shoot, the photographer invited us to come back to his loft the following week to play at a party he was hosting. We accepted.
That next week we arrived at the party early, set up our equipment, and then stood around waiting for the guests to arrive and for our time to play. After a couple of hours, the loft filled up. Tired of standing, I found the only open seat left on a couch next to a very attractive woman. We were having a wonderful conversation when a bandmate tapped me on the shoulder to tell me it was time for us to perform.
As we finished up our set, the woman from the couch told me that she and her friends were leaving but that she had enjoyed speaking with me. I fumbled horribly in trying to find a non-cliched way to ask for her phone number. She then said “wait a minute”. She ran off and came back shortly with her number written on a matchbook cover.
That next day I was on one end of two unforgettable phone calls. The first was the call I received from the singer in the band telling me the group was suddenly breaking up. That was the last band I ever played in, one of dozens that had failed to lead to any lasting success.
The second more memorable call was the one I made to the lady with the matchbook. It’s now 41 years later and in music parlance I was a “one hit wonder”. That’s because she and I are still together, the only “hit” I ever had in an otherwise uneventful music career, but a fully eventful life.
