Back in the SPIN days, I traveled a lot. For a long time that was great, the rush of an assignment, a new city or country I’d never been to, the nerves of making sure I got what I needed to turn out a story anyone might care about. SPIN, unlike Rolling Stone, let their writers accept junkets (i.e., the trips to interview bands who either had new albums, were new bands, or just needed a goose of publicity, were paid for by the record company). A lot of these travel opportunities, er, I mean important music coverage moments were bandied about in our weekly story meetings. Cinderella (the band. Remember them? lots of hair) were playing on a paddleboat going down the Mississippi, did we want to cover that? (No.) R.E.M. would benon a tour of small clubs, anyone up for that? (YES, please. Then arm wrestling would commence around who would get to go. Although honestly, there were only two writers on staff completely right for that assignment and so one or the other…sometimes both…would be rewarded.) Deee-Lite down under? (Well, sure, although I was never right for those stories since I was more indie rock than groovy. Side note: just watched a live “Groove Is in the Heart” video. Amazing and why wasn’t I more groovy?)

Anyhow, one particular plane ride was moving me toward the U.K. where a publicist had come up with an idea for how I could come over and hang out with her while also doing a story on one of her label’s up-and-coming bands. As happens when work has become your life, the people inside the industry had become my pals and this particular person was someone who I’d had a good time traveling with. She was married to the drummer of a very successful indie band that was playing a stadium in London and so was going to be there anyway. Combining business with pleasure: I would see her, go to the indie band stadium show, then out to a big house in the country where the new band was recording and get an interview, spend a day in London with said band. Go home, write story. Rinse & repeat.

The airline tickets were delivered to my office (because, my friends, there were no internets to speak of back in 1991) along with a three-song sampling of the band: “Alive,” “Wash,” “I’ve Got a Feeling.” Sure, yes, the band was Pearl Jam (they still are Pearl Jam). I listened to the tape over and over on the flight, read the bio, came up with questions, and felt generally prepared. Until I got off the plane, walked into the terminal (Heathrow or Gatwick, can’t remember), and couldn’t find anyone there to tell me where I was going. Normally in these moments, either my friend the publicist would be there or a person holding a sign with my name on it would be standing at the ready to take me where I was going. I was bleary from the flight, caffeine deprived, and suddenly panicked. (Again, this was a time with no devices available.)

Here’s where it gets murky, I can’t altogether remember the details around what happened next. I knew where I was staying, so ostensibly I managed a cab to the hotel but then I had to wait until my phone rang for further instructions. Every time I left the room, to get food, to get coffee, to get air, I would miss the call that told me next steps. Finally I just had to sit in the room until the call came. Looking back now, this strikes me as such a mission impossible as to be absurd. Waiting by a phone. That was a thing people did. Waited for instructions. Waited for boys to call. Waited for friends to call with the plan. Waited to get good news or bad news or any kind of news. Eventually this particular call did come and the the next day I climbed into another car and was driven out to a big rambling British pile in the countryside where the band had been staying for some amount of weeks mixing their debut album, Ten.

There was a certain sort of suspension that happened in being a part of this world. A kind of letting go or being OK with getting lost that I probably wasn’t all that good at, yet still&all, I thrilled to it when the pieces fell into place. A kind of adrenaline that, once I was sitting in the big rambling house with this newbie band who may or may not someday make it big, cuz nobody knew back then, moved me almost to euphoria. That I do remember. How I’d been found, I’d been delivered to the right location, I would get the story. A weird passive/active momentum that pretty much dominated my music-writing career.

And I did it in a kind of vacuum. I rarely told my dad or my mom that I was on the road. Thinking about that now is wild, as if caution really were the wind and I was carried on it trusting all would be well. I would tell my dad the stories when I got home and he, to my memory, never seemed annoyed or startled that I hadn’t told him about the travel ahead of time. There was an independence that I think was channeled from him to me. Or maybe more a sense of being an independent operator. I would be fine, even when I felt lost.

Having spent so much time in the last few months looking at the photos my dad kept of his life, I see so many moments that he lived that I had no idea about. A panoply of places and people featuring him holding a drink, holding a cigarette, and in one, holding dollar bills as if he’s an extra in Casino. Naturally I want to ask him questions about these moments but since I can’t, I make things up. They all have happy endings to do with love and friendship and good times. The stories we didn’t tell each other filling out our lives but not with mystery per se, rather with smiles to know he trusted me enough to have them and me warm in the belief that he was much beloved in his adventures too.