I joined Billboard in November 1987 as a copyeditor.
It was a big step backward, careerwise, moneywise, as I’d already been a section editor at Essence. But I’d made a brief misstep by leaving the magazine to double my paycheck as a public information officer at the New York City Housing Authority, a job I learned to hate very quickly. I was desperate to get out of City government and lucked up on the Billboard editorial support position. It was a great move for me, because all I was interested in then was music and writing. I’d worked for NYCHA for a grand total of 90 days when I turned in my resignation.
Nelson George was editor of the Black Music section, a part-timer who came into the office at 1515 Broadway to open his mail, turn in his stories and conduct other business. We’d met first at Essence, where he was a frequent contributor. Now that I was at Billboard, we sat on the same cubicle aisle. He made sure that I was usually the one to copyedit his stories because I’d seen his raw copy at Essence and I knew both the music and his turns of phrase. Sometimes his good buddy Reggie Hudlin would visit with him to shoot the shit and glom any castoff promo CDs or cassettes Nelson felt like giving away. Nelson was good for coming in with various associates and sharing the wealth of freebies while opening his mail. (It was during one of these sessions when I mentioned to Reggie that I was thinking of getting master’s degree in journalism, and he said, “Why take fishing lessons when you’ve already hooked a big fish?”)
After several months at Billboard I began asking Nelson to let me write a feature story. Finally Nelson said, OK, write me a story, here’s the publicity info, go for it. In my memory, that first story was on Teddy Pendergrass. I was excited. I was no stranger to writing stories or to conducting interviews, but I hadn’t spoken to many recording artists of any stature -- yet. In my estimation, Teddy Pendergrass was a Star with a capital S. His music had ruled a long stretch of my high school and college years. At this juncture, Teddy had already suffered the catastrophic 1982 automobile accident that had rendered him paralyzed from the waist down and had undergone intensive rehabilitation and therapy. His biggest hits – “Only You,” “Close The Door,” “Turn Out the Lights,” not to mention his work with Harold Melvin & the Blue Notes – were fifteen years or more behind him, but he had rallied since the crash. He’d had surgeries, rehab, therapy. He got around via a motorized wheelchair; he could talk and eventually he could sing again. During that period he had released hit duets with Whitney Houston and Stephanie Mills. He had also made a triumphant performance at the LiveAid concert in Philadelphia in 1985. Now, Elektra was releasing the 1988 album Joy, led by the feel-good single of the same name.
In the earliest days of writing Billboard I did exhaustive research for interviews. I listened to all of Teddy’s music, analyzed the entire advance CD track by track, wrote out thoughtful questions, and practiced my composure. I didn’t usually get rattled by famous people – fame being relative -- but as an introvert (albeit a high-functioning one) I could get nervous and geek out just meeting anyone new. My tried and true tactics were just to smile, be personable, and ask really good questions. Nothing stunts an interview quite like a bored interviewer who asks uninformed questions.
I met with Teddy in a hotel suite on Eighth Avenue, the theater district in New York. His hair had grown long and was slicked back, and he still had that dazzling smile, the full beard, and that great smokey, husky voice. He seemed willing and gracious, but I could tell instantly that he was tired. He’d probably done dozens of these promotional interviews, and as a quadriplegic his energy was probably limited. I’d come armed with a dozen detailed questions, but midway through I decided to curtail the interview. Teddy’s answers were getting shorter and shorter and the in-depth, memory-lane discussion I’d envisioned was not going to happen. I’m blessed and cursed with way too much empathy for others, so as his energy flagged and I sensed the publicist hovering, I wrapped it up. I’d gotten enough for the story.
So I thanked Teddy profusely and offered my hand to shake. There was an uncomfortable pause.
Oh my God. Even though the man was seated in a wheelchair right in front of me, I’d forgotten that Teddy Pendergrass is a quadriplegic with limited use of his hands. Awkward. I think his curled fist and my hand managed to connect in farewell, but I was momentarily mortified as I scuttled out of the room and into the elevator. In retrospect, it wasn’t that big a deal, but in that moment I felt that I’d been insensitive in the extreme.
Years later I was able to meet Teddy again in social situations in Philadelphia, thanks to my girlfriend Dyana Williams, and I was invited to be part of the production team for his Teddy 25 fundraiser at the Kimmel Center in June of 2007. I wrote the script for the all-star celebration of Teddy’s life that featured Bill Cosby, Mo’Nique, Ashford & Simpson, Patti LaBelle, Melba Moore, noted dance troupe Philadanco, Kindred, Julius “Dr. J” Erving, and others. It was a fantastic evening, and I was proud to have been part of it. Though Teddy had wanted it to be an annual event, unfortunately he didn’t get the backing and his health began to decline until he passed away in January of 2010.
I wrote the Teddy story for Nelson and it ran in the Black Music section. After that, Nelson was pretty generous with doling out the story assignments. The magazine didn’t pay me any extra for them, and Nelson could cover the artists without having to do the work himself – he had plenty on his plate already. It was a win-win situation. It was great for me, because I was building my Billboard clip list. When Nelson left the magazine to do bigger and better things, I was named editor in June of 1989. Thanks, Nelson and thanks, Teddy.
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