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A novice music journalist entertains a lot of idealistic notions, most of which are struck down within five minutes of their first real interview. Dry runs with college roomates and passionate question-and-answer periods with the bums who loiter outside the campus dining hall are nothing compared to the real thing, and writing for one of New York City's premier music zines does not make women want to sleep with you.
Something about watching Edie Fisher (vocalist of Park Avenue's surley femme ragamuffins, Honeypunk and part-time actress) eating salad and making eyes at our waiter stripes away my illusions of the journalism fields while simultaneously reminding me why it is that I have chosen to observe rockers than try and join their ranks.
I have run over potential ways of introducing myself to this notoriously enigmatic and impossibly uncooperative frontwoman in my head dozens of times since this assignment found its way into my mailbox; I have been intent upon working out an opening which will both impress and humble the succubus, hoping that she doesn't wilt me with a seductress smile. In this way, I will experience a Revenge of the Nerds-type convincing her that I'm cool enough to throw back a couple beers with ... such is the affect of Fisher's hipster It Girl factors.
When I stumble into the Candle 79 after being mauled on the crosstown bus - I got lost twice en route - the first dazzling, awe-inspiring words out of my mouth to knock Fisher's to her knees are, verbatim, "New Yorkers are psychotic!"
Althought I expect a swift blow to the head with the nearest blunt object, I am instead given a sympathetic grimace and hushed giggle through detailed directions back to my office. Though the directions are given in a sultry, soft monotone and her eyes neverquite meet mine, it appears that Johansson is not feeling any particular malice towards me. I count myself lucky to not be victim to her claws and leave it at that. It's an afternoon filled with surprises, beginning with a quick acceptance of my mumbled apology ("Whatever. S'cool, darling.") or a quick stroke of my palm with her fingertips as we talk or end of our meeting, cultimating in a goodbye kiss - on the lips - along with an invitation to "look [her] up the next time [I'm] in the Upper East Side."
In my pocket, I am carrying a small spiral notebook wherein I have carefully printed a list of questions which I have revised and rewritten no fewer than four times over the last three hours. But again, Fisher has broken up the last of my precious illusions simply by sitting across the table from me and looking relaxed, dare I say, blasè. In this setting, I am suddenly made aware of how ridiculous the idea of asking her any questions is; how we are above such trivial things. By watching her eat and occasionally admiring her shabby-chic sundress, I will be made instantly aware of the inner workings of her psyche, rendering all other methods of gathering information redundant.
Eventually, I just suck it up and put my journalism degree into action, trying to be stealthy and prod her into talking. Her intellect is astounding, making me feel as though my self-esteem is shrinking into the booth.
What did you choose this particular restaurant?
“I dunno. I guess, you know, it’s because when we’re doing this interview shit, either our management picks a place or they let the magazine or whatever it is take care of that. And nine times out of ten, we end up in a bar. So when you do a lot of interviews in a row, you end up spending a few hours out of every day in a bar, until it just gets to a point where you just look around and wonder what the fuck you’re doing with a Bloody Mary at ten in the morning. So really, I guess any kind of restaurant is okay, because it kind of limits the slant that they can put on the situation. Plus, it's got a good atmosphere.” So do you feel like the media puts you into those bar situations for a reason?
“Well, yeah, man. I mean, it’s probably just the way they do things or whatever, but yeah, depending on how they feel about you personally, they’re going to put you in a place where they know you’ll have to act a certain way. Like, if all you’d ever heard about someone was how they were trying to ...I don’t know, save the fucking rain forest or something. If I were really gung ho about their cause, I’d get them at a protest against development, try to show how much they’re sacrificing for it. Y’know, really work it in there. But on the other end of things, I’d take them to Starbucks and put a huge emphasis on how they’re so into corporations. Journalism is like advertising, really ...if they like you, they want to sell you, they want to do whatever they can. But if they don’t ...then they really hope that you get piss drunk and fuck everything up while they’re around to document it. And well, I guess I have this ... wino cokehead party animal image floating around me, so they're just trying to catch me in the act.” She talks to the waiter everytime he comes our way, engaging him in conversations about kinds of pie and the price of the organic teas on the menu. Because this is a relatively trendy place - sister of the Candle Café, a smaller and more exclusive restaurant for the distinguished vegetarians among us - no one on staff is particularly repulsive, nor old. However, it's painfully obvious that the middle-aged man that she's talking to hasn't had this much attention from such a coquettish woman lavished on him in years; it's also equally obvious that Fisher knows this, but doesn't come close to acknowledging it. By her own admission, she finds everyone attractive.
“I think a big part of how I see people was influenced by my dad ...and I don’t mean that in a negative way, that’s just how it is. He [Victor Johansson, founder of a modeling agency in the area] was just always really into how important looks are ...he’d have people over at his place whenever I was there, wanting to be models or whatever, and he’d just be really clinical about it because he was a professional. So, I don’t know, I guess I kind of went into shock over how something like ...having fucking freckles or something was enough to completely discount them. I’ve always, like as long as I can remember, I’ve always been able to find something sexy about everyone I meet. Like, I don’t look for it or anything, that’s just how it is. But then, I don’t know, I guess it comes off as insincere or whatever to other people. Because I can be talking to guys at our shows or whatever and I can pick out this one really hot thing about them, but it doesn’t really mean I have any interest in them. So yeah, I think I just have this genuine attraction to people in general," She pauses, and drags on her cig. "...and it gets out of control sometimes, but I think I’m getting better about that.”
I begin to notice warning signs when I get too deep within her orbit; Fisher is set against answering some things, and no amount of gentle prodding nor rewording can get her to respond in her sultry, sarcastic wit. She taps her fingers on the table, looks at a point over my shoulder, or simply reaching out to brush hair away from my face, catching me at my own game and saying the same thing as many different ways as she can. I’m impressed.
During these extended periods of silence, I look her over, noting that as well as having a very obviously curvaous body not hidden by the deep v-neck dip of her dress that's framed by the spirals of red curls against her pale skin. She also sports several long gashes along her inner arm.  Expecting a titillating story about bar fights or scuffling with bandmates, I ask about them.
“My cat’s pregnant and she really freaks the fuck out if I try to move her. I’ve got fucking teeth marks all over me.” She's on her fourth cigarette.
My time with her is almost up - I can see her counting down the seconds until she can breeze on back to her loft and forget my existence until her management receives an advance copy of the magazine - and I haven’t asked her any questions about music or movies. Short of yanking her arm down when she raises it to signal for the check, I see no way of prolonging the interview, and therefore am reduced to spitting questions at her while we wait for the waiter to come back for another round of optic flirting, while Fisher downs more nicotine than air.
What’s the last CD that you bought?
“Uh ...shit, my memory’s fucked up, man. I think the last thing I actually bought was Easy Tiger (Ryan Adams, 2007). I don’t really buy CDs that much, actually.” So why did you buy that one?
“Because I couldn’t download it.” Are you in any upcoming movies?
"I have a small part in a movie by Christian St. Croix. It's gonna be pretty sick." He's amazing. Were you excited to work with him and your costars?
"He's so talented, you know? And there's nothing a girl can appreciate more than a good mind - and well, a pretty face. It's an amazing work and shit, I don't know, I like getting covered in blood." She’s standing up now, and I wait for her to walk out with a scowl. My final surprise comes when she leans down and, after grabbing my face in both hands, pecks my lips as though I’m an old maiden aunt who she won’t see for five years. She tells me that it was a good interview, and reminds me of the bus route I need to take in order to get back to the office. It doesn’t strike me until she’s gone with her skirt floating and twirling around her as she dances away through the New York crowds - I think the kiss threw me - that Kay Johansson is shy.
This information stays with me as I gather up my piles of notes (tape recorders being passe at this point) and lasts until I make it back to the office in under twenty minutes. I take it back - my final surprise is that, over the course of two hours and with constant exposure to the elusive It Girl, I have been gradually molded into the kind of psychotic New Yorker who can effectively navigate the city’s bus system.
( I'ma shake you off, though. Get up on that horse and ride into the sunset; look back with no remorse. He's a black magic wielder, some say a witch, wielded darkness when he was wilein' on his mom's unborn child and he was the bastard the broke up the marriage, eviler doer doing evil from a baby carriage and he was born with the same blue eyes. Crystal ships dripping with ice, diamonds coruscate in the night, fireworks electric bright and now he's got his own two sons. Tried to hide his tears in a world of fun but loveless bedrooms filled with doom bright silent heartache July to June. Woon over new young hot flame mourn the memories later, laugh now, alligator. )
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