A year before folk icon John Denver died after his experimental aircraft made an unscheduled water landing off the California coast in October 1997, I had the pleasure of interviewing him by phone in advance of a Spokane concert appearance. The John Denver I remember from the interview was not the lovable nature boy who sang “Sunshine on My Shoulders” and “Rocky Mountain High” and made a couple records with the Muppets but a hostile, cantankerous jerk. He was such an ass, his replies to my questions so testy, that I wrote “John Denver has come down from his Rocky Mountain high” as the lede of my story.
That was 15 years ago, when I was trying to make it as a journalist and music critic at Spokane’s daily paper, the Spokesman-Review. Had I the choice I would have gladly punted and let someone else write about the singer/songwriter/environmentalist/stunt pilot/wannabe astronaut. I remember at the time being worried about my credibility with the local punk rock scene and how writing about a washed-up middle-of-the-road folk singer wasn’t going to help it. (Stupid, I know, especially since very few in my perceived target audience read the paper.) But the editor assigned it to me and I accepted. I made arrangements with Denver’s publicist for a phone interview, and John agreed to speak with me from his Colorado home the following Monday at 8 a.m., which was a little bit early—I preferred rolling in to work at 9.
The only problem was that I think John thought we were to chat at 8 a.m. his time, Colorado time, Rocky Mountain time. And so he started calling at 7 a.m., probably as I was trying to will my lethargic body into the shower. By the time I arrived at work at just before 8, I saw the red light on my phone flashing angrily at me—informing me that I had a message. Three messages, actually, all from John Denver. Not sunshine-on-my-shoulders John Denver either, but a you-just-clear-cut-the-old-growth-forest-surrounding-my-palatial-estate John Denver.
7:01 a.m.: “Joe, this is John Denver calling,” said the voice, clearly annoyed. “I’ll try back.”
7:15 a.m.: “Joe, this is John Denver calling,” went the second message, the voice now sounding only few degrees cooler than piping-hot angry.
The third message came a half-hour later. It sounded as friendly as the second.
As I hung up the phone, it started ringing, sending a hot flash of panic coursing through my veins. With some trepidation, I answered the call.
“Joe, this is John Denver calling.”
His tone had only a hint of irritation. But I could already intuit that this interview was going to be a disaster. Trying to force a little cordial small talk, I threw out the first cringe-worthy softball: “So what are you up to?”
“Heh-heh,” he chuckled incredulously, “talking to you.”
I don’t know what was going through John Denver’s mind at the time. Clearly it was more than a scheduling foul-up. As the interview progressed, it became more apparent that he was not nearly as angry with me as he was bitter toward the music business. John Denver had sold millions of records in his prime, charted numerous hits in the 1970s, made a lot of people, including himself, rich. But by 1996, the hits had long since dried up, and he was unsigned in the U.S. and couldn’t secure a deal beyond one-off gimmicks—children's records or new recordings of the old hits, records that seemed well beneath his talent. (Denver had other problems beyond music, most notably a bitter divorce and two DUI arrests.)
Here’s what Denver had to say about the state of affairs with record companies: “I did an album for Sony a little over a year ago—The Wildlife Concert—and it’s pretty funny to me,” he said, no hint of humor in his tone, “that that album was a double album and it sold a quarter of a million copies. That’s a gold album. You know, it’s a double CD. That’s a big project, pretty successful, but not where they want to sign a record deal with me. Isn’t that interesting?”
Sony did however want Denver to make another album, an album that, as Denver described it, sounded a bit, well, sad. “[Sony] do want me to do another album and what they’re talking about—the example they’ve given me is something Kenny Loggins did, which ended up being a million seller—is a children's album.”
The album to which Denver referred actually materialized. Released it 1997, it was called All Aboard!, a children's album about trains, and it earned Denver a posthumous Grammy—his only Grammy.
The interview wasn’t a total disaster, but it was clear Denver wasn’t all that interested in my line of questioning. Perhaps I was too inexperienced or shy to ask more thoughtful questions. As this interview was to function as a concert preview, I hadn’t prepared to ask him more probing questions. Or maybe Denver just didn’t want play along that morning. Witness the following exchange:
“What is your Spokane concert consisting of—are you–”
“John Denver songs,” he blurted, before I could even finish my question. He didn’t elaborate.
Flustered, I countered with: “Are you gonna do another record with the Muppets?”
Denver softened, but only a bit. “Actually we’ve talked about that a little bit,” he said. “That was one of the most enjoyable things I ever did was working with the Muppets, and the thought of doing another television special with them along with an album is a great idea.”
Lucky for me (and John), the interview was a few minutes from its conclusion. After reading the resulting concert preview, my editor declined to have me review the show. I didn’t argue with her.
