This Is the Reason I Never Got to Interview Aretha Franklin

I alluded to it on Facebook. I referenced it in my memorial tribute to her for BLAC Detroit magazine. I hadn't thought about the story for years until Aretha Franklin and her once-in-a-generation voice left us so suddenly the morning of August 16 after a long and difficult fight with pancreatic cancer. (And why haven't we cured cancer yet, BTW?)

So after some prodding, I'm now going to tell you why, during more than 30 years as a journalist based in Detroit whose specialty was writing about rock, pop and R&B music, I never had the opportunity to meet or interview the legendary Queen of Soul who lived right up I-75.

Seems almost inconceivable, right? At the very least, like some severe dereliction of my professional critic's duty.

And understand, as one of only a handful of people covering contemporary music for a daily newspaper in the heart of rock 'n' roll and the home of Motown (the best job ever invented, IMHO), I was, as a dear friend of mine used to say, "world famous in Detroit." Over the decades, I forged some personal relationships that went beyond the normal reporter-celebrity hostility.

I was an invited guest at Bob Seger's wedding – not to cover it, but to dance, eat cake and wish him and Nita well, like a normal person. I was introduced to sushi by Ted Nugent – granted, he pushed my face into a platter of it, but I probably wouldn't have tried it any other way and it remains one of my favorite delicacies to this day. Thanks, Ted. (I think.)

I have warbled a duet with Stevie Wonder, gone eyewear shopping with the Four Tops' Duke Fakir,  hung out with Was before they became (Not Was).

The Queen as Princess: I Never Got to Hold Court.

But no Aretha.

Here is why.

Our story begins at one of those multiple-act, R&B concert extravaganzas of the '80s – you remember, the ones where Frankie Beverly and Maze always brought a lot of "Joy and Pain" somewhere in the middle – at Detroit's Cobo Arena. Unlike many such soulapaloozas of that era, this particular concert demanded to be reviewed: the diva herself, Aretha Franklin, was giving a rare performance downtown as the headlining act.

That review fell to me. I had been the Detroit News pop music critic for a year or so at that point, but was still a unknown entity to many. I was between marriages at the time and living in a sprawling old apartment off Jefferson Avenue with a roommate, an African American gent we'll call Dave.

As roommates go, Dave was practically ideal: he worked a steady job during the day, paid his share of the bills on time and liked his cognac – perhaps a bit too much – at night. The apartment was so huge that we practically never saw each other, and when we did he was a very pleasant drunk. Or he was passed out.

Dave's girlfriend, Patty, had been pestering him for weeks to go to this Cobo show, and eventually he asked me if I could help him obtain tickets. Since he practically never took advantage of my position to ask for anything, I reluctantly said I would. I was reluctant not because I didn't want to help or thought he wouldn't pay for the tickets, but because I was almost certain I couldn't get them seats somewhere else in the arena. They would have to sit next to me.      

("What does this have to do with you and Aretha?" you're asking. It will all make sense soon, I promise. Patience.)

It's not that I didn't want to socialize with Dave and Patty. It's just that the nature of a music critic is to be objective and analytical when everyone else is partying hearty, and I could never escape the feeling of needing to play host when I acquired tickets for people. It was going to be hard enough to stay focused at a concert as long as this without serving as part of the entertainment for the couple seated next to me.

Especially, as you could have predicted, when Dave arrived at the show well lubricated.

My roommate kept wanting to engage me in slurred, rambling conversations about the concert between gulps of the adult beverages he was enjoying nonstop. To make matters worse, apparently no two acts could use the same equipment: after each performance, the road crew sauntered onstage, broke down the drum kit and other musical accessories, then rebuilt the entire stage for the next artist. Each set change took at least 45 minutes.

I almost started to cry. Between Dave's incessant babbling and the roadies' we're-gettin'-paid-regardless work ethic, this was shaping up to be the longest night of my professional life.

By the time Ashford & Simpson took their final bows, I couldn't stand anymore.

"I'll be back in a little while, folks," I informed Dave and Patty, and left my seat.

That was a lie. I had no intention of returning. I knew I had a spot reserved for me in the Cobo press box, near the very top of the arena. Normally I preferred to sit among the audience, to get a first-person feel for the energy and emotion of the crowd, but this was a special circumstance. A concert emergency. I had to get away to preserve what was left of my sanity.

("But what does this have to do with you and Aretha Franklin?" I'm gettin' there! I'm gettin' there! Hang on. The good part is coming!)

By the time she got on, Aretha was thinking, "Ain't No Way."

While I was high above the stage in the press box, reviewing my notes and happy as a critic clam, what I didn't know was that back on the floor drunken David had begun to miss his concert buddy. (Why Patty wasn't enough to amuse him, I'll never know.) He decided to track me down and convince me to return to my seat.

In his foggy, cognac-soaked consciousness, Dave reasoned, "Jim's writing about the concert. If he's not here, where would he be?

"Oh, yeah: he must be backstage!"

With that, Dave boldly stumbled off to retrieve his wayward roomie. He got as far as one side of the stage, whereupon he was confronted by a phalanx of security guards each about the size of a mini SUV.

Dave was undaunted. "I'm looking for Jim McFarlin!" he bellowed. "McFARLIN! JIM McFARLIN!"

Fearing a contact high from his breath, the guards quickly turned Dave around and tossed him back into the crowd. However, his voice had echoed throughout the cavernous recesses behind the stage.

It wasn't until much later that I figured out people thought he was yelling that he was Jim McFarlin, demanding access to the stars.

Now, here's the kicker: between the multitude of acts and the interminable set changes, Aretha didn't arrive on stage until well past midnight. As B.B. King might have noted about the Queen, the thrill was gone.

Nearly half the audience was gone, too, apparently taking all the energy with them. Aretha made no attempt to disguise her frustration, outrage or fatigue – who could blame her? – and performed her set as if it was way past her bedtime. A true diva deserved better than this! As I recall it, she meandered through a handful of her hits, just enough to fulfill the requirements of her contract, said good night and stalked off the stage.

That's essentially what I wrote in my review: the show was exhausting, ran way too long, Aretha didn't show up until the next morning, turned in a lackluster performance and we all went home. The review ran in Sunday's paper.

By Monday morning there was an impromptu picket line marching in front of the newspaper, demanding my immediate firing.

As it turned out, the Rev. Cecil Franklin, Aretha's brother, longtime manager and by many accounts her most trusted confidant, received reports that Jim McFarlin was stinking drunk at the concert and tried to crash his way backstage. Then he had the audacity to criticize and disparage his sister in the newspaper? In Detroit? The city she called home?

The Rev. Cecil Franklin

Who the hell is Jim McFarlin? Oh, he got to go!

Cecil had hastily organized a group of fellow ministers and Aretha fans to protest this blatant lack of R-E-S-P-E-C-T. When I first saw the pickets that morning, while entering through the building's side entrance as most employees did, I assumed they were raging against something else. It wasn't until I was summoned to my managing editor's office later that day and asked to respond to allegations that I was intoxicated while at work for and representing the newspaper that reality bit me.

I was dumbstruck. How do you prove a negative?

Thankfully, I was able to reach out to a few fellow scribes who had been with me in the press box and attested to my sobriety. (Insert deep sigh of relief here.) My job, which nearly ended before it had a chance to gain traction, was saved by the grace of God.

As you might guess, this resolution did not go over well with Cecil. He was absolutely certain I was seven sheets to the wind the night I dared to pan the great Aretha Franklin in print after she deigned to perform in front of her home folks.

Once I started to put all the pieces together, I tried to contact Cecil to explain, to apologize for any misconceptions. He wasn't having it.

I have no way to prove this, of course, but I can't help but believe that my review, and his failure to get me canned because of it, stuck in Cecil's craw from that day until his death in 1989. Couple that with Aretha's complete trust in him and her well-documented mistrust of the media in general, and my journalistic goose was cooked.

I made a few more overtures to interview her over the years, but as time passed it became clear to me that an audience with the Queen simply was not going to happen. I'll admit it: I gave up.

Now, of course, I wish I hadn't. However, it's difficult to envision how that conversation might have gone. I've learned over the years that many celebrities don't remember their glowing reviews, but they can recite every word of their negative critiques. I can imagine being halfway through our interview and having her erupt, "YOU! Did you used to write for the News? Get out!"

Aretha Franklin was a national treasure housed in Detroit. We were blessed to have her, and I will miss the notion of her living in the Motor City, even though we never spoke.

Oh, and Dave and Patty eventually got married, prompting him to move out of our apartment. Just as well. Our relationship was never quite the same.