A Conga and a Six-Pack

I just got off the phone with Henry Fiol. Though his singing voice ranges from ethereal to ferocious, his speaking voice is that of the common man—a City accent, a casual flow, the blurring of sounds the dropping of syllables a friendly slang. He sounds like a relative, one of my father's cousins. He sounds like family.

I can't wait to meet him. He'll be stopping by our office late Thursday afternoon to answer a few questions.

Holy shit: I'm excited!

Back in October, when I initially asked Mr. Fiol if he'd like to do the interview, I knew very little about him. I only knew that his music moved me. Since then, after lots of research and Googling, my idea of him had shifted from: Well, he's something of an underground figure—a terribly neglected musician with a sort of cult following—to something more like: Oh my fricking god, I'm exchanging e-mails with a living legend, what the hell did I get myself into?!

I had become intimidated, overwhelmed. Damn you, research!

But, after speaking with him on the phone, I feel much better. At one point, he asked me if he should bring anything.

Bring anything? I thought. It hadn't occurred to me that he might bring anything. I'm just happy to be meeting him, to have the opportunity to speak with him.

I should have asked him to bring a conga and a six-pack, so we could just chill.

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Comments
Fez's picture

I could listen to this all day long.

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