Lately I've had this great extended streak of oblivion going on. I like my job. I get to listen to music all day, go to shows and then write about them. I'm as happy as a pig in slop. And when I'm around friends complaining about their jobs, I usually fall silent and count my blessings.

Every once in a while, though, I'm jogged out of my stupor by a quick glimpse of reality. I'm stopped cold in my tracks by a big, shining mirror containing the limping beast of my own reflection. Whether I like it or not, there I am -- hair sticking up in the back, toilet paper stuck to my shoe and a coffee stain on the front of my T-shirt...you get the picture.

Take last Thursday for example. I got an assignment to do an interview with a band that I really like, the Jayhawks. It was one of those tasks that blur the line between work and play and I busied myself researching burning questions and plotting how to win the band's approval. The imagined scenario usually plays out something like this -- after the interview I sit arm in arm with the members of the band, wiping tears of laughter from our eyes, reminiscing about the amazing string of questions that I just delivered and someone invariably says, "hey man, you're the best, not like those other guys. Wanna date my sister? Wanna join the band?"

It never happens this way. I have proof.

I arrived at the show at the previously determined hour. As it turned out, the band had yet to arrive at the venue and their tour manager instructed me to be ready to interview them after their set, which was the second on a triple bill which they were co-headlining with Wilco. I was mildly disappointed, mostly due to the fact that I feared they would want to watch Wilco after their show and could potentially be distracted. As it turned out, this was the least of my worries.

I found a good seat and settled in for their set. As I had expected, it was a great show. They played most of the songs off of their new album, The Sound of Lies including a handful of songs from their previous albums. Despite the departure of Mark Olson earlier in the year, the band sounded phenomenal. Gary Louris stepped up to bat as the lead songwriter and vocalist and the results had been impressive.

Following their set, I went backstage to conduct the interview. I was ushered into a hallway beneath the stage that was populated with every manner of rock and roll persona imaginable. The passage teemed with caterers, roadies, management types, wives, girlfriends, opening bands and small children. I stood there, trying to seem out of the way -- with my pad of paper in my hands and a DAT recorder slung over my back. I went over my questions repeatedly in my head.

I must admit that I felt a little ridiculous. As people passed by they looked me over suspiciously. After fifteen minutes of waiting there against the wall, I began to wonder what I must have looked like to the other people down there. After a number of derisive snorts and cursory nods, I began to realize that that they were seeing me for what I was -- a journalist. I might as well have been wearing a fedora with a big "press" card in the hat band. I felt like a cartoon. I was a little unsettled by this, but decided not to give it any more thought.

After a considerable amount of waiting around, I was shown to a small room where I was promptly joined by Marc Perleman (bassist/vocals) and Gary Louris (lead vocals/lead guitar). They seemed to be in high spirits, having just played to 2,000 screaming fans and they seemed, as I had feared, eager to get the interview over with.

To my surprise, the interview went well. I quickly developed a rapport and despite the fact that Wilco was stomping out tunes a floor above and the television in the room was flashing clips from the Rangers/Flyers Stanley Cup semifinals (an issue of grave importance to a band from Minneapolis), it went well.

It wasn't until the questioning turned to the critical reception of their latest release that things began to get surreal. As we explored their feelings on the freedoms that rock journalists take and the motivations behind their actions, something began to materialize just behind them.

Marc Perleman led the charge, "Rock critics make up about one billionth of the population of music listeners. If your life is writing music reviews, you're a little too involved, you know?" I found myself nodding in fervent agreement.

Perleman continued, "I have absolutely no respect whatsoever for major rock publications...I don't know many people who do have respect for them aside from 14 year old Offspring fans." I realized the thing behind them was a mirror and I began to see my reflection.

"I mean its depressing," Perleman continued. "You make a life for yourself as a musician and you realize that the industry pretty much revolves around the taste makers at Spin and Rolling Stone. It's kind of like beating your head against the wall because these people are completely and utterly clueless." I waved at my reflection.

What I saw in the mirror was a rock journalist. And even though it's only one of my incarnations at work, it's what I am. I write about bands and new albums and sometimes I even get critical. It wasn't until Marc Perleman laid into the profession that I had really thought of myself in this way. His tirade triggered a dormant instinct in me to run and hide. And the feeling of panic is still resonating.

The interview continued and ended in a positive manner. We shook hands and thanked each other for making time for the interview. And as we left Gary Louris looked at me and said, "I'm not going to hate me after this am I?" He had already received my card, so I replied, "Not a chance, you know where I live."

I guess the jury is still out.

Brandon Barber