The Brooklyn Rail

From the Depths

9:45pm. Sitting in a dark London hotel room, he chain smokes with wrist poised watch-face up, the minutes ticking by, phone pressed to ear as he obligedly listens to endless blather in the earpiece as music journalists ask incessant questions about Underworld, Underworld, Underworld. This is how I picture Rick Smith as I attempt calling his hotel room at 3:45pm Brooklyn-time.