My first, inauspicious encounter with Quine was when he played the Horseshoe Tavern with the Voidoids, in the summer of '77 or '78. I'd had lots to drink and was feeling like Lester Bangs -- I'd already been tossed out of the Horseshoe's dinky dressing room by Richard Hell. I was standing at a urinal, blathering drunkenly to a friend at the pissoir to my left. Turning to the right I saw Quine, my punk rock guitar hero, looking over at me with a withering glare, as if to say: Jesus, we came all the way from New York to play to nitwits like this? My second (and last) Quine encounter was about 14 years later, and far more encouraging. On a visit to NYC, my friend and I wandered into a Village guitar shop, where I spotted a bald guy who looked a lot like Quine. Or was it Quine himself? Yes, it had to be. I mustered my nerve, went up to him and asked if he was indeed Robert Quine. He said that he was. Somewhat to my surpise, he turned out to be very friendly. He talked about his recent session work and about how he hated touring -- how Bob Dylan, for instance, had asked him out on the road and how he spurned all such offers by demanding absurdly high fees. I took the Dim Stars CD out of my shopping bag and told him I'd just bought an album he played on. He looked at it ruefully and said, "I'm afraid I can't endorse that one." Oh well. He asked the guy behind the counter to pass him a particular Stratocaster and curtly hammered an E chord for a few seconds, then handed the guitar back to the clerk. I said I'd better let him get on with his shopping, but he was more than willing to continue the conversation. He allowed as how it was nice to be recognized; I got the distinct impression it didn't happen very often. It's sad to think that it'll never happen again.