AND THE WINNER . . . ISN'T ME: How to lose friends and infect people

I remember my first music awards event, and for years a few people wouldn't let me forget it.

It was 1987 and I'd just started at Herald (which is another story) when the entertainment editor Colin Hogg suggested an idea for a piece about the awards.

He said that if we looked at the track record of those who'd won awards in previous years it seemed like the kiss of death.

Artists peaked then disappeared. Not all of them but enough. That's how it looked.

So the idea was for me to ring around people in the industry (record company people, a few artists and so on) and put this to them.

Interestingly enough quite a few agreed with the premise and spoke about this kiss of death: a music award.

If I recall, my piece -- a major spread across the centre of the tabloid-sized and very well read Entertainment section -- appeared the morning of the awards.

That afternoon Colin fielded a few phone calls – no one came to me – and the word was out from these people: they had no idea I would actually print what they said!

But there you go: journalist calls you, you talk, journalist publishes what you said.

That night I went to the awards. It was held in a small room in what is now the Cordis Hotel near K Rd in Auckland.

I'm not kidding when I say there were probably only 40 or 50 people there and quite a number of those were from Herbs, past or present.

I think their album Sensitive to a Smile was a major contender and what I also remember was being approached by an American guy in the lobby who insisted he show me his poetry which he said Herbs had ripped off for some of their lyrics.

I glanced at his collection and thought he may have had a point, but I was busy avoiding eye contact with those who looked like they would stab me if they could.

I was pretty unpopular and that was made clear in the speech by Tim Murdoch who was head of Warner Music (probably WEA at that time) and the biggest cog in the local industry's wheel. He was friends with Joni, Neil Young, Jackson and just about anyone who counted.

He was loudly acclaiming the local music scene – as he should have done – but then at one point pivoted and stared at me with his glazed eyes.

The line I remember – and he didn't say much – was drawn out menacingly: “unlike what our friends in the meeeedia say . . .”

I think when things broke up I had one drink and got out of there.

To his great credit Murdoch never mentioned it again and although my dealing with him were few he was warm towards me.

Towards the end of his life he even asked if I could write his memoir with him. Unfortunately his memory was failing – he couldn't remember Joni's name when he told a story and rang me the next day with it.

My first awards night was memorable for all kinds of wrong reasons but . . . I just kept doing what I did and went to most of the awards over the next 25 or so years. Still going actually, even got an award from some entertainment operators association for my support of the local industry. It's a massive block of metal.

I did wonder much later however if Colin had set me up to do the story he wouldn't or couldn't do.

But that's just silly.

Journalists aren't sneaky.

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These entries are of little consequence to anyone other than me Graham Reid, the author of this site, and maybe my family, researchers and those with too much time on their hands.

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