Friends met Lou Reed in Christchurch on the Rock'n'Roll Animal tour, and reported darkly that the great man was not someone you wanted to spend any time with in a room, unless there were six doors in that room to escape through.
So when the tour promoters informed The Evening Star Lou would be available for interviews at Wains Hotel here on the next tour, I decided to pass.
A breathless young girl who had just joined the paper thrust her hand high in the air and got the job.
At 4pm on Lou Reed Interview Day, I was sitting in my music store thinking Lou Reed was at that very minute beginning a series of interviews only five blocks away, and why on Earth wasn't I there?
I could add in my defence I also turned down an interview with Keith Richards, but that's another story for another time.
Anyway, reason prevailed, and I closed the store and walked very quickly to the hotel.
When I got there, the Evening Star ingenue had already left after being roundly abused.
Another media woman was in the foyer sobbing after being called the worst word you can call a woman; absolutely no need to say what it rhymes with.
When I asked the visibly distressed tour promoter if I could talk to Lou, he just pointed mutely at a door, as if there was a live crocodile inside.
So I went in.
Jim Mora, then at 4XO, was sitting next to the crocodile, who looked predictably impassive behind quintessential New York shades.
Jim was battling away with a series of thoroughly worthwhile questions, but Lou wasn't giving him much.
I sat on the other side, reasoning total silence was initially my wisest move.
Jim turned to the Christchurch concert the year before.
Lou had been thrown something on stage and he had caught it, disparagingly muttering a number before throwing it back.
What was that all about, asked Jim.
This was my chance.
Lou had told the thrower that he didn't use 25s, and as a diabetic, I knew he was talking syringe needle size, preferring 26s for their finer point.
In a brief fit of what I can retrospectively only call impertinence, I patronisingly explained this to Jim before Lou could open his mouth.
Lou turned to me, for the first time, and said: ''You are much more intelligent than HIM,'' pointing at Jim.
It was probably the finest moment of my life. Still, to this day, called intelligent by the man who wrote Pale Blue Eyes, and, um, quite a few good others.
They say you often get 15 minutes of fame in life.
I got 8 seconds.
Lou indicated a dishevelled denim figure slumped in a chair across the room.
''And that man over there is a roadie, and HE is much more intelligent than YOU,'' said Lou, jabbing his New York finger at my chest, a chest which now belonged to a man who was fast becoming whatever word it is that is more hapless than hapless.
''And do you know what roadies are?'' asked Lou.
Well of course I did.
But my brain had run into the room at the back of the skull house.
''What?'' I asked weakly.
''Roadies are shit,'' said Lou.
So there it was.
I was less intelligent than human excrement.
Lou Reed had said so and I had believed every word he had said for years.
Why stop now?
I think Jim left around then.
I stayed for about an hour, Lou made me listen to Metal Machine Music and gave me a review in Japanese to help me understand it.
I occasionally asked a question, which he usually ignored.
I noted my words seemed to be coming out of the side of my neck.
Worst music interview ever?
No, not at all, quite possibly the best.
It was Lou Reed.
• Roy Colbert is a Dunedin writer.
