On Bach’s Bottom by Alex Chilton by Elizabeth Barker
Not too many years ago, I stole a rock star’s likeness for my novel and then he asked me on a date. He’s the singer for a band I’ve loved since I was 14, one of the most enduring infatuations of my life. The character I based on him was very minor: my protagonist’s most adored ex-boyfriend, who wore beaded necklaces and ate his ice cream from the pint, with a butter knife instead of a spoon. He existed in flashbacks where kids drank warm beer on back porches in the New England summertime, Rickie Lee Jones on the radio. In one scene he dragged his finger through the melted frosting of a lemon danish, on a front stoop on a Sunday morning when he and his girl had barely slept and both had exciting hair, unwashed and ocean-salty.