WARREN ZEVON: Buy This Magazine Because Of Him!

Warren Zevon has perfected the art of squirming without perceptible movement. Crumpled on a couch in a windowless record company boxroom, the man with the best name in pop sits by my tape machine like a rich lady’s mongrel told against its better judgement to stay.

“I’ve actually been failing at being an interviewee somewhat,” he says, his voice all apology. ‘‘And I’ve been doing this for a week now.”

Hell, I don’t take it personally. No one said you had to be able to say why you do it and how you do it so long as you do it, and Zevon’s always done it pretty darn well. Anyway, it’s bucketing down outside, London smells like a tramp pissing on a gas station, and if you’ve got to be stuck in a lifeboat with someone, it might as well be someone who’s smart and fatalistic, doesn’t take up much room and who’s very, very dry.