In 2000, my band, Luna, was booked for our very first network-television appearance after eight years and five albums together. We played a kind of spacey twin-guitar rock 'n' roll—with the "roll" being just as important as the "rock"—that was probably best suited for late-night listening. We had sold out clubs all over the country, but we'd never had a bona fide radio hit. Our biggest album, Bewitched, sold about 100,000 copies in the U.S.—good numbers for a book, but not for a massive record company. We'd just lost our major-label deal with Elektra, been dropped by our publisher, and been let go by our accountant. As if this wasn't enough, our bass player quit rock 'n' roll for good and flew home to New Zealand.

We flew out to Los Angeles to tape the show, Later with Cynthia Garrett, in the studio next door to The Tonight Show. Our audience consisted of people who couldn't get tickets for Leno. We played two songs and did an awkward interview.

"How do you guys keep going?" Cynthia asked.

It sounded like an insult. Wasn't she really saying, "You've never had a gold record—why don't you just throw in the towel?" I wanted to ask her how a former VH1 host gets her own late-night network-TV show.

"What advice would you give to young people about having career longevity?" she asked.

"Go to law school," I said.

A few months before, Britta Phillips had driven from Pennsylvania to New York City to audition to be our new bass player. Britta walked into our rented rehearsal room wearing corduroy jeans, her hair cut in a bob. She was very feminine and gorgeous in a Scandinavian way, with high cheekbones and big, green eyes. Her bass was a fiesta-red Fender Precision, a classic seventies reissue.

After all the auditions, my bandmates and I stood outside on Avenue A to pick our new bassist. Our drummer, Lee, was sure that we should hire Britta. I was leaning that way. Sean, who played guitar, was on the fence. This was as close to a unanimous decision as we were going to get. It would be the first time a girl was part of our lineup.

"Listen," I said. "No hanky-panky. If anyone gets involved with her, they're out of the band."

I think I was joking. Perhaps I was half-joking. Perhaps I was dead serious.

Britta's first real show with the band was in Boston. She was perfect. And our show in D.C. got a good review in the next day's Washington Post, which mentioned the "beguiling Britta Phillips" on bass. That made me feel proud.

From D.C., we flew to Seattle, where we stayed at the Travelodge by the Space Needle for the hundredth time. I was feeling a little lonely and fragile, and I missed my son, Jack, who was now eight months old and lived back in New York with my wife of seven years, Claudia. I had met Claudia while performing in a high school play in 1980, and we both ended up going to Harvard.