Andy Seifert

Another missed call, another voicemail. I call my mailbox, and the message is twistedly ominous: just distant laughter, not particularly threatening but completely unrecognizable. I check to see the number, and the caller ID identifies the culprit. "David Vandervelde," it says, as in the mellow folk-rocker from Michigan, a mid-afternoon act at Lollapalooza 2007 and the dude I just interviewed for a story via cell phone a week ago. Though he seems like a classy, laid-back guy, I wouldn't call myself "friends" with David Vandervelde, unless you consider a fifteen-minute phone interview (with bad cell reception) grounds for friendship. There's no explicit reason for him to call and leave such a cryptic message. I am really, really confused.

Two days later, my phone buzzes again with "David Vandervelde" lit up on the screen. I'm ready to answer this time—I'm thinking, "What the hell is this all about?”—and Mr. Vandervelde seems a little surprised that I picked up the phone. "Oh, hey. Andy, right?" he says. "Yeah," I say. "Uh, what's up?" "I called the other day since I didn't recognize your number in my phone," he says. "And I got your voicemail, and it's absolutely hilarious, man. Could I call back and just get that? I really want some guys to hear it."

My voicemail used to be epic: the music of Ace of Base's 1995 hit "Beautiful Life," except with me singing along and encouraging listeners to leave their name and number ("It's a beautiful life, so leave a message," was the chorus), but that got a little old, and a change had to be made after some accusations that it was too unprofessional (and too off-key). My new voicemail poked fun at my cellular critics; "Hi, this is Andy, and I am a complete and utter professional. Please leave a message of five to seven words, and I will reward you with my time," I say, before very awkwardly adding, "Keep it real?" Apparently Vandervelde can't get enough of my goofy, clumsy attempt at humor.

I oblige to his request, and think that's the end of it. I'm dead wrong—another missed call from Vandervelde the next day. And then, the next night, as I'm climbing into bed, Vandervelde strikes again. "Hello?" I answer. "Oh, geez!" says a muffled voice, with giddy laughter from what sounds like a small army of listeners. He hangs up quickly, probably thinking I'm a little irritated by now. Should I feel honored, I wondered? A somewhat well-known indie-rock star is virtually prank-calling me—how often does that happen? Did the Allman Brothers persistently call Ben Fong-Torres to get his killer answering machine? Well, anyhow, I'm fine with it, David, if you're reading this. And if you're willing to somehow land me a record deal, I can supply you with an endless stream of clever voicemails.

(2008-08-26)

Also by Andy Seifert

Who You Gonna Call?
"Bill Murray is circling in the air," a female announcer says, somewhat nonchalantly for such a one-of-a-kind statement. Murray is so high that no one can spot him, but he can see all of us. He's sort of like God
(2008-08-19)

Soundcheck
Other than the usual adventures with sex and drugs, a sure-fire way to pick up rock-star credibility these days is to become homeless, a tactic pioneered quite brilliantly by Kurt Cobain in the years before he sold twenty-six million copies of "Nevermind." Evidentially, getting kicked out of your apartment is a great marketing tool, at least that's the hope for David Vandervelde, who's spent the last couple of years without a permanent home, going from Chicago to his parents house to Brooklyn to his current, hopefully permanent stay in Nashville
(2008-07-22)

School of Thought
When retired Northwestern professor David Hull sat down to write his memoirs with the aid of forty scrapbooks to help remind him of his past, he couldn't stop remembering things that had been lodged in the back of his mind and forgotten for years. "I didn't think it'd come to four volumes," he says
(2008-06-24)

Rise Up
Oh, the horror! Zombies, zombies everywhere! The dead have risen in Millennium Park and the only food that can give these pasty-white corpses any sustenance are the brains of these poor, unsuspecting tourists. Except for these four female teenage zombies, who are snacking on peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches and Sunny Delight
(2008-06-24)

To El and Back
(2008-06-17)

Soundcheck
(2008-06-17)

Avian vs. Skyscraper
(2008-05-27)

Right of Way
(2008-04-22)

Tip of the Week
(2008-04-15)

Professor of Play
(2008-04-01)

Lights Out
(2008-04-01)

Wheel Time
(2008-03-25)

about Newcitychicago | about Newcity magazine | advertising | privacy policy | FAQ | employment