Entry 2:

Robert Santelli warned us that our future would be no lazy road. Discussing our new work situation last year, the museum's director and CEO told Eric and me that life at Experience Music Project would be exciting, full of possibilities, and seriously full of work. Robert Santelli is a man of his word. Since we arrived, E and I have been plunged into this institution's complex web of activities, which range from staging major exhibits on music history to conducting oral histories with music pioneers, to debating whether we can name the sandwiches served in the Turntable restaurant after pop stars without violating their intellectual property rights. In one recent four-day stretch, I hosted a members' evening all about Elvis and Graceland, helped run a youth forum on pop music and self-image, introduced a panel on local women entrepreneurs, and emceed a night of singer-songwriters in the round. And that's just the public stuff; even more challenging is learning new terms like "accession" (the process of receiving and documenting an artifact) or "Zolotone" (a speckly kind of paint that makes museum cases look really cool).         

Today was a typical buzzy Monday, full of meetings and e-mail exchanges and big debates held over the Xerox machine. As with my old job, reviewing concerts, this one has its mundane side. In my New York Times days, the boring parts involved fighting for a good view at downtown nightclubs and trying to think up metaphors for describing bands' endless variations on "Hello, New York!" Now I have another gig that generates gushing admiration from strangers: Oooh, that must be so fun! And it is, endless fun, but this morning I watched a presentation on some of the finer points of purchasing agreements, and this afternoon I engaged in lengthy circular conversation about how to divide 40 phone calls among three curators for our fall exhibition on disco. What seems glamorous from afar is as normal as life when you get close.

Speaking of that afternoon discussion, which involved Eric (Weisbard, by the way—"What, I don't get a last name?" he exclaimed after reading yesterday's diary entry), one unusual aspect of the day at EMP is working with my mate. We've long led a bicycle-built-for-two life in the rarefied field of rock criticism. In NYC we had home offices, he on the third floor of our 14-foot-wide row house, me off the little garden. We'd meet in the kitchen for snacks and arguments. Now, however, we're in the same staff meetings, trying to walk the tightrope between colleague and confidant. It's challenging, and I haven't completely learned to resist calling him "honey" when I'm disagreeing with him in front of a roomful of our co-workers.         

There's a lot more than that for me to learn at EMP, from the nuances of museum exhibitry to Office Etiquette 101. I worked in my house for five years, staying in my yoga clothes until showering in time for the evening's concert, spending long hours in insular silence (except for the occasional Eric break), not concerning myself with procedures beyond the Times stylebook. Once a month I'd head into a culture department meeting, what a novelty! Now I am mastering Outlook, eProject, PowerPoint, spreadsheets, and (I hope!) common courtesy. I shower in the mornings and wear real clothes.         

Luckily, I work with a dream crew, folks with enormous experience and skill who aren't showoffs or power players. Of course there's bitching and hallway whispering—that's humanity. Yet generally the mood is generous, which, I think, comes from the museum's youth: We're all in this strange new game together, trying to figure out what a rock and roll museum can be. Cleveland's Rock and Roll Hall of Fame set the precedent, and many regional music museums do their heritage proud. But from the Frank Gehry architecture on down, EMP is striving for a new shape to suit the rush of rock. Not all of our experiments work—there's the famous case of the Soundgarden touring van, purchased before the museum doors were installed, through which it cannot fit—but even the flaws fascinate me right now. As a critic, I was in the habit of thinking about music in certain ways. EMP turns those ways on its head.         

So yes, in some ways this is an ordinary office job, but in other ways this is a grand experiment. At our best, the EMP crew approaches it that way. People come from all sorts of backgrounds here, from science centers and record labels, from dot-coms and jazz bands. We're all breaking out of our bubbles, trying to do what some say is impossible: to capture that ever-moving essence of music without smothering it.         

Tomorrow: a museum tour I'm co-hosting takes me inside the smashed guitar (that's what some people think it looks like!).