Rock journalism isn’t for the faint of heart. Though my suburban relatives may think that my professional life is a playground filled with hedonistic delights, they’re only partly right. There is a part of The Rock Life that is seedy, dark and filled with tragic stories of squandered brilliance and the leeching and blood letting by industry barnacles, which renders one so drained that there is practically nothing left (note: see upcoming Ali biography). While music may soothe the savage beast, when the music’s over, the beasts remain and feed, making it treacherous. Might I add that if you’re a woman, the trenches of rock are doubly so.

Often a gig is a place where one is defined…if only for an evening. There are separate lines at the venue doors. One for ticket holders, one for vip/guest list. Then once shuffled through security and frisked and swabbed (tonight the bouncer asked me to open my mouth and checked for gum contraband), you are given wristbands. A flimsy paper one if you have credentials to drink…a plastic snap-on bracelet if you are press, a brighter colored plastic bracelet if you are VIP and if you are the artist, or someone catering to the artist, well then sometimes the bracelet has sparkles on it. Artists like sparkly things.

I rarely attend shows anymore if I’m not on the list. Part of it is sheer jaded stubbornness, and the other is that it is my job to be there I don’t want to be treated like shit while I’m doing my job, especially by people who don’t pay me.

Tonight, my only night off in a long time, and I’m at a music show. I’m there to support friends, but even a simple duck-in, watch and say hi night, turns into greeting and hand shaking, listening, commiserating and general networking…if I want to actually escape work I have to go to a baseball game. Even hiking in the canyons has become over run with schmooze.

Whether or not I’m on the list, the baton pass of the wristband is still a stressful and irksome issue. No matter how thorough an artist or publicist might be, often names are left off lists, press passes are lost and egos are bruised…I’ve been told by box office hussies that my boyfriend hadn’t put me on the list. I know rock wives who have been told the same. Once, an event I was hired to film for, wouldn’t let me into the photographer/camera galley for the performance. Have clip board and badge, will conquer. And oh how the persons-in-charge-for-two-hours love to wield it.

Case in point: At the Troubadour last month, the over zealous and often pointlessly aggressive security guards, refused to let Brad Wilk in to the club, minutes before he was supposed to perform. He tried to explain that, yes, he was on the list, and that he had permission from the night’s star performer and organizer, Tom Morello, to enter. Even chants from fans waiting in line, went unheeded as Brad was rudely turned away.

“Dude, that’s the drummer from Rage! You can’t turn him away!” one amazed fan yelled out.

“I don’t fucking care who he is. He touched my velvet rope. No one touches the rope except me.” bellowed the guard, drunk with his low wage power.

Of course, minutes later, when Tom rushed out trying to find his band mate, the security guards could see their error. But amazingly, they wouldn’t budge from their position.

“We’re doing our job!” was their excuse. Yes, and with a veracity that will someday be used by Homeland Security.

Whether you’re in Rage Against the Machine or no…being listed and wrist banded, sticky passed or given the grail of the lanyard laminate, doesn’t stop one from being hassled. My friend Lorelei, who was performing at the Fonda tonight, was brusquely stopped at the backstage door, even though she had been going in and out of it all day long.

One reason why I am choosy about my free time rock is because of these overzealous cro-magnums. There’s no reason for excessive force on anyone simply walking by a door. Why all the hate? Is this a management mandate? If so, why all the precaution? And for that matter, is it necessary to charge six dollars for a bottle of water? Or to charge a photographer two thousand dollars to take pictures of the opening band? The Wiltern wanted to charge me SEVEN THOUSAND DOLLARS to film my interview with Cut Chemist…in his dressing room! For seven grand, I’ll rent a helicopter, fill it with Veuve Cliquot and interview my subject above the city, dropping the remaining cash on pedestrians below.

Why do they make it so hard for the artists, the press, the fans, to simply go and enjoy the show?

And unfortunately, this b.s isn’t only at the larger venues. I’ve had similar annoying experiences at the small so-called hip clubs like Spaceland and Silverlake Lounge…they abuse their customers and they don’t even have decent sound. No, I say. No thank you.

Another barrier my fun often faces, is what I call the ‘press conflict’. I consider myself a journalist and writer. However as the dual role of on air talent as well as actress, I always try to highlight the artist and bring out their best. I’m not one to try to trip someone up or paint them in a bad light. If that negativity seeps through in an interview, it’s not for my lack of trying to keep it engaging and fun. There are just some artists and industry who see the interviewer as “The Enemy” as Jason Lee’s character named the kid in Almost Famous.

So while my job is to often get all access for the interview, or even if the artist is a dear friend that wants me side stage to watch, there always seems to be a gate keeper huffing essence of ego, who distrusts me because I am a) a journalist and/or b) a woman.

I don’t even want to get involved in the ‘groupie’ discussion, which is a label far worse than “The Enemy” - a slam that most of my female friends have to dodge, even if they are accomplished photographers, publicists or even bassists. A female backstage is often seen as both eye candy and a target for abuse, no matter how professional she may be.

Imagine the limitations my fellow music biz girlfriends have to face: Can you date a musician? Will anyone take you seriously if you do? Should you dress down and hide your assets so as not to make the wives uncomfortable or the married label dudes horny? If you are a female IN a band and you shred, should you not step into your light, literally or figuratively, for fear of upstaging one of your band mates? How many times have my girlfriends and I been condescended to and told we’re cute, or worse, accused of just trying to get laid, when we’re actually trying to do our job?

Okay, okay. it’s not always terrible to be recognized for your gender or beauty. An old boyfriend used to say “It’s when they STOP harassing you - that’s when you should be offended.” And that could be true, but it certainly does complicate the already shark infested waters that flow backstage.

After the show tonight, and after the after-party winded down, our wristbands turned into pumpkins…no one was Cinderella anymore - not even the headlining band. A guard harassed Jaz, the drummer of Swervedriver to drink his beer and get out. He stopped short of grabbing it out of Jaz’s hand, but not with out some menace laced threats. I was even less lucky. With no drink in my hand, I was given a withering stare that clearly undressed me and implied that I was currently superfluous, no matter how good I was at giving head. You see…whether there as a dear friend of a band member, a girlfriend or even a tv show host, I was persona non grata. That’s OK. the night wasn’t about me. My ego can handle the changing tide of wristband status…but to have spent over twenty bucks on bottled water and then insulted is far from cool. Then, while Film School and Swervedriver gathered their things, the club began to lock up and lock them out of their dressing rooms. How muchmoney did these bands make for the Fonda tonight? Is foreclosure styled
callousness really necessary.

So what next? After spending most of the night being dressed down by security, undressed by the eyes of biz big wigs and jostled to and fro, am I allowed to finally participate in fun? When offered to party on the bus, what do I say?

‘No thank you, I can’t fraternize with the subject’.

Or

‘No, it might look bad if I enjoy myself or, gasp, allow a tatty compliment tossed my way to actually land.’

What does a girl wearing high heeled boots and a cloak of dignity say? Does she let her guard down and enjoy the company of music men? Or does she separate herself from the ‘Artist’ the way the wristbands and guard rails have been doing all night long? If integrity is a guideline, where does the moral compass read at this point in time? And should a smart, attractive woman, who is confident that she is good at her job, ever care what others will say?

The rock chick in me says ‘fuck em.’ After all, Joan Jett doesn’t give a damn about her bad reputation.

But the college graduate in me, who has worked her ass off and suffered too many concussions from bumping her head on the glass ceiling, keeps a certain distance. The Rock Life is a marathon, and I’m pacing myself to win it.

Please enjoy the comedy stylings of Murs & MacLean…note: in solidarity of the writers strike, this interview was not scripted. If anyone wants to buy the rights to this slam dunk of a TV show, inquire within…

One of the perks of living in a high priced, high stress, high-octane city like LA or New York is The Warm Up Show. Often limited to friends and uber fans, or kept a secret until the last minute, the warm up show allows a bigger act to play in a small intimate setting and perform new material or just get the lead out of their rusty performance. As the summer ramps up for the onslaught of music festival mania, warm up shows start popping up in unexected places.

Last Saturday I joined Mia and her posse to head over to the Swinghouse party. Swinghouse Recording Studios throws these events once in a while which allows people to come down, have a few drinks and a few laughs and watch the bands that record and practice there either showcase or warm up for a tour.

The nice thing about Phil’s Swinghouse bashes is that they’re like a house party. The downer is that they are like a house party…whose address was posted on Facebook. Call me jadey, but there were way too many brown lipsticked lookieloos who were pushing their way in to see the bands, and triple fisting the free cocktails…if we were going to rate them on a groupie scale, well they would be the ones who eat all the steak. Getting trampled while trying to get an interview is so not filed under fun. And for what, valley girls? If you’re five inches closer is he really gonna sleep with you? Sigh, one of the hazards of an embedded music journalist.

I plowed my way to the middle of a small recording room for Electric Touch, a band I interviewed at Coachella. Far from a warm up show, ET weren’t exactly ‘cooling down’, though this was the finale of their week of LA dates. Their energetic poppy set which included covers of American Girl and Come Together. Now, it’s a rite of passage for a band to cover the Beatles, but I’m surprised by all the bands I’ve met lately that site Tom Petty as a big influence. It’s like the kids are finally listening to rock again. It’s encouraging to me, especially now that LA is drowning in robot music…and impressive, considering Petty’s rather disappointing Superbowl half time show.

Electric Touch

As I sat on an amp and listened to Voxhaul Broadcast and Astra Heights, I spied Adam 12 making his way through the clammy crowd. She Wants Revenge practices at Swinghouse. And not only do they have a new EP about to drop on some very happy Suicide Girl heads, but they’re moments away from going out on the Nylon Tour. The secret guest revealed.

For a band that has over-inked girls with Sailor Moon haircuts losing their freaking minds, Adam is sweet and decidedly low key. His fedora belies his down to earth and thoughtful cadence. (No offense to a man who accessorizes - normally I applaud - but so many LA douche bags wear fedoras) It’s good to see Adam taking back the hat.

Anyhow, no matter how much Adam tried to find a quiet place to prep, the crowd seemed to swell his way.In fact, on a rather chilly night, the room was moist with the scent of humid human in the air. Sure, an intimate secret show is something many girls dream about, but if I get jostled and trampled by the Shes who want She Wants Revenge, then the music portion of the night becomes a casualty.

Adam 12 and She Wants Revenge

Mia and her lingerie modeling friend and I decided to slip out of the Soylent Green smelling studios and take off early. Not something I would have been caught dead doing in the past, but as a retired hipster, I often get home before last call. As we tried to exit, Mia’s friend took an exaggerated pause by the door and scanned the smokers in a last ditch effort. I noted to her that many of them couldn’t afford to take her for dinner, let alone pay for Plan B. She wrinkled her nose. For her, this warm up show was more like luke warm.

Speaking of Luke…I had been remiss in making it out to see Luke, play. He’d invited me several times but I work most nights (and days too). Now, I’m not an industry prick tease. So I don’t say I’ll show up and then flake. If I’m due to cover another show or I’m overwhelmed and exhausted, I say ‘I probably wont make it’ or ‘I’ll try but I don’t know if it’s gonna happen’.

Note: This is how all industry types should conduct themselves, no matter what industry they work in. I don’t want to get all miss rock n roll manners on your asses, but for fuck’s sake! If you say you’ll do something, do it. Don’t lie. Don’t flake. If you can’t or don’t want to, just excuse yourself from the event.

Why lie about it? It’s like the agent that used to promise to read my scripts just so he could try to cop a feel. We both knew that no matter how much of my c cups I let him juggle, he was never going to read past the title page. Damn, I probably would’ve let him juggle if he had just been honest.

Anyways, back to your regularly scheduled blog…

When Luke invited me to see his band Hot Hot Heat play at The Grove, I was willing to make the 45 minute drive to Anaheim. It’s a known truth that I don’t dance very often at clubs. Justice just doesn’t move me. But if you drop something from Make Up The Breakdown, I’ll be on the dance floor like a shot. But then Luke explained that it wasn’t the venue, The Grove in Anaheim. No. It was the Grove at Third and Fairfax. Hot Hot Heat was playing at a MALL. Yes, they’re poppy. Yes, Steve Bays is cute in a kitten way…but a MALL? That seems a purgatory reserved for the Ace Young idol rejects of the world, not a well to do indie rock band.

If you haven’t been to The Grove mall in Los Angeles, it can best be described as why Al Quaeda hates us. Not only does the mall feature a train trolley that gives rides to weary shoppers walking the 500 yard length of the mall, but in the middle of this Disney-Dali shopping experience, there is a six million dollar water fountain. Why did it cost six million dollars? I’m glad you asked. The fountain spurts water in time to the musak, which is a list of barely bearable songs like ‘That’s Amore’. Money well spent.

The Grove

When I arrived, I noticed that they had constructed a bit stage…right over the water fountain. Because when you’re sending enough volts of energy to power a rock band with lots of amps, the best place to ground the entire stage is in a pool of water. Is the Grove trying to kill off Canadians one by one?

Stage over troubled water

Surprisingly, the place wasn’t as much of a indie zoo as I thought. Though there were a lot of Gen-Wii, Forever 21 tweens buzzing with excitement. But a far cry form the tat queens at Swinghouse…though I couldn’t help thinking…were these little Hello Kitty Heat lovers the sweaty Swinghouse girls of tomorrow?

Finally, Luke sauntered out on stage with Dustin and Paul and Le Petit Prince himself, Steve Bays. Despite the crazy kiddie pool, the warm up show was relaxed and the guys looked like they were having a lot of fun. The aftermath of a mall show? Lots and lots of homemade cupcakes and hot pink and purple bags filled with fuzzy things piled in the green room. A nice juxtaposition to the rows of bottles of whisky and beer. Which made for much more colorful fun.

And at the end of the day, fun is what it’s supposed to be about. Los Angeles often treats music like a competitive sport, so it’s nice when a show is just a show. Ironing out the kinks, playing some songs and having fun…even if it is at a mall. With cupcakes.

Tis the season of the warm up show. Let the fun begin.

The Little Prince of Victoria

Luke on his way to rock out

Made In Canada: Hot Hot Heat at the Grove Mall

All Along The Watchtower

Luke and Wooly, a gift from a fan.

Paige has great jugs. Mine are a little lopsided.

Hey Mr. DJ, put a record on…no really. I mean a fucking record. you know, those vinyl thingies that old timey people used to play?

While having dinner with Ian last night, the topic of dj culture came up. The electro, hose, nu-rave scene has burst like a serato pinata here in LA, and in NYC as well. Now, I’m always a champion for new music and creative outlets…but it seems to me there is a glut in the market. It’s like that Jack Black joke in the Tenacious D pilot, about aspiring musicians… (paraphrasing) “if you suck, and we ask you to stop, you must stop!” Lately I can’t walk into a bar without screaming FOR THE LOVE OF KRISHNA, PUT THE I POD DOWN!

It seems that with the nightly dance parties in heavy supply, anyone, and I do mean anyone, with a laptop and i tunes is now a DJ. So where does that leave the DJs who have been doing it for years? What does it mean to be a DJ? Is it style? Are you a DJ if you can scratch? Is it substance? Does being a DJ constitute having a good selection and crate digging your heart out? Or can you get by if you get the crowd to dance by playing Thriller and Justice off your Nano? And is it any great feat to get a bunch of kids cracked out on Sparks to sway and slam to a beat? Ugh.

Does a good music producer make for the best DJ? Or is it shiny stickers spelling out your name on the back of your laptop? I’m an on air radio DJ and I spin at some of the local clubs, in between bands. I spin mostly rock and punk, so I don’t get asked to be on the hipster club bills. Does this make me less of a DJ? OK, don’t answer that last question.

Ian mentioned that some of these club promoters/indie label owners/hipsters in American Apparel DJs, have their own booking agent. And big time bookers too. What makes someone pay thousands of dollars to have a specific DJ flown in for a party? Is it name recognition? Does a lot of website party photo ops constitute recognition? Or do you need to be seen walking the red carpet with the Good Charlotte boys? And why do some of these hipster dj duos think that they’re famous?

One unnamed duo, who have recently gotten a bit of local hype, claim that their fame is wearing on them. Heavy is the head that wears the black leather fedora. Woe is the electro boy in a Members Only jacket. Too much fame! How do they get up everyday and lace their free Puma kicks? Now I’m sure you couldn’t pick them out of a line up. Nor are they gracing the covers of any magazines. In fact, if you took them out of the insular LA/NYC scene, no one would know who they are. But they behave that their lazy re-mixes are an art form so great that they should be given the VIP treatment wherever they go. I smile as I wonder how long these ‘famous’ guys would last in a spin off versus someone like Pete Rock.

Which begs the question: Is DJing an art form? What does it take to make something art? By playing someone else’s music, are you then too a musician? How much do you have to change a piece of music to make it your own? How many seconds of a sample can you use in order to patchwork together a song? Is cutting together a track of samples any less artful than editing sound of instruments being played in a studio?

In my moonlighting as a clothing designer for Rock-N-Role, I take vintage cast offs, de-construct them and make them into something new. I consider that designing, but I’m sure the people at Parsons would consider it cheating or whatnot. One of my favorite artists, Banksy, often takes pre-existing works and adds his own cheeky flair. Is that not real art?

If you’re a DJ with your own album out, ala Junkie XL, or Cut Chemist, does that set you apart from the popular kids who speed up a Justice track and call it a new mix? Where does the line get drawn? I believe that the great Steinski is an artist the way he blends together bits and pieces of old movie quotes, Zapruder film audio and beats…but he can’t legally sell The Lessons. So sales and charting can’t be the only measure of a man (or woman).

Someone like Shadow, who can keep a crowd going and has a flair for ’spinning plates’, certainly earns the respect and worship of many…but is his art form cheapened by an up and comer serato spinner in a hyphy crunk hoodie and neon wayfarers? Or is there room for both?

A lot of the old school dj/turntablists that I’ve interviewed are very careful not to slam serato. “It means I don’t have to carry 80 pounds worth of records on the airplane with me.” said one. But they do say that you can’t polish a turd; meaning if you kill on the decks with 45s, then you’ll be great with serato. If you don’t know what you’re doing, you will still suck. Technology can sink or swim you.

I personally give more respect to the record collectors, or ‘vinyl trekkies’ as Kid Koala calls them. Spending hours and hours at odd hours, digging through dusty crates connotes a certain commitment to the craft, as well as an obvious love for music and sense of musical history. But is any of that important when faced with 200 electro/emo hispters who ‘just wanna dance’? What do you play to those kids…what you like or what they want to hear? And whatever happened to street cred?

I’m just playing hipster’s advocate here, trying to get a discussion going…

…but it seems to me that a lot of these new DJs are in it for fashion…or perhaps because it pays better than working at Urban Outfitters and the hours and drugs are the perks they’re looking for. How many of the new DJS consider what they’re doing an actual craft or career, and how many are just in it to be pimped by Scion or Nylon. If we could send a camera crew to each of their homes, would we find them listening to music in their off hours? I mean really listening to music. Pushing their boundaries and searching for the next sample that will blow our minds.

Speaking of blowing minds, I couldn’t discuss the tables without including this from Kid Koala…he plays a record like it were a violin. And he spins without headphones! If this is an art form, Koala is masterful:

The 2008 Air Guitar tour starts next month in a kitschy club near you

Before another air chord is struck, let’s all reflect on last year’s finals in Los Angeles, with yours truly covering the event:

from www.agletproductions posted with vodpod

http://www.usairguitar.com/tickets.htm

More interviews, more hot content, more Ali for your eyes to feast on.

A Tribe Called Quest:

The Pharcyde (part one of two):

Supernatural @ Rock The Bells Press Conference:

Flogging Molly (part one of five):

posted with vodpod

Hanging with DJ Zegon and Squeak E Clean at their studio:

Really? TMZ is considered a real news program? Well, now, we’ve already figured out that CNN, Fox and other “news” programs are heavy on the program part and are delighted if some news seeps in…but this is just horrendous.

Our nation is already teetering on the ridiculous. If TMZ is our source for news, I do believe the UN can rightfully “quit” us. Even if Bush tried to quit them first.

So where shall we go for our news? Most Americans already get their political fix from two COMEDY shows (Stewart and Colbert). Do we really need to allow TMZ more freedom and help them in the dumbing down of America?

Now I realize that I am considered by many to be in the infotainment biz…you may say that it’s the pot calling the kettle noir. But I do think of myself as smarter than the average bear. Which is why this story makes me nauseated. Where can one move to now, in order to secede from the United States of Tabloid Dummies?

If anyone knows, email me…I’m looking for an apartment there.

FCC: Telepictures Productions’ TMZ Is a News Program

Federal Communications Commission Also Rules that Interview Portions of 700 Club Are Exempt from Equal Opportunities Clause

By John Eggerton — Broadcasting & Cable, 5/2/2008 1:03:00 PM

The Federal Communications Commission ruled that Telepictures Productions‘ syndicated magazine show, TMZ, can feature candidates for public office without automatically invoking the FCC rule that requires stations to offer up airtime to other candidates. But it warned that stations were still on the hook if an appearance was deemed to be for the purpose of advantaging one candidate over the other.

The FCC requires that any licensee that features a legally qualified candidate for public office on its air must offer the same opportunity to other candidates, but there is an exception for “bona fide” news programs.

The commission ruled in 1988 that Entertainment Tonight was such a program, and Telepictures sought the same ruling for its syndicated magazine show.

“Based on the record before us,” the FCC said, “we conclude that TMZ does qualify as a bona fide newscast because it reports news of some area of current events in a manner similar to more traditional newscasts. In addition, we have no evidence before us of bad faith or unreasonableness on the part of Telepictures.”

But the agency also pointed out that the stations, not Telepictures, are ultimately responsible for making the call as to whether a particular appearance by a candidate is news. “The licensees of the stations on which the subject program airs remain ultimately responsible for a determination to air a particular program and should not do so for the political advantage of a candidate for public office,” it added.

Telepictures assured the FCC that it made its calls on candidate appearances based on newsworthiness and not on any political agenda.

The FCC also ruled Friday that the news segments and interviews on Christian Broadcasting Network’s 700 Club — which airs on TV stations as well as ABC Family — are also a bona fide news program exempt from the equal opportunities rule.

That show is hosted by Pat Robertson, himself once a presidential candidate.

But the commission stopped short of declaring the entire program exempt. CBN had asked that the whole show be exempt, but absent that, it wanted the interviews and news segments to get the exemption. The FCC chose the latter.

MAY DAY! Weiland’s Pilots crash at Jimmy Kimmel

The mid nineties remind me of crazier days, when I had a two seater beater sports car that I drove way too fast. My friends and I wrote on our arms, riot grrrl style and picked fights with poor unsuspecting bimbos at clubs. I was doing stand up back then and moonlighting as a writer at MTV, when I could make it into the office sans hangover…you see, coming up the comedy ranks doesn’t pay well, unless you use the currency of drink tickets to your advantage; dinner was often dirty martinis with extra olives.

I was a complete maniac. A twister that even Bill Paxton would have trouble keeping down.

Back then everything seemed possible, yet it was cool to grouse about how reality bit and how some day everyone would be sorry when we had our own sit com.

Obviously things have drastically changed. Kurt is gone, Courtney went Hollywood, My Toyota bit the dust and well, I’m not drinking my dinner anymore. But since this is the day and age of the “Comeback tour” , The Re-union Tour” or the “I’m so completely fucked I’m going to dance with the stars or be watched by Big Brother, Reality Tour”. So if these guys can bring back the grunge, whether in Marc Jacobs jeans and flannels or in person, then I surely can have a couple too many. Right?

Backstage at Kimmel is always a freak show or Jackass parade. The green room is set up for debauchery with it’s free sushi and free booze, playstations, pool tables and hungry eyed groupies. I have the fortune of being friends with the writers, some old MTV/VH! pals, and the booker, Scott, so I can walk a couple blocks for a show every now and then. I don’t go that often now, unless I know the band, because frankly the crowd bums me out. That might sound like class A snobbery, but it’s just the plain truth. They’re not there for the music, they’re there to touch the band or push something on them. Hell, if I’m being completely honest, sometimes I’m there for the sushi, but I digress.

Tonight the crowd could be distinctively divided into two camps. The “Dude! STP! Sweet!” camp and the “P. Diddy in the hizzouse!” camp. It was like the jets and the sharks on ABC turf. Wildly entertaining. Though the only people who were in danger of getting cut were those who stood in the way of the food table as ravenous post grungites descended upon it like zombies on a naked co-ed.

The crowd got restless as P. puffy diddy combsey sat for two or three interview segments. He fascinates me for only one reason: the man has successfully infiltrated the music, fashion, movie and vodka industries and is worth more than Midas, but still sounds like he has to prove himself. Every interview I see him do, his bravado swagger sounds more like begging to be part of the cool crowd. It’s like a pop psychology playground, getting in that ego and playing around in all the dark corners that seep out as he promotes his latest dvd/cd/clothing line/distillery. A true example of success NEVER BEING ENOUGH if you don’t love yourself. Diddy, you now have a star on the walk of fame. I know you want an Oscar. Then what? When can you rest? When can you just take a moment and say, “That’ll do, Puffy.” True, you’d be talking about yourself in the third person, but you seem to be comfortable with that anyways.

My friend and I joined the fray when the rental gaurds cleared the green room guests to walk outside. Security is very tight in the green room. However, outside one could disembowel a few toddlers and it’s all good.  As the grunge natives and 909ers milled about outside, finally the reunited STP took the stage.

Now, I was more of a Pixies fan, Radiohead fan, Nirvana and Soundgarden fan back in the day. But it amazes me how I knew all the words to all of their songs. You can chalk that up to a steady diet of KROQ back in the day (my car tape deck was often broken) or perhaps I’m a true Pilot fan deep underneath…I think it’s the former. But watching skinny Scott Weiland, dressed like a Bret Easton Ellis Less Tan Zero casualty, slither around with a Jagger finger waghere and there combined with a weird Travolta shuffle, and it took me right back to that time when the true essence of my posse was “I drink, therefore I am.”

The brothers looked ecstatic to be back onstage playing their songs. And the crowd was going nuts…as for Scott? Scott looked like a man who was on a binge before he was headed back to prison. Yes, before he goes on his big reunion world tour, Scott is spending a few weeks in the slammer.

I honestly think that might be the best thing for him. With hundred of thousands of people screaming his name and dozens of enablers ready to help him wallow in excess, a few weeks of solace might just be the thing that keeps him alive on this tour.

After an encore, the band joined hands and bowed before the crowd as chants of STP rang out through the Hollywood air. Then the band lef tthe stage…errr, most of the band. Scottie just stood there, smoking a cigarette. The crew wasn’t sure what to do. ‘Can we strike the set with a rock star still standing on it?’ The band looked back at their lead singer and a bit of panic rose in their eyes…what is he going to do? How will this be spun on TMZ or Blender.com tomorrow?

Scott just gazed out at the crowd, almost like we were the act of the night and he was the sole audience member. Maybe he wanted to get a good look at all the faces he;s been missing over the years…or maybe one of the pills just had kicked in…

Finally he wandered off stage, as one would after being spun around on a tire swing at the park. Immediately the guards went in lock down mode and all of us vip wristbanded guests were turned away at the green room door. “The Green Room is closed for the night!” an overzealous guard yelled. The subtext scrawled under his thought bubble “So the publicists can get the band in a secure location and start spinning this shit into a golden yarn of rock god proportions.”

Yeah, he was pretty fucked up.

If I come off as a teetotaler wimp, don’t write me off yet. I had three glasses of something containing alcohol and the effects will wear on my immune system for days. Every headache and every grouchy phrase I utter will bring me back to my days as a riot grrl wild child and will ultimately make me think “Jesus, I hope Scott Weiland is going to be ok.”

I covered the red carpet at the first annual NME USA awards last Wednesday.

For those of you not familiar with NME, it’s a huge music mag in the UK…kind of like their Spin or Rolling Stone magazine. They have an awards show over there and now they’re bringing it stateside.

The trophies were handed out at the historic El Rey on Wilshire. Aussie comic Jim Jeffries was the master of ceremonies and Har Mar Superstar did some hosting too, as well as opening the show.

I spoke with Kelly Osborne, Danny Masterson, Eli Roth and other curious choices for award presenters.

Note: NO ONE wanted to interview Perez Hilton. In fact the flashbulbs ceased as soon as he stepped onto the red carpet. He stood around waiting for someone to ask his opinion on something…he’s still waiting, as far as I know. I heard that he is suing someone in FLA for defamation of character…this from the guy who is making a living off slagging others. Karma’s a bitch, Perez. Now, please go away.

I practically swallowed my tongue when I got to speak with Mick Jones of The Clash who was receiving the Inspiration Award. Like most rocknroll lovers, I am a HUGE Clash fan. When I asked him what inspired him, he let me in on his hobby- creating collages. Who knew a member of the Clash is a scrapbooker? Joanns Fabrics should expect an increase in sales to punk tykes and hipster crafters soon.

The big story of the night was the reunion of all four members of Janes Addiction. I had seen Perry and Dave Navarro play with Flea on bass and Stuart Copeland on drums the week before at Tom Morello’s Justice Tour all star show (I know, I know. Heavy is the head that wears the hub cap diamond star halo), so I wasn’t frothing at the mouth (like Danny Masterson was).

No, I was more excited to meet Mick…and this gentleman, who is one of my all time favorites…

Mr. Alice Cooper:

from vlaze.com posted with vodpod

I heart Alice. I want Cold Ethyl to be my first dance wedding song…is that creepy?