A Very Raging Christmas – Crap Music Is Over, If You Want It

In a land far, far away, called Great Britain a yearly war wages every winter. In this magical Narnian Isle, music is still a viable commodity taken very seriously. Their denizens actually record new holiday songs every season in the hopes of having the top Christmas single of the year.

We cynics across the pond are fine to do with the recycled, rehashed songbooks – over the river and through the wood, decking the halls and all that. Why would you need MORE freaking Christmas? A trip outside for a few hours on Black Friday and we’re drowning in so much Christmas it’s enough to move to the Aboriginal outback.

But England doesn’t mess around. Music and Christmas are a very serious thing. I mean, they still have music programming on TV, AND the government pays for some of it. Can you imagine if our government gave PBS money to make old school MTV styled programming? I might actually still want to live here.

Yes, England gets downright fervent about music, specifically the ‘single’. Especially when it comes to the OZ like machinery of Simon Cowell and company, who pump out yearly soft rock balladeers with their contest shows like Pop Idol and X Factor.  Yes, we have our American Idol, but it pales in comparison to the juggernaut that X Factor brings to the UK every year.

I was treated to the wonders of X Factor this October when I was staying in London. I politely watched with some fervent friends over Sunday roast and found myself drawn in by a bigger, cattier, more sordid and maudlin type of idol where the judges mentor the contestants, take sides and cut each other down so furiously I’m surprised they’re not allowed swords onstage. I have to admit I did get a little hooked. OK, a lot. It wasn’t the music, which was mostly dreadful. It was the huge soppy spectacle of it.

X Factor Judges

But truly music is the loser in this scenario, if it’s nothing more than a soapbox stump for Rhianna or Janet to pimp their new album, in between green faced kids being forced to sing George Michael covers. The winner of this contest releases a single and that song, most likely, goes on to be the Christmas single winner, no doubt to be over played through out the holiday season and beyond, knocking struggling bands off the charts and out of our memories as the new year chimes in.

This year’s X Factor winner, pie eyed Joe McElderry is an 18 year old Geordie accented charmer with a lilting, soaring voice who is as sweet as a Disney cartoon heroine. Blech. They even chose for his first single, the Christmas single in question, to be ‘The Climb’, a Miley Cyrus cover. Jesus. Come on, England! Throw some tea overboard!

Well, Jon Morter for this revolting enough to do something.  Sick of the slick promotional big label machine and the ‘crap’ it pumps out, he decided to take a stand and protest by simply using social media. Jon made a Facebook page called RAGE AGAINST THE MACHINE FOR CHRISTMAS NO.1. On the page he asked the fans to buy his favorite band’s 1994 single, Killing In The Name Of, instead of X Factor Joe McElderry’s new Cyrus single “The Climb”.

The kid, Joe McElderry, seems nice enough – benign in a musical theater, syrupy sweet kind of way. He wasn’t even my choice to win the thing – I would have gone with the song and dance man Olly Murs, if I were holding a UK green card, but there I go, tipping my hand as someone who has seen enough of the show to care.

The fact is, there has always been pop music that was put together in a board room. Girl groups formed in the offices of the Brill Building weren’t exactly an organic creative process but still some of the best songs ever sung.

So some pop music can’t be denied, even if the singer didn’t pen the song themselves…but the pervasive problem today, it seems, is the onslaught of boy bands and mall makeovers done on any kid with half a voice who are put on diet pills and thrust into the spot light like Three Octave Barbie.  In a month their CD, filled with tuneless drivel, is overstocked at Walmart and outselling the grassroots band that actually writes music.

If you throw money and PR at a turd, the public will spend money on it. Sheeple are Sheeple, as the D Mode song goes…and the loser is not only the smaller musician out there, but ultimately the music listening public.

Enter Rage Against The Machine. Now they were invited to the party, unbeknownst to them, not because they are a small unknown indie rock band. No, they are a huge successful act on Sony, the very same Goliath label that Cowell and McElderry call home. But RATM started from humble beginnings and won each of their hundreds of thousands of fans, one by one. Not from a television show contest, but by playing small gigs and then larger ones. By touring relentlessly. By making music. And yes, by being political loud mouths and standing up for the little guy.

In an interview with UK paper The Sun, RATM frontman Tom Morello stated: “It is a historic campaign to save the UK pop charts from the abyss of bland mediocrity and we’re 100 per cent behind it. It’s really amazing and completely a grassroots uprising. It’s not like the band put this forward, it was the people. I found out about it when some friends of mine from the UK texted me.”

As the race between the two tightened, things got more heated. And weirder. Cowell kept accusing Rage of being bullies. Then the Facebook page went down and suddenly thousands of fans were inexplicably lost. And of course there were rumblings that this was all just an underground ploy of Sony executives to drive up sales of both singles – a major payday for Sony either way.

However, to show that it wasn’t a Sony plot, Morello promised that the band would reunite and play a free concert for London fans if they were to win the number one spot. This earned him some scorn and harsh words from X Factor kingpin Simon Cowell, and fellow X Factor judge Cheryl Cole, a former member of all girl group Girls Aloud, who was Mc Elderry’s mentor on the show. Cheryl stated “If that song, or should I say campaign, by an American group is our Christmas Number 1, I’ll be gutted for Joe and our charts.”

Cheryl Cole and Joe McElderry on X Factor

Morello flattened Cowell and Cole’s jingoistic pleas for support of Geordie Joe.

“The X Factor song was written by a cabal of highly paid professional songwriters and was already made a hit by a pre-teen artists from the United States. That’s nothing I would feel too proud about hoisting the flag up on.”

“The X Factor suits have been pulling out every dirty trick in the book to get their single to No 1. They’ve been pressuring the big retail stores over the price of the single and there were some shenanigans that happened with the Facebook page where it went down mysteriously on the second day.

“Some of the things they are doing seem almost desperate and that’s because they’re afraid of the people.”

As the deadline neared for the tally, Joe was in the lead by a narrow margin. Tom Morello took to twitter and urged his online fans to download on itunes and help push Rage over the edge. They upped the ante by stating that they would be donating their proceeds from their Christmas single to charity. No Sony payout for the people who helped put Rage in the number one spot.

It looked as if Joe had the Xmas single sewed up, but in a Christmas miracle come from behind victory, the American revolutionaries toppled Cowell’s teen idol and took the number one spot. Davey had conquered Goliath!

Of course Cowell was ‘gutted’ for his protege, McElderry, but was gracious enough to concede the spot to a song with well over fifteen ‘fuck you’ s laden in the lyrics. Well done. Cowell supposedly even offered Jon Morter a job doing marketing for his music label, though that might just have been the PR equivalent of licking his wounds.

Whether or not you think that this contest of wills will actually change the stranglehold that Cowell and X Factor has on music, the fact is that this small group on Facebook has managed to raise 83,000 pounds (approximately $132,700) for the charity, Shelter, they’ve helped to break  two UK chart sales records…and it’s made music history and social media history.

It’s also an example that we do not have to sit idly by and listen to crap. Crap music is over, if you want it. If you don’t want it, turn it off. If you hate the television you keep seeing, turn it off. Or make your own. Vote with your dollar, your time and your energy. If you don’t like what is out there. DO NOT give it your time or energy. “I am listening to it cause it’s on” is no longer a viable option as we enter 2010 a supposed enlightened era. If you don’t like it, do something. If you can’t create an alternative, then at least turn it off.

When asked if they’d attempt to overthrow the Christmas No. 1 again next year, Jon and his team admit that it probably wouldn’t work again nor would they want it to. But they are most proud of the fact that they were able to motivate people to take a stand against mediocrity and change something in pop culture history.

On top of that, raising money for a good cause and making friends with their favorite band of all time…well that’s just part of the best Christmas gift ever.

Wolfmother Serves Epicenter Festival A Cosmic Egg, Sunny Side Up

The host hazy and dusty race tracks are not the normal habitat of wolves. No, I picture wolves living in the misty mountain hops of vampire infested forests up in Northern America. But I wasn’t interested in spotting your average wolves. I was jonesing to see the kind of hard rock wolves who are native to Australia’s open plains. Wolfmother. They will do just fine in Pomona’s Fairplex.

I kidnapped my British friend, Som, and we headed south, outside the comfortable political and social strata of Los Angeles county. for KROQ’s Epicenter Music Festival. This being the inaugural year, they nabbed headliners Tool, Linkin Park and Alice In Chains but upon arriving, it seems that not even metal/grunge/rock juggernauts could overpower an economy on life support. Of course there are always those with disposable incomes, or meth labs in their basements…

As the backstage area slowly filled with Monster energy drink abusers of all types, the gifting suite filled up with ear plug hawkers and a laser tag course (with air rifles) was constructed in the massive media/artist building. I was quickly and succinctly shot in the face by a man in a Return Of The Jedi shirt, who was on a laser shooting spree while carrying on a cell phone conversation. C’est la Pomona vie.

The dusty field slowly became dotted with barrel-chested men in black Tool shirts, Street Sweeper Social club were adequately received, save for a few boos lobbed at them when they made political statements about sending troops overseas to fight in Iraq. You’re not in Los Angeles, anymore, Morello. Click your Hollywood heels three times. These men like their guns. And my guess is they don’t want you to kill their grandma with healthcare options.

As Som sought out his friends in the band, Hollywood Undead, I managed to spot an Australian red backed wolf, in fact the leader of his pack. Andrew Stockdale and I sat in the back of the artist tent, near where the caterers were inexplicably serving up tray after tray of hot brussel sprouts…By the way, really? Brussel sprouts? How is that a rock n roll food? Like Linkin Park is gonna come rolling through and say “Oooh I’m gonna eat the crap outta those brussell sprouts!” But I digress…

Andrew and I lounged amidst the stench of rockin’ brussel sprouts and talked about his return to sunny LA, where the band had recorded their latest release, Cosmic Egg. Andrew wholeheartedly admitted that the October 13th drop date was a nod to my birthday. He knows better to disappoint me. I mean, he does live in the land down under, but LA is like his second home so he does have to worry about making me unhappy. And how did he feel about being back in his second home?

“I do like LA. I’m interested in all the different sides to it.”

Yeah, we know. Our city can be just as bi-polar as it’s inhabitants.  That’s why we self medicate or meditate. And speaking of our namaste ways, what of the folklore that Cosmic Egg was named after some crazy yoga pose Andrew found himself in?

“Yeah, I think it was some resting pose, I’m not sure. It could have been the fetal pose. It must have been a tripped out instructor for sure.”

Tripped out sounds about right. But the Cosmic Egg is also a Hindu symbol often used to describe what we call the big bang theory. Did that factor into naming the album?

“I was interested in something I read about black holes being the end of time but now they think they’re the beginning. So it’s the end of the beginning. Or, it’s a new universe. If that makes sense. I didn’t even know all that was behind the name when I heard it. I just thought it sounded cool!”

With all the talk about the beginning and the end of the universe, and 2012 quickly approaching, anyone who is still following he Mayan calendar would be getting a little uneasy. So is this the end of days? Or is the cosmic egg cracking open something wonderful and new?

“When I first started writing songs, there were a lot of environmental issues in the press and we did shows for lower emissions. So, some of my songs are about the end of the world. You know: ‘The sun’s getting closer! We’ve got to change our ways!’ But I’m glad there are only one or two songs in there like that. One of the songs is called ‘The Violence Of The Sun’…there’s nothing hippie about it. It’s this burning mass of destruction. The environment is violent. Evolution is violent.”

As out discussion starts to get farther from mysticism: (star showers, wolves, and eggs) and further into science and the temperature of the earth’s core, Andrew gets uneasy and balks.

“I don’t want to be overly intellectual about it.” He pauses and adjusts his grey vest. “Not that I could be.” He adds, laughing.

Well, then it seems that he’s come to the right place. I don’t want to generalize but after watching Boots Riley and Tom Morello get booed, the field outside seems to be a giant mass of duh being stirred up with beer and energy cocktails. Since when did it become uncool to be smart? Was it dummy pimps, like Palin, who made the intellectual a dirty name?

“You don’t have to be dumb,” Andrew starts out carefully, “but I think it’s important to be instinctive and expressive and have passion. That goes a long way. And not being too strategic too. I saw this thing on Picasso. He wanted to get one of his mistresses pregnant so she’d be less intellectual and more in tune with life.”

Point taken.  Intellect and instinct both have their place. And I am hereby doubling up on condoms. Just in case.

As his band mates begin to shuffle by and get ready to head toward the stage, I ask Andrew if he’s seen It Might Get Loud. He hasn’t yet, but we talk about Jimmy Page and Wolfmother’s big date, opening for Led Zeppelin when they were inducted into the Rock And Roll Hall Of Fame. I point out that they are most likely the last band to ever do so and that the pressure would drive someone like me to drink.

“I sat in the backstage area and played that solo (Communication Breakdown) about fifty times before we walked out there. The bizarre thing is that James Brown was there to induct himself and he looked over at me and I gave him a little wave and he waved back. He died the next day. It’s amazing. It’s like he stayed alive just for that.”

Andrew kind of pauses, lost in the moment. A cameraman tripping over himself in front of us brings Andrew back to storytelling mode.

“Anyway we went and did Communication Breakdown. My monitor on the stage stopped working. The sound was blaring. I couldn’t hear a thing so I thought I just better go for it. It was the highest I have ever sung in my life!”

I start to laugh, picturing Andrew’s already soaring voice reaching the outer galaxies. I mention to him that whales and dolphins across the seas were with him in spirit that day. He made a legion of marine life into Zep fans that day. He smiles at the thought. I think I might have just inspired some album art work or posters for the next round.

Andrew gets ready to rock the Pomonians, but before he does, I ask him one last question. If the epicenter is the point of an underground explosion, what does he think is the next underground explosion about to hit our culture?

“Aw, I haven’t even had time to think about good stuff like that. Easy listening? Bossanova! Like Jose Feliciano? Really beautiful bossanova music.

I tell him he could start the trend today. He’s got a big audience awaiting him with rapt attention.

“Yeah, maybe I’ll bring out the nylon string today.”

If anyone could pull it off, it would be Stockdale, who has managed to bring back a classic rock sound without aping the genre. Luckily for those about to rock out at the Epicenter Festival, Andrew and the wolf crew kept it hard and loud. Mixing some new blue cheer tunes like California Queen and New Moon Rising, with old popular Zep twinged tunes like Woman, White Unicorn and Dimension, the audience roared with a whole lotta love.

credit: Firecloud

The Cosmic egg was cracked and the kids gobbled it up and were left wanting more.

May I suggest maybe releasing a b–sides rarities album? Something with a dolphin on the cover.

Space Oddities – Looking For Rock In All The Weird Places

Space Oddities – Looking For Rock In All The Weird Places

by Ali MacLean

In this town, it’s easy to get jaded. Every club or party these days seems to need to top some pinnacle of bacchanale… a regular night with drinks and music just wont do. A warehouse rave is just ordinary. It has to be louder, harder, faster: rollerskating parties, dodgeball parties, plastic surgery parties, parties where you’re in a video game, parties where you come as your spirit animal, parties in a subway car, parties in the basement of the Ramada, Edward Scissorshands parties, staring contest parties…the weirder the better.

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And now rock shows are going by way of parties. It’s not enough to just stage something in any old raw space or polo field. First Fridays sets up songs next to stuffed Woolly Mammoths and dinosaur bones. Tom Morello raged against deus ex machinas in a Venice Church. DJ Squeak E Clean has dropped it like it’s hot at a Hollywood car wash while fashionista DJs The Misshapes have spun for the well heeled in an airplane hangar, complete with planes standing by.

It’s time to step it up to the realm of absolutely bizarre. Rock show in a cemetery? Check.

Glasvegas are known in Hollywood more for their cataclysmic buzz and for disappointing a sweaty Coachella crowd by their last minute cancellation. Tough it’d be odd to see these Scots in a searingly hot desert rather than in pissing rain. Perhaps that’s why their playing at the Hollywood Forever Cemetery just fit. But a show at a cemetery? It has to be some sort of sacrilege or at the very least a nuisance to those who haven’t quite crossed over. And seeing how out of control Angelinos can get when their basketball team wins. Do we really want to start a riot on a hell mouth just so some indie kids can rock out in a new, exciting way?

Traipsing over graves to get to the gig, I was already feeling guilty for looking for fun in a place of death. Maybe I’m not so goth or emo after all. I’ve been interested in seeing Glasvegas since NME editor Conor McNicholas recommended them to me last year, but with all the huge hype surrounding them, I was expecting to be disappointed.

The staid, upwardly mobile hipster crowd, waited patiently as the Glasvegas wake was delayed by nearly an hour. Finally, fresh off a stunt/gig at another strange venue (Las Vegas wedding chapel), James and Rab Allen took the stage in the Masonic Lodge, by walking down the crowded Hall and waiting for a crew dude to pull back a curtain hung on a wire. This crude set up revealed a gothic, yet etheral stage complete with an old wurli, a grand piano, white roses and a giant angel ice sculpture with a red broken heart. A perfect marriage for the Glasgow boys’ moody and soaring songs. Though some people in the crowd wondered aloud whether or not the rest of the band would join them, James and Rab kept it acoustic-ish and intimate, only pausing to bring up pianist Paul Cantelon for a rendition of “Stabbed”.

Glasvegas In the Masonic Lodge

James, channeling both Strummer and Costello in dark Ray Ban sunglasses, repeatedly asked for the lights onstage to be brightened as he tried to make out the keys of his Wurlitzer in only the glow of a film strip showing old movie stars and a rain of glitter. I suppose the shades didn’t help this, but when faced with entertaining food for worms, I guess I might do the same. Tunes like “Geraldine” and “Daddy’s Gone” sounded better than the rocking originals – the whole show had a Leonard Cohen vibe to it. A man across the aisle from me complained that it wasn’t a full band, I wanted to yell at him “It’s called NUANCE! Adjust, motherfucker!”. Where I was expecting to be disappointed, I was actually swayed and haunted. It was fitting to hear these Scottish dirges on a gray, misty graveyard evening. Though the moisture did give one pause – my friend next to me remarked that she was nervous that the giant ice sculpture was melting onto the instruments and amps and might cause the Allans to be electrocuted. They could be killed. “Well, they’re in the right place, if it does happen.” I replied. Sometimes location can be the x factor of the evening.

ice sculpture of death

When I was invited to see a special acoustic performance with Bat For Lashes, I jumped at the chance. The Glasvegans had whet my appetite for some UK atmosphere and I couldn’t wait to see Miss Natasha in a dark and smoky club or out of doors under an old street lamp where the mist and fog could swirl around her layered synth songs.

Wait, she’s playing where? At a jeans store. On the Santa Monica 3rd Street Promenade. In the middle of the day. For a Neighborhood Social. Really?

Lucky Brand Neighborhood Social

As the kick off for the first Lucky Brand Neighborhood Social, Lucky lined up live silk screening by Giant Artists, denim painting by William Lemon III and provided fair food snacks for the people who stopped in. The inner sanctum of the store was reserved for a wrist banded crowd, to be treated to DJ sets by KCRW’s Jason Bentley, plus a Bat For Lashes set before their big show at the El Rey.

KCRW's Jason Bentley

Natasha Khan and her supremely talented keyboardist, Ben Christophers, took the makeshift stage which was wedged in the back of the store. People lined up and sat on jeans bins waiting for the elfin Khan to utter a sound. Khan, dressed in a gauzey pink blouse and sequined headband was instantly copied as girls in the crowd slid strings and scarves across their bangs. Ben, looking very Gold Rush/The Sting era in a long john shirt, vest and braces seemed perfect to play turn of the century xylophones, harpsichords and zithers that he whirled around like a mad scientist in a music shop. (note: see interview below for more on Natasha’s gear!)

Ben Christophers

You could hear a pin drop in between Natasha’s lilting songs, which the singer commented on, nervously. “You can talk in between songs. Be rude. It’s ok.” But the small crowd was silent and with rapt attention as if beholding the glory of a living unicorn.

Natasha Khan - Bat For Lashes

And that she is, or more closely resembling Kira from the Dark Crystal playing the keys. Her voice lilted daintily and then crecendoed into a powerful yelp, taking after her predecessor, Bjork. Natasha ended the quick half hour set with a lo-fi version of Daniel and then floated away backstage, er I mean, into the stock room.

Natasha Khan and Ali MacLean

A stock room seems hardly the place to hide away such a talent. But then again spaces and places are the name of the game today. Perhaps the thrill of the nu show is to find an oddity to jack up interest in the artist. frankly neither of these acts needed that extra push. They could’ve played in a brick walled condo in Barstow and still held as much interest.Oh dammit. I’ve just given promoters a new bad idea. Please, guys. No Barstow condo shows…

more about “Space Oddities – Looking For Rock In …“, posted with vodpod

Tom Morello, Rage, plan show/rally opposite Republican Convention

When it comes to politics, many people complain that musicians should shut up and play. I for one am glad that we have outspoken troubadours today, running the gamut from Billie Joe to Bruce. Tom Morello is one of the best. I have tremendous respect for him and his collaborators. If you happen to be in Minneapolis, go check out their shows.

Kudos to those who speak out and never back down, cave to pressure or let anyone silence their views…except Toby Keith. Toby you should shut up and play. Maybe not so much with the playing either…

“Rage Against The Machine have scheduled yet another show, this time in Minneapolis in conjunction with the Republican National Convention. The band will perform at Minneapolis’ Target Center on September 3 while the convention is going on across the river from September 1 to 4. In addition to the Rage show, guitarist Tom Morello also will hook up with singer/songwriter and fellow social activist Steve Earle to perform a show at a union rally on September 1 in St. Paul.”

Caught Between Rock And A Hard Place – the pitfalls of an embedded rock journalist

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.

Ali On The Air at SxSw 08 – photo blog

South by So tired!

I attended the SxSw three ring circus, which has expanded to an 8 ring cirque de soleil of hyped hyphy drunk proportions. I took part in the Eastsport media lounge where Vlaze teamed up with Urb magazine, Girlie Action pr, VH-1 Classics and several sponsors. The bands would come in and get some food drink and swag, and then do a sit down interview with yours truly.

Big ups to Jessica and the lovely people at Girlie Action, Josh G. my media mafia partner from Urb Magazine, and Skull Candy who graced my golden head with new pink headphones. I already had a pair of white Skull Candy cans that I use on air at Little Radio, so don’t get all bent out of shape because I have girlish Barbie colored ones now. I can spin vinyl in any color headphones…I’m just that damn talented.

I was so busy working and doing interviews this year, that I unfortunately didn’t get to catch many shows. I have to say, though, that the Body Of War show was amazing. It was the only ‘showcase’ that wasn’t about self promotion, but about a cause. Check out more about the film here.

So I don’t have as many pictures this year, but the ones I do are behind the scenes, side stage or right up front. Quality over quantity, I say.

Hope it helps paint the crazy picture, if you couldn’t go – or remind you of how tired you STILL are, if you did. Thanks to Totally Like Duh and Shadowscene and to all of you who made me laugh.

Interviewing the Von Bondies at the Urb/Vlaze/Eastsport Media Lounge:

Matt Goldman, of Danceright, visits the lounge for some sips and swag

My trusty shooter, Nick, takes a break from filming

The Black Ghosts spin at dusk:

Matt and me at the I Heart Comix party where I interviewed Cut Copy:

The Fluokids from France:

Body Of War show:

American Bang watching at Body Of War:

The guest of honor, Iraq war veteran Tomas Young:

Mason Jennings:

BOW producer Phil Donahue rocking out:

Serj Tankian elects the dead:

I’m now a Ben Harper fan – he was amazing:

Ben is joined by one of my favorite people, Tom Morello:

Scott Igoe from Kimmel & Shirley Halperin at the BOW show:

Billy Bragg stumps for peace:

The Nightwatchman in action. Tom Morello gave me goosebumps:

The flirty UK boys of South at their Bluhammock showcase:

I actually looked forward to time NOT being on camera:

Mingering Mike, Dori Hadar and me at the Ubiquity Records Showcase:

Dori helps Mike set up merch. If you don’t know the amazing story of Mingering Mike, you should!

My personal grail on every road trip – the floaty pen:

Sam and Ze (aka NASA: DJ Squeak E Clean and DJ Zegon) spin at the Urb showcase:

Wale warming up the crowd for GZA at the Urb showcase:

Wale from sidestage:

Food on the road included Sprite with blue and purple cubes of jello in it – I’m suspicious of that kinda fun:

This place was a post office/taxidermist/feed store/bar – but they had an 8×10 of The Donnas hung up:

Travelin’ Cat at a truck stop:

Hopefully he didn’t end up at this truck stop: