Getting It On & Taking It Off – Sunset Strip Music Festival 2009

The crazy train has left the station…and either you were on it or you’ll have to wait until next year’s local trip.

The Sunset Strip, long a place where spandex covered dinosaurs crawled between the Rainbow and the Whiskey has had a resurgence, mostly due to Roxy owner Nic Adler’s social media make over experiment. His crazy communist manifesto of community based music and entertainment has created an alliance with the Viper Room, the Andaz Hotel, The Comedy Store and a few other hot spots. Their online presence,  from tweet crawls to ticket twofer giveaways, has lured hipsters back to the place where rock music once reigned. The fact that the Sunset Strip has gotten it’s own music festival, now in it’s second year, shows that the Strip’s death rattle has reversed course and the infamous piece of WeHo history begun a little rock renaissance. And this year’s renaissance faire got the go ahead to shut down the boulevard to honor the Prince of Darkness himself, Ozzy Osbourne.

The festival kicked off with a big tribute to Ozzy at the House of Blues, which funnily enough for a frenzy of social media mavens, seemed to be a twitter dead zone. The night was MC’ed by Billy Morrison who was most memorable for his cheekbones which could cut glass. There was a pre-taped congrats from Lemmy…uh, what, he couldn’t stumble from the Rainbow-only mere yards up the strip-to say it in person?

Brought up to roast/honor Ozzy were comedian Jim Norton, who showed a slide show of mainly photos of himself with famous people (yawn). Then followed a spirited anecdote from Henry Rollins about underestimating the roar of an Ozzy crowd. Next up was an unfathomable speech of nonsense from Tommy Lee about drinking his own urine (Ugh, Tommy). Nothing much interesting from Slash – just a tale of  listening to Iron Man on acid.  Slash, we really want you to lead us here. You are positioning yourself as a rock hero and guitar legend. Let’s work on the public speaking charisma, dude. If you’re going to wear the Monopoly top hat, then let’s act like the mayor of Guitarville, mkay?

And theeeeen what followed, what I was really curiously waiting for, a few quips from Billy Bob Thornton.

Now Billy Bob was an interesting choice for a few reasons…one: I was hoping he’d do the whole speech in his Sling Blade voice and then he and Ozzy could have an unintelligible-off.  Two: Now being known as a ‘musician’,  I am obsessed with him wanting to give any kind of speech after he completely melted down on a CBC radio show. If there was ever an awkward music interview, Billy Bob takes the cake. I have a sick, twisted desire to interview him and let the train derail and then sort through the wreckage. Oh please, pr gods.

Though I do have to give him credit for mentioning Sharon. He was the only one to say that if we were all honoring Ozzy, we also had to honor the woman who made Ozzy possible. Never would have pegged you for a feminist, Mr. Thornton, but kudos and a plate of french fried potaters to you, sir.

The plaque ceremony and photo op with a quick “I love you all!” from Ozzy, was followed by a performance from Camp Freddy.  I couldn’t help thinking that for Ozzy, this must be like watching a bunch of his friends do karaoke. Sober.

With a couple fun softball performances from Donovan Leitch and some hot rocking blasts from best Freddy member Franky Perez, they bring out Mark fucking McGrath from Sugar Ray. Yeah, the host of that cheeze wiz entertainment show. Either Mark is going grey, or he overdid it on the frosted tips just for this occasion. Doesn’t he have some McG beach blanket music video shoot to go host? He pointed up to Ozzy in the balcony and said “Ozzy, my brother, this goes out to you from Newport Beach!” And then he began to butcher ‘Cat Scratch Fever’. It’s at that point I had to leave. Come to think of it, the balcony seats emptied out pretty quickly too. CAMP FREDDY FAIL.

Friday was reserved for the big Andaz Hotel party and the House of Blues Rock N Roll wine tasting event. I was lucky enough to be staying at the Andaz, which is quite plush since it’s remake, but still underneath has a bit of that riot house/Hyatt house vibe.

With guests like Ozzy staying there too, it had to still have that edge under all the class. The Virgin America/Andaz party boasted a red carpet event up by the rooftop pool with the promise of a few performances, including one by Chris Cornell who had been strangely left off all the set list time announcements. (Was Cornell forced from the festival by the Osbourne train or did he bow out on his own accord?) Although Chris made an appearance to shake some hands and pose for pictures, he didn’t perform, which prompted me to put forth divorce proceedings. The gorgeous hotel view skyline and ample cocktails made for a fun evening, even when an Aussie actor ambushed my camera techniques and turned the tables on me…

The day of the festival was bright and sunny with everyone in hot anticipation for Ozzy’s big performance. The music kicked off with spirited performances from The Donnas and Fishbone.

credit: eric voake

As the afternoon wore on and clothes were stripped off, Shiny Toy Guns played a very low key quiet set…(did they think they were playing for KCRW?) and Korn played angry head banging anthems proving that they lost one too many games of dungeons and dragons when they were kids. I skipped festival favorites Nico Vega to catch Brooklyn’s best, Earl Greyhound, whose new material shows a maturity yet they still know how to kick out the jams.

At last, I settled with my VIP vetted friends on the Bank of America parking lot roof and awaited the crazy train. Ozzy took the stage in front of a mass of all ages – toddlers to senior citizens. And hie performance was pleasing to all. Despite lobbing the f word here and there and hosing people down with foam, it was essentially a good, clean, tame Ozzy (minus Harriet) show. As Thornton had said earlier “Who says the Prince of Darkness can’t be a nice guy?”.

credit: Eric Voake

Here’s some choice moments and interviews with The Donnas, Iglu & Hartly, Norwood of Fishbone and The Mashup Brothers:

Sunset and Vines – Rock ‘n Roll Wine Uncorks At The Sunset Strip Music Festival

Rock has a reputation for being a beer and whiskey kinda night. OK, maybe a rum and coke, then a shot of tequila, then eleventy beers kinda night. But somewhere along the way, I traded in my plastic tumbler for a wine glass. If I drink much at all, I strictly drink wine.

It seems it’d be an uneven match, navigating the pogoing crowds with a refined glass of pinot noir. Well, one less reason to stand in the mosh pit, I suppose. My drink often brings scowls or claims of “That’s a big glass of stain you’re carrying around.” Better to stand safe and sound in VIP with, my dear.  Sure, My libation choice may have made me stick out like a sore thumb, but not anymore. Now there is something that perfectly satisfies my Uptown girl tastes and my Downtown girl edge: Rock ‘N Roll Wine.

Founded by Sommelier Chris Hammond and business partner Sonny Barton, Rock ‘n Roll Wine is a wine events company dedicated to revolutionizing the way people perceive, and enjoy wine. Rock ‘n Roll Wine produces monthly wine events in Las Vegas, Los Angeles, and Ann Arbor, in addition to making their own music-themed line of wines.

I’ve been to events they’ve had tastings at before. In fact, they were doling out delicious vino at a Swinghouse Studios event. It was so nice to go to a rock party and not be shoved a monster energy drink. I even had a choice between The Grotto, a California red blend with grenache, syrah, cab and a dash of Zin:

or a white muscat, roussanne, chardonnay blend called Reggae Rhapsody:

The company does pairings…that is, music and wine pairings. They suggest that MGMT might be a good listening choice while sipping some Grotto while Jack Johnson would be a more fitting way to enjoy a glass of Reggae Rhapsody. Beach side, of course. OK, neither of those overplayed KROQ artists are my cup of tea, or wine as it were…I’m still waiting for the wines that would be good for breaking out my Gang of Four or Neu! albums, but, hey, baby steps…

Along with the music pairing idea, the company often showcases the wine while artists play onstage nearby. They’ve done events with big artists such as Dashboard Confessional, Everclear, Ingrid Michaelson, Pat Monahan of Train and Low vs. Diamond, as well as emerging artists. Jangly indie rock act? Rock N Roll wines will have a nice cabernet pour for that. Singer/Songwriter about to take the stage? A pinot grigio will be chilling near by, waiting to be sampled.

And in honor of the beer and whiskey soaked Sunset Strip doing it up with their own festival, Rock ‘n Roll Wine is going to class it up this weekend too. Or as Rock ‘n Roll wine tipplers say: “Rock Out With Your Cork Out”. The company will help kick off the festival by hosting their event at the House of Blues VIP club Foundation Room on Friday, September, 11 and feature singer/songwriter Cofféy. The wine party will feature 15 hand-selected, wines from around the world, including Rock ‘n Roll Wine’s Reggae Rhapsody and The Grotto.

To purchase your tickets in advance, visit http://www.rocknrollwine.com or call 702-240-3066. Rock ‘n Roll Wine is offering a discount to those going to the Sunset Strip Music Festival. Enter code: SSMF when ordering tickets online and receive $5 OFF addmission.

I’ll be there, sampling the wines and the rock, which to me, seem the perfect combination. If I am going to rock out on the strip this weekend, it will most definitely be with my cork out.

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.