“So let’s talk a little bit about what you’ll be doing here.” Hot damn, I am already hired. Morgan walks me around the three-room office and points to different piles of papers. “What we do for our talent is get a buzz going. We take their press pack and their CD and we send it to press and then we follow up.” She picks up a thick stapled packet of papers that look as if they’ve been photocopied a million times and hands it to me. “These are magazines around the country. This is the master list that we use for our mailings. What we need you to do is call all these magazines and make sure they’re still in business and the addresses are still good.” My thrill falters, just a little. I’m OK, though, I can do this.
“Right,” I say, taking the list from her. “And what else would I be doing, you know, as an intern—for instance, once I finish this?” I try and sound capable, like I will be finished in no time. Maybe then they’ll let me write some press releases, or even a band bio or two.
“Well,” says Morgan thoughtfully, looking around the room. “I suppose you could assist Renee while she fills those envelopes.” Assist Renee. The other intern. That would make me the assistant intern. Three thousand miles, four years in college, five years of published writing and here is my pot of gold—an unpaid position as an assistant intern. As Iggy himself said, “I never thought it’d come to this, baby.”
“Will there be any writing duties on this job?” I ask brazenly, more out of frustration than any real balls. I can feel my cheeks flushing from the indignity of being appointed assistant to a teenage intern. “I do have an English degree, and a lot of experience publishing my—”
“Oh, of course, Anne,” Morgan squeaks way too cheerily, hustling me into her office and closing the door, her huge white smile moving chummily close to my ear. “I didn’t want to say anything, you know, in front of Renee, but with your credentials, we hope to have you doing press with our talent as soon as you get to know the ropes. And you know,” here she leans in even closer, her huge mane of hair closing in around my face, “Heather and I have done so many tours that we are just over them, you know, and so the next time one of our bands tours, well, that’s something else that we would need a skilled person to do.”
Tour. With a band! Visions of laminated all-access passes dance in my head. I am calling up newspapers and crossing off names before Morgan is even out of the room. Were my brain not so clouded by dreams of a gypsy life on the road with a busload of hair gods, it might have occurred to me to ask when the last time was that they had represented a touring band. Were I not dizzy with the notion of leaning up against the Marshall stacks and watching Little Caesar play whatever song it is they play in Omaha, Nebraska, I might have compared notes with Renee about how long she’d been there and what she’d been promised. And were I not already mentally packing my bags for my first European tour with the Vinnie Vincent Invasion, I might have even thought to get something— anything—in writing. But this is rock ‘n’ roll, and I am still green enough to be easily snowed by little big-haired women in leather pants. I spend my whole lunch break making phone calls and promise to come back and do it again the next day. For my art I will suffer, and for a chance to ride the bus, I will starve. Besides, it looks like I might need to think about fitting into some appropriately small leather pants to work here, so I better start skipping some lunches anyway. As I dial the Topeka Capital Journal, I feel as though I have taken another little jump on the continuum from gift-ham wrapper to the new millennium’s answer to Lester Bangs. Viva le rock ’n’ roll.
4
Payola Means Never Having to Say “You Suck”
Where Everybody Knows Your Name Except for the Girl in the Leather Bra
by my six-month anniversary in Los Angeles, my schedule is so full I barely have time to be homesick anymore. Between writing reviews for three different weeklies, stuffing envelopes and making follow-up calls at Around the World, and continuing to hopefully send clips and resumes to “legit” magazines, I am starting to feel like a real writer. Of course, I’d feel more real if just one of my writing jobs was a paying one, but that’s neither here nor there. I’ve dropped almost ten pounds with the help of Weight Watchers and their decidedly un-rock ‘n’ roll rah-rah meetings. My motivation is not the cheesy blue ribbon or the even cheesier grandma-issue lapel pin but the promise of slinky leather slutwear with which to drape my shrinking form. My day job is still going strong at this point, so I do not want for rent money, beer money, or companions with whom I can hone my biting one-liners in the white patent leather booths at the Dresden Room after work. Unfortunately, those very one-liners are starting to cause problems for me with my editors at the weekly, who apparently were never fans of CREEM, Lester Bangs, or the biting one-liner in general, which is my literary stock in trade.
The first sign of trouble comes when Terri Ann, my editor at Screamer, sends me to the Roxy to review Wikked Gypsy, a local band with a big marketing budget. They’re part of the fanfaronade of L.A. Guns/Guns N’ Roses wannabe bands infesting the strip, all black shag and piercings and glam junkie posing. I suffer through their comically bad performance and then gleefully dash off what is, to me, a review worthy of Boy Howdy that is every bit as silly as Wikked Gypsy itself.
Wikked Gypsy
at the Roxy
by Anne Thomas Soffee
When I entered the Roxy for my first-ever Wikked Gypsy show, I was confronted with a throng of what appeared to be adoring Wikked Gypsy fans. It seemed that every other person in the club was wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the slogan “It’s a Sikk World,” presumably in homage to the dyslexic rock ‘n’ rollers.
“Wow,” I thought. “Such a following these guys have! Why haven’t I heard of them before?” Mentally kicking myself for being so late to discover this obvious Next Big Thing, I made my way to the bar to purchase a golden beverage. There, strategically positioned beside the tap, was Wikked Gypsy’s manager, handing out free T-shirts (poor spelling as a marketing tool— + 10 goofy points) to anyone within reach.
I collected my free shirt and went in to hear their set. On seeing guitarist Ash’s raggy clothing, I wondered why the manager didn’t give him a free shirt—until I realized that he had intentionally ripped out the upper left quarter of his shirt so that we might admire his nipple ring (gratuitous body piercing—+ 5 goofy points). We were all duly impressed.
Good thing, too, because Wikked Gypsy didn’t do much else to impress us all night. Their playing was decent, and their writing was OK, in a clichéd Hollywood-sleaze kinda way, but somehow I expected more, given the hype and money that someone is obviously pouring into these guys.
Still searching for some redeeming feature, I turned my attention to lead singer Stef (guy attempting to be studly while sporting girl’s name—+10 goofy points). From his shades to his plentiful jewelry to his long, straight, middle-parted hair, Stef was a ringer for Ian Astbury (imitating someone not worth imitating— +15 goofy points). Like the band’s playing, his singing was OK, sure, but sadly lacking in any real substance or individuality. Oh, and in case you hadn’t noticed the pattern, rounding out the lineup were Jos on bass and PJ on drums (no one in the band has a last name—+ a big 50 goofy points).
Meanwhile, over on stage left, a scene worthy of Spial Tap was taking place. Ash wanted out of his Steven Tyler—style scarf, but couldn’t figure out the knot, but even with a show this ludicrous, the show must go on, so a lackey had taken the stage to work on it while Ash played (roadie utilized for grooming purposes—+20 goofy points).
With any other band, such preening would have been distracting, but with Wikked Gypsy, there was nothing to be distracted from—not musically, anyway. Their songs blurred into one long Sunset Strip drone, the same L.A. glam/trash/thrash that we’ve all heard too many times before. The only standout was “Emotion Number One (Cry),” a slow, Zeppelin-style ballad that Stef dedicated to a friend. It seemed to have all the soul that was missing from the rest of the set, which made Wikked Gypsy all the more
frustrating—they obviously have the ability to write and perform interesting, original material, so why don’t they do it? Are they too busy coordinating their nipple rings to their scarves? If that’s the case, they’d better get used to reviews that pay more attention to their looks than to their music. Hey, guys, it’s only fair.
To say I am proud of my review would be putting it mildly. I naively believe that this review will somehow be spotted by a music-loving benefactor who, like me, laments the rock journalism days of yore and has long harbored a dream to resurrect CREEM from the ashes. He’ll call Screamer and beg Terri Ann for my contact info, because he will immediately see that I am a kindred spirit, a Lester Bangs in the making, and he’ll hire me on as a staff writer, where I will happily write snappy, over-the-top features about bands who deserve to be in print, not bands who can afford free T-shirts and full-page ads.
I coast on this fantasy for a week or so, until the issue of Screamer with my review in it hits the stands. I grab five copies from the stack, eager to preserve my masterpiece— until I see that all of my goofy points, most of my biting one-liners, and roughly half of my words have been edited out. The review as published basically says that I can tell from their fabulous ballad “Emotion Number One (Cry)” that Wikked Gypsy is destined to be huge, simply hyooge, but that they need just a leetle work before their inevitable rise to superstardom can commence.
I am livid. I call Terri Ann, wondering—nay, demand-ing—what the fuck! Terri Ann is unapologetic, reminding me that Wikked Gypsy’s manager has purchased not one, but four full-page ads for his band and that my review was “unprofessional” and “too mean.” Not only that, but even the toned-down version has already generated a slew of nasty phone calls, from both the band’s management and their groupies, and I should probably stay off the Strip for a few days if I didn’t want my hair pulled or a drink thrown in my face.
Humph! Well, if Wikked Gypsy is indicative of what the Sunset Strip has to offer, I don’t feel particularly sorry about missing a few nights of pseudo-entertainment. Instead, I hole up in my tiny apartment with a six-pack of beer and a twelve-pack of diet-busting Little Debbie Swiss Cake Rolls, writing up a lengthy guide to the Sunset Strip from the point of view of a smart-ass nerd girl would-be rocker that makes my Wikked Gypsy review look drier than a doctoral dissertation. I have no idea what I’m going to do with it, maybe nothing, but the very act of writing it makes me feel better, an intellectual and creative fuck you to a scene that wouldn’t know Boy Howdy if he bit them on the ass.
Q: Whoa! So you mean to tell me that music journalism is not unbiased? You mean the bands that get good reviews aren’t necessarily good?
A: And there is no Easter Bunny, and Mister Green Jeans was not Frank Zappa’s father. It’s a sad story, but a true story. Think about this, too—if it’s this bad on the level of small-time local hair bands, think about the sheer amount of bank it would take to get good press in a national magazine or on MTV. And you thought it was all about talent.
When I finally make my reentry into the world of the Strip, I do so with protection. Raelynn, my across-the-cubicle partner in crime, is the only person in my office who will brave the places where I hang out on the weekends. A trash-talking divorcée from the wrong side of the tracks in Bixby, Oklahoma, Raelynn has big red hair in a shade not provided by nature, bountiful good ol’ girl curves, and a smarter mouth and a quicker left jab than I do. Raelynn also has a pack-a-day habit, and she and I spend our coffee breaks out on the fire escape so she can smoke and we both can grouse; a double write-up documenting the frequency of our grousefests gets us dubbed “Bad Attitude Editor Woman and her sidekick, Stogie Girl” by our coworkers in a cartoon posted on the office wall. I am secure with Rae-lynn by my side, knowing that if I am recognized as the cruel bitch who pointed out that the Emperor’s clothes were really fucking cheesy, no one will get in more than one good hit before Raelynn takes them out.
“Look at this crap,” I tell Raelynn, pointing around the smoky nightclub at the surrounding hairfest. “I mean, they expect me not to make fun of this somehow.”
Raelynn sips her beer and nods. “Well, they do seem like they’re all taking it really seriously. Check this guy out.” She jerks her head back, indicating the guy standing behind her. He’s chatting up two girls simultaneously, his nasal British accent whinging its way into our conversation over the din of Faster Pussycat. “What is that jacket he’s wearing?” I lean in and squint at the back of his leather jacket. Instead of the requisite spikes and studs, his jacket is embellished with rows of tiny rhinestones. Incomplete rows; on close inspection, there are a couple of bald spots where rhinestones used to be but now there is nothing but smooth leather.
“I think he’s shedding.”
“Really? Let me help him out.” Raelynn reaches back with one long acrylic nail and ever so gently—thwick— flicks a rhinestone off the back of his shoulder. I stifle a giggle and she flicks another one, and another, and another. He doesn’t feel a thing, and within seconds he’s missing a patch the size of a silver dollar. “Now, what were we talking about?”
“All of this crap. I’m supposed to act like these bands are doing something original and gripping when all they’re doing is knocking off Guns N’ Roses for the umpteenth time.” My eyes wander to the bar’s bouncer, muscle-bound and Titian-haired, all jawbone and shoulders in a snakeskin-trimmed jacket. “Don’t get me wrong, I like a long-haired guy in a leather jacket as much as anybody,” I add, motioning to the bouncer, “but that doesn’t make him Jimmy Page, you know?”
Raelynn agrees. “I like Moon Pies, but that doesn’t make ’em caviar.” I understand what she’s saying, I think. Either way, I am beginning to question my own reasons for coming to Los Angeles in the first place. I latched onto Guns N’ Roses after four years mired in frat parties and college radio, desperate for something raunchy, dirty, and loud. When I saw that magazine cover in the Tinee Giant convenience store, I could tell that this was as far as I could get from William and Mary, and I dove at it. Maybe I should have waited for the pendulum to stop swinging before I made up my mind what to do with the rest of my life. Maybe I should have gone to New York and tried to get in with Spin; at least they understand irony and sarcasm there. Or maybe, and I shudder to think it, I’m just as bad as the paisley-wearing college-radio kids I hated so much, and I’m just one more egghead, too smart to rock ‘n’ roll. I down the rest of my beer, refusing to even let such a thought linger. I can rock ‘n’ roll with the best of them. I’m as greasy as the next headbanger. Totally.
“Hey, look out,” I say, tilting my empty bottle toward a tall, balding guy walking toward us with two beers. He looks as out of place as I feel, in a tweedy jacket and khaki pants, but it doesn’t seem to bug him. In fact, he looks oddly smug as he crosses the floor and hands us each a bottle of Budweiser.
“Evening, ladies, how are we?” I take the beer—I’m not proud, I’m thirsty—and look at Raelynn like can you believe this clown? To my surprise, she’s smiling, and nodding her head in recognition as she toasts him with her new beer.
“Well, hey! Frasier Crane!” He smiles at me, still smug, looking all proud, and toasts her back with his beer.
“What, you know this guy?” Now I’m all confused. Raelynn just moved here from Oklahoma; how come she knows more people than I do already?
“He’s Frasier Crane! You know, from Cheers!”
Ohhh. I’ve heard of Cheers; it’s one of those shows that everybody but me has seen. It’s not that I’m a media snob, far from it—in fact, if she had said “Hey, it’s Sideshow Bob,” I would have known exactly who she was talking about. It’s just that if my television is on, it’s on music videos. Somehow I just seem to miss out on all of the prime time phenomena. I never saw The Cosby Show until it hit syndication, and even then I only saw bits and pieces. I just don’t have the attention span for a half-hour sitcom.
“That it is, that it is,” Frasier Crane acknowledges, and I hide my
embarrassment at not recognizing him behind a few quick gulps from the bottle.
“How’s Norm?” Raelynn seems amused by the whole situation. Even though Frasier Crane can’t tell, I can see that Raelynn is actually mocking him just a little. I know her tone well enough to pick up on it, but he doesn’t. Speaking of picking up on things, Frasier doesn’t waste any time getting to the point.
“He’s fine. Tell you what, ladies, I’ve got a car out front, and my house is a lot more comfortable than this dive, so drink up and let’s head over there and continue the party, shall we?”
“Just like that, huh?” Raelynn is still smiling, which tricks Frasier Crane into thinking she’s being friendly. Not hardly. He nods and waves his arm, motioning toward the door. Raelynn looks at me and laughs, shaking her head. “Frasier Crane is a big old pig! That is too much!” She makes a disgusted face and scootches her chair around so her back is to him. This must happen with some frequency, because rather than keep trying to convince us, Frasier Crane shrugs his shoulders and heads back across the bar, two beers poorer but apparently undaunted.
“I just don’t know,” I tell Raelynn, back to the original topic after our prime-time interlude. “I don’t know if I’m cut out to write the stuff they expect me to write out here. It’s almost like creativity is a handicap.”
Nerd Girl Rocks Paradise City: A True Story of Faking It in Hair Metal L.A. Page 9