An L.A. story:
I was invited to a party for a band that was said to be so original it was the object of a gigantic bidding war between major labels. The band had already been promised interviews in BAM, Rolling Stone, Vanity Fair, and Harper's Bazaar, even though they hadn't been signed, based on their stunning originality.
At the party, I met the band's four sound men, who were from Kentucky. This was their first Hollywood party. They told me the story of how the band had been discovered: The bassist, an animal lover, was cruising Laurel Canyon Boulevard at 3:00 A.M. She found a wounded dog in the road and parked her car perpendicularly to block both lanes of traffic while she aided it. The dog had a tag with a phone number, which she called. It belonged to a famous music producer, who said, once his dog was safe in the animal hospital, "How can I ever repay you? Dinner maybe?" So they went out to dinner and in the course of the evening, the producer said, "I produce for rock bands."
The bassist said, "I'm in a rock band!"
And the producer said, "Well, I've got to help you!" And now the band was about to take off.
"She's only been playing for less than a year," one of the sound men said. ""But she has a great feel for the instrument. It's not really what you play either. It's how you play it. I mean, you know that, I'm sure. The bottom line is, they're incredibly original."
This led to a debate about integrity versus selling out. I said I had no idea what either term meant. I'd tried to make it as a musician but failed miserably, and if I had it to do over again, I'd be as commercial as I could. Once I'd made my money, I'd then switch to doing the music I liked. One of the sound men, a kid in a hockey jersey and a Woody Allen tweed hat, paused between gulps of beer. We'd discussed his hometown, where once you got high with someone, you were buds for life. He'd asked me if I got high; I said no, and he'd slumped in disappointment. He now shook his head and said, "I disagree wish you. I disagree. Never sell out. Never compromise. I mean, did Jesus sell out?"
I was finally introduced to the bassist. Though she may have been in her thirties, like the rest of the band, she looked to be about seventy years old, with two or three major facelifts in her history. Her lips were stretched into a perfectly straight line, and her nasal-labial folds--the lines that normally bracket the mouth--had been pulled upward until they were horizontal, right under her cheekbones. When she turned to the side, there was such weirdness going on in her profile that she looked like a reconstructed burn victim. She told me she'd paid for the entire night, arranging it all herself. No agent or manager had had anything to do with it. Plus, she'd also just built a recording studio in her home. And she was the one who'd gotten all the coverage at BAM, Rolling Stone, Vanity Fair, Harper's Bazaar, etc.
I knew full well that I should've left right then, but I decided see it through. The band finally started playing at 11:30. It began with an unsteady boom-chicka-boom-chicka-boom from the drummer. The lead singer strutted and squatted and whipped his dreadlocks, grimacing and snarling and flailing on his guitar, a dynamo of coiled energy and sexual tension. He did everything required of a great front man except sing on key. The two back-up singers were a sullen, girthy redhead and a gnarled biker mama. They chanted "Ya-ya-ya, ya-ya-ya" behind every song. At least twice, the band stopped in the middle of a tune and started over again because everyone was playing or singing at different tempos. The lead singer kept chuckling, "Thanks for your patience."
And... the bassist. Sid Vicious was a virtuoso in comparison. She hooked the thumb of her plucking hand over top edge of the bass and used only her index finger, while neglecting to dampen any of the strings with her fret hand. The result was a roaring cacophony, the sound of someone dragging a plugged-in bass behind a car. It was as though she hadn't been playing a week, much less a year. Her long, splayed arms and hunched, purse-lipped concentration made her look like a trained circus animal; her performance was as unnatural and heart breaking as that of a gibbon forced to ride a tricycle.
"What the f*ck is this?" a guy behind me asked.
"She's spending the settlement," someone answered.
And that's what it was. California is a community property state. The bassist had gotten a massive settlement when her hubby traded her in for a newer model, and now she was going to be a rock star. All I could think about was all the real musicians flipping burgers and waiting tables because nobody would listen to their demos. "We suck tonight. Sorry," the lead singer said.
The next day I learned that the upstairs of the house had been the scene of encounters between Industry heavy hitters and the most expensive escorts money can by, all paid for by the bassist.
I'm happy to report that no recording contract was ever signed, so the bassist may as well have taken all that cash out into her back yard, doused it in gasoline, and set it on fire.
