Charity on the Sly

Anyone who knows me knows I am huge fan of KCRW. I’m a huge fan of public radio in general and look to KCRW as the taste maker for music. I need KCRW in my day. As far as I’m concerned there is no other radio worth listening to in LA. It’s either KCRW or my iPod.

I got my start in music snobbery early. I was perfectly willing to come to blows over musical taste and once pulled over and kicked a friend out of my car for slagging one of my favorite bands. For me, musical taste is not a matter of opinion, it’s a question of right and wrong.

I honed this attitude in college radio where I worked with several of KCRW’s current players and where I developed my CD collection. Back then I’d try to explain to the frat boys that if they listened to us, they could hear the next Chili Peppers or Cure or Nirvana before they became huge. They’d be on the cutting edge. They’d have none of it. Being on the edge was too much work for them. They just wanted to have their tastes formed neatly for them by KROQ. Here I proudly state I never dated a sheep-brain frat boy.

Luckily, my man shares my tastes for the most part or we’d have ended in tears long ago. He takes it one further. When flipping across the dial, if we catch a glimpse of generic pop pablum (read: every other corporate station now that Indie 103.1 is dead), he’ll quip “Ah yes, music for people who don’t like music.” His tartness on this topic steals my heart. But he’s got a great point. Because if you really thought about what you were hearing on corporate stations, if you delved into the artistry, you’d find none. If you really listen, you couldn’t possibly be satisfied by corporate crap. It’s music for people who don’t really listen but just need something to fill their ears. Like aural junk food.

Anyway, I love my indie music and my NPR. So every six months when KCRW conducts their on-air fund drive I always sign up for as many shifts as I can fit into my overtaxed schedule. Until the day I can afford an angel membership, I feel it’s the best way I can give back. Plus you meet the coolest people. Plus it gives me a teeny nostalgia flashback of my college radio days. So much joy.

The thing is because of my overtaxed schedule, because I have so many people depending on me to run our company, I don’t feel I can tell anyone that’s what I’m doing with my day. I’m not alone.

This time around I struck up a conversation with the project manager at the phone across from mine. She furtively slipped off a cell phone call. “That was my work. As far as they know, I’m at the doctor.” Like me she was over-scheduled, trying to be great at three jobs at once, occasionally sleep and have a social life. Like me, she felt that if the people that depend on her knew she was helping instead of working they’d be pissed.

What is that? We should be proud of our charity. Heck, our work should be proud of our philanthropic spirit, not to mention our good taste in radio. Yet somehow, we both felt like kids that might get caught playing hooky. What does that say about the priorities of giving in our culture?

“Must be nice,” quips a co-worker when I slip up and mention my first shift. He heads back to his to-do list while I am left stinging from the implication that I’m not working as hard as he is. Though I am his boss, I feel the need to justify my choices, to prove that the company is not at risk if I also live my life.

In our modern life, balance seems like indulgence. If you have time to balance your life, you are not working hard enough. This feels like not seeing the forest for the trees.

Last year I wrote about the wonder of discovering the weekend again. I vowed not to work on weekends. As predicted, I have back-slid somewhat on this. That constant need to prove I’m working hard enough is a demanding master. But my co-worker is right, albeit unintentionally: taking time to do what I need for me must be nice indeed.

So, you know what, working world? I took time from my work week to help out a cause I believe in.

As I say that I feel the panic rising; “say you still got more work done than they did,” it chirps. I’m tempted but no.

That’s the lesson. I may have in fact gotten less done than you did. And I’m OK with that because I did something that helps define my life. I am reaching for balance and doing something that I believe is an important contribution for the greater good.

I may not be able to give everyone good music taste, but I can do my part to ensure good music is accessible for those of us who know it when we hear it. And even for those sheep-brains should they ever choose to change their dials. I may be years from my beloved college radio but I’m still fighting the good fight. And keeping that spirit alive helps me do a better, fulfilled job running my company. Everybody wins.

p.s. your favorite band sucks.

All I Wanna Do Is Rock

“I’m a foot without a sock without you.”

I wake up with the lyric running through my head. It makes me laugh. That’s something. I’m having a crappy month and not laughing much.

I sit down at my computer. It’s around 6:30 in the morning and I need to kill some time until it’s light enough out to hike. The first thing I see is the headline in my newsfeed: Nic Harcourt to leave KCRW.

Nic has been part of my musical life for years now. He’s an amazing taste maker responsible for breaking countless of my favorite bands. He’s part of my day and I will miss him. Now I think how much I would like to tell him that I’ll miss him and thank him for the difference he’s made for me. Without a personal connection to him enabling me to do so, I shut my laptop and go to school.

I get to my class and as my students are setting up it pops back in my head; “I’m a foot without a sock without you,” I sing. My girls laugh at me. They didn’t know the song. I often have to educate them in more ways than one. The band Travis, I explain, is an amazingly talented group of Scots. They make lovely, lush tunes and have been one of my favorites ever since I saw them blow Oasis off the stage in 2001 when I’d never heard of them. That’s why the song is in my head; they’re playing tonight and I can’t go because ironically I’m managing a music event at the British Consulate.

Aside from all the shows I've seen, I have a personal history with the band. I’d been on staff at KCRW’s last A Sounds Eclectic Evening and had had the good fortune to be assigned to take care of Travis. I'd gleefully snuck them cakes from the VIP kitchen and typed up their set list for them. I ended up hanging out with them after the show and was impressed by how down to earth they were – how tickled and grateful they seem by the fact they get to be rock stars. I’d struck up a friendship with the band’s manager and we kept in touch. A few months later, they were due at Coachella and the manager couldn’t lay hands on a tour bus. I helped them out through my assistant mafia and then got to hang out with the band again out there in the desert. To my delight they’d all remembered me: the cakes girl.

The music event at the Consulate is in full swing when my boyfriend introduces me to a friend of Travis’ agent. He’s headed over to the Travis show and has a plus one. I look around, am I really basically done with my party duties? I bolt out the door before anyone can change their minds. I feel like Cinderella rushing to the ball.

We walk into the small, packed Troubador and despite the fact that the set is already well underway, we end up with a prime spot in the VIP section. The boys rip into an old song. “I’m a foot without a sock without you,” Fran growls. I can’t help but laugh. Did my subconscious already know about this when I woke up?

The set is wonderful and energetic as always. I look to my right and realize I’m standing in arms’ length from Nic Harcourt. Fran gives him a shout-out for all the great work he’s done for good music, the crowd cheers and chants “Nic! Nic! Nic!” Later, I touch Nic’s shoulder and tell him I’ll miss him and thank him. He smiles. I think he’s genuinely touched by all the sentiment for him.

The show ends and my new friend asks if I want to go say hi to the band. Hmmm, let me think about that… A short while later, we’re in the green room and I’m thrilled. If they don’t actually remember me, the band does a great job of faking it. I reach to shake hands and Dougie says “we’re past that by now!” and grabs me for a hug. He tells me all about his new eight-month old and I tell him about my friend’s two-week old. Fran hugs me and we chat about the possibility of the boys playing Coachella again this year. I wish them luck as we leave and tell them I’ll see them in the desert this spring.

It’s after 1 in the morning as I crawl back into bed. I struggle to calm my thoughts enough to sleep, thankful for the good fortune of my day. Sometimes a song about a sock is all it takes to restore my faith in life and the Universe.

"If this was any other day,

I'd turn and walk the other way,

but today

I'll stay

OK"

Silly Love Songs

I keep hearing that song. I’m supposed to feel something, remember someone when it plays. But I can’t. I just keep thinking, “dang, that’s a good song.”

There’s a funny thing about songs and memory and how we attach them to a person, a time, a relationship, a love. When you break up, the struggle for emotional possession of things can be as grueling as the physical division of stuff you’ve accumulated together.

And it’s not just the sense of sound. Once I was left by a guy I’d fallen hard for. We’d traveled together and I’d also fallen for a certain perfume on our trip. After he left, just smelling the stuff would break my heart all over again. But dammit, I loved that perfume and I wasn’t going to let him ruin it for me. For the next few months I’d wear it every so often always concentrating on how I’d felt when we’d found it: alive, beautiful, sophisticated, adored. Bit by bit, sniff by sniff, it worked. I still wear that perfume – it’s one of my favorites. Yes, sometimes I think of him when I put it on but only in remembering that beautiful beach and how good I am with myself.

It’s the same with music. Some songs are inexorably linked to past loves of even friends. The sad songs of Alice in Chains are my first love, my Italian. “It Had To Be You” is my best friend from high school, Tears for Fears is my good Seattle friend from my college years, Gary Jules happily reminds me of a broken artist I got away from back home, Johnny Cash is my sweet, Harley-riding ex. All these are positive associations. My heart has made the decision that bad exes or their memories don’t get to keep music I love.

So this song keeps coming up on my iPod shuffle and I have this twinge: isn’t this someone’s song? I finally remember having once danced to it with an ex, one of those didn’t-end-well ones, and I decide no, it’s my song.

My Surreal Life

In college I was a raver and I have most certainly tested the patience of my right-wing father. He'd tell me about the new opera production in the city and I'd regale him with tails of Moontribe, the outdoor raves we used to throw in dry, desert lakebeds. He'd cringe.

I figured with my big fancy Hollywood life, I'd get to hook him up with celebs and name-drop with the best of 'em. As the Italians say: invece no.

Not only did dad shock me with a trip of his own to Burning Man last year ("the art and music were great" - hello, this is why I go to Coachella), he just called me with the following:

"I played my first paintball game this weekend."

"I've never even done that. Cool, dad."

"Yeah and do you know some Snake band? Some British guy, David something. We had dinner with this guy and his wife."

"Wait,wait, wait, you are telling me you played paint ball and had dinner with David Coverdale from Whitesnake?"

"Yeah, that's it. Really nice guy. You know him?"

"Um, yeah, 'Here I Go Again' was only like the anthem of high school."

"I had to look it up. Anyway, he's lucky I didn't shoot him with the paintball. Those things hurt! Great guy, really down to earth. We'll meet up for dinner when you're here."

Wha?

Parents grow up so fast. I think I raised him pretty well. He's out there, taking chances, experiencing new things, rubbing elbows with the fancy folk. I'm so proud...and I get to have dinner with a hair rocker legend. Rad!

Do your ears a favor

And go listen to Rodrigo Y Gabriela. Met them backstage at the KCRW Sounds Eclectic Eve this year, saw them rock the crowd and Coachella this Spring, saw them last night and the Fonda. Trust me.

Cougars R Us

I am a young woman. Just putting a tippy toe into my prime. I still keep up with the scene. I shop at Forever 21. I follow the college radio charts as the ones that count.

Music has always been one of my life cornerstones. Although there is a little something missing for me of late.

“I swear, they’re twelve.”

My friend and I watch the band, Artic Monkeys, bounce across the stage.

“I think they may be thirteen,” I muse. “I can’t be attracted to that.”

She raises an eyebrow at me and grins lasciviously, “Welcome to Dirty Old Lady Town, population: you.”

With this new crop of hipster kid bands I suddenly find myself in “old enough to be their mother” territory. When did that happen? Not so long ago I looked up to the hot boys in the band and wished I was old enough to date them. My attraction to, say, Simon Le Bon is a key part of why I loved Duran Duran.

Then for a long time, you had to be at least as old as me to be in a band. Any musician was fair game for a celeb crush. Now, out of the blue, I’ve strayed into the older woman territory. Just like that.

“Now you’re a cougar,” my friend laughs. “You know, and older chick who preys on young boys.”

“No, I’m not!” I squeal. My friend’s bemused stare brings me down to earth. I reconsider. “Well they are nice and…energetic, the younguns.”

Still, I like to think of myself as being the young crowd. Not as hunting them. But sometimes it just sneaks right up on you.

I met a guy at a bar recently. A lawyer. He asked me out and though I had the nagging sense he was a good bit younger than me, I reasoned: he’s a lawyer, law school takes a few years, how young can he be?

We went on our date and all was well. He seemed worldly enough. Then he mentioned his MySpace page and I thought we might be straying into dangerous territory. Later he dropped me home and I couldn’t resist. I made like the kids do and checked his MySpace page.

While I couldn’t actually be his mother: seriously too young for me. Seriously.

So I guess all that’s left is for me to accept my cougarness as the next stage in my personal evolution. I am a Leo after all. Relating to myself as another kind of big cat isn’t such a stretch. It fits. I just didn’t think it would happen so suddenly.

As my friend and I applaud the Artic Monkeys’ closing number, I think of the bar manager down the street from me with the liver spots and the miniskirt. I always thought of her age-inappropriate clothing as laughable. I guess it’s time I ask her where she shops.

Your Task For Today

Jon was sitting in my living room in my little cottage house with the mountain view. Over the last few months he’d become a better friend of mine. In truth I adored him. An amazing guitarist with a biting wit and an encyclopedic knowledge of seemingly everything, he was easily the most intelligent man I’d ever met.

“You’re being a selfish jerk,” I told him.

Across the couch, Shevaun’s shot warning looks at me: don’t talk to the guy with terminal cancer like that!

“I could get hit by a bus tomorrow. Just because you THINK you know when you’re going to go, you shut yourself down from love?”

Jon shrugged. He didn’t see anyone wanting to be with someone with the Big C. “Who would take that on?”

“I would. I’d rather be with you for six weeks than with some schmo for sixty years.” It was the truth. I’d never really thought of Jon like that. But honestly, if given the chance at a relationship with him I would have taken it. He’s that great of a guy.

I looked forward the Sunday afternoon sing-a-longs at the Irish bar where I worked and where he was a regular. I loved to banter with him in my downtime or listen to him eviscerate debate opponents. On Sundays, he’d bring his guitar and a song book. We’d all get tipsy and sing and laugh. My song was always "There She Goes" by the Las. He and his brothers had a band that played each week on our small stage. Every so often, they'd play my song too.

For a while I ran an art gallery with some friends and Jon came to one of our openings where I was exhibiting some of my own photographs. He breezed in, glanced around, pointed to one of my favorite shots and handed me a credit card.

“Taking a break from band practice,” he shrugged. He tilted his head at the print. “I’ll pick it up later from the bar.” And he was gone as quickly as he came.

I left him back home a long time ago and moved out to Tinseltown to seek my fame and fortune. But I never got Jon out of my head. He was one of those extraordinary human beings that we all get just a few of in our lifetimes.

The first script I ever wrote was about him. It was a drama about an artist diagnosed with terminal cancer who rediscovers the possibility of love with a waitress who doesn’t believe in the stuff. Like all first scripts, it needs a lot of work. I never had the guts to show it to Jon, let alone tell him he inspired it. But he did.

Five years later, I’m proud to say Jon is still inspiring. Talk about opening yourself up to life. This is a man who kept playing his guitar even when the cancer drugs so numbed his fingers that he had to tape the pick to them to keep from dropping it. When other cancer drugs made his fingers split open, he relearned guitar with band-aid-covered fingers. This is a man who will not be stopped. At least he’ll go down strumming.

His band just put out a CD to benefit cancer research. A documentary is forthcoming as well. Do one good thing today and go buy it.

The Fame Game

It seems to me the whole point of being famous would be the access to other famous people. The whole scene here seems to function as a giant Match.com for celebs. An actress has a crush on an actor? She just tells her manager to set up a meeting.

Then of course there’s the working in close proximity relationships that come out of productions. The actors get so used to pretending they are in love who can say where to draw the line in real life? LA largely is about pretending after all.

I’m not going to lie. I want to make it as a writer because that’s my passion but the name recognition that comes to the top tier writers is a tantalizing carrot. Part of the reason I’m bummed my parents didn’t push my teen modeling career is that if they had I’d most likely be dating a rock star now. Of course I’d probably have a hefty coke habit and narcissistic emotional issues but that’s beside the point. How else am I going to get a rock star boyfriend?

I got back to my indie rocker roots last night with a show at the new Safari Sam’s. It featured fantastic newcomers Monsters Are Waiting with a tight, upbeat sound and a magnetic front-woman who reminded me of a cross between Chrissie Hynde and the Cranes’ vocalist. Then the main attraction: StellaStarr. They are billed as New York Pop/Punk and their sound reminds me of old Cure, old Joy Division, and new Killers. The minute singer Shawn Christensen opened his mouth, I thought “Oh rock star boyfriend!” If only. Never mind that I’m probably ten years older than he is.

Dang it, why am I not in these higher circles of fame yet? I clearly just have to go out and get famous myself. Despite personal evidence that dating famous people is a disastrous proposition, that became my plan A for the evening. Find some way to launch myself into that starry world of pretend. ASAP.

Then I thought, that would probably work for a “performer” like K-Fed, but these guys are too cool. If Lindsay Lohan sent a note to them through her manager they’d probably blow it off. Or maybe meet her for the pure anecdotal potential. But I doubt young Shawn would be wowed. I could be wrong. But watching this powerful quartet on a small stage not very separate from the audience I knew they aren’t in it for the fame but because they have to make music. And that’s what we’re here to hear.

Then I remembered a girl with a different plan. A girl who would shoulder her way up to the stage and tell a band “Hey, I’m an LA DJ. I dig your stuff. Can we chat?” Haven’t seen her around for going on fifteen years. But I have the backstage interview cassettes to prove she existed.

As I slunk out the main entrance at the end of the set it hit me that maybe fame and pretending isn’t the best plan. How about Plan B? The possibility of finding someone because of mutual admiration for each other’s passion; not fame. I think the recapturing of youthful bravado it will require will be good for me. I gotta see if I can find my old tape recorder.

Adult Listening

When I was a kid, I used to wait in line for hours for tickets to my favorite bands. When the doors opened, I made sure to be in that first crush of fans running for a spot against the stage where I could dance all night, get sweat on by my idols and get my ribs crushed every time the mosh pit surged.

We used to laugh at the adults we’d see at these shows. Sneering in wonder about what awful corporate job they had to get up for in the morning. In the great tradition of teen self absorption, we believed we’d never be like them.

This summer, a friend got us tickets for Gnarls Barkley.

“On the floor? You mean we’ll have to stand? The whole time?”

I am officially getting older – despite that, I’m fighting growing up tooth and nail. Going to see as much music as I can.

I’d been looking forward to the Death Cab For Cutie show for weeks. The set started nice and mellow as expected and the crowd settled into the seats at the lovely Greek Theatre. I marveled as I had for the last few years on how young the crowd was. How do these kids find out about the good stuff? And can they go away?

About halfway through the first set the flirtation going on in front of me between two little hipsters burst into dancing. The guy popped up and started rocking out. To a mellow quiet sit-down song. He beckoned to the girl who, intent on wooing this new potential catch, jumped up and started wiggling incoherently. We grown ups mumbled and grumbled.

I looked around the whole amphitheatre. Not one other person was on their feet. Everyone was enjoying the happy mellowness of Death Cab but these stupid kids. And me, who now wanted to kill them for ruining my show.

The girl looked around at the sour faces of the two rows worth of people whose view they were blocking and flipped us off. “You're all so old!” she screeched. I nearly had to wrap her Hello Kitty backpack around her neck. But I oh-so-adultly sat in silence, leaning in opposite sway to catch glimpses of the stage.

At this point the guy realized he was kind of being a jerk. He turned and gestured to the rest of us old sitters. “Get up! Come on, you guys! Why is no one dancing?”

“Because it’s not that kind of show!” I blurted before I could stop myself. And the floodgates were open. “We paid a lot of money for these tickets. We’ve had long days at work and we really want to sit, relax and enjoy the show. But we can’t thanks to you.”

The girl looked like she was going to climb over the seats at me which I would have actually welcomed because then it would have been self defense and who doesn’t want to pummel a petulant over-indulged teenager?

The boy, who’d obviously been raised by decent people, looked like he was wondering if his would-be date was a good choice after all. She continued to sneer and hurl insults at us while shaking her booty ever more aggressively.

“Please can I punch her? Please?” It was agreed that wouldn’t be a good choice. So my seat neighbors and I sat and seethed. Finally it dawned on me. I am the adult here. I should maybe act like it.

Reasoning with twinkie girl was obviously out of the question so at the next song lull I leaned forward to the guy and said as calmly as I could “Hey I totally get that you are trying to enjoy your favorite band the way that makes you happy and that’s cool. But we’d like to enjoy them our way too and our backs hurt or I’d totally be up there dancing with you. Do you think we could compromise?”

He smiled at me and nodded. We shook on it and for the rest of the concert they traded off sitting for every other song. I felt better and the people around me patted me on the back. The children had been dealt with.

The funny thing is ever since the show, I’ve been unable to listen to Death Cab. I flip to the next song every time a track comes on the iPod shuffle. What the heck? I love this band. It finally hit me, the sound of the songs I love take me right back to that moment of supreme frustration watching that bitchy little girl dance with irreverence like I used to.

Well bless her and send her on her way. I have to plant myself firmly in the realm of being grown up now. She’ll realize soon enough what a pain in the ass she was. And if I ever see her on the street…I’ll tell her to meet me behind the lockers after sixth period so I can kick her ass.

Light Saber Guitar

“Who is Willie Nelson?”

I had just invited a British friend of mine to join me for last night’s Hollywood Bowl concert and was taken off guard by her response.

I mean, how do you answer that? He’s a living legend. A piece of Americana. He’s a former dandy, a country star, a rocker, an author (“ The Tao of Willie Nelson”(!) for example), a father, a Texan, a one-time tax evader…he’s put out something like four hundred albums, six this year alone. His songs are part of every American’s subconscious.

Who is Willie Nelson?

“Um, he’s the guy with the bandana and the braids,” I faltered.

Great answer.

“Er, remember that song with Julio Iglesias: To All the Girls I’ve Loved Before?”

“Oh. Yeah,” she said.

I found myself at a total loss to remember any other specific, more representative song. American brain fart. I told her to just come anyway. That she’d recognize tons of his stuff when we got there. As would I, I hoped. I mean, it’s Willie. Just going to hear him play would be the best way to answer the question: who is Willie Nelson.

So the legend himself took the stage and smiled his way through a tight set chock full of classics and new tunes.

“Oh yeah, this song! I love this song!” My friend squealed while I silently said the same in my head.

At a certain point, the giant screens showed those of us in the nosebleeds the rocking face of Willie’s young guitarist. He was a fresh-faced cutie with a flowing white shirt and a distinctly 70s Mark Hamill flop of dark blond hair. Naturally, we started referring to him as Luke.

“Check out young Skywalker tearing that solo up! He rocks!”

And he did. His fingers flew over the neck of his guitar with a speed I was amazed by. And I see a lot of the rock and roll.

Willie watched proudly and followed with a serious, solid solo of his own. As the song ended he introduced this six string Jedi: “This is my son, Lucas.”

We gasped. It’s true then. He is young Skywalker.

Come to think of it, with his cropped white beard and serene eyes, Willie does bear an uncanny resemblance to a certain Jedi master. He’s our centered, Zen legend who is rocking through the decades and influencing young musicians everywhere.

And I can finally answer my friend’s question: Willie Nelson is the American Obi Wan Kenobi. It all makes sense now.