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Each month (or when we feel
like it) we will have a different story of debauchery by someone of no class
and plenty of distinction (some of the names will be changed to protect the
website and cut down on the legal department expenditures.) Believe me, we know
tons of Mods and Rockers who are lining up to spill the goods and tell us their
favorite story from the trenches of countless punk-rock tours, ridiculous
extravagant recording sessions with your favorite stars, and anything and
everything in-between. Enjoy... |
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12/17/03 New Episode on the way!
Posted 7/01/03
EPISODE
ONE…WHERE IT ALL BEGINS/ENDS
We’ve
been trying to get the right tale to launch this page but everyone who agreed to
tell us one is either (1.) sick with the flu, (2.) relapsing on drugs, or (3.)
too hard to get on the phone. So this written monolith will begin with no
explanation, no point, and a lot of if you will, small tales.
TALE #1:
From the mountains of Washington State one rock star follows another in a
tutorage of martial arts sobriety. Yes, you ask why or what. I guess it’s
better then white knuckling it. Personally, I’d fix by buying a house, car, or
a guitar (do it the old fashion way.) One former rock manager (Slash babysitter)
when told of this late breaking tale said: “I’d love to be in that Kung Fu
class so I could sock that Magnificent Bastard once or twice.”
TALE #2:
A friend of mine who
makes the elder rock stars look oh so regal used to own a shop on Sunset Strip
during the bad ole days. He carried a pistol because of all the robberies and
such. One day he was seen brandishing it at The Rainbow and was banned from
there, The Roxy, and The Whiskey. Being the music fan that he is, he snuck into
The Roxy to see a C & W artiste (you call it Country & Western, we used
to call it China White!) Now how did he make it past the bouncers who would
eject him on site? Simple, this master of disguise put on a turbine and coco
powder and sat at a table next to Burt Reynolds. All was well ‘til our man
from Bombay started whooping it up to the rural sounds of Hank Jr. or who ever
–he doesn’t remember to this day who he went to see–was recognized and
promptly ejected by security.
TALE
#3: A well known piano playing legend in his own right went to see his hero,
“The Killer”, in Vegas during the late 80s. Now this show was about the
worst 3/4 ballad full pain killer induced dribble, that even worshiping fans of
a God couldn’t endure. One of the faithful in the audience kept spouting out
the Nebutal epitaph: “You’re fucked Jerry Lee, you’re fucked!” After
about ten repetitions of this, The Killer finally stoped playing, looked into the
microphone, and in a barbed out stupor said: “I never touched her.”
Watch yourself at the
party or you might end-up with a tale of your own.
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