Saturday, July 30, 2005

Fear and Loathing in Cape Cod: A savage journey to the heart of an American into to temptation...running for your life.

Look at us we're beautiful
All the people push and pull
But,They'll never get inside
We got too much to hide

There was a dark period in 80s and 90s when being a musician meant nothing more than a group of young teens singing falceto and cordinating dance steps.

Groups like New Kids on the Block, 98 degrees and O-Town were producing crap that, for some reason or another, were being eaten up by pre-pubecent girls across this god forsaken music deprived country.

That was then. Today, those hacks are nothing more than washed up musicians - hopefully getting jobs in the real becoming an accountant or insurance salesman. They deserve that kind of helll after the shit they force-fed us for so long and called it talent.

Unfortunatly some of those guys still think they have talent and have been trying (more like failing) at putting together a solo career. That is, it seems, the thing to do after your band failed to continue its wasn't the fact that you collectivly were inept at music, now you have to embarass yourself on stage - alone....

Last night the paper sent me to do a simple bar review for the sunday pages. A quickk 200 word brief about this bar and what made it special and why people should go. Simple enough, except I was being sent to the most god awful place this whole fucking cape that juts into the ass of the ocean could produce - Pufferbellies.

Lets imagine every stereotypical dance club with flashing lights, fog, and a neon light up bar and there you are smack dab in the middle of this freak show.

Girls on Cat walks wearing nothing by tube tops and glitter...pop collar from every guy who was there looking for an easy score - or worse, was dragged there by his girlfriend who would probably make out with any thing that moved if she had on Singapore Sling in her hand.

The bar manager was nice enough, he let me in without having to pay the 25 dollar cover charge and did not mid that I was still wearing jeans and a t-shirt that I had worn to work - Yes there isa dress code and no, I was not even close to meeting it.

HE took me up to the VIP booth, which was nothing more than a plywood platform with courches hung from the rafters. Here the entertainers or "Cape Cod High Rollers" could look down on the mass of people grinding and humping the person next to them. The mass orgy of skin and gliter paste was blinding as the DJ spewed some of the most god-awful rap music from the stereo that was designed to do nothing but shot you across the room.

It was not a place to get a good drink, enjoy music and be with friends. IT was a place to dround out the sences so you do not have to actually look at the person you are fucking on one of the three dance floors in this establishment directly behind the Train Tracks.


I made the mistake of poitning out that the building that could hold nearly 1,500 people only had about 150 hmping along on the dance floor.

"THis is kind of weak," I said to TJ (or was it JT) the clubs operations manager.

"FUck, I am going to have ot show you a fun-ass time," he said.

This apparently means he was going to take me up to the Green room where JOrdan Knight, formerrly of the New Kids on the Block was hanging out with some girl who was apparentlly was wearing nothing but a macrame shirt.

It was 11 and he had not set foot on stage, but he was alraead bent on some drug that he probably snorted off the ass of his new groupie. She looked more than ready to run away with this 32 year old wash out...he was still cool to her, sadly, though she was still living in 1987 - when in real life she was probably only a todler.

Also in the room were anumber of other wahs out punks, all of them with their own groupies ready to perform some kind of devious weird sexual acts jsut so they could grow up and tell their grandkids they fucked JOrdan Knight or the cute one from 98 degrees in the bathroom of a Cape Cod dance club.

I could only take it so much. I needed strong drink. SO i began grabbing as many beers as I could from the cooler in the Green room. Aparently they were reserved for Jordan - the star of the night. THat was too bad becasue he had really shitty taste in beer - miller? You are afucking half-wit singer - coulkd not atleast request something with a little taste or kick?

With enough drink in me, I noticed my attorney from the newspaper was already chatting it up with some of the other singers from O-Town - a band that had no furture from the get go, and yet Disney and its evil empire somehow got them a platinum record.

The only redeming quality of this idiot was the fact that he played Sgt. Peppers Lonely Heart CLub Band as his opening song per my was like a fucking Time warp I shouted to the bar tendeerr who was getting me free drink at this point - she did not understand - not that i expected her too.

WHile my night progressed I began to grow tired of dealing with these "rock star" and decided it was time to bolt.

JOrdan Knoght managed to corner me before I left, though. He knew I was press and was looking to get as much as he could

"We got a party after at my hotel if you want to come.." he said...he looked like he had enough company. I did not want to move in on his throws of women.

"No, Jordan, I'm going tot IHOP."

The mere suggestion of leaving him to go to a fast food diner sent him into a downward spiral.. He stared at me at first in what looked like anger...then quiuckly he became disbeleife and fianlly i THink his eyes settled on depressed. This bastard was sad I chose IHOP over him.

I got my fial job in by turrning to one of the other New Kids on the Block who aparently livesi n Boston now who was telling me I was passing up the oportunity of a life time. I had no iea who this jack ass was. ANd I made it pretty aparent I didn't care who he was.

THere is nothing worse than someone in the inner circle of the VIP room questinging your importantce.

Fro me, I knew I was nobody, just the newspaper man, but these kids were still riding a high and terrible wave of celebrity that came to a head and went crashing down everytime someone, somewhere asked "Who are you?"

For a real celebrity, they will look at you like you are crazy, comforted by the fact that they know they are famous, but for these mucial wastes, they rely on people like me to recognize them on stage and rmemeber their fame.

I was not giving that to these guys. And they knew they were done. Only one of them (the O-Town singer) semed to recognize the little paly I was orchestrating. HE knew he was nobody. And he seemed somewhat happy that he was just playing. I can respect that - sort of.

But he is still hanging with a group of losers who needed to be stoped.

1 comment:

chris said...

You have always been classy Mike. And what is this advertisement attached to your blog? You finally were starting to win me over with Gonzo. Too bad we couldn't get you up to Vermont, and fuck the Red Sox and their confusing Web site for making it seem like I could get two tickets when they had sold that game out before Memorial Day.