Reviews of underground and indie music and films, 60s/70s pop and soul music and cult movies. And the occasional wacky tale about life in the Hollywood flatlands.
So…last Monday when I was walking back from the Regal Cinemas at L.A. Live, I encountered literally dozens of 20something couples walking toward the Staples Center. The guys were wimpy white thug wannabes; the girls were all wearing short dresses that barely covered their privates and spiky heelsso high they could barely stand up. What is this, I thought? Night of the bottle service sluts and douchebags! NO!! Night of the Living..Britney Spears fans! A few days later, I found out Britney had played the Staples Center that night and the wall of 20somethings I encountered were indeed fans on their way to her concert.
Yes, apparently, Britney’s fans, at least certain ones in L.A., have adopted a concert-going uniform. Brit’s handlers are still trotting her out there, even though the poor girl stands bewildered onstage much of the time while her dancers contort around her. Her music is simply well-produced, vacuous techno/dance trash, nothing more. Let’s face it, it’s not supposed to be intelligent or built to last. That’s beside the point. Britney is an entertainer, not a musical artiste. Her stage show, videos and persona are candy-coated soft-core porn – and in the mainstream pop world, that means $$$. I like Britney, always have – she seems like a sweet, genuine, largely clueless girl whose childhood love of singing and dancing led her into lotsa money – and lotsa trouble. She’s 29 now, and still under conservatorship by her Dad. Not a good sign. By the way, what happened to her power-hungry Mom? She seems to have completely disappeared.
Here’s Britney’s latest video –Mad Max meets Brit as futuristic, scantily clad biker girl hosting underground rave.
Ho-hum. Another Lakers' championship, another riot. The first thing I thought of a few nights ago when the Lakers beat the Celtics was “So, how many bonfires do you think they’ll be around the Staples Center tonight?” To be fair, the riots weren’t caused by fans, but by local thugs out to make trouble.
The L.A. “fans” celebration was a far cry from Chicagoans celebrating the Black Hawk’s Stanley Cup victory last week.There was a big parade in the Loop, lotsa bar-hopping for the team and the Stanley Cup-and the Cup is still on “tour” around Chicago. There are pics of drunk yuppies cavorting around it, and rumors of scantily clad girls drinking from, kissing or sitting in the cup. And one can only imagine what beer-soaked male fans have done to it. They'll have to fumigate that thing before it goes to the next winner.
This is the first time I’ve paid attention to the Black Hawks since the early 1970s. The 1971 Black Hawks were the team that shoulda, coulda, woulda won--Tony Esposito, Keith Magnuson, Phil Russell, Pit Martin, Stan Mikita (he doesn’t really own a doughnut shop), and Dennis Hull. I remember when my Aunt Theresa got me an autographed picture of Keith Magnuson. He worked for 7 Up Bottling in the off-season, and my Aunt knew someone who worked for them.(Yes, back then athletes had to take a side job to make ends meet when not working their “day” job, and I don’t mean as pitchmen for sneakers). I was thrilled to get the 8 by 10 glossy and it held a coveted place above my dresser.
Keith was famous for his pugilistic pursuits on ice. I looked forward to watching game highlights on the local morning kids' show, Ray Rayner and Friends. Ray would show hockey fight highlights, with the dainty Danube Waltz as the soundtrack. You try doing that on a kids' show today, you’d get booted off the air by tsk-tsking child psychologists for glorifying violence. To a kid in 1970s Chicago, hockey fights were just good clean fun. Imagine my shock when I did a Google search a few months ago and discovered that Keith had died in a car crash en route from another player’s funeral in 2003.
Living in Los Angeles severely limits one’s interaction with reality, so in between trips to New York and Chicago for an in-person wake up call, I listen to NYC and Chicago radio stations and read the Chicago Tribune and New York Post newspaper websites. Since September, I’ve listened to Steve Dahl’s podcast. Steve was Chicago’s original shock jock and the vinyl bashing DJ behind Disco Demolition night at White Sox Park in 1979. (In a way, he has atoned for this event. He's now a White Sox season ticket holder).Unceremoniously dumped by his terrestrial radio station last year, Dahl now hosts an hilarious daily podcast. After listening to Steve and his staff talk about the Black Hawks team and the players’ exploits on and off the ice, I started listening to Hawks games on the WGN radio website. When the team made the Stanley Cup finals, I could finally watch them on TV. Then when they won the Cup, I was relegated to texting, Facebooking and emailing my joy to friends and family in Chicago. There was no one to share it with in L.A. At least I got to hoist a shot glass of Grand Marnier to the occasion since there was no beer in the apartment. Just remind me when I get to Chitown to have a PBR and some Home Run Inn pizza for a belated celebration.
