So there are these kids in Florida a few years back between the ages of 10 and 15, banging out metal in their garage ala my longtime Bay Area brothers, Metallica. The neighbors get wind of the noise and come knocking and rocking. Bit of time passes, they hone their chops, enter puberty, morph from covers to originals and through a rare celestial alignment of people and planets, this playground gang of four land a major record deal with Interscope. They're called Black Tide and they've just released their debut LP."I'd like you to interview the kids," asked Jeff Sosnow, one of the last great A&R men left in crumbling Babylon otherwise known as the music business. He also discovered All American Rejects and Wolfmother, two groups that not only turn my 18-year daughter on but also give this mid-life riff lover a reason to bang the noodle. "I think you'd blow their minds with your stories. They worship the bands you've known and written about."
Ever since the composition and publication of my memoir, Life on Planet Rock (Morgan Road/Random House), I've lived the life of a freelance contractor, beholding to no corporate entity, time clock, schedule or agenda other than my own. You all know by now that I've danced with wolves, mothers, metal gods and angel sirens. I'll write the BIO, do the reel, draft the feature and joyfully engage the creature that eats, sleeps, fucks and breathes rock n' roll. Committed to that professional intention, I welcome the jobs that are not jobs but rather, manifestations of my true creative purpose.
"The guys are great, but the leader, Gabriel, he's only 15, and doesn't really open up in interviews," prepped 'Scope's marketing maiden, Dyana Kass, a legend of her craft whom I've known since before she conceived the Sacred Reich promotional bong at Hollywood Records in the early 90s, a device I hailed during an E! TV interview on drugs and rock n' roll that flipped the wigs on the Disney executives, the label's parent company. "Don't worry," I fired back. "Me and kids are going to be fine."
I arrived at the shoot with a small satchel of goodies that included a Xerox of a Megadeth story I did for the esteemed mag I ran back in the day, RIP. Gabe is a Dave Mustaine prodigy in digital eloquence and on stage presence. His style is blazing, mature and effortless. Then I handed out copies of Jim Morrison's college transcript that I copped while working in the Registrar's office at UCLA after I graduated in the spring of 1979, knowing that Alex, Zach and Steven were serious Doors fans. A journalist does his homework not in digesting facts and stats but by discovering points of human connection that demolish barriers and garner trust. I've relied on personality my entire career, whether it was Jimmy Page or an unsigned band from the outskirts of nowhere on the other end of the mike.
Suffice the say, the session was glorious though the last half hour was spent with me telling the boys road stories. I became a fan of Black Tide that afternoon because they represent the hope and future of rock. They've already opened Ozzfest and still aren't old enough to legally drink. The lead shredder's father approached me as I was packing up and said, "I've never seen anyone get Gabriel to speak up like that. Thank you." I slammed the gratitude hammer right back on his head. "You've done a fine job with that young man," I said. "This is why I still love doing what I do. Getting a glimpse at the beginning, pure, unfiltered. Thank you."
Then I pulled one more trinket out of the bag and approached Gabe. I wanted him to have something special. As Kinky Friedman once said, "I aspire to inspire before I expire." From the personal archives, I dug out my all access laminate from the Guns N' Roses/Metallica Stadium Tour of 1992, my name indelibly inked on the back. "Wow!" offered the prodigy. "This is mine? No fucking way! You're the man, Lonn!"
On the vernal equinox, Black Tide crashed upon the concrete shores of Sunset Boulevard and tusnami'd the Key Club with a reckless yet meticulous 45 minute set that generated a molten pit in a town where you usually have to throw raw meat and $20 bills down on the floor to get the jaded angel freaks gyrating. Dyana had delivered drummer Steve his 20th birthday gift on stage; a life size blow up doll purchased an hour earlier at the Hustler store up the block. The plastic groupie soon found herself moshing with the metalheads, getting banged about like two-legged beach ball. "Now that's metal," I quipped to myself. These boys are growing up. Fast.
Boy, man. I'm just a stranger in the strange and beautiful land of rock n' roll. Be the tide white, blue or black, it's changing. And the only constant is change.
