Wow. I think it's time we get something out on the table. This is not like one of my bogus confessions where I pretend that I am ashamed of something that I am actually proud of, like when I say that I am an emo kid. This is legit.
I get starstruck.
It's time I came to grips with that. Even after this summer of hanging out with band members and rock stars, calling them on the phone, letting them sleep on my floor and convincing them to put me on their lists, I STILL get starstruck. Not always-- it depends on the celeb, but the thing is that if they are in a band, it is likely I'll get starstruck.
Here's one for the books: I can handle myself-- my stomach doesn't even flutter-- when MAGIC JOHNSON says "good afternoon" to me. But when the keyboardist of my favorite screamo band signed to the label where I work introduces himself, my tongue goes useless and despite the way I blinked coyly, all I managed to get out was "I'm Blaiiiiir," even though my brain was screaming "I WORK FOR YOUR LABEL, JUST SAY THAT I WORK FOR YOUR LABEL! AND THAT HE IS THE COOLEST PERFORMER I HAVE EVER SEEN! AND ALSO THE SMALLEST!"
But he's not even famous famous; I could tell you his name or show you his picture, and unless you are a lot more of a scenester than I am thinking you are, you would have no idea who he is. Just some 21-year-old short kid with a funny name and amazing hair from the Western US.
This is the thing about being a person who gets starstruck. I HAVE been around enough "celebrities" that I LOOK like I know what I'm doing. I know how to walk straight to the door of a venue and FAKE like I belong, whether I do or not. And with my dark-dyed swoop, thick eyeliner and electric-guitar-shaped earrings, I look like a legit scenester. So people will come and introduce themselves to me (like the time I scored an invite to a band's afterparty just by standing next to the lead guitarist and looking bored), but being starstruck means that you can't trust anything your brain tells you.
Even though it would have been perfectly logical to say that I worked for the band's label, it would OBVIOUSLY be hugely problematic to announce that the keyboardist is the shortest person I have ever seen take the stage. And since in that split-second time frame it's impossible to differentiate which is ok to say, I have to settle for nothing but my name.
One of the guys I work for is always quiet and never really says anything to me, except for when he pulls through last minute with some ridiculously amazing deal: "Hey Blair, wanna go to Warped Tour tomorrow with an All-Access backstage pass?" or "Hey Blair, wanna be in the Scary Kids Scaring Kids' new video on Monday?" Which is how I ended up wandering into the meatpacking district with a Starbucks cup this morning at 10am. I took the bus with one friend to the corner of Mateo Street. We were supposed to walk one block from there to Willow Street, where the set/warehouse was. We walked a block to an unmarked street-- "Ok, let's try it." We turned down the street and ended up in front of a warehouse-style building full of... TV sets? This can't be right, we thought, so we walked out and into the next doorway, marked "Los Angeles Kickboxing Gym." Standing in the doorway with a stairwell going up and another going down, I felt like Philippe the horse in Beauty and the Beast-- all my instincts pointing me upward where it was light, and the set assistant I had passed in the street telling me to go down the [pitch black] staircase.
So I stepped from the sunny Southern California morning into the pitch blackness of the basement warehouse. Which turned out to be a former slaughterhouse complete with vaulted doors dividing up the corridors with labels stencilled on them like "KILLING ROOM." I swear. The whole thing is rat poop in corners, crumbling plaster walls, meat hooks hanging from the low ceilings, vaulted doors and tunnel after tunnel. I can't explain how ridiculously horror movie this place was... We sat down in director's chairs with two of the guys from the label in front of a monitor where we could watch the band filming take after take walking down one of the tunnels singing the first verse of the song and waited for our call time. But pretty soon the wardrobe lady came through calling for all the extras-- and announces to me and the other intern that we can't be in the shoot because we're not in all black. "I'm sorry," I said, "I work for the label and they just told us to come down-- we had no idea we had to be in black." "The label? You're with Immortal?" the wardrober snapped to attention. "Hold on, I think one of the other girls came with extra clothes." She walked me out to the awning outside where most of the band and a couple of the extras were trying to get some sun. I met the band a couple months ago, but I had re-introduced myself to most of them already by the time the wardrobe lady dragged me over to them. I had not, however, told them that I worked for Immortal, because they are never on particularly good terms with the label owner.
The wardrobe lady walks over to the band and the two extras that are hanging out with them (friends from back in the day) and says "these two fine young ladies work for Immortal--" everyone stops talking "and need some clothes to wear. Anyone have anything extra?"
"They're with the label?" "They're with the label!" we heard, and one of the girls rolled her eyes and told her we'd find her pink bag downstairs and we could wear whatever we wanted.
Schlepping back into the basement, I found her bag on one of the portable vanities set up down there (why I have no idea; there was no light to use the mirror with). I found a slinky black halter dress, walked through a vaulted door that I left open only a sliver, and changed clothes in the pitch blackness. I walked back out, having no idea how it looked, but when I saw the look on the keyboardist's face as I emerged from the vault, I decided it was probably a good choice.
"Let's get you some jewelry, and then you need to get to hair and makeup ASAP," we were told, before being decked out with really clunky amazing silver jewels. I walked upstairs and outside to have my hair done, sat still while she backcombed my hair into a wild mess and then twisted it back into a punk-goes-prom-with-swoop style, and I knew the look they were going for had worked when I saw my boss walking toward me, yelled "Hey, Isaac," and he looked right at me without a shred of recognition while trying to figure out how this girl in the glam cocktail dress knew his name.
We went back downstairs and walking around in the inky blackness I felt like such a movie star-- wherever I went, the light seemed always to be either right behind me, lighting up my silhouette and casting my shadow all over the cement floor or else directly in front of me so all I could see were the silhouettes of the people I was walking toward. I got some really intense looks, and all the girl extras kept asking why I got MY hair done and no one would do theirs. As soon as you drop the label-bomb on a video set, you are catered to hand and foot because, technically, you could end the shoot if you wanted because your company is paying for the whole thing. Obviously I couldn't end the shoot because I am a lowly intern, but no one on the set knew that, and every time my bosses walked by, they told me to just go with it, so go with it I did.
We watched the band shoot their last few takes, applied our last coats of eyeliner, and walked into a room marked "Kill Room" to do our shot. The theme of the video is all futuristic and crazy, so apparently in the future, there is only one drink, and it's neon green and drank out of tall macaroni-shaped glasses. We stood around mingling in a room full of steam looking futuristic while the band watched from the sidelines. All in all, it was a good time-- scary to be in the dankest basement (once a slaughterhouse, it's now used to film porn) I've ever seen, exciting to be hanging out with the coolest/hottest band of the moment, and ridiculously glam to be in the slinkiest cocktail dress ever, a comfy pair of Chucks with completely mod hair and talking to all the single members of the band like best friends.
Goooooood times. And the best part? They've got a real show tonight at the El Rey. And guess who's on the list?
Awkward moment of the day: I'm talking to the really awesome keyboardist, and, well... here's a transcript of what happened:
Background: Blair is looking for a bottle of water, notices keyboardist standing at table WITH a bottle of water.
Blair, thinking: "Shoulders back, back straight, stomach in, lips pursed... push your hair back gently... deep breath and..."
Keyboardist, out loud: "If you're looking for water, there's some over there."
Blair, thinking: "HE initiated conversation! Rock on!"
Blair, out loud: "Thanks! Hey, you guys were great, by the way..." (meaning the whole day's filming, not the most recent shot)
Keyboardist: "Yeah, it was all tracked, so no big deal."
Blair, thinking: "Ok, B, way to go, now he thinks you're dumb because WHO IN THEIR RIGHT MIND DOESN'T KNOW THAT A MUSIC VIDEO SHOOT IS TRACKED??? Quick, clarify!"
Blair, out loud: "Yeah, I know, I just mean... you were so convincing about it."
Blair, thinking: "AWKWARDAWKWARDAWKWARD, WHY couldn't I be SMOOTHER??? And more importantly, why couldn't HE be TALLER?? I'd be WAY more under control if I wasn't staring down at the top of his head! How tall is this kid anyway? 5'3"? "
So probably this guy thinks that I am some ridiculously shallow label employee who can't tell the difference between a recording and a live performance, despite the fact that I have set up pretty much all their record signings of the summer, sent out thousands of their posters and hundreds of their not-yet-released watermark sophomore albums.
Coolyan,
Blair
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