Time Crush

As a proclaimed megafan of all things 90s rock bands from formation until now (yes, their shit is still legit people!). Sorry, a pet peeve of mine is when people say things like, “Really - is Pearl Jam still around?” Or, “Oh yeah, I remember the Foo Fighters from their Mentos music video.” Sigh. I digress… 

For the hardcore fan that I am, I came into this concert game late, for a few reasons. One being that I was stuck in a cult-like mentality that my music and expression was wrong based on attending a life-consuming church group that almost obliterated my personality traits. More on that in a post to come. But, it was mainly because life was in the way and I simply wasn’t aware of the music community that existed. I was also broke AF for a long period of time with little to no disposable income (concert tickets are expensive, y'all). Once again, I digress…

Because of time lost, once this true love returned and rekindled, I overindulged and became insanely fascinated by the music scene from back in the day, specifically the “grunge scene.” Its pure, organic and humble beginnings, its cross-breeding of bands to form the craziest concoctions of the most talented of musicians, its grassroots guerrilla-style marketing system, its self-madeness, its overall lack of corporate ownership…I could go on. But, of course at the helm was The Fuckin Music! Oh, the glorious melody mix of grit, consciousness, rebellion and poetry.

Watching and re-watching grainy youtube videos of Pink Pop and Lollapalooza 1992 or rewinding the Soundgarden scene of the movie Singles brings me a painful sense of nostalgia, false as it may be. 

I WISH I could have lived it, but in reality I would have been 11 years old and doubt my overbearing, strict evangelical household would have approved. Again, I’ll save that for another blog post. 

But, the longing to have been part of such a time in music’s memory pains me. I can only compare it to an unattainable crush of youth. Remember wanting someone so bad, your actual physical core ached because you knew the connection would never happen? Whether it be due to distance, age, because they were famous (queue Growing Pains Kirk Cameron and the Karate Kid - he-llo Ralph Macchio!), or maybe because they liked skinny girls and you have always been blessed with an abundance of layering. Whatever the case, it hurt, right? And it was a crushing pain.

But, I’m an adult and can obviously handle the reality that time travel is not a real concept…yet. Honestly, who knows what that crazy Bill Gates has up his sleeve. Again, another digression...

But now, I feel another very real pit-in-the-gut sense of longing, one I can only compare to a held-back cry.

I’ve built this very personal version of my own concert life - my fun, my therapy, my hobby - which includes the bands I’ve always loved and almost lost, apart from the ones I’ve actually lost (RIP Chris Cornell & Dolores O’Riordan; Kurt Cobain too but he died way before he was even an option for me). 

Now it’s gone and I’m crushed once again. You see, the main bands I love, well they are older now and so am I, so there is an appreciation level there that youth could not understand. But, I do. I miss it. But more than that, I need it. 

This yearning is heightened with each concert that gets canceled or moved to year from now. And, as the world looks worse and my faith wrestles fear and confusion, I need my live music. It feels so far. The skin of my soul is sore and chaffed and it wont be long until its cuts bleed. I need its soothing. 

I know I will find it once again, but for now what I want, what I'm crushing on is not a fantasy life. It’s my own. 

The Brandon Spell

My view in Nashville, TN 11/27/19

I first saw Incubus when they co-headlined the SEA.HEAR.NOW Festival in Asbury Park in 2018. After losing touch with the band for years, I was immediately drawn back to their sound, vibe and creativity. 

Lightning struck and I was a kid again exploring their entire music catalog, feeling out the band’s energy, personality and sound. I needed to see them again. 

It was announced that they would headline The Innings Festival in Arizona alongside Eddie Vedder - what?! I purchased those tickets immediately, of course. 

A week before that show, stars aligned and I learned that the band’s lead singer Brandon Boyd was having a signing for his memory game, "Two Doors," at Bookmarc in NYC. 

I was pretty cool as I waited in line that mild February day to meet Brandon, not fan-freaked out or anything. But, once I got a closer view of him, the heart flutters and hot flashes began. 

His vibe was cheery-chill and style California rustic-hippy chic in his vintage Zeppelin tee, worn brown leather laced boots, and tan cardigan. His thick, long hair was tucked into a mustard beanie and he wore matching mustard socks peeking out from his hand-cut cropped black pants.

His complexion was clear and smooth like he wore tinted moisturizer, though I knew he didn't. Maybe he just came off of a juice cleanse or something. 

He took time (like real time) to talk to each fan. I had practiced what to say on line with a new friend I met there but like…was it cool enough? Was I going to stutter? Be a dork? Why is he so cute in person?! Are my palms sweaty? Ugh! 

I grabbed a glass of the complimentary champagne and gulped it down. I don't even like champagne. I bought the memory game and his book, So the Echo, to get signed. Still nerves. Shoot should I have another champagne?

Too late. It was my turn. I approached the table. He’s boob level. Perfect. 

“Hi, I’m Monica,” I cheerfully announced as I cupped his shoulder. Nice - his shoulder cap was solid (the result of many years of yoga handstands I’m sure). His tan sweater was cashmere. 

“I’m Brandon,” he said with a smile. We shook hands. His hands were softer than cashmere.

I shot him a look, “Um, yeah we all know that…” I said as I motioned my hand to the crowd in the bookstore. 

(I respond to nerves by being a sarcastic asshole. Noted.)

Be cool, Monica…keep the conversation going… “So, I’m going to see you guys next week at The Innings Festival in Arizona.”

He lit up. “Oh. It’s going to be a special set. We’re doing something unique.” 

I loved that he was giving me some scoop. I requested that they play my favorite song, “Warning.” He paused with his finger over his chin as if he was working through the set in his head. Wow, he loves me. 

“Hmmm…maybe. That might work. It’s going to be a great set.”

He’s very articulate and pronounces the consonants at the end of his words like a poet at a reading. I dig it. 

“Well, good, then it will be worth the trip to Arizona,” I responded, reaffirming my nervous sarcasm.

He gave me a slightly bewildered look. Did I make him uncomfortable? “Well, at least the weather will be better there,” he said as he looked down to sign my book.

“Yeah, I guess…but it isn't even that cold today.”  

“No, it isn’t.” He’s writing my name. 

“Huh, must be that Cali blood in you,” I teased.

"Please get this girl away from me...
she won't stop touching my shoulder..."

“Yeah…I’m silently suffering,” he shot back. Yes! He’s sarcastic too!

We both laugh. I die.

We take a pic. I touch his shoulder again and maybe again. I didn't wanna leave.

One last question. “How did you get all of your hair into that hat?”

“Oh, with these sticks.” He lifted his hat to reveal the thickest most perfect low bun held together by 2 symmetrically aligned baby chopstick-like hairpins.

Even his hair is art. Swoon. 

So thrown off by his hair art, I lose my edgy sarcasm and thank him for being so cool because “celebrities can be weird sometimes.” Wait, what? And, that was the tone of the look he gave me.

Then he announced, “Well, I think it’s time for a wardrobe change,” and removed the two hair sticks and tousled his hair loose from the bun. I never felt more like a teen boy in an American Pie film as I watched him toss his hair side to side. Swoosh, swoosh. Whoa.

Stuck in a dream-like haze, I lingered there for a moment. I finally snapped myself out of it and walked away so I wasn't embarrassed by being asked to step aside. I did realize, however, that I forgot to get my $50 memory game signed. Shoot!

After the show in Arizona, I was full on INCUB-SESSED and saw them four times in 2019, including shows from their killer '20 Years of Make Yourself' tour. As much as I genuinely loved the band and their music plus the energy of the shows, one thing become glaringly clear. We (the fans) are all under what I refer to as, “The Brandon Spell.”  

Female fans at the shows go bananas over Boyd. I mean, like seemingly stable, respectable, beautiful women, lose their whole shit over Brandon Boyd. The electricity he exudes through movement and sound casts a spell on those in the room. We are all one now - swaying, singing, dancing, smiling, drooling… 

I’ve seen ladies stop mid song to give each other an OMG-did-you-see-that look during his hair tosses and sweaty torso thrusts. His lean yoga body has also filled out nicely over the years, like he just came out of a Calvin Klein underwear shoot. Do you even lift bro? Yessir, you do. 

At the Ohana Festival in California, I nearly choked when I heard one woman behind me scream, “Show me your TITTIEEES!!!!” at the top of her lungs towards the end of the show when Brandon was still fully clothed. I mean, let’s be honest here, a MAJOR highlight of an Incubus show is when he removes his shirt, revealing intricate tattoos that seems to come alive during his flow. 

I got to meet him two more times this year. The band performed on The Colbert Show in June which is right across the street from my job, so naturally I left work at lunch, made friends with the head security guard, Jose, and scored sound check details for the show. 

Jose, initially tried to tell me that “fans” had to stay across the street. Oh, sweetie. That's not happening. 

“Jose, I am not standing across the street and screaming to the band from there. That’s demeaning. Plus, I came to get my game signed. Look at me, I’m not a psycho. I’m a business woman,” I said pleased with my look - biz casual but cool in a navy sleeveless top with an embroidered detail, dark faded jeans, tan wedges, round Ray-Bans and flowy hair.  “Here’s my card. I work across the street.”

He was still unsure. I had to convince him. 

“Okay Jose, haven't you ever met someone working here, like a musician that you totally respected and admired?”

“Well, yeah. I had to try and keep it cool when Lady Gaga was on the show.”

“Lady Gaga?!” I exclaimed. But, I kept my composure to not make an enemy of him. “Well, then you see where I am coming from?” 

“Fine,” Jose agreed. “But just act like you are walking by when they come out which should be around 4:45pm.” 

Perfect. I went back to my office and came back at the right time, chilled in the vicinity and played it cool scrolling through my phone. But, my stomach was in knots as I heard the band rehearse behind the stage door.

Jose looked over and gave me a head nod to let me know they were coming. I was ready.

“Hey Brandon!” I yelled as he exited the stage door in a mustard yellow button down short sleeve shirt. His hair was loose (yes!) and he wore perfectly round John Lennon sunglasses. OMG we’re sunglasses twins!

“Can you sign my game?” I asked as I quickly approached him.

“Sure,” he replied so cool and calm you would never know I just yelled his name and completely ran up on him. 

I thanked him and handed him the the game and sharpie. He went to use the marker and quickly realized it was capped. He flipped the capped side towards me in a motion for me to pull it off. 

“Oh,” I giggled and pulled the cap off as he held the marker and signed the game. Yo, did he just sharpie shame me? Ha! I was cool wit it. 

I went on to wish the band luck on the show that night as they were piling into their blacked out Sprinter van. They were gracious, smiled and I scooted off. I didn't want to cross the line of being an annoying fan or have Jose judge me any more than he already did. But, like Lady Gaga? I’m judging You, Jose.

I crossed paths with Brandon once more at the iconic Ryman Theater in Nashville directly after their ticketed pre-show jam/soundcheck. My best friend Glori and I were walking to the restroom and I spotted Brandon 50 feet away. I swiftly glided to him Twilight-vampire style, said what’s up and went for a hug. Yes! He smelled like fresh laundry. Like straight up Downy not some vegan lavender patchouli shit. The fact that he smelled like synthetic fabric softener brought me comfort.

That was the perfect pre-game to the show that night. It was incredible, of course, but we ended up having the absolute BEST view of the band.

And, I made friends with more women that were under the spell. One was with her man and he couldn't help but agree about Brandon. 

The exact time he removed his shirt, one woman screamed with such sincere relief, “Finally!” I couldn't help but give her a damn high-five.

Soon after another woman literally tried to climb past me to stand on the chair in front of me for a better view. Thankfully, she immediately fell and busted her ass. I mean she was fine and all, just embarrassed. As she should be, but damn that Brandon be driving bitches crazy out here.

That show in Nashville was by far my favorite Incubus show. The venue was iconic and intimate and the views were pure insanity. Check out these videos. Ultimately, I just want to thank God, Brandon’s abs, and the band for a year full of exuberant fun and amusing tales. Until next time, fellas!

Anyone else experience the “Brandon Spell?” Share your stories below!

Photo op after meeting Brandon at Bookmarc in NYC.

Glori and I after hugging Brandon in Nashville. O-M-G!

'All I Can Say' - A Documentary on Shannon Hoon

As a fan of independent film and 90s rock and roll, I was excited to watch the documentary, All I Can Say about Shannon Hoon, the lead singer of Blind Melon, a band that gained popularity in the 90s primarily through their hit song, “No Rain.”

It premiered at Tribeca Film Festival this past Friday and blew me away. I was curious about the Blind Melon front man as I was only vaguely familiar with the band through a few of their tracks and various correlations with musicians I love like Chris Cornell/Soundgarden and Pearl Jam who have a song, “Bee Girl” inspired by the culturally iconic ‘bee girl’ in the MTV viral video for “No Rain.”

History often depicts those who have taken their life or surrendered it to drugs as depressed, troubled or weak. Shannon, like so many other talented musicians died of a drug overdose at the age of 28 in 1995. But, what was his story?

Going in, I knew that the film would include home video footage that Shannon had taken of himself over the course of several years. But, about 1/4 into the film, I came to realize that the film was entirely comprised of his footage filmed from 1990-1995 - it was grainy, it was raw, it was human. 

I was intrigued but also skeptical thinking the film would be choppy or lack narrative. To my surprise and to the credit of its phenomenal directors Danny Clinch, Taryn Gould and Colleen Hennessy, the film's flow and transitions were seamless. I quickly became captivated by Shannon Hoon’s spirited, outlandish personality - from the way he lovingly teased his girlfriend to his interaction with his band members and his comedic one-liners to the camera. I felt like we could be fast friends.

Seeing life through Shannon’s uncensored lens felt extremely intimate and portrayed a sincere vulnerability that was both beautiful yet uncomfortable at times. Was I invading Shannon’s head space? Was this something he intended on sharing? Witnessing his level of transparency in the videos, you begin to believe that he wanted to share his journey with you - from his humble hometown in the Midwest to his rise in the ranks of music and pop culture to his battles with rage and addiction.

Through it all Shannon’s ridiculous humor, mischievous spirit and passion remained. He was passionate about his art but his passion for his relationships are what made him so easy to embrace - from the playful moments with his young niece and his lighthearted-in-tone yet serious-in-nature talks with father to his over the moon glee and affection for his newborn daughter, Nico.

Shannon embodied the ticking timeline of the film. He'd often ask, “What time is it?” which translated in my mind to “How much time do I have left?” as it served as an ominous reminder of the end approaching.

Although I knew the outcome, I still somehow rooted for Shannon when he went to rehab or tried to kick his destructive habits. I was invested and engulfed in the beauty, hilarity and tragedy of Shannon Hoon. As the time stamp on the videos progressed, I became anxious knowing he would leave us soon.  

The ultimate emotional knee-jerk moment was toward the end during an intimate birthday celebration where Lisa was behind the camera singing Shannon Happy Birthday while he stared at the number 28 candle almost the entire time, cracking a smile only towards the end of her serenade. I tear up thinking about that scene as it hit hard when she happily added, “And many more…” to the song unaware that would be the last candle he blew out.

At the end of the film, the theater was completely silent. Not just quiet. Silent. It was unlike anything I had experienced before. It was almost ceremonial, the reverence that was shared through that moment of silence. Someone broke the silence with a clap and we all followed. It was a moving, emotional experience even as the directors came back up to the screen to share a few words and tears of grief, relief, and gratitude. 

Not only was this documentary monumental in the way it was presented through the lens of a 90s camcorder, it was insightful, inspirational yet tragic all at once. It hit on fundamental elements of humanity and you can see yourself or someone you know in Shannon. A film with heart and guts, beauty and loss. It was more than I can say.

The Morphing of Music

After many failed attempts at a recap of the Chris Cornell Tribute concert that took place in LA last month, I decided to dig deeper and switch it up. No one really wants to read a recap of my night when so many others have already covered the show. So, what did that concert inspire in me?

Interestingly, the tribute show affected me more than I imagined. Its impaooct wasn't based on emotion as much as it was on realization. A realization that music is different now. Much different.

Perhaps that’s a blanket statement. However, it’s not the sound or style of music I am referring to here. It’s the content and intent, the soul of music. The soul of music feels different.

“Oh Monica, you’re just stuck on grunge music because that’s what you grew up on…90s rock music.”

Sure. That’s true to an extent. But, I also grew up when bullshit like Brittany Spears, boy bands and video hoes became a thing and I didn't jive with it. There was nothing relatable there to me, nothing real. It didn't spark anything in me other than nausea. But, at least back then there was a variety more readily available and you could pick and choose what fit and claim it.

These days, the majority of the music that soundtracks our lives lacks substance. Whenever I’m out running errands, at a bar with friends or even in an Uber, I am met with sickening similar sounding 3-minute jingles selling caviar dreams on a cup o’ noodles budget, claiming lust as love and selling fantasy as reality.

Budding pop stairs are branded as fresh and unique but in reality, they’re stale .0 versions of the last round of industry puppet pop stars. Let me guess…the girls? Hyper-sexualized and “empowered" by it. The dudes? Boastful, lustful or super whiny about love lost. Oh, and of course the cool new trend of exorcist looking artists with creepy white-out eyes. Thanks, but I’ll pass on the lil demon spitting lyrics at me.

Sure, there are still true artists and rebels out there but they aren't the ones being shoved in our faces 24/7. You have to seek them out, go to local gigs, emerge in community, etc. It’s possible but easy to overlook. The average person just accepts what’s being sold to them on the radio and streaming services.

The reason I cling on to artists like Cornell, Pearl Jam, Foo Fighters, Tupac and The Cranberries to name a few is because their realness resonates with me. These guys weren't trying to be like anyone or anything - they were who they were. Individuals with their own identity and story that was interesting and inspiring.

The night of the Chris tribute was a blatant reminder of the musical genius and trailblazer that we lost. That show was sacred to many of us fans. We came from across the globe to honor and celebrate this phenomenal, authentic, remarkable legend - a transcendental, monumental man whose voice sparked fire in your core.

Overall, the show was an epic collaboration of artists. My eyes swelled watching Chris’ sweet, stunning daughter Toni sing “Redemption Song” with Ziggy Marley. She sang that song at the Beacon Theater with her dad only a few years ago.

The video montages of Chris that were played in between sets were just as achingly beautiful as he was depicting him over the years - smiling, singing, laughing. It was both heavenly and haunting.

The bands I admire and hold dear were there in unison jamming to Chris’ music. I realized I would never witness anything like this ever again. Soundgarden and Audioslave on the same song! Dave Grohl fronting Audioslave! Taylor Hawkins fronting Soundgarden! Mind-blowing.

Then, at a least expected moment, Stone Gossard of Pearl Jam and Temple of the Dog introduced Miley Cyrus to the stage.

What, again? She can’t perform again. Come on.

I thought I dodged a bullet when she came out the first time to cover the grunge legend in her loud purple sequin dress. I even became thankful for the built-in pee break and decided not to hate too much on the fact that she and Adam Levine were a part of the program. Maybe Chris’ daughters were Hannah Montana fans before she became the stage-masturbating media circus she was to the heavily-promoted media darling that she is now. I mean, will the real Miley please stand up?

In all honesty, Adam did a fine job covering "Seasons" and hitting the Cornell high notes. And, while I was in the restroom, Miley was apparently fine at singing “Two Drink Minimum” also known as “When Hope and Promise Fade.” I thought both were one and done and we were moving on.

But, she was back and so it began…the intro to one of the most iconic, meaningful, purest songs of Chris’ career, “Say Hello to Heaven” by Temple of the Dog.

Temple of the Dog was everything real and raw about art and music. It was the record Chris wrote and dedicated to Andy Wood, his dear friend who fronted another Seattle band, Mother Love Bone. Andy died suddenly from a drug overdose and it caused a stir in the Seattle music community. The band members Andy left behind (who moved on to form most of Pearl Jam) also played on the tribute record. It was a huge moment in Seattle’s unique, rich history where these guys, who were like brothers, came together and created this breathtakingly original record.

I had the honor of attending the only Temple of the Dog reunion tour in 2016 and it is legitimately the most meaningful show I have ever attended.

And now, at Chris’ tribute show in LA, Miley effin’ Cyrus is performing the song. It was a lot to handle. I took a seat.

It was my very own war of the worlds. Industry in all its fabricated glory invaded the sincere send off to Chris.

Dramatic much? Maybe. But this is 100% how I felt. At that moment, hope and promise did fade…for me. I know…times are a changing…but it sucks.

Of course, it’s not all one-sided. There were “popular” artists like Brandi Carlile who sang the shit outta Cornell covers. She sings from somewhere deep. I even enjoyed Taylor Momsen, from The Pretty Reckless, once I got over my initial What the fuck is goth Avril Lavigne doing here? moment. She was quite good fronting a few Soundgarden songs.

As mainstream music has morphed into whatever it’s become, Chris’ musical memory, to me remains pure. Maybe I am idolizing the man that is gone, but every time I hear his records, there is a peace, a sadness, a truth to it. And that seems so rare these days. My insides ache for something real - whether it’s rock & roll or not. It’s not about genre, it’s about authenticity.

In all the montages of moments from the 5 plus hour show, there was none I’ll remember more than this.

The venue went completely dark and another video interlude played on the two large screens along the sides of the stage. It was of a recent Soundgarden performance of "Beyond The Wheel."

There stood Chris, front and center - his signature voice shifting the energy in the room and drawing all attention to him. He moved across the stage the way he always did - with an intense yet even temperament that remained, even as his voice soared. He lifted the mic stand up and down like a warrior as his blue eyes iced from the lighting shined through sweat-filled strands of dark curls.

My eyes remained glued to the screen. And, in that moment, I was there. Like a dream so vivid, I was there. A Soundgarden show…the moment I've waited for…I was there. The force of his voice vibrated throughout my body. I closed my eyes. I was there! 

Eyes open, I looked towards the stage. Empty. Black.

The Concert Drug

the season is over 

the feeling is over 

forcefully desperately 

reliving moments through footage on phones 

but 

so much escapes a lens 

even show bootlegs deny senses of the energy 

the gravity 

the dignity 

of the band present

oohs ahhs cheers tears 

gutural bass pumped drums

whimsical keys guitar screams

vocals stretched out and pulled in 

right before breaking

reach range vibe 

high 

satisfied

seesaw thoughts 

plotting

always plotting

for the next and the new

but 

‘it’s been good it’s been fun and now we’re done’

echo through my mind like a cruel adult nursery rhyme

lost sleep 

at work lurking for the next buzz

checking credit cards and bank accounts

how many more can I fit it

how many workdays to miss

a calculated concert scientist 

expedia priceline rewards points

ten club stub hub ticketmaster bastards

headspin tailspin whirlwind 

stop

reset recharge restart

leave it alone

fuckit 

give in

let the concert games begin

in the abyss of bliss

I wander 

don't look for me 

you won’t find me 

because I am never the same

again 

Exhaustion. Relief. Completion.

life. 

bills paid

work events projects 

relationships family

seasons holidays 

smiles tears laughter sadness

art culture playlists local bands

food chores spinclass

haircuts outbursts boxing 

vacation sickness dancing 

passion…

tap tap tap

on the instagram trap

new dates announced

new regions to explore

adventure understanding

fulfillment freedom

meet ups merch lines 

sleep deprived

alive

reliving the new

like a fresh drunk 

a first toke 

a passionate pull

a soul full