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“Strange Days” in schools

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That’s me! The best depiction ever, my Scott Weiland fantasy fulfilled. I enjoyed visiting La Salle High School in Pasadena to talk about Strange Days and my own private high school horrors. Special thanks to Delia Swanner (and the anonymous poster artist).

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Strange Days – Free on Kindle, Today Only

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Get your free Kindle version of Strange Days: The Adventures of A Grumpy Rock ‘n’ Roll Journalist in Los Angeles for free here, today only.

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Strange Days • Now on sale

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Strange Days: The Adventures of a Grumpy Rock ‘n’ Roll Journalist in Los Angeles is now on sale. Click HERE to buy the physical and Kindle versions on Amazon.

Strange Days features behind-the-scenes recollections, juicy gossip and incisive interviews with music icons such as David Bowie, Johnny and June Carter Cash, Mike Love, Gene Simmons, Isaac Hayes, Ice-T, Roger Taylor of Queen, Phil Collins, members of Aerosmith, the Doors, Guns N’ Roses and INXS, and many more.

For more details, click on StrangeDaysBook.us or my groovy Amazon author profile. Or email me at dgtyrant (at) yahoo (dot)com, or give me a call.

The post Strange Days • Now on sale appeared first on Dean Goodman.

The outback pub in David Bowie’s “Let’s Dance” video

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David Bowie ventured to the Australian outback in 1983 to shoot the video for his biggest hit single, Let’s Dance, much to my astonishment as a 14-year-old schoolboy living a mere 1,800 miles away in New Zealand. “Holy shit! The Thin White Duke is next door!”

And what a great clip it is (Bowie co-directed with David Mallett), using the plight of Australia’s Aborigines as a metaphor for anyone caught up in the urban grind. Or something like that. It instantly became my life’s ambition to visit the pub where a glowing Bowie boldly serenaded the disdainful, beer-swilling locals.

Thirty years later, I finally made it to Carinda (population: 180) in November 2013, driving 170 miles each way from the closest city, Dubbo, which itself is about 240 miles west of Sydney. As you might expect, Carinda is hotter than hell. It’s in the middle of nowhere and there’s nothing to do – except drink at the Carinda Hotel. THE Carinda Hotel!

By all accounts, Bowie’s brief trip to the cattle town did little to improve Anglo-Australian relations, which are fragile at the best of times. As the beer flowed freely, courtesy of Bowie, the staunch ranchers ridiculed the gloved Pommy bastard at every opportunity — as can be seen in the video. Bowie, in turn, called them rednecks, according to a pair of Carinda ladies I met.

For me, walking into the pub was a magical moment, similar to my amazement upon entering Machu Picchu or Versailles. The interior is more or less unchanged. The orange-and-green checkered linoleum floor is mostly intact, as is the bar itself. The ceramic wall tiles are still there, albeit obscured by wooden boards. The pool table has been moved to a back room. The unwitting co-stars of the video, the barmaid Jayne told me, are mostly dead. As you can see from the video, they were pretty old to begin with.

Sadly the Aboriginal boy who co-stars in the video, Terry Roberts, is also dead. He apparently suffered from tragic mental health issues. But Terry’s on-screen partner, Joelene King, is alive and well in suburban Sydney.

Behind-the-scenes snapshots and other memorabilia from that famous day apparently went with the former owners of the pub when they sold it. Jayne is in the process of trying to requisition some items because the pub does actually draw tourists like me who want to know what went on.

So anyway, after gasping with delight at this wondrous piece of Bowie history, I was brought back to reality when Jayne pointed to a snake at the side door. She phoned Barry who bravely clubbed the venomous, meter-long king brown with a shovel.

Barry and his big snake

Here are some screengrabs from the video juxtaposed with contemporary views:

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And here are some other pictures from that momentous day:

The CBD, from the Carinda Hotel

Carinda of Walgett Shire … Black Soil Plains

A house in Carinda

NOTE: Read more about David Bowie and Let’s Dance in my memoir, Strange Days: The Adventures of a Grumpy Rock ‘n’ Roll Journalist in Los Angeles, available here. For more info, go to strangedaysbook.us

Copyright © 2013 by Dean Goodman. PLEASE DO NOT CUT AND PASTE THE WHOLE THING

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The Beatles in New Zealand, 1964

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John Lennon boards a Viscount aircraft for a domestic flight at Wellington Airport, June 23, 1964. The capital’s airport did not have jet bridges for domestic flights until the late-’80s, so you were invariably guaranteed a soggy boarding

Ringo Starr and George Harrison on board an aircraft during their tour of New Zealand, June 1964

John Lennon with his second cousins, Mr and Mrs F Parker, from Levin, June 23, 1964

The Beatles on the balcony of the Hotel St George, Wellington, June 1964. (I got plastered every night at the hotel’s student bar, Scribblers, during the mid-’80s)

The Beatles at a press conference in Wellington, June 1964

Ringo Starr receiving a Maori welcome in Wellington. George hopes to dodge a bullet. Poor bastards

The Beatles at Wellington Airport, June 1964. They are wearing tikis (good luck charms) around their necks. John is waving a poi, used by Maori female dancers

A fan is restrained during the Beatles’ concert at the Wellington Town Hall, June 24, 1964

I came across these photos at the National Library of New Zealand.

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NOTE: My book, Strange Days: The Adventures of a Grumpy Rock ‘n’ Roll Journalist in Los Angeles, is available here. For more info, go to strangedaysbook.us

Copyright © 2013 by Dean Goodman.

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The Rolling Stones in New Zealand, 1965 + 1966

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Mick Jagger is grabbed by a fan at the Wellington Town Hall on Feb. 28, 1966. Bill Wyman carries on playing. Brian Jones, celebrating his 24th birthday is in the background.

According to Wyman’s memoir, Stone Alone, “The concert was predictably hysterical … One girl jumped from the rear balcony to throw her arms around Mick, who kept on singing as they tried to drag her away; the girl, still clinging to him, pulled him with her for several yards.” The Stones’ overall impression of New Zealand: “a bit quiet” (nothing has changed). But at least Bill got to take three girls to bed with him after this show

Mick Jagger on stage at the Wellington Town Hall, Feb. 8, 1965.

“‘Don’t stand up or you’ll get arrested,’ Mick shouted to the fans at the Wellington concert,” Wyman recounted in Stone Alone. “One girl (presumably the one pictured below) got within inches of the stage but was firmly ejected … New Zealand was a much quieter experience than Australia (again, nothing has changed), partly because radio featured little pop and the Stones’ sound had not saturated the country.”

A Rolling Stones fan is restrained at the Wellington Town Hall, Feb. 8, 1965 (Not my mother, mercifully, who was probably focused on her wedding two days later)

I came across these photos at the National Library of New Zealand. For more about the Rolling Stones and me, click here.

Follow @DeanGoodman

NOTE: My book, Strange Days: The Adventures of a Grumpy Rock ‘n’ Roll Journalist in Los Angeles, is available here. For more info, go to strangedaysbook.us

Copyright © 2013 by Dean Goodman.

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Ray Charles

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To date the only fresh corpse I’ve seen in real life, appropriately for my job as a showbiz reporter, belonged to a celebrity: Ray Charles.

I attended his colorful send-off in June 2004, and walked past his open casket on my way out as the sound system played his new version of Over The Rainbow, a duet with Johnny Mathis. Sporting his trademark sunglasses and a dark suit, Ray looked better than he had six weeks earlier.

That was when the Los Angeles city fathers conferred historic-building status on his recording studio and office complex in an inner-city neighborhood. Ray, battling liver cancer, showed up late to the ceremony in a motorized wheelchair. He had to be propped up at the lectern by handlers as he mumbled a few remarks. “I’m a little weak now, but I’m gonna get stronger,” he said. After posing briefly for photos with luminaries, including Clint Eastwood, he was whisked away.

Remarkably, his failing health never interfered with the work ethic that made him one of the most influential American musicians of the 20th century. Right up to the end he worked on Genius Loves Company, a duets album featuring Norah Jones, Elton John, Willie Nelson and many others. I was scheduled to interview him at his studio in February after spending weeks with his publicist trying to nail down a slot. I showed up at the building wearing my best suit, and was walking up to the door when the publicist called to say Ray had been held up at the last minute and wouldn’t be able to speak with me. I didn’t mind too much since I assumed we would be able to reschedule.

A few days later, I received in the mail a typed note on classy Ray Charles Enterprises letterhead in which Ray said there had been an “unfortunate scheduling conflict” related to the recording sessions. “Please accept my apologies,” he wrote. “I would like to make myself available to you to reschedule, if you are available. I know the life of a newspaperman is busy, just like the life of a musician in the studio. Regards, Mr. Ray Charles.” Alas, it was not signed. Nor were we able to tee up a new time. When I saw him in the wheelchair at the ceremony, I realized we never would.

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NOTE 1: The US Postal Service will issue a Ray Charles “forever stamp” on Sept. 23, the 83rd anniversary of his birth. See details here.

NOTE 2: This is an excerpt from my memoir, Strange Days: The Adventures of a Grumpy Rock ‘n’ Roll Journalist in Los Angeles, available here. For more info, go to strangedaysbook.us

Copyright © 2013 by Dean Goodman. PLEASE DO NOT CUT AND PASTE THE WHOLE THING

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Awards shows – please kill me!

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Covering awards shows like the Grammys and Oscars made me grumpy. They allow rich and famous people to become even more rich and famous, and I was part of the problem.

I understand some of the psychology behind stars making a big deal out of getting cheap tchotchkes, corporate “attaboys.” They overcame huge odds to achieve their fleeting fame, after all. But they’re also millionaires with fancy cars, big homes and jet-setting lifestyles. Isn’t that reward enough? And, not to sound too idealistic, but why are we treating artistic endeavors as if they were the Olympics? It’s remarkable how a serious performer’s cynicism towards awards shows melts when he gets a prize.

I can’t decide if it’s good or bad that awards shows have been reduced to fashion shows. The talk of the 2000 Grammys was not Santana’s sweep of the top prizes but Jennifer Lopez’s plunging Versace dress, which incidentally is stored at the Grammy Museum in Los Angeles.

None of the on-camera glamour is evident in the cramped and distant press rooms. Maybe if the organizers had plied the media with alcohol and a buffet, I would have been more enthused. We struggled to follow the developments on TV monitors which were periodically silenced when trophy-toting celebs graced us with their presence to answer penetrating questions like, How does it feel to win your award/meet other performers? What’s next in your career? But those were genius compared to the random zingers thrown their way by the investigative reporters from People and US Weekly: Who are you wearing? What are you doing for Thanksgiving (which may be several months away)? Do you have favorite school moments?

Sometimes I enlivened things to stave off boredom. Citing a recent news report that Whitney Houston’s cover of “I Will Always Love You” was the most requested song at British crematorium funerals, I asked the pop diva backstage at the 1994 American Music Awards if she planned to have the song played at her own funeral. She glared at me, and then-husband Bobby Brown looked as if he might pounce. Well, we eventually found out the obvious answer.

The last question I ever asked at an event was to Blake Lively at the MTV Movie Awards in 2011, shortly after some nude photos hit the Web. We had been told the pretty Gossip Girls starlet would not take questions because she was simply going to pose for the photographers who shared the tent with us. Undaunted, I yelled out as she walked past the press contingent: “Blake, do you plan to pose for any more nude photos?” She either ignored or didn’t hear me. Her publicist shot me a venomous glance, and an MTV stooge reprimanded me, “No questions!”

I went on auto-pilot for these throwaway shows, where the winners were subordinate to the performances and the red-carpet fashions. Someone gets the most prizes, someone is snubbed, someone makes an ass of himself. The end. The American Music Awards are a low-rent version of the Grammys. (The top photo shows ‘N Sync at the AMAs in 1999.) For many years, the big AMA winners did not even turn up. Those who did pretended to be ecstatic to add a pointed acrylic statuette to their collection of junk. The performances were lip-synched, which never bothered the excitable civilians dressed to the nines in the cheap seats.

The Grammys, for some reason, brought out my obsessive-compulsive competitiveness and some good old-fashioned professional pride. I covered them singlehandedly, crushing AP’s large crew. A week or two beforehand, I prewrote stories, gathered statistics and fun facts, and color-coded artists’ names in the weighty list of nominations. With 100-plus categories to keep tabs on, a lot of math was involved and the organizers were too inept to provide tallies or historical data. Nowhere on the Grammys website can you find a list of the most-honored artists in Grammy history. I have that list. Every year I prepared a story in case Neil Young won the first Grammy of his 40-year career. Finally he won in 2010, and my exhaustive piece went worldwide within minutes of his name being called out.

I was genuinely pleased for underdog or surprise Grammy winners, especially if I had interviewed them. But it was a slippery slope. Why did I care that Carlos Santana or Justin Timberlake or Jay-Z had been judged to be the “best” in their musical genres? Did I really gasp when Maroon 5 was named best new artist? Or when Eminem got beaten for album of the year a couple of times? I should have taken a page from his rule book. He doesn’t seem to give a crap about awards. He did not even show up to the Academy Awards to collect his songwriting Oscar for 8 Mile.

I was a no-show sometimes, too. I monitored some events on television from the office. Once I watched Miss USA on one channel and the Daytime Emmy Awards on another, writing my stories simultaneously on a split laptop screen. I never missed the Spirit Awards, though. The art house version of the Oscars was a boozy midday gathering underneath a marquee on Santa Monica beach, and I composed some of my best literature while loaded on gin and tonics.

The other big Hollywood events – the Oscars, Golden Globes, Primetime Emmys – were team efforts under others’ control. Some of my colleagues lobbied furiously to attend these shows, desperate to be a part of the glamour. I preferred the relative calm of the office, where pizza was ordered in – or from home, where I didn’t have to bother getting dressed. Far from the madding crowd, I carved out a niche as Mr. Negative, writing about the “losers” – the films and TV shows that were snubbed.

I probably should have been embarrassed to attend awards shows once I reached the wrong side of 40. Backstage at the MTV Video Music Awards a few years back, I surveyed my fellow two-dozen scribes. They were mostly eager young women who knew the names of all the reality-show B-listers on hand. The old-timers with whom I had covered these things a decade or two earlier had grown up, moved to proper jobs or been laid off, or simply died.

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NOTE: This is an excerpt from my memoir, Strange Days: The Adventures of a Grumpy Rock ‘n’ Roll Journalist in Los Angeles, available here. For more info, go to strangedaysbook.us

Copyright © 2013 by Dean Goodman. PLEASE DO NOT CUT AND PASTE THE WHOLE THING

The post Awards shows – please kill me! appeared first on Dean Goodman.

Strange Days … The only book you need to read this year

Strange Days: The Adventures of a Grumpy Rock ‘n’ Roll Journalist in Los Angeles, now available here as a physical and Kindle versions on Amazon, features behind-the-scenes recollections, juicy gossip and incisive interviews with music icons such as David Bowie, Johnny and June Carter Cash, Mike Love, Gene Simmons, Isaac Hayes, Ice-T, Roger Taylor of Queen, Phil Collins, members of Aerosmith, the Doors, Guns N’ Roses and INXS, and many more.

For more details, click on StrangeDaysBook.us or my groovy Amazon author profile. Or email me at dgtyrant (at) yahoo (dot)com, or give me a call.

The post Strange Days … The only book you need to read this year appeared first on Dean Goodman.