Excerpt:

1:38 a.m. November 3, 2008

The real start to your investigation of the local music scene is down in Toledo, where local bands are being showcased. Jon Anderson invites you to come to an informational meeting with the bands, where details will be discussed, and you accept. Meeting a plethora of bands at once, you’re instantly entangled in the local music scene. You’re the reporter, and the musicians look at you with mixed feelings: many hold you in reverence, hoping you take the time to talk to them, while a small percentage despise all forms of media attention, but most don’t really pay too much mind to you, assuming that you must be someone’s girlfriend, someone merely tagging along, paying no nevermind.
This one meeting gives you a multitude of contacts, and you start setting up interviews with these bands that you’ve never heard of, especially the ones from Michigan, as you’re always trying to find the local angle to all the stories. Jon also sets you up with various leads, for he knows that you’re free publicity and wants to be on your good side, offering you free drinks, though you usually get water, not much for alcohol – just every once in a while, not too often, a choice that earns you respect. This helps, because a lot of your assignments would soon be in bars at wee morning hours.
First, you go to practice spaces, houses, and you deal with everyone, no matter how big or small, from the people who’ve never played outside their basement to the people who’re convinced they’re the next big thing that’s going straight to Hollywood. Treat them all equally, because to you, there’s a story in everything, even if it’s just about the drive and determination, something that you can respect. Even if the story gets off topic a bit, as long as it’s fun to read for people, that’s all that really matters.
This is where you get to get creative with your photography, too, because all bands have to have a band photo to be put in the paper. Now you have to deal with posing bands, not just one person. Try to make them look like they’re doing something, and not just sitting around with their arms crossed; that was Dennis’ advice to you.
Each time it’s something new. People crawl onto garage roofs, house roofs. You try to frame the shots using whatever you had around you, like plants, but musicians are not to wild about having the group framed by a bunch of fresh flowers or holding potted plants to the sides of their heads.
Trial and error. On the count of three, everyone jump. Act like you’re running.
Make a funny face. Everyone grab a tool from the shed and pretend you’re fighting, killing one another. What other color light bulbs do you have kicking around?
Grab a shopping cart. Lay down on the handicapped parking sign. Punch the air.
Pretend to be jousting. Make pissed off faces. Hold candles in front of your face.
Climb up that wall. Dangle from that high tree branch. Jump from the bridge.
Wave your arms around. Everyone point. Do some karate moves.
Each was different. Never had a plan. Just wing it, use what’s around.
Surprisingly, there were not many pictures with instruments, unless it was when the bands played live. Just try to be creative. Try to be artsy and cool.
Sometimes it worked better than others, but you learned more about photography. At least, news photography, the requirements like readers want to see people’s faces, not the backs of their heads. Close, tight shots are more effective than far away group shots.
You’d jump up high, lay down on the floor, squat. Tell people to lie down in the field, look up at the sky. Shoot from above, shoot from below, each totally different.
Eventually though, you’d be star struck. You didn’t expect it. It just happened.
Sebastian Bach, of Skid Row, was to host a battle of the bands at Clutch Cargo’s in Hamtramck, and Mike told you to find some sort of local angle for coverage. As it happened, one of the bands, South Normal, was in the coverage area of another Heritage paper, so Mike told you to cover it for their paper, do a freelance assignment. Puff the resume a little bit, pad it.
Growing up, you thought Sebastian Bach was so hot, and you read a multitude of interviews with him, always having a collection of music magazines. So when you stand in front of him, you can’t help but be nervous. Sure, he’s drunk, but you’ve suddenly found yourself at a loss for words, and as much as you try to hide it - and you’re semi-able to, due to the massive amount of fans that kept interrupting you, wanting to get his autograph, just say hello, take him to meet someone – he semi catches onto you.
Instead of you asking him questions, as you find yourself to be just too silent, he decides to tell you some stories, starts talking about telemarketing in Detroit as a kid. He was from Toronto originally, one of your favorite cities, and the hot Canadian boy spent his time talking shit with people on the phone for a living. You’d later find out that there was a whole circle of 80s musicians who pulled all sorts of telemarketing scams for extra money back in the day, something you’d never get to experience with the No Call List.
He talks about his rise to fame, how he sold out stages with Guns N Roses, another one of your favorite bands, then he gets serious with you. Drugs. He details his overdose to you, which happened on the night of his biggest sold out show, a record for Detroit, when an old friend, who he said had always had the air of a sort of Satanist, offered him a line as soon as he got off stage, and though he was all pumped up from the adrenaline rushing from selling out in record number, his friend warned him with an evil growl that the shit was kinda racey, but he did it anyway, youth gone wild, and he felt his heart stop.
Never do coke. He wants you to promise. Coke is bad.
Speed kills. Speeders. What’s the hurry?
Why rush death? It’ll come soon enough. You didn’t ever think you would…
Sharing such intimate details, you can only scribble in your pad and look into his eyes, where you’d get lost every once in a while, kinda like the guy that you came to the event with, as he got lost, too. You’d met him a Croakie’s, and taking him up to this was all just by chance, but he’d gotten kicked out, didn’t have proper ID or some shit. He’s watching through the fence while you do your interviews and snap pictures of Sebastian with South Normal.
Still, you were never really able to feel comfortable around Sebastian, as he just makes you tense up and full of harbored fantasies. Mostly, you smile and write. When it comes time to part ways though, he kisses you on the cheek, and you can feel the blood rise to the surface of your cheeks, blushing.
You felt like one of those girls who’d claim to never wash that body part again. His lips seem to linger on your skin even after you go home. Such simply lust.
2:13 a.m. November 3, 2008

2:25 a.m. November 3, 2008

Croakie’s Party Island had been in the works before you took interest in the music scene, but when you became interested in the bands, you also became interested in the concert venue that was being built in your home town, especially because it was an island that was rumored to be haunted, a place you and your friends knew only as Dog Lady Island. Jon told you the plans of converting the island into an outdoor venue with a tear-down stage and lighting system, a makeshift dance floor, sand volleyball court, horse shoe pits, bon fire pit, bar area, and much more. You were all about trying to help get it started in any way you could, but you never imagined that you’d be such a bit part of it.
When it came time to get the alcohol permits, the owner found out the hard way that he’d not be able to serve alcohol, but this only made the island cooler, as it became a BYOB concert place. People could bring their own alcohol from coolers to kegs, and get as wasted as they wanted, and at least the owner wouldn’t have to worry about being sued for serving to an intoxicated person. You loved the concept and wrote stories in the paper to help promote it, and in turn, Jon and the owner took out ads, exclusively with you.
Sure, Bob and Ken helped you put the deal together, but Jon only wanted to deal with you, as he felt that you understood the vision that they were trying to convey. The Evening News hate the whole idea of the island, and tried repeatedly to get it shut down, but because you took interest, it put the two papers against each other, once again. You’d read the negative things the Evening News would write, then you’d make light of their concerns or spin things positively; sure, you weren’t supposed to be biased, but if they were, then why couldn’t you be?
Researching the history of the island, you learned of mysterious fires and wrote the story of the rumors that even Bonnie and Clyde had hid out there once. There were even rumors that the Dog Lady would attack lovers who tried to make out on the old street, and pieces of a supposed coffin that was found somewhere on the island. Yes, you helped make the club possible, and even went down to the city council meetings, which is where you really proved to come in handy to the owner.
They were voting on whether or not to allow the island to open, so you attended the meeting, trying to report on what was happening for the paper. When you walk in, the chairman recognizes you and asks if you’re Steve’s daughter, which you reply affirmatively to. “Your dad and I play golf together, you know, how is he doing?”
The two of you chat in front of the entire board and all the meeting attendees. He asks why you are there, and you tell him that you are covering the discussion of the party island. He asks your opinion, and you tell him that there’s really nothing like it around, that you feel it’s a great opportunity and will give the kids a place to go to see a local show, so when the board has to vote on the issue, mysteriously enough, they passed the whole thing through, very little to no opposition, even though people in previous meetings had taken hard stances on the issue.
The owner was grateful, as was Jon, and in return, they helped you out in little ways, like by letting you book some bands. Of course, you got to do publicity for the bands, so it was a winning situation for everyone involved in the whole ordeal. Rumors flew around that the guys were involved in the mafia, but you didn’t really feel too concerned about any of this, as long as it didn’t affect you.
2:41 a.m. November 3, 2008

11:22 a.m. November 3, 2008

By the time Croakie’s is in full swing, you’re writing for a local magazine, The Glass Eye, which is just a black and white regional magazine. Not that you were getting paid, mind you, for you simply volunteered for the desire to see your name in print. Besides writing, you also began helping out with distribution and garnering advertisers, as you had a goal to bring the Toledo-based publication into Michigan.
Each time someone played at Croakie’s, unless you had something else to do for work, you were pretty much there with your camera, reporting on the events of the evening. You and whoever you could pack in your car would get in for free, though you usually brought your partner in crime with you, Sheena Ann. She lived across the hall from you at your apartment building, and the two of you were known for getting into some outlandish situations.
Sometimes, the two of you were known for getting frisky on the dance floor. When Sheena Ann got drunk, she had a tendency to start freaking on you and any girl around, most of the time just to get a reaction from those around you, but since you were not afraid to be in the spotlight, you were just as much an instigator. Usually, you’d be the one encouraging her to drink, then look out.
She would come with you to events in Toledo, concerts at venues owned by the same owner as Croakie’s, places booked by Jon; again, you’d get in for free, as all the employees knew who you were. If for some reason they didn’t know you, they’d soon find out. If there was a problem, you were quick to threaten their jobs, as strings could be pulled if there was a serious enough situation, for the owners wanted you there to represent their club in print, free advertising for them.
Of course, you went to other venues not owned by the same guys, places in Bowling Green and Detroit, every once in a while Ann Arbor, for you had pretty much learned how to get into places for free by telling them who you are and that you wanted to give them free advertising in publications. Each time, you’d try for bigger and bigger venues with more famous acts, each one being harder to get into. Sometimes they’d tell you no, for too many other press members wanted to attend, and you were from a small publication, but many times they’d let you and a friend in for free, happy that you worked for more than one publication, a newspaper and a magazine.
As you became skinner, you start dressing in more flattering clothing, and people take note of who you are. Guys like flirting with you, but you quickly become known as the un-mackable girl, catching onto the fact that most guys in bands simply want to be on your good side, as you hand out free advertising, in short, helping them become famous. Flattery did not mean much to you, as too many people were freely dishing it out; besides, you tried not to mix business with pleasure all too often.
You would play up the idealistic journalistic fantasy, however, by dancing with Sheena Ann, and bands love to get the two of you to dance on stage while they play. Girls in the building across the street from where you lived were lesbians, and sometimes they would come out with you and Sheena Ann, creating a whole motley crew of people. You’d all dress up as doctors, having medical equipment, leather fuck me boots, chokers, whips, chains and whatever other props you could find on the spur of the moment, then you’d head out to Croakie’s, explaining that you were going to do a dance on stage.
Of course, they’d let you do such things, and since it was a private island, nobody really cared if all of you got naked, started kissing, grabbing up other girls out of the audience, stripping them down naked, rubbing up against them, seeing how far you could push the limits each time. On one such occasion, Sheena Ann pulled up a random girl on stage, who was all into the attention of dancing, but Sheena had to sexily walk away from her and towards you to kiss on you and whisper in you ear that the other girl had a tampon string hanging down. The Thong Song was raging over the speakers while you and Sheena Ann contrived a plan, so Sheena Ann walked back to the girl, put her head between the girls legs, where he girl had been pushing her head, and Sheena Ann bit the chord of the tampon string, pulled it out, held it high and threw it out into the audience.
A sea of people parted in the crowed, though some were so drunk that they didn’t noticed what had happened. Did it actually hit someone? Too dark to tell for sure.
Each time, there was some sort of adventure, some fight over a keg, fisting over bitches, who knew what would go down on any given night? More and more famous bands began hearing about the island, so the booking only got better, with bigger names. You had the exclusive for journalism coverage, as it was your turf, home town, so you loved it.