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Sludge in the City :: Ending the artistic license excuse, 5/23/05

 

Looking for a real-life dish on the lives and escapades of rock?s best and worst stars? Metal Sludge found it?s own Carrie Bradshaw in Tawny Brown, a chick whose stiletto pumps have more notches in them than we can count. She?s agreed to kiss and tell in her new column, Sludge in the City. From her exploits dating musicians and rock stars to her adventures working in the music industry, there is very little Tawny won?t reveal.

Ending the artistic license excuse
Tawny Brown


Recently, I hit a personal low in hedonistic debauchery: I got a stripper fired. That she started it isn?t the best defense, I know, but I refuse to take all the blame for this one. Actually, since it was my designated ?rock star? night out, I half think I shouldn?t take any responsibility for my actions. That?s the rock star way, right?

Anyone who has spent any time on a tour bus on some desolate stretch of highway in Nebraska knows that boredom will drive even the nicest musician to new levels of insanity. While I don?t entirely condone that type of behavior, I at least understand it. What I don?t understand is the inclination to behave like a ?rock star? and consistently run amuck with no regard for the people and things around you. It isn?t even a matter of going crazy while on tour: many musicians seem to think the fact that they play in a band entitles them to a lifetime ?get out of jail free? card.

For the longest time, I bought into this artistic license excuse. It?s amazing how much a chick can rationalize her guy?s bad behavior when it comes with a musical interlude. Somehow, the music always played louder than the mistreatment in my head. For all those times I took a backseat to an ego or was used as a stepping stone to a better place, I managed to write it off just another ?quirk? of being with a musician.

What a load of crap. These guys aren?t creative geniuses, they aren?t tortured poets, and regardless of their position on the musical food chain, there is no excuse for such flagrant, unwarranted self-interest.

Without a doubt, the most unpleasant musician I?ve ever known is Jackass from the band Deadbeat. The only thing I can say to his credit is that he is, when he sets his mind to it, a phenomenal musician. Unfortunately, as I came to discover, that talent is completely overshadowed by the most shallow, ornery, distasteful personality on the planet.

Not that these things were entirely apparent at first. The roses on Valentine?s Day, the sessions in the studio listening to him work, and the late-night conversations about everything and nothing were more than enough to reel me in for a while. They were even enough to convince me to take a trip to Jamaica with the guy, despite the objectionable behaviors that had begun to ooze from his closet.

Jackass, I?d learned, was not only flighty and arrogant, but also a rampant recreational drug user. Mind you, he wasn?t an addict. Had he been a drug addict, I could generate a bit of sympathy for the guy. Rather, he ingested as many mind altering substances as he could and reveled in the destructive results for the pure pleasure of it.

Honestly, I?m still amazed I got on a plane to leave the country with him. Certainly not my most brilliant moment, but at the time, I can?t say I saw much past the fantasy of spending time on the beach with my own personal Jim Morrison.

Upon landing in Montego Bay, Jackass made friends with the first sleazy drug dealer to approach him. The guy followed us onto our hotel bus to Ocho Rios, and sold Jackass a batch of bad coke. It took several hours for him to get past the shakes and sweats, but it definitely didn?t deter him from buying large stashes of hash, pot, ?shrooms, and more coke from random guys on the beach later that night. In all my time in this insane music business, from days on tour busses and nights in thousand dollar hotel rooms with confirmed druggies, I have never seen a bigger pile of drugs than I did that first night in Jamaica.

Aside from the occasional few hits off a joint, I have never been a fan of drugs. The only time I like to give up control is in the bedroom, so I had no interest in helping Jackass go through his pile. I also had no desire to play ringleader to his circus, a fact that pissed him off so much he called me a few mean names and took off into the night.

I didn?t see much of Jackass for most of that week I Jamaica. He found a gaggle of college kids who recognized him and were awed by his rock star prowess. The lot of them ran around the hotel complex causing trouble while I let the nice Jamaican bartenders serve me many gallons of rum and tell me that I had ?too good a soul? to put up with a guy like Jackass.

The loneliness got the best of my senses, unfortunately. I couldn?t take spending another night reading in the lobby, so one evening midway through the trip, I met up with Jackass and his conga line of sycophants.

?Want to do a line?? he asked.

?No way,? I said. ?But how ?bout rolling me a joint??

I should have paid attention to what he was doing. I should have put the joint down when I noticed how odd it tasted.

?Just do it,? he said. ?I put some hash in there, that must be what you?re tasting.?

Sure, because hash makes your lips numb. Half an hour later I was shaking, my heart was racing, and I was freaking out, not knowing what was going on with me. Jackass had vanished under the guise of getting us drinks, and I was alone with a pervy guy who couldn?t keep his hands to himself.

When I cornered Jackass the next day, he said he ?had a song to write? and spent the night on the shore watching the ocean. I meanwhile, had nearly broken my wrist slugging his sleazy friend and spent the rest of the night alone and scared, crashing from an unwittingly smoked combo of hash and coke.

He had no remorse; he said he thought the experience would be good for me. And it was, in the long run: I never had anything to do with Jackass again.

I?m reminded of Jackass only by my own recent dabblings as a pretend rock star. To celebrate my birthday, my girlfriends took me to my favorite strip club.

?Have fun,? they said. ?It?s your night.?

Maybe it was the whiskey I was drinking, or maybe I have spent too much time in the company of musicians, but as soon as I walked into that club, all my normal courtesies went to hell.

It was like I was living the outtakes of Motley Crue?s ?Girls Girls Girls? video: there were no niceties, I didn?t want conversation, I wanted a sexy, topless girl in my lap.

When a sweet Catherine Zeta Jones look-a-like swept me off to the VIP room, I knew I was in trouble. She instantly pulled my shirt off and leaned into my ear to whisper, ?You can kiss me when my hair is in your face.?

She climbed into my lap, letting her hair fall across my cheek, and against all better judgment, I started kissing her. There is something so spectacular about kissing another woman that I admit we both got carried away. Over the course of three songs, the two of us made out intensely. Bodies pressed together, our nipples rubbing against each other, it was insanely naughty and good. Until the manager came in and broke us up.

Apparently they have rules about that sort of thing. As the manager had it out with the girl, I slipped her some extra cash and quickly made my way back to the table. I?m not sure what I?m more appalled at myself for: ditching my cute little girlie while she got fired, or blowing her off when she came by my table to say goodbye.

Such callous behavior is truly the hallmark of any stereotypical rock star. I had my night, but guys like Jackass have that life. It is unfortunate when someone?s character can?t measure up to their talent. The only small consolation I have is in knowing that in most cases, these guys do get back what they put out. When Jackass and I returned from our trip to Jamaica, I learned that he had contracted a violent case of salmonella. It couldn?t have happened to a better guy. ?

Note: The names have been changed to protect the innocent, the not-so-innocent, and the lying, cheating scumbags from their wives? wrath when they get off tour. Any resemblance to persons living, dead, in rehab or in jail is purely coincidental.

Tawny Suggests?

  • Dipping cold pineapple in warm caramel
  • Watching the original Night of the Living Dead
  • Not calling your ex for a booty call
  • Reading ?Hollywood? by Charles Bukowski
  • Bo from American Idol give her a call
  • Making friends with an ipod
  • Biting your lover?s chin

Tawny Wonders?

  • Why more people don?t put M&Ms in their popcorn
  • How she got this odd bruise
  • If lemurs have become the new monkey

Tawny Wants?

  • An original and intelligent horror movie to be made
  • To open a bake shop and breakfast bar in Playa del Carmen
  • Bon Jovi to stop doing commercials for batteries


Got something to say about Tawny’s column at Metal Sludge? Well don’t fucking bother us about it! Send all questions, comments, hatemail and other associated feedback to [email protected].

 

Looking for a real-life dish on the lives and escapades of rock?s best and worst stars? Metal Sludge found it?s own Carrie Bradshaw in Tawny Brown, a chick whose stiletto pumps have more notches in them than we can count. She?s agreed to kiss and tell in her new column, Sludge in the City. From her exploits dating musicians and rock stars to her adventures working in the music industry, there is very little Tawny won?t reveal.

Redefining the buddy system
Tawny Brown


Sometimes, there is very little distinction between being a fan, girlfriend, or groupie. It can be maddening to be close with a particular musician, to know the intimate details of his life right down to the names and birthdays of his sister?s children, but to never know exactly where you stand with him. God knows it?s not a question you want to ask. Because the truth is, if you have to ask the question, you probably don?t want the answer.

A year of my life was spent in the company of a certain lead singer. Though I can never say anything truly bad about him, I can admit I nearly drove myself insane trying to figure out our relationship. We went out on dates (usually weekly), we spent time together where we didn?t have sex, and when we did have sex, it ranged from sweet to pornographic. He even once took me to and from the hospital when I needed to have minor out patient surgery.

So what did that make me? By all practical definitions, I was his girlfriend. Did the fact that I also went to his shows make me a groupie? After too many hours of banging my head against a wall of ambiguity, I?ve decided I was really more of an idiot than anything else. My problem was that I didn?t realize soon enough that it wasn?t about me being his girlfriend, it was about him not wanting to be a boyfriend. The fact that he was screwing several other girls in addition to me should have been my first clue to this.

Had I come to this realization sooner, I probably would have saved myself a ton of grief. Still, however clear things may seem in hindsight, some relationships are nearly impossible to define. My relationship with Chad, from the band Enough Already has been going on for more than 12 years and I still have no clue what the hell either of us is doing.

Though half the people on the planet claim to have a ?close, personal? relationship with Chad based solely on the fact that they?ve lit up a joint with the guy, my own connection with him goes considerably deeper. We met right after the release of the band?s first album and had an instant rapport. In addition to being one of the friendliest guys in rock, Chad is just a good person overall. Few people that I?ve met in this music industry have been more supportive or encouraging of my career as a writer.

That?s not to say our relationship was strictly professional by any means. I?ll be honest, the reason I started working in the rock scene was to have a better means of getting my hands on band members I liked. And I liked Chad the instant I saw him.

I have a thing for tall guys anyway, and the fact that Chad towered over me despite the four-inch heels on my boots was an instant turn on. I can also tell a lot about a guy by the way he hugs: how tight he squeezes, where he puts his hands, and how much body contact he gives are all indicators of how good he?ll be in bed. Chad gives very good hugs.

So of course we started having sex. The first time was back when I hosted a late-night radio show. The small station I worked for essentially cleared out after 8 p.m. With the exception of the custodial staff and a few random office workers, I had the entire place to myself. I took the Howard Stern approach to being a disk jockey: keep the studio as dark as possible, get your guests comfortable, and always have a safety song cued up.

It never failed. Chad and I spent our entire on-air interview flirting outrageously. Therefore, it was no surprise when, after going to commercial, Chad came up behind me and started kissing the back of my neck. I turned around to face him, and the next thing I knew, I was propped up on the console, legs wrapped around his waist, and feeling his hands slide over my bare thighs.

I felt his face press against my cheek, his breath in my ear.

?Darling,? he said.

I moaned a response.

?The commercials are over.?

My eyes snapped open. Dead air is easily the worst sin a DJ can commit. With my heart racing, I shoved Chad off me to reach the CD player. Thankfully, I had a song cued up and was able to get it on the air.

Chad and I started laughing as the strains of Great White?s ?Mista Bone? filled the room.

?That could not be a more appropriate song,? I cooed pulling Chad to me. My listeners that night were treated to four in a row from Great White while Chad and I had wonderful, illicit sex in the control room.

Back then it was easy to define what Chad and I were doing. But as the years passed, Chad and I inevitably became closer and I, consequently, became more confused. Our intimacy was as much mental as it was physical, because during the times I had a serious boyfriend, I?d cut Chad off from sex. But whenever my heart would be broken or whenever I was feeling lonely, Chad would always be there to keep me company. I suspect he?s seen me through just as much ?if not more? heartache than most of my girlfriends.

It?s odd being with him now, because in a way I feel like we?re an old married couple. There?s more than a decade of sex, conversation, and fun between us, making him, without a doubt, my longest running relationship. We know each other?s secrets, we?ve met the other?s families, and we without a doubt know exactly where to touch to make the other smile.

But I still can?t figure out what we?re doing. There have always been constraints on how far our relationship could extend (from wives to general lifestyle issues), and I?m fairly certain we?ve hit our limit. Musicians, even the best of them, can only give so much. I just want more than Chad can give me, I guess.

To his credit, he puts up with my long periods of silence while I try to make other relationships work and still continues to offer me help, professionally and personally, without my asking for it.

I saw him again recently, on tour with the band Big Cat and snuggling up next to him was warm and comfortable.

?You and I have such history,? he said. ?But you know, we?re friends first. No matter what happens, you and I will always be buddies.?

It was a good thing to hear. I?m never going to be able to be his girlfriend, and I?ll definitely never be just his groupie, but I?m very happy to be his friend. And if he continues going down on me as well as he does, from time to time I?ll even cook him dinner. What are friends for? ?

Note: The names have been changed to protect the innocent, the not-so-innocent, and the lying, cheating scumbags from their wives? wrath when they get off tour. Any resemblance to persons living, dead, in rehab or in jail is purely coincidental.

Tawny Recommends?

Sexual position: Ladies, have him sit on a chair, or the edge of the bed. Climb on top, but face away from him and go wild. Not only does it feel incredible, it?s also a great thigh workout.

Drink: Instead of adding ice to your whiskey, add a small scoop of French vanilla ice cream. Or drink it straight outta the bottle, as I?m prone to do when at the local strip club.

New bands: Gold Coast Refuse and P #9

Book: Wonderland Avenue by Danny Sugarman

Pickup line (for guys): Seriously, lines don?t work. Your best bet is to just introduce yourself (but please don?t shake her hand!!) and ask if she?d like company. If she says no, leave. You?re not going to win her over by whining, bitching, or hitting on the chick next to her.

Porn: Guys – if you want to introduce your chick to girl-girl action, rent anything by Andrew Blake. It is very pretty, non threatening, woman-centered action. It worked on me. A boyfriend introduced me to it many years ago, and he was rewarded with some fun three-way action later. Of course, when I started going to the strip club and picking up chicks without him, he broke up with me.

Got something to say about Tawny’s new column at Metal Sludge? Well don’t fucking bother us about it! Send all questions, comments, hatemail and other associated feedback to [email protected].

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