Memoirs of a Rock ‘N’ Roll Intern...

For those of you whom aspire to one day bask in all the glory of Lester Bang-dom, look no further. In case you missed out on the short-lived MTV ‘True Life’ masterpiece "Hi, I'm From Rolling Stone", try their website because I didn’t watch it either. You may think you know – but trust me, you have no idea. This is the diary of a Rolling Stone Intern…
All the magic starts around ten ‘o clock. I do my best to get there bright-eyed and bushy-tailed before eleven. I work nights… late nights. As a recent West Coast transplant from Phoenix, starting out from the ground level seemed to be my only option to pursue anything that actually mattered to me. I never dreamed I would be standing at the gates of Wenner Media until much later in my New York career, regardless of said position.
So it's somewhere between 10 and 11 a.m. and the media packet I’ve deemed as daily news-in-a-nutshell is nearly done, thanks to my fellow over-eager go-getters - much like myself, naturally. They just so happen to arrive before I do… every single day. I try not to sweat it and jump the gun to see what’s next. Ah yes, the ‘ole closing week Dunkin Donuts run. FYI, never bring decaf even when asked to do so – the writers will think you’re crazy. Grab a French crueller while you can, ‘cause they go quick and check the intern email account for assignments.
Ah, yes -transcriptions. Today I think I’ll tackle Jack Johnson and Austin Scaggs over breakfast at a Santa Monica diner. About 60 minutes long – oh goody. This oughta take about four hours. No problem, I could always find work as a courtroom typist if things don’t pan out here, so long as carpel tunnel doesn’t take its toll.
Sometimes we answer Will Dana’s phone lines at the intern desk - again, also kind of cool. The first time I opened the editor’s mail, I brought a stack of new albums sans press releases tall enough to block my path of vision to a certain former executive editor I was dying to introduce myself to. As he motioned for me with “Come on, any day now” type gestures, I attempted to set them on his desk, struggling not to drop them. There goes the proper introduction. It was amazing how he even managed not to lift his gaze from the computer screen but still somehow still know I was there – or did he.
Sometimes we get bogged down with research in the library, but that’s OK – I’m digging every Radiohead article I can get my hands onto and trying not to salivate. For a short while I was on Britney Watch for another contributing editor for a cover story. Side note: the New York Public Library does not possess any copies whatsoever of “Not That Innocent” – truly a bestseller. I do recall talking about Britney in excess during this timeframe. Just ask my friends - I had all the dirt.
Two hours later and twenty minutes into Jack I bite my tongue when I hear that apparently, Jimi Hendrix of The Doors is a part of surf culture tradition. Good God, its no wonder the Curious George soundtrack was so popular. After all, it’s not like little kids know Van Morrison anyway. Or maybe it was Jim Morrison…
Alison Weinflash joins us in the library.
“Does anyone want to go on a Jann errand?” I nearly jump out of my seat, “I’d love to get some air!” I enjoy Jann’s Devil Wears Prada-like errands – after all, the man has great taste. I especially enjoy feeling like a baller on Fifth Avenue, with a big wad of cash in hand. However, I think this time in particular was right around the holidays and I was being sent way across town from my comfortable surrounding Rockefeller ‘hood. Jann’s supermodel-like assistants hand me a shopping bag, along with directions to an upper west side camera store owned and operated by Hasidic Jews. You never really see Jann, either - he’s kind of stealth like that.
Ready to hustle, I embark on the mission. Got to find a replacement strap for Jann’s camera case - very important. Allegedly, Jann Wenner has a house account, so I inquire - one yamaka at a time. The place was a labyrinth of camera gear and not to mention, a total zoo. No sign of a spare strap, or a house account for Mr. Wenner. “Well, what company are you with?” A pale-faced old hippie with kind blue eyes and a Rip Van Winkle beard asks me. “Rolling Stone” I say. The old man’s eyes light up. “Well shoot! There should be at least some kind of special discount for people with cool jobs”, I bite my tongue and have a moment. He adds, “I’m a photographer you know, and its my dream to take pictures of rock stars – do you think you could maybe pass along my portfolio?” Almost blushing, I left it there. Almost famous for fifteen minutes – life is so sweet.
Mission accomplished and back in a flash at the office, there’s the usual late afternoon buzz. Like me, I guess writers like to sleep in. Celebrity luncheons are often stimulating, that is, if we interns are allowed to attend. Checking in guests can be serious business - they don’t let just anyone waltz into Rolling Stone, you know. “I’m sorry sir, I can’t seem to find you on our list” I said as I motioned for this intruder to check with the guard. “Oh, I’m with Cheryl”, he responds. I look up and Cheryl Crow is standing right in front of me. With a half-cocked smile I usher them through. I couldn’t tell if I was star-struck or dumbstruck – I was slightly embarrassed either way.
Inside these luncheons, I’ve poured champagne for Carlos Santana and friends while he enlightened us all as architects of a new era. I was also once blinded by the glistening light of a silvery-sequined vest worn by none other than Wyclef Jean, while he recited in perfect verse and harmony, a speech that was obviously sent to him from the cosmos to guide us all to ultimate wisdom. Last week I reveled in Woody Harrelson’s perfect skin thanks to a fountain-of-youth combination of Vegan diet and Hawaiian sunshine. Thank you Woody, for the delicious macrobiotic meal that day – and especially the hug.
On days when catered lunch events are lacking – I’ll usually head out and grab something for an editor. I have begun to take personal pride in making sure that Eric Bates’ lunch is always perfect. Upon my return, I might hit up the fact-checking department if it’s slow in editorial and maybe I’ll assist in rearranging some filed RS archives. I like to stay busy, so I may help fact-check a new album review or two – I’m always up for a little sneak peek at some new tunes.
I stay late when I can because that’s what good interns do. Alas, there are times I have to duck out early to my serving gig in the infamous Meatpacking District that gives whole new meaning to not quitting one’s day job… just yet. For all you wannabe Gonzo’s out there – fear not, being a slave to a New York City internship is nothing to loathe. In all actuality it just might be the opportunity of a lifetime, if you play your cards right.

Baby's First Blog... Rock and Roll.

03.12.08
Mia Toi Dodd & Jose Gonzalez
Masonic Temple: Ft. Greene, Brooklyn

Move over, Cat Power - there's a new songbird in town. This crooning songstress, however, brought us something new to the temple. Acoustics pulled from the Far East, Mid-East and fused with Latino influences hypnotized hipsters in the Masonic Temple last night. "Fear is an ocean... so many sleepless nights" - a song dedicated to all servers out there, including me! "But I'm not one of them", she remarks. Lucky for her, music seems to pay the rent these days, more so than mere writing. I watched intently as the beautifully exotic Mia Toi Dodd charmed more than just snakes onstage. "Holy shit", a young male fan declares as she and her bongo beatin' accomplice break effortlessly into "Kokoro", the Japanese word for heart. This brooding rhythm served as the perfect accompaniment to Mia's Joni Mitchell-meets-Sarah McLaughlin style. Don't get me wrong, however, for she is no Lillith Fair whiner. Finally, a talent that has evolved past angry chick rock. At last, a female musician gets spiritualized. I can still hear the Celtic monastic chanting echoing throughout the temple as a tribal tambourine beat filled the stage during the finale of their set. Feeling somewhat uplifted and enlightened myself, I suddenly found my own gaze at the temple's ceiling. As I closed my eyes I could feel old monks and clergymen around me, chanting; praying. As their performance came to a close, my eyes opened, widened by the vast beauty of paisley printed walls, dusty 70s-style chandeliers and disco-wrapped pillars. I sat in my folding chair, soaking it all in while my friend/partner-and-crime grabbed us another beer.

Within twenty minutes, the lights went down again as the stage was saturated with red floodlights. Out from shadows steps a very tall dark and handsome Swede, and two others. The entire crowd fell silent as all eyes were affixed to Jose. Williamsburg's hipster elite flew south of the Bedford Ave border to see the man behind the acoustic prowess. Without much need for backup and accompaniment, Jose Gonzales, like a Swedish Santana, filled the entire temple with more guitar sound than I ever thought possible by one human alone. Nobody moved a muscle while rotating blue and white lights shot out to the heavens from behind him during "How Low" - the first track off the new album. He looked like an angel, with guitar as harp - a direct extension of his soul. "In Our Nature" follows flawlessly as the crowd of nearly five hundred watched in both awe and amazement. After a full guitar solo, the silence was broken by "Heartbeats" as the audience nearly jumped to their feet. We clapped along with “Remain” as the ambience darkened and we reveled in more cowbell in “Down the Line” as the darkness ate us up during the encore.

A shot of Todd followed by a high dose of Jose was just what the doctor ordered on this chilly spring night at Brooklyn’s Masonic Temple. Stay tuned ‘cause there’s plenty more where this came from my friends. Until then, I bid you adieu. I'm sure y'all will be waiting with baited breath...