Random Ten on Hold
The New York Times, ever concerned for the news that really matters, instead of reporting all that much about the 46 Iraqis and the 4 Americans who were killed yesterday delivered the earthshaking important story about "Kristen" the call girl.
Turns out she's an aspiring singer. You can follow stuff through Facebook or some other folks who are linking through (I'm not at my regular station or I would have done this with photos too).
I downloaded her two songs and thought "Ok, if you like that style (Christina Augilera or punky Britney) she's as good as any of them."
Then it struck me how valuable her experience as a hooker will come in her music career. She will instantly recognise what's really happening when you negotiate with record labels or agents or tour promoters.
Her experience and skills have a chance to serve her well. Although her willingness to negotiate things like condoms disturbs me. You can't really protect your soul in the music industry, you can, however, protect your ass.
Remember Kristen, no glove, no love.
I was talking a few weeks ago with the son of a friend who is trying to break into the L.A. music scene. I told him:
"Some folks say it's who you know, others say it's who you blow. In reality it's who you know to blow and much they like it."
posted by The Minstrel Boy at 9:14 AM
5 Comments:
sad, but true in much of this life.
The advice I once read given by a successful jazz musician to an aspiring musician was, "If you can imagine yourself doing anything else besides music, do that other thing."
I've always thought that was really, really good advice.
I have often thought that prostitution (sex for money) is most likely the most honest profession around. Both parties know what they are getting for the stated price. It is a shame that it is illegal in most places.
On a very selfish note, if prostitution were legal, it would save me from getting calls from men who want to know if I use draping. You bet your ass I do. In fact, I excell at keeping your ass covered up so that I don't have to look at it.
i had the great good luck to grow up in the music business through my father who was a well respected and much sought after bass player. i got to hang around with and meet all the greats. one of the most impressive was harry "the hipster" gibson. he was one of the very first guys to play what later became called "jazz." harry later in life said that they should have named it "negro music" because it would have kept all the white guys away from it.
harry came up the old way, by playing the piano in his mother's whorehouse in storyville. he was incredible. he made more of a name playing his goofy stuff like "who put the benzedrine in mrs. murphy's ovaltine" or "frantic freddy the 4f freak" but he also was billie holiday's piano player, also for durante, crosby and many others.
after my dad died harry used me for a tour. about six nights into the tour he just walked by me and said "you play just like your old man. that's cool, but what do you sound like kid? i want to hear that tomorrow."
it's like that in poetry. it takes awhile to find your own voice and be brave enough to work on that instead of sounding like anyone else no matter how good.
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