“Yeah, yeah, take my fuckin’ picture!” That’s how L.A. Guns’ front man (and infamous Hollywood Vampire) Phil Lewis addressed the crowd at Thursday’s night show. Looking a bit like a vampire himself, though resplendent in white, he seemed to be at once inviting people’s attention and daring them to take him up on it. In the interest of context, Dear Reader, consider recent events such as former Queensryche main man, Geoff Tate, grabbing a fan’s smartphone from his hands, during a performance, and hurling it to the back of the venue. The same act was performed by classic rock golden boy Peter Frampton, only a couple of weeks ago. Now, back to live action. Mr. Lewis baited the crowd with taking his photo, perhaps offering a bit of personal, if not social commentary on the state of being a “celebrity” himself.
L.A. Guns is not a band I would look to for pithy observations on contemporary American society, but it did seem as though Lewis was on to something. As I surveyed the crowd, I saw very few people actually watching the show. Several were taking video or photos with their smartphones, posting their treasures to each of their preferred social media sites and waiting impatiently for the pseudo-validation of someone acknowledging (“liking”) what had been uploaded. I got the feeling these people thought commemorating the event was more the point than experiencing the event. What is the point?! Had the technology existed, I wonder if Ernest Hemingway would have had a smartphone in hand, taking video of those bulls running behind him in Pamplona. Hmm…
As I was mulling the notion of celebrity worship, I was forced to consider my own behavior. I had left my full-time gig early that day, traveled to the show, set up shop and waited (always waiting), unsuccessfully, for a meeting with the band and an interview that never happened for over five hours! I finally gave in, grabbed a bite, recharged my own smartphone (so I can keep the people in my life informed of my every nuanced thought or precious utterance) and my psyche and returned for the show. Before leaving though, I found myself staring forlornly out the window of the restaurant at a young woman, seemingly of meager means, astride a ’79 Monte Carlo. She held, in her lap, a sign that read, “Will Rap 4 Food.” Admittedly, my first thought was I’d sooner pay her not to rap. There was no second thought. This, of course, has nothing to do with the subject at hand. I just couldn’t find any place else in this essay to work in this tidbit. So, here it sits.