Meet Your Teacher ("Who's the Old Guy with the Soundgarden T-Shirt?")
For the better part of 20 years, I've been a rock journalist. I ran a magazine back in the '80s and '90s called RIP, published by my paraplegic pornographic mentor, Larry Flynt. During my reign of heavy-metal terror, I hosted a spot on MTV's original Headbanger's Ball called Friend at Large, wrote columns for two influential music industry tip sheets, appeared in a bunch of home videos, from the Red Hot Chili Peppers Funky Monks to A Day in the Life of Metallica, had my own syndicated radio show and music-supervised the motion picture that launched Adam Sandler's career, Airheads. I've written dozens of feature stories on the elite to the insipid. I am as my name implies: a friend to rock.
I shook hands with the devil in the summer of '94 and took a job as VP of A&R at Arista Records. That gig ended in January '98 and for the last half dozen clicks of the primordial clock, I've been up and down and over and out, as the immortal Blue Eyes would say, doing my best to traverse the waters of midlife without drowning. I have whittled my existence down to three constants: faith, fatherhood and rock 'n' roll. From the day of my birth, July 29, 1956—the year Elvis recorded "That's Alright Mama" and John Lennon bought his first guitar—to October 15, 2003, I made Los Angeles my one and only home. But two weeks before Halloween, I pointed my '88 BMW toward the desert, to leave behind what wasn't working and move toward something that might. I am honored to be here in this bizarre and beautiful oasis of sin and spirit. I believe I was sent here by a power higher than myself to tell some stories, connect some dots and perhaps, find some peace of mind. Well, as Meatloaf once said, two out of three ain't bad.
I am not a rock critic. Critics, God bless them (because no one else will), do not live it. They observe it from their musty lairs, banging away on their laptops, sucking back 80-proof courage that permits their lot to pass judgment on the state of musical persona and product. I'm too sympathetic to the plight of the artist to be a critic. I am a journalist, cut from the Almost Famous fabric. I once flew cross-country for 24 hours to see a KISS concert and returned the next day as Gene and Paul's guest on the old MGM Grand charter. Talk about flyin' in style. I spent two days wandering the ruins of Greece with the legendary Manowar, the only band in the history of rock to get the immortal Orson Welles to narrate the intro to a song. During my first lengthy stretch of unemployment, I used frequent flier miles to get to Portsmith, England, so I could see The Who perform in the same building where Tommy was shot three decades ago. If you search google.com, you can find that story. I have witnessed the glory of rock 'n' roll on four continents with a POV most can only dream of.
If you haven't already moved onto the next article in this fine weekly publication, please hang out while I tell you a story about three very special disciples of another immortal character: Jack Black's Dewey Finn from the insanely inspirational motion picture, School of Rock. They are Megan, 13, Sam, 12, and Aaron, 16—my daughter and two nephews, keepers of my heart and lucky winners last week of an all-access Friend-at-Large-style evening with Linkin Park, POD and the youth of the Vegas nation.
Percussion 101 (Sam on the Kit)
Two months ago, the call came. "Uncle Lonn, Linkin Park is coming to town. Do you think you could get us tickets?" It was obvious from the quiver in Sam and Aaron's voices that this was not just another concert to them. This was an event. "They're playing with POD," said the boy named after the brother of Moses. "Payable on Death, the autographed CD you brought back from LA, that's my favorite record."
A little history. I met POD in June 2000, a month after the release of their major label debut, Fundamental Elements of South Town. I was in Germany, covering festivals for the hard-rock website, knac.com. POD was there, opening for Korn on the band's trek across the continent. It was in Berlin, two days after Nuremberg, that I spent a day with the band from the Latin quarters of San Diego.
They were humble from the get-go, thankful for the opportunity to just play their spirit-driven songs for the fans of a band they deeply admired, Korn. POD not only slayed Deutchland as an opener, but they won me over as well. After the Berlin show, I sat on the bus with lead singer Paul "Sonny" Sandoval. We talked about Bob Marley and faith and devotion to your art. I'd heard the flap that they were a Christian rock band but that label distorts. POD doesn't preach the way of the cross, as some devout bands in the Christian genre do. They are about living the righteous existence, enlightenment from right action, borderline Buddhists. I found Sonny warm and compelling and left him a gift: my copy of the Bhagava Gita, the mystical, magical Hindu Bible that I was carrying around with me. "I tell ya what, Sonny," I said. "You read this, and I'll take a look at the New Testament." He smiled. "All love, man. All one."
I saw POD a couple more times over the next three years and they always welcomed me warmly. In the light of the huge success of Satellite, which broke them worldwide with the massive hit "Alive" and the even more gigantic anthem "Youth of the Nation," I half anticipated just a bit of 'tude. But at the Universal Amphitheatre in 2002, it was nothing but genuine respect. I walked into their dressing room with Slash, one of their heroes, and we took some photos together. Last November—when I was in LA gathering some personal items and meeting with attorneys about, well, you can guess—I joined POD, MxPx, Gary Cherone (former Extreme vocalist and now Tribe of Judah frontman) and Dave Mustaine from the seminal metal outfit, Megadeth, for a private screening of Mel Gibson's work in progress, The Passion of the Christ. It was, to say the least, a surreal experience, and I'll write about it someday.
It only took one e-mail to Tim Cook, manager of POD, to get me and the kids hooked up for the show at Thomas & Mack last Friday. I told him the evening was all about the kids, their bands, meeting their heroes and being able to do what I've done—ask the artist about his music. About his life. We hit the backstage around 6:30 p.m. We're ushered into the band's dressing room, where family and friends privy to the inner sanctum were drinking sodas, Red Stripes and Coronas and taking hits of cherry tobacco off a giant exotic hookah. Rest assured, parents in the house: There are no drugs in the POD camp. None. I did catch some déjà vu in the hallway outside POD's hang. I was last here in '93, when I spent the night with my old homies Metallica. Best I can recall, Lars Ulrich and I saw the sun rise at the Olympic Gardens the next day. That was my last post-show Metalli-party experience.
Sonny and drummer Noah "Wuv" Bernardos greet me and mine with hugs and bottles of water, welcoming us into the comfortable room covered with red sheets and posters of Bob Marley and Steel Pulse. Sam and Aaron are wide-eyed, beaming. Megan, my princess, who's seen a few of these scenes with her old dad over the years, is excited but more reserved. I pull out my $50 Sony tape recorder and hand it to Sam. "OK, you're the rock journalist now," I say. "Ask Sonny some questions. Don't forget to hold the mike end up to your mouth when asking and his mouth when he responds. Go for it." Sam is frozen for a second but I walk him into the conversation. Sonny is easy to talk to; his disarming way settles the kid's belly in an instant.
I took Sam, Aaron and Megan to see Metallica back in '98, I think it was. He had found Master of Puppets on his own, at age 6! At one point during "Creeping Death," Sam screamed, "Uncle Lonn, this is WAY better than Disneyland!" After the show that evening, the kids met Lars and James Hetfield. I'll never forget what the punk with the ear-to-ear grin said: "Hey Lars, when did you learn to play drums?" He didn't have time to answer, as James interrupted, "He still hasn't!" We laughed, took a classic photo and the following week, Sam got his first drum kit. He's been banging the skins ever since.
"So, Sonny, where did you find your drummer?" asks the virgin scribe, his brother and cousin looking on. "He's my cousin!" the dread-locked rocker responds with a grin. "We grew up together, me and Wuv. His brother and my mother are sisters. He's like my brother." Aaron makes a comment about track six on the new POD record. "That's my favorite! 'Revolution'!"
Sonny shines. "Yeah, man," he replies. "But you know, it's not a song about violence or uproar. We're talking about a peaceful revolution. [Sam, hold the mike closer to his mouth!] It's not about politics or religion. I wore this shirt while we were recording, a Bob Marley T-shirt that says, 'It takes a revolution to make a solution.' So this is about an inner revolution, you know, like every day saying to yourself that this is going to be a good day, and I'm gonna spread some light and good and maybe make somebody smile, be nice to somebody." Sonny is not patronizing the youth. He would have said the same to a writer from Spin. Megan asks, "Is Bob Marley the most influential artist in your life?" That's my girl, I say to myself. "Oh yes," he says. "But I also love Bono and Hendrix and Carlos Santana and Sting from his Police days."
We chat with Wuv for a few minutes. Then this school of rock turns to recess in the blink of an eye when Wuv says, "So, Sam, you'll sit with me tonight, next to my kit, onstage, you OK with that?" Sam is all but exploding. Just two weeks ago, my pal Jeff Tortora from the Luxor's Blue Man Group, hooked up the Vegas Friends for a night of percussive magic and mayhem, and guess where Sam sat for that gig? You got it.
Conscious rockers: The world needs them more now than ever. Our kids are being bombarded by so much media-manipulated crap, it's a wonder they can see straight long enough to do their homework, play their sports, practice their instruments and maintain healthy relationships at home and in the classroom. POD is loud, hard, powerful, reggae-tinged, hip-hop-grooved rock 'n' roll. They are saying something important to the youth of the nation. When they perform that track, 20 kids from the audience are brought onstage to sing the chorus in front of 17,000 of their peers. It is one of those golden moments that cannot be duplicated. Sam and Aaron are both up there, high-fivin' Sonny, horns up, throats wailing. Megan stood at the side of the stage with her dad, proudly watching the boys have their moment. She doesn't seek the spotlight. Her brilliance is acute, her courage immense, her strength far more than mine, for she performed the miracle of getting straight A's in her 8th-grade French private school—a perfect slate during the most difficult time in her young life.
Ancient Greece (The Colossus of Linkin Park)
Mike Amato is a veteran of the big arena touring wars. We've known each other since the Motley Crue Dr. Feelgood decadence dance of the Earth. For the past several months, he's been the tour manager in charge of Linkin Park's carnival of conscious chaos.
"Lonn," he'd said, "at the tail end of the meet and greet, around 7:30, I'll come get ya by POD's dressing room and bring the kids back to spend a few minutes with the band." It cannot be overstated how truly blessed I've been throughout my career. Relationships are everything in the music world. (Then again, no matter how many webs I weaved last week, I could not score one pair of Elton John tickets for Meg and me. Which is fine, because the La Cage Aux John, overblown gay parade is not how I want my daughter to see one her father's greatest rock heroes. We take what the Universe gives us. I saw Elton with Ray Cooper at the Universal Amphitheatre before the building had a roof on it and I still play Tumbleweed Connection once a month. You wanna lesson in Elton? My textbooks only go up to Rock of the Westies. I'm no good after that.)
"Let's go!" Amato races by us. He moves at the speed of sound. If we snooze, we lose. "Follow me, guys, this way." He points down a long hallway.
The room has maybe 40 fans of disparate shape and size. The boys in the band sit behind a long table like they're at a press conference without the microphones. The line is monitored by an immense fellow (rock security guys always resemble Mighty Joe Young), meticulously checking what each fan wants to have signed. And one by one, the biggest band in the world of THIS generation, smiles, shakes hands and scribbles their John Bon Hancocks. Rob, Joseph, Brad, Mike, Chester and Phoenix, in street clothes or stage clothes, they're approachable, human. Most of the room empties and Megan, Sam and Aaron take their best shots.
"Guys," Amato says to the band, "this is Lonn Friend, an old pal of mine. He used to run a magazine back in the day called …" before he could finish the sentence, guitarist Brad Delson chimes in gently, "RIP magazine. Hey, Lonn, I grew up on RIP. How's it going?" These are the moments that make an old rock warrior's life. In front of my flesh and blood, a solid prop from a hero of this day. The rest of band shakes my hand, but I'm sure only Brad has the RIP connection. We talk for a minute. "Where'd you grow up?" I ask. "My 75-year-old father, the piano player, thinks you must be from Lincoln Park, Chicago, around the corner from where he was born."
"I went to Agoura High," Brad says. That's crazy—five minutes from where my mom lives in the west valley of LaLa. His school of rock is on my old turf.
Out of the corner of my right ear, I can hear Sam engaging Chester. No tape running, he's just got a taste of what it's like to be an "interviewer," so he's going for it. The kid is fearless. No wonder he's a drummer.
"Chester," he asks, "how do you do that with your voice?" Intuitive, probing, not a bad volley—Friend DNA does in fact course through the veins of these three hobbits, you betcha.
"Well, Sam," replies one of modern rock's most accomplished pull-it-up-from-the-ball-sack screamers, "It's indescribable, really. Strictly modern science." Sam smiles. He hasn't done anything but since we arrived two hours ago, and shoots back an obligatory, "Cool." But he's not done. "Hey, Phoenix," he fires to the band's accomplished bass player, "You still snowboard?" Excellent question; explore the lifestyle.
"No," he responds, "not really. Not anymore. I'm in a band now. Can't get hurt." I grab onto this answer and later jot down some notes. I will explain this to the kids in the evening session. In a nutshell, here we have a multimillion-dollar rock star who is actually conscious of his value to the corporation, handlers, people, family and fans. He's young, fit, healthy, virtually indestructible, but he chooses not to snowboard, not to tempt fate. Wonder if Ozzy had those thoughts before he turned over his ATV and almost killed himself a couple months ago. Daredevil rock stars, history's full of 'em. Seven-figure imbeciles who checked out early 'cause the thrill was just too sexy to turn down. But Phoenix will not snowboard. The shift is on. We are cultivating heroes who will not self-destruct. "Let's go, kids!" I announce. "I want to be out there when the band hits the stage. Don't wanna miss one note. Nice meeting you, fellas. Keep rock alive!"
The ancient Greek was a murderer: He lived amidst brutal clarities, which tormented and maddened the spirit. He was at war with everyone including himself. Out of this fiery anarchy came the lucid, healing, metaphysical speculations, which even today enthrall the world.
—Henry Miller, The Colossus of Maroussi
The arena now throbs with that palpable tension, the almost intoxicating anticipation that defines the moments before the headliners take their apocalyptic place on stage. Lights fade, voices rise, clarion wails, a thousand and one Chesters chanting through scratched tonsils, "Yeahhhhhh!!!!!" Bring it on, make us move, make us mosh, make us surf, hit us between the eyes and ears, sucker punch our solar plexus, drive a stake through our rock 'n' roll hearts, for we are here to lose the blues, the shoes, the clues and embrace the muse! Six men and their musical machines, young, creative, awakened, embark for 90 minutes on a futuristic starship of riff, lyric, electro-scratch, jump with absolutely no jive: "With You," "Run Away," "Paper Cut," "Points," "Don't Stay," "Somewhere I Belong." One dynamic dose of rhythm, rhyme, tempo and time after another. Like a benevolent bitch-slapping of the soul, the crowd is whipped into the proverbial frenzy. They're all around me. The kids. Pierced tongues are exposed as they mouth the words to the anthems. "It's Goin' Down," "Lying from You," "Nobody's Listening," "Breaking the Habit," "From the Inside." They stand so tall, so loud, yet unlike the heroes of my day, they are NOT disconnected from the fans, from the people. Robert Plant never talked to the crowd. Chester and Mike stalk the stage, touch the children, the screamer and the rapper in breathtaking balance, Buddhist perfection. The material is so strong, it resonates between every fan kicking them back into the cathartic electric chairs that've been charged and juiced for their temporary salvation.
"Faint," "Numb," "Crawling" "In the End," "My December," "Pushing Me Away," "A Place for My Head," "One Step Closer"—existential hymns for a population on the brink. Who is fostering the tired rumor tonight that Las Vegas is a mixed bag, a land of bedouins, gypsies, out for themselves, out for the gold? I take issue with that cliché. I proclaim tonight, as I sweat, move, and groove, my youthful kin at my side, that we are one, Sin City. In here, galvanized by song, by the inexplicable link between artist and fan, there is no noise, no greed, no ego, no lies, no American Idol, no evildoers, no WMDs, no wayward politicians having red-faced meltdowns on national TV, no polluters, no media manipulators, no tabloids, no hate, no anger, no control, no fear. In here, there is truth. The kids are all right. So if I were you, moms and dads of Nineveh, I'd start talking to your children. No, even better, start listening to their music because when you listen to their music, you're listening to them. Tonight, I too am all right, for the greatest gift of rock 'n' roll has always been eternal youth.
Final Bell (Homework Assignment)
I am still a stranger in this strange land. I haven't figured myself out yet, no less this exotic, erotic, psychotic city of neon and be on. Whatever days, weeks, months or minutes I walk amongst the good people of Southern Nevada, I shall do my best to spread some truth wherever I go. There is an ancient saying: "The teacher and the taught create the teaching." Dewey Finn exists in all of us, whether we're guiding our kids though the minefield of popular culture on the wings of great music, old and new, or simply finding a common ground for communication. My g-g-generation created immortal rock 'n' roll; my generation also brought the planet to the doorstep of Armageddon. POD's breakthrough LP, Satellite, was released on September 11, 2001. Since that day, they've been rising and unifying while our leaders sink and divide. Linkin Park's Meteora was released on March 25, 2003, one day after my daughter's 13th birthday and two days after Sam's 12th. What's the synchronicity? You figure it out. I've got some kids waiting for me in detention. Don't worry. I've got today's punishment cued up and ready to rock: Creed and Nickelback, back to back. By sundown, they'll be begging for Van Halen I. Class dismissed.