Big Time Music Reporter. Or Not.

While at community college I had the much coveted (by me) position of A&E editor for the school newspaper. I thought I was the luckiest, most envied little student in the world. This position came with almost no benefits--no concert tickets, no free cds (because the Chief would claim them first--ditto for movie tickets). But I was having my opinions and writings published, and I was thrilled.

Being the huge Dave Grohl fan that I am, I started listening to the Queens of the Stone Age when I found out Grohl was drumming on their 2002 album Songs for the Deaf. Thinking Grohl would, of course, tour with them, I bought tickets to their show three hours away, and pitched my concert review to my Chief. I grabbed a press pass, and my friend Gayla--because she had a car, and was willing to go since I bought her ticket.

I had my pens and my notebook, dressed to look both professional and punk. I gave the doorman my ticket and flashed my press pass as subtely as possible. I swear he rolled his eyes.

At this point, I had not ACTUALLY HEARD any of their songs. Not even kidding. I was there strictly as a Grohl spectator and Reporter. I was incredibly disapointed to find a different half naked man sitting behind the drums. No Grohl present.

I nearly lost interest, but had to write a review. Gayl and I wandered around the venue, I took notes, decided I liked the group well enough after two songs to spring for a super cute t-shirt, and made sure I was as aloof and observent as possible.  The Upton Sinclair method of involved journalism hadn't occcured to me yet.

At the end of the show, Gayla had a monster headache and a deep desire to leave, but I, ever sympathetic, dragged her around to try to get quotes from the crowd. I got a set list from the doorman (press pass was good for something!), and finally, let Gayla lead the way to her car.