A couple of nights ago, I was at the American Music Awards after party, hosted by Rolling Stone. It was a great time, but my takeaway is this: Rock and roll is strange.
College-educated music executives and groupies alike stuffed themselves into mini-dresses that resembled sausage casing, coupled with patent leather platforms. They wobbled around trying to rub shoulders with musicians; even unwashed ones who donned ponchos and tangled beards. Some were bony with over-teased, flammable hair that made them resemble matchsticks. These women overlooked neon green eyeglasses and exposed midriffs. These maladies would be deal breakers in the real world, but this is rock and roll.
Music thumped on the packed dance floor, and in addition to the open bars, Pitbull's vodka, Voli had promo stands literally pouring with orange-vanilla cocktails. Nokia did promo photos for the guests inside. Usually at big parties, you have to lurk near the kitchen exit in order to snag the beautiful-but-fleeting canapes. Rolling Stone would have none of this. Servers streamed from the kitchen wielding trays, which floated through the rooms like a flying saucer invasion. We were inundated with truffle pizza slices, crab cakes, heirloom tomatoes with burrata, Kobe sliders, mini tuna melts, mini baked potatoes and cupcakes from Magnolia. For the first time I can remember, I had to turn them away. Modern Family's Eric Stonestreet danced alongside Hollywood's top beard, Stacy Kiebler. Jenny McCarthy rocked a pompadour and Gavin DeGraw still didn't take off his hat.
|me with Hilda Nathalie-Roque|
All the while, I thought about how lucky the men of rock and roll are. While beautiful women primped the entire day for this event, rockers showed up stinking of whiskey and slurring orders. And of course, they were surrounded by giggling, adoring fans. This is the world that made Kid Rock a ladykiller. In the real world, women would not scramble for a redneck who got arrested for beating up a guy at Waffle House. Just sayin'.