October 15, 2008

Backstage and Underwhelmed: Dashed Dreams and Sleazy Scene Kings

I always thought that dating the singer of a band would be, like, the pinnacle of dating. He's stare into my eyes from the stage, singing lyrics about our private moments and inside jokes. He'd thank me on the liner notes of his album for being the best girlfriend ever. We'd wake up in crumpled sheets and he'd serenade me with a little ditty he just came up with off the top of his head. And, in three months time--after he recorded it with the rest of his band--it'd be the biggest hit of the summer. I'd be his "Maggie May," his "Layla" and his "Allison," all wrapped up in one.

In reality, dating a guy in a band is pretty much nothing like this. They tend to be dramatic, whiny baby-men who can't do anything for themselves. Their driver's license is either revoked or lost. He hasn't been on an apartment lease in years because he owes the electric company over $200. He constantly loses his cell phone. Oh, and he is probably still in love with his ex-girlfriend, but she won't talk to him anymore since she found out he cheated on her while she was out of town for a work conference. Yes, he will write you a song, but honestly, you'd rather he'd just take out for a nice meal instead.

I've dabbled with a few Philly band guys, but most of them don't warrant any further response than a shrug. The best story I have about hooking up with a band dude took place a few years ago at a show. This guy, let's call him Shorty, was in a popular Midwest indie rock band. I'd seen him around at shows for a few years and on this night, we decided to get more familiar.

I don't remember how it happened, but he pulled me to the side of the stage and we started smooching behind a speaker cabinet while a band was playing onstage. We went at it for a while, 'til the band finished and we realized that pretty much everyone at the show could see us. Then, we went back to the bar to hide in a corner. On the way, he slid his arm around my waist and slid his other arm around the waist of a pretty blonde standing near us and said, "Hey girls! Let's get naked and have some fun back at my hotel."

My face looked like he had just asked me to sniff his old gym socks. I mumbled something about having to wake up early and backed away. Ewww! Who says stuff like that? I'm not a groupie, homeboy. Hooking up with a rock star wasn't hot; it was just, well, sleazy. There were no special serenades, no liner note shout outs, just the threat of a multitude of STDs. I was honestly not interested.

Shorty went on to do very well for himself. He decided to take his sound in a fun, R&B, sexxxy jamz Stevie Wonder/Justin Timberlake direction. Last I heard, he was appearing on vodka commercials in Eastern Europe and he had a bit part in a Ben Stiller movie. Whoop-de-freakin-doo. As for me, I am pretty much cured of my rock star fantasy. My new rule is that if I'm gonna date a dude in a band he has to have scored at least a 6.7 rating on Pitchfork. I mean, a girl's gotta have standards, right?


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