Having grown up in a family setup that might be generously described as bunker-like, I also find myself drawn to people who were sick as children, or suffered from allergies, or buried themselves in books, or moved around a lot, or grew up in cults led by preachers and gurus, or on military bases and other remote or highly regimented places, which are getting ever harder to find thanks to Facebook and Twitter and Whats App and the buzzing hive of selfies and chats and tweets and chatter and casual surveillance in which no man may speak from a burning bush or a shimmering mist, or be uncamera-ready, or cranky, or worse still, out of touch.
It also occurs to me that maybe the age of instant communication that killed off the rock stars is all one big misunderstanding.
“I got an invitation to the party, which is the most obscene thing,” Cissy Houston told a reporter—“I don’t know why they would want me to come to the party in which she died, you know?
JT is a stone perfectionist, and so it is odd that he is not yet onstage, more than ten minutes into his scheduled rehearsal time.
In his absence, a backup dancer hits the star’s marks at three-quarter speed so that the cameraman can track the routine.
When Bank of America Vice President Robert Conner filed for bankruptcy in May 2005, he said he had $50 in his pocket and $2 in his accounts. Schelp called Conner a "financial predator," who got the cash under the table by giving dozens of unqualified people credit cards with $25,000 limits in exchange for kickbacks of up to $5,000.
But in June, he cooked up a scam that allowed him to find and spend $235,000 cash in the next six months, including $20,000 for a Yukon Denali SUV for his wife, $30,000 for a Mustang GT for his girlfriend and a $25,000 Hummer H2 for himself, Assistant U. On Friday evening, a jury convicted Conner of all 36 charges against him — 17 counts of bank fraud and 19 counts of unauthorized use of an access device — after a five-day trial in federal court in St.
What Clive Davis loves isn’t music but stars, who are not necessarily musicians, but rather highly specialized forms of human.
Stars love Davis because he is a sharp Harvard lawyer with the heart of a piano-bar diva.“You can sit there if you don’t say a fucking word,” he growls after my whispered plea.He nods toward the stage, where the bass players are finding a groove and the horn players are hitting high notes, in preparation for the next hour or so of rehearsals.The music stops, and two stand-ins read from a cue card behind my head: “A real Grammy moment to remember, featuring [some actor].” of the 1960s, or English soccer players of the ’80s, rock stars are a quaintly dated category of celebrated person.I sympathize with rock stars because of the sense of isolation that is, or was, inherent in their antiquated mode of stardom.Disdaining the wasteful, elitist space where bands hankered after record-company expense accounts that would pay for hookers and villas in the South of France, Silicon Valley presented itself as the tribune of average-Joe air guitarists who never got their shot at the American Dream.