Hollywood.
The Sunset Strip pulsed like a live wire. We were young, beautiful, reckless, and talented (or pretending to be); and we belonged there.
Every night felt like: A live concert, a rock and roll fashion show, and a record deal two drinks away.
Hollywood was our epicenter and the Sunset Strip was the runway โ from Doheny to Crescent Heights.
Hair was higher than rent. Leather was tighter than loyalty, and nobody walked โ they entered.
The Clubs (our real Cathedral) If you were serious, you rotated between:
- Whisky a Go Go
- The Roxy Theatre
- Gazzarri’s
- Troubadour
- Rainbow Bar & Grill
And, that is only the public clubs. Our underground clubs were the best but that is another blog.
You didnโt just โgo out in Hollywood.โ You made laps, checked who was in town, and clocked who got signed, who switched bands, and who was playing that night. I had to buy a diary just to keep up! There were at least 7 clubs to visit a night, and we had to be there. Talk about FOMO…that was us. After all, we were scenesters, and we had to be in the scene.
Hollywood wasnโt just a buzz in the eighties; it was a voltage. Backstage smelled like: Aqua Net, Jack Danielโs, Budweiser, Marlboro cigarettes, and ambition! If you were there you know. If you weren’t, stay tuned for the book. It explains everything.
The Look in the mid-eighties was glam metal, punk, rockabilly and goth, and sometimes a little of everything. We were in full bloom. We teased our hair into platinum clouds or dyed it midnight black, painted our lips crimson, and rimmed our eyes with kohl.
We squeezed into leather that hugged every curveโpants that squeaked when we walked, miniskirts that barely covered what mattered. Fishnets ran up our thighs, disappearing under boots that reached for the sky or those pointy NANA shoes everyone coveted. Our band shirts weren’t just wornโthey were transformed, slashed strategically, hanging off shoulders, draped with crosses and chains that clinked when we moved. Spandex wrapped our legs in leopard spots, zebra stripes, polka dotsโwalking canvases of rebellion. Cowboy boots, beetle boots, ankle leather boots or Chuck High-Tops completed the uniform. This wasn’t fashion; it was armor.
The reality of the after-hours. The glamour had a shadow. Cocaine was everywhere. Jack Danielโs was practically a sponsor. Motel rooms off La Brea or cheap apartments in Hollywood were party hubs. People disappeared into addiction, while some were already burning out.
Deals were whispered at 2 AM. Hearts were broken before sunrise; you could fall in love on Tuesday and find out he had three other girlfriends by Friday. That was the Sunset Strip.
In Hollywood proper, downtown Hollywoodโwe’d start around midnight and descend into the underground clubs. Our nights were a carousel of venues, my daily planner inked with addresses and times to track it all. By 5 or 6 AM, we’d surface only to dive into some other bar or apartment party, gathering until dawn broke. Then home to sleep and oblivion until evening, and repeat. Work days meant no sleep at allโjust endless Coca-Cola, burnt coffee, or leftover cocaine keeping our eyes open. That or something stronger from someone’s pocket, passed under tables when the night wouldn’t let go, or maybe you had diet pills to keep you awake. When you hear about the eighties debauchery, we didn’t realize at the time that this would be our label; we were too busy having fun.
Hollywood was our playground, and every bar and underground club, was our clubhouse.