"He was drunk and exhausted but he was critically acclaimed and respected."

I overheard some guys talking about a show that they were going to at the El Rey Theater. I fancy myself as someone who knows music, so I asked, "Who are you going to see?"

"The Hold Steady," one of them answered.

"Who are they opening for?" I asked.

"They're headlining. It's sold out."

"What's the name of the band?" I asked again. I must not have heard them right. I would know the name of a band that sold out the El Rey.

"The Hold Steady," he answered again.

"Why have I never heard of them?" I asked. Again, I must not have heard them right.

They proceeded to tell me about the band. They said magical words to pique my interest like: "really early Bruce Springsteen." That was all I needed to hear. I scrawled the band's name on a napkin, went home and checked out their MySpace page. I wasn't halfway through the first song, "Stuck Between Stations" when I was on my iTunes, downloading the entire album.

If you've listened to (and love) Bruce's first album, "Greetings from Asbury Park," then The Hold Steady is for you. The lead singer doesn't as much sing as he recites poetry quickly. And the words...oh, the words...great lyrics such as:

“She was a damned good dancer, but she wasn’t all that great of a girlfriend.”
“He was drunk and exhausted but he was critically acclaimed and respected.”
“We drink. We dry up. We crumble into dust.”

Think about Bruce Springsteen, Randy Newman and Matthew Meltzer being put into a room and told to come out with a band. And viola, you have The Hold Steady.

Of course, you probably already know this. I seem to be the Boy OR Girl in America to have heard of them.

Check out their video. Stick around 'til the end.

I Am Old Woman, Hear Me Roar

It's been threatening to happen for years. In fact, when I last visited my eye doctor two years ago, I hinted that it was on the verge of happening.

Yes, I have the "over 40" eye thing. And yes, that is the technical term, thank you very much for asking.

My eye doctor gave me some exercises two years ago to help me with the problem, but to be quite honest, they made me nauseous. Plus, anyone that knows me knows that I just don't exercise any part of my body.

Fast forward to May (or so), 2007. My eyes hurt. My eyeballs want to fall out of their sockets. There is nothing that I can do that involves my eyes that doesn't make me want to stab myself in the ear with a very large knife. Finally I broke down and made an appointment with my eye doctor for last weekend. She gleefully told me that she can help me with my problem and sent me off to the eyeglass fitting/ass reaming part of the office. Between the visit, reading glasses, and one year's worth of contacts that I bought...well, I could live there for a few weeks with the rent-comparable-fee that I paid. Christ on a bike.

But I still don't get my glasses for a few days. Which means...the work that I did at home this weekend...eyeballs hurt. The work that I did at, er, um, WORK this week means...eyeballs hurt.

Until today/tomorrow (hopefully). I picked up the glasses, which basically consisted of a very light-on-his-feet eyeglass technician saying "Here they are!"

And...in fact, here they are...

Dead Skunk (In the Middle of Fairfax)

One of the things that I love about living in LA is the opportunity to see celebrities out and about in their natural habitat. I've seen my share of biggies (Tom Cruise, The Governator) and a ton of random ones. It comes with the turf.

Yesterday I was at my favorite Irish establishment, trying to get through the Sunday crossword puzzle, when the heavy door swung open. I looked up and saw an older gentleman wearing glasses and a hat. He walked the length of the bar, wanting to sit in the back room. He looked immediately familiar. The rolodex of names, faces and places spun through my head, and the answer popped into my head. "Nah, no way," I thought. I looked across the bar at my friend Matt, whose eyes were as big as saucers. He mouthed to me, "Is that Loudon Wainwright?" He saw him, too. I said soundlessly, "YES!" I jumped off the bar bench and ran over and hugged Matt. It was just incredibly culty and random, we loved the moment. We tried to explain to people around us how oddly cool this was, and it really didn't translate.

Matt ended up buying him and his friend each a Guinness. As they got up to leave, me, Matt and Phil (who had arrived by this point) yelled "Bye Loudon!!" He and his friend came over to thank Matt for the beers. Matt led with "I've been listening to your new album for the last few weeks." I added, "I used to work with your son." "Oh, Rufus?" Loudon commented. "Yes, I used to work at DreamWorks." Phil yelled "John Wooler says hi!"

Dorky. Cool. Random. That's us.


Edited to add: His "friend" turned out to be musician and producer extraordinaire Joe Henry. I knew I recognized him, just couldn't place him. I had the feeling it was someone music related, someone production related...I kept wanting to say "Jon Brien," but knew it wasn't him. And Matt? Stop kicking yourself.

Ten Years After

The phone rang first thing in the morning on May 30th. My phone never rings – let alone before 7:30 AM.

“Hello?” I answered, quizzically and quietly.

“Hi Leah, it’s Jxx Lxxxxx.” Someone I used to work with – but never really got along with, for many reasons.

“Oh, hi, Jxx, er, um, uh, what’s up?” I couldn’t imagine why he would be calling me. Especially at this hour of the morning.

He had a serious tone in his voice. “Well, Leah, I know that we’ve never really gotten along or seen eye to eye on things, for whatever reason, but I wanted to let you know...Jeff Buckley is dead.”

I sat up immediately and tried to blink away the morning. “What?” I asked, in disbelief.

He proceeded to unfurl the events from the night before. Band arriving. Jeff swimming. Missing.

I ask, to clarify, “So he’s actually just missing, right?”

Jxx answers, “Well, yeah.”

I let out a sigh of relief. OK. Jeff has gone missing before. This is nothing new. It’s what he does. I am now no longer concerned, and, in fact, a little pissed off that Jxx has chosen to ruin my morning. In retrospect, I get even more mad when I find out later that Jxx bragged to everyone that he got to be the one to tell me the news.

Call it denial. Call it knowing Jeff for years. This is not a big deal. He’ll turn up. He always has, he always does.

I go about my morning in the regular fashion. I shower, get ready and head off to work.

The phone calls come in: Jules. Greg. Nick. Charlie. Troy. Lisa. Michelle. Barbara. Lydia. Marilyn. Sean. Laura. My friends and ex-co-workers. Calls marked “Urgent,” “Please call,” or even just “Thinking of You.”

People come to my office. “Why are you HERE?” I pooh-pooh them. They don’t know what I know. “He’s just missing.” Am I trying to convince myself, or convince them?

The next few days are a blur. Calls come in, the rivers of denial ebb and flow.

Something compels me to take a trip. I say to my boss, “I think I have to go to New York.” I nearly break down in her office. She’s been waiting for this. “Go. Do what you have to do.”

I'm in New York. It’s the place where I know him; the place that I feel him. The place that I last saw him. Luckily, two of my artists are playing at the Tibetan Freedom Festival, which is happening over the weekend. It justifies the trip.

I can’t possibly be in New York without thinking about Jeff. Everywhere I go, everyone I see – it is completely consuming.

I’m at the office on Wednesday, June 4 when I get the message from a co-worker, via MTV news (of all places). His body washed up on Beale Street in Memphis.

It’s real.

It really happened. Now the stages of grief officially begin...