I've met a lot of groupies in my line of work, and most of them aren't exactly there for the music. Ask them to list five songs played by the band they are currently jonesing for. Right.
I remember being at the 48 Hours Festival in 2011 in Las Vegas, where two chicks hanging around to tag-team the singer from the Sick Puppies looked absolutely dumbfounded when I asked whether they admired the band's smokin'-hot bassist Emma Anzai ("There's a chick in the band? But I thought he was siiiingle!")
But one thing's for sure: For every five of these musically defective Jezebels, there is one that is truly the ultimate fan.
Last weekend, I attended Rock on the Range, as those of you may remember from my second (or maybe third?) week in a row of writing my Metal Monday column on a plane, nursing a hangover with those adorable baby bottles of Jack Daniels. While I attended originally for press purposes, the other main reason was this: I fancy myself an ultimate fan.
Call it "groupie" if you must; many people who don't know me have, in the past, automatically assumed as much since I'm a heavy metal girl in a testosterone-driven world. But I guess the main difference is I don't sleep with any musicians. That, and the extent of my rock 'n' roll fashion sense ends at deciding between a baggy Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd T-shirt.
But I flew all the way out to Columbus, Ohio, to see a bill of more than 30 bands, including Halestorm, Chevelle, Slash, Five Finger Death Punch, Incubus, Cypress Hill, In This Moment, Megadeth, Down, Marilyn Manson, and Rob Zombie; the latter three being strong players in my metal fandom world and also not coming through Arizona this year.
The three-day excursion was packed with heavy tunes, networking, and true believers battling insane humidity. I was lucky to be able to consistently wander into the front row and watch from the side stage. It made for a great view of the bands and even better groupie watching.
These girls, man . . . These girls were nuts. String bikini tops bulging with 36 FFFs. Shredded fish nets and piercing-bedecked pretty faces. Garters and thongs topped with KISS-patch-adorned jean jackets. Military hats and assless chaps. And as the weekend went on, they actually got skimpier, believe it or not. I don't know how they did it, or kept their eyeliner-caked faces from melting off in the heat, for that matter, but they acted like it was the most natural thing in the world to strut around with their hoo-has hanging out in front of a crowd of 100,000 people.