Kurt Loder At The VMAs: No Bull
Sorry I haven't checked in lately. Wouldn't be checking in now if it weren't for uncaring and heartless pressure being exerted by the online poobahs.
I have a long-standing rule of never making the rounds of post-VMA parties; it can only lead to trouble. However, for reasons I only dimly recall, I broke that rule last night and am now forcefully reminded just how much trouble such a post-show club wallow can lead to. But more on that in a bit.
First, the Big Show. No, no wait -- the pre-show, the "Opening Act." I didn't really say "that's bullsh--" on-air, did I? Oh. (Online über-poobah says he has the tape to prove it.) Well, I ... don't really remember that at all. Apparently, though, this alleged tape allegedly shows me sitting in a cluster of stools with the Metallica guys, waiting patiently to "take a toss," as they say in TV land, from John Norris, who's situated in some similarly celeb-choked and chaotic environment nearby. So John "tosses" to us, and catches us unawares, casually discussing ... I don't know, the state of the world? The state of the music? Some other rock band on the VMA bill, perhaps? Who knows? Anyway, our camera goes on, the mic goes live, and, according to this tape (which I'll believe exists when somebody actually produces the damn thing), there it is: "That's bullsh--." I'm sorry if I offended anybody out there. Like there's really somebody tuned in to the VMAs who would remotely care.
Anyway -- did you catch the part of the pre-show where Pamela Anderson turned up for a red-carpet interview accompanied by David LaChappelle, the mad photographer? Pam was wearing ... well, nothing that couldn't have been stuffed handily into a size-five sneaker. I'd always thought she had the biggest and most boulderlike breasts in the business until I noticed Iggy Pop slouching by with a black woman who was prevented from toppling forward onto her face only by the crucial ballast provided by her sizeable and equally assertive behind. But that's another story.
Anyway, Pam's there with LaChappelle, and we're waiting for yet another "toss" so we can begin a quick mini-interview, when who comes strolling into the shot but Snoop Dogg, accompanied by two young women he's leading around on leashes. The look on their faces, which I believe were located somewhere above their see-through tops, said that no matter how much a gig like this might pay, it could never be enough. Also, please God, don't let Mom be watching.
Lurking behind Snoop and these two regretting-every-minute-of-it ladies was a guy in some sort of green satin suit and wild shades, clutching a staff in one hand and a jewel-encrusted goblet in the other, and ... well, who else could it be: Archbishop Don "Magic" Juan, an actual former pimp who now serves as Snoop's "spiritual advisor." (Sure.)
What immediately grabbed my eye, though, was the goblet. Because I'd noticed a number of rappers wandering the carpet with these things, I had to approach Sway, my go-to for all things street. He said they were "pimp juice" goblets. Or ... no, I think it was pimp-juice chalices, that's right.
I've been having some trouble wrapping my mind around this "pimp juice" concept. The first image the phrase summons to mind is not especially appetizing. But according to Nelly -- I figured he'd know for sure -- "pimp juice" is actually something that motivates you or gets you going. I think that's what he said. This may have been a somewhat self-serving definition, though -- Nelly is launching his own brand of energy drinks that are actually called Pimp Juice. I hope they're made from some sort of liquid that is, in fact, derived from fruit, but I'll wait for your analysis.
On now to the Big Show. It was great, wasn't it? No, really, tell me. Because I didn't get to see a lot of it. First of all, the VMA show kicks off about 10 seconds after our pre-show wraps. And since the pre-show site was about a quarter mile (it seemed) from Radio City Music Hall, where the VMAs were being staged, we had to literally sprint over there (running is so undignified) in hopes of catching at least some small part of the Madonna/Christina/Britney opener. We came stumbling through the doors, winded and resentful, just in time to witness them sashaying offstage. Good thing the VMAs get re-aired about 500 times; I really wanted to see this.
So what did I see, once I got seated? Well, I saw Christina Aguilera's solo spot. Christina has now completely internalized the performance philosophy that so successfully guides such master showmen as Puffy Combs: If you're gonna go over the top, go way, way over. Lots of skin. Lots of writhing, sweaty bodies. Lots of lights, noise, explosions. You gotta love this girl. That's an order.
And I saw Ashanti presenting something. She was wearing a pair of diamond earrings that she'd told SuChin earlier were worth $3 million. Unfortunately, she was also wearing one of those snipped-out, peekaboo dresses that, from my point of view, would be overpriced at 20 bucks. It's a drag to see somebody as naturally beautiful as Ashanti so tackily togged out. Maybe she fired somebody when she got home. Let's hope so.
And I saw Beyoncé's bit. Talk about your beautiful women. Apart from her singing, her dancing, her acting, her product endorsements -- beyond all that, she's simply a star: She could stand there scratching her nose and you'd be riveted, right? What else is there to say? Nothing.
I saw some other stuff. I saw Chris Rock, back to host the show, who was ferociously provocative in a way that I don't think anybody else has been since Richard Pryor so sadly left the stage. When he made that Christopher Reeve joke, I actually heard a chorus of gasps behind me. It was caustic and I suppose unnecessary, but if you're honest, I think you have to admit that somewhere deep inside, there's a part of you that's straining to suppress a laugh. This is just the way humor works sometimes.
Apart from all of that, I didn't see an awful lot. I made the mistake of getting up during a commercial break and attempting a trek up the aisle and down the lobby stairs to the bar area, where rumor had it there was food. The aisle-and-lobby part took about 15 minutes, with every 20 footsteps or so punctuated by heartfelt handshakes and great-to-see-you-again greetings from people who, in several cases, I'm pretty sure I've never met. The bar scene was much the same, only more so.
Extricating oneself from a bar is always difficult, for some reason. By the time all was said and done, VMA-wise, I should have known better than to head off with a gaggle of dissolute cronies to make the rounds of post-show parties. Should have, but didn't.
First we hit the big Maverick Records soirée, held at the frighteningly upscale Four Seasons restaurant. This was the sort of party that has its own red carpet out front, flanked by a full complement of panting paparazzi. (Several of whom I know and really like, actually.) Inside, Christina Aguilera was holding court and the members of the reunited Duran Duran were hanging about, with Simon Le Bon intermittently busting out some dance moves, sort of. Or maybe he was just intoxicated, hard to tell. Kirk Hammett, the excellent Metallica guitarist, was sitting at a balcony table overlooking all of this, smoking one of the foulest-smelling cigars ... ever made, I'll bet.
When the liquor ran out and the lights went up, everybody split. Our little group wobbled over to a Justin Timberlake thing -- I'm still not sure exactly what it was supposed to be -- at Roseland, a cavernous rock club. Generally, I'd rather be boiled in oil than find myself within Roseland's clamorous confines. But Justin's a nice guy (is 'NSYNC really making another album? What's the point?) and we wanted to represent -- although represent what was, by this time, not entirely clear.
Our visit to this bash began with a full-wand body search, always a nice welcome. A peek inside the doors revealed a room full of randomness and disarray. We turned right around and marched out. Sorry, Justin.
We ended the evening at a little downtown club, new to me, called B'lo. What was supposed to be going on here was a party being thrown by Edward Norton, one of our favorite actors. Naturally, Ed himself was nowhere to be seen. But the club was so cool -- people were dancing in full Kama Sutra mode, sliding up and down each other's bodies, and the DJ -- wait a minute, I have his name scrawled on a scrap of paper here somewhere ... Lil' Joe Garcia, that's it -- Lil' Joe, man, the guy's an artist. Loved the Depeche Mode mix. Also loved the free bottle of wine from the management. Didn't much love it when the house lights suddenly went up around 4:30, though. I mean, this is New York -- that's bullsh--, right?
--[article id="1453174"]Kurt Loder[/article]
Catch all the sizzlin', star-packed VMA action direct from Miami on August 28. MTV News' preshow kicks things off at 6:00 p.m. ET/PT, followed by the big show at 8 p.m.
