In an elevator with One Direction

Earlier this month, this guy and I were in LA. We stayed at a hotel on Sunset Blvd. (not far from where I once lived twenty-some years ago) nicknamed the Riot Hyatt. It’s rock ‘n’ roll pedigree is legendary. Led Zeppelin, the Rolling Stones, Jimi Hendrix, Jim Morrison all have spent time at this hotel.

On day two, dozens of teenage girls – and some boys – descended onto the hotel, in a frenzied pack, cameras in hand. Every time a teenage-ish boy came out of the front doors, a collective squeal would waft up to our room. One Direction, we were told, was the band staying at the Riot Hyatt. Now, we aren’t fans of pop music, particularly a band that was formed to make money, not great music.

The big reason we were in LA was my partner was going to be performing live with the Palma Violets – a great band, and an even better group of guys – on our last night in town. I dressed that night in a pair of black skinny jeans and a sleeveless Joy Division t-shirt.  We then got into the hotel elevator with at least one member of OD, along with one of their goons (who dressed like he was part of the PMPD, complete with ear piece). This child/boy band member laughs at my shirt, which in turn prompts the obligatory giggles from his fawning entourage. I didn’t take it personally. After all, I wouldn’t expect someone who sings meaningless sugary pop songs for a living to get  the greatness that is Joy Division.

But looky, tonight at the VMAs, one of the pretentious jerks of One Direction is wearing – wait for it – a Joy Division tee. (Also, the fact that they win awards for their “music” makes me sad).





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