By Grant Robbin
Hang on Sloopy. We’re going on a magical mystery tour. The 60’s. New York City. Greenwich Village. A kaleidoscope of sights, sounds and smells. A psychedelic happening! Everyone Peter Maxed out in bell bottoms, platform shoes and long sideburns (mostly the guys). The scent of weed and body odor blowin’ in the wind on MacDougal Street.
The Village is Grand Central Station for all kinds of performers – musicians, singers, actors, comics. Many famous, more desperately trying to be. Among the chosen: Jimmy Hendrix, Bob Dylan, Janis Joplin, Richard Pryor, etc. They performed in clubs like The Bitter End, The Village Gate and Gerdes Folk City, and they hung out in the Village between gigs and tours. Continue reading
By Grant Robbin
“Have your agent call us!” All too familiar words to any struggling actor or performer trying to get a gig. Yes, there are open calls, but most of the juicy jobs require an agent to tout your unbelievable talents. Without an agent, you’re nobody. With an agent, you’re somebody! Somebody people should pay attention to.
Backstory. When I was in college, a little after The Holy Wars, there was a draft. No, you twenty-somethings, I don’t mean a cold blast of air. I’m talking about Vietnam and the opportunity to die for your country for no good reason at all, and, guess what, you didn’t need an agent, and you get to play a soldier. Awesome! (I never use this word in real life, but I’m trying to connect.)
So, there I was, standing in line with dozens of other young “hopefuls,” naked, as a cold hand clenched my testicles, and I was told to cough. Continue reading