By On the occasion of our 20th anniversary
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
Courtesy of Dreamworks SKGThe Long Beach Dub All Stars—known to most of you as Sublime with former All Dayguy Ras filling in for Brad Nowell because, you know, Brad's dead—are good guys. They're good guys if it doesn't bug you when rock stars decide that one of the perks of rock stardom is being able to request of the video director that female crew members show their tits and then keep honking the horn of the van in which they're sitting, as the sign that now would be a good time. No? Well, how about now? Honk!Not yet? If we honk the horn now, will you show us your tits? Aw, come on! Hooooooooonnnnnk!
Faced with the opportunity to grab a share of the gobs of Dreamworks SKGmoney floating around director Billy Henderson's shoot, we agreed to work as part of the crew for the "Trailer Ras" video. Concept: white-trash people dancing and porn stars on trailers.
The first day of the Aug. 30-31 shoot took place in a big ugly dirt lot next to Naga in Long Beach, with several buses with cowboys and mermaids airbrushed on them lining the lot's perimeter. The one for the porn stars—because a video isn't a video unless it has porn stars; just ask Blink 182or Rolling Stonemagazine—was labeled "Talent." The one for the band was marked "Band." Much crew hilarity ensued.
It is little-known how much contempt a crew generally has for a band on whose video it works. Eyes are rolled silently. Venting comes later, at a more discreet time. We once met a girl over Sunday-afternoon cocktails during a fab Bourbon Jonesshow who had had the misfortune of being assigned to personally assist Hole's Courtney Loveduring a video shoot this year. She was happy to blab and blab and blab about Ms. Love's despicable snottiness; par example, our snitch was told to never enter Love's trailer without knocking (the rest of Hole had a little hole in which to stew; Love had the whole shebang). When our friend knocked (even though her arms were undoubtedly full of organic celery for Ms. Love's bloody marys or some of the $300 worth of foreign Vogues Ms. Love sent her out to buy), she received no answer. After a minute or two of waiting, she entered, only to have Love coldly state that if she entered again without knocking, Love would throw something heavy at her head. "You've been warned," Love reportedly said, dismissing her like a servant.
Now, the Dub All Stars were not so bad as this. Aside from a minor snit over not being able to hear themselves on the monitors during their rooftop synch-along—and of course that whole thing with the crew and its collective breasts—they were reasonably professional. The drummer even played through a nastily debilitating case of food poisoning, slumping prostrate over the drums a couple of times. It wasn't that they were bad guys; they were just irrelevant. This was especially noticeable the second day of shooting, which was stripped down to Ras, Opie, another guy, and eight or nine crew members: the crew chatted and flirted and got to know one another while the band huddled together in their big truck. Out of sight, out of mind! The first day had been a zoo, featuring a few hundred fans; bikers; hair and makeup ladies; lots of security guys and gals; a very cool, extraordinarily pregnant lady from the record label; and, of course, the porn stars. (The pregnant lady from the label was the one who originally suggested using porn stars.) They stood on top of a couple of trailers, wiggling themselves daintily, as the song played again and again. A director's assistant rounded out the number of girls on trailers, as they were short a porn star, but we hear she made up for it by not wearing any panties under her blinding-silver miniskirt. The only porn star we had heard of was Misty Rains, whose name makes us wonder if she's one of those female ejaculators we can't seem to escape. When you watch the video, look for the guy doing the triple flip off the trailer: that's the singer from Secret Hate, and he broke both of his arms doing it.
On the second day, we actually helped instead of just standing around awkwardly; of our four tasks (we walked across one scene, hand modeled in another—those are our blue nails!—went to the store for snacks, or "craft services," and then fetched ice), we radically fucked up one: we left the 20-pound bag of ice in our trunk. It melted. The most fun part of the day was going to Vons for snacks for the boys. With another PA, Jean, we chose crap like beef jerky and boxes of Rice Krispy Treats. The mom in Jean came out after we gagged that we felt like we were shopping for a bunch of 4-year-olds, which pretty much was what we were doing, and she suggested we buy some fruit as well. None of the fruit got eaten, but the band did have a Rice Krispy Treat-eating contest—you know, to impress the ladies. But the only way to impress the ladies was to be a grip: we were madly in love with all of them, especially the two cute Leftists who started conversing with us on the finer aspects of Michael Mooreand Roger & Me. Shockingly, we were never ordered back to the store with, "Talent wants more Rice Krispy Treats."