My First LA Concert: Confessions of a Wannabe

Los Angeles, California. The city where dreams are made. We move here from all over the world for the same goal: to be somebody. It sounds so easy, doesn't it? If you've got the talent and the looks, all you have to do is hop on a bus and you'll be a star.

Not so much.

I moved to California two years ago. In that time I've held more day jobs than most people have in their entire lives. Bartending, telemarketing, pushing the latest skin cream and the hippest cosmetics... basically everything but what I really want to be doing.

A friend of mine recently got a job at a corporate holiday party where they dressed her up like Madonna and had her sign autographs. Only in Hollywood...

So what is it I want to be doing? Acting and singing, of course. Me and everyone else.

Let me tell you a little something about being a musician in this town.

Now keep in mind, I started performing with my trusty guitar back in Boston, where there's a tremendously strong folk scene. At times it almost seemed as if you could be absolutely wretched and people would still come see you and smile.

Hello, culture shock.

My first concert here took place about two weeks after I first stepped out of my car following the lonely weeklong drive.

I was booked at The Viper Room, a place with a rich history of incredible music and star-studded attendance. The ultimate place for the cliché of "sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll," and a perfect place to make my west coast debut.

I knew I did not have a following here yet, so I hit a couple open mikes beforehand in preparation. Of course I wouldn't have a huge crowd, but I was okay with that.

So I arrived at the venue a couple hours early. There were several guys smoking out front, making lewd comments I took as compliments (is there any other way?).

When I stepped inside and saw the stage I remember thinking it was a little smaller than I'd pictured. I mean, I played shows in college on far bigger stages.

I had no idea.

I was immediately thrust downstairs to an ominous-sounding place a bartender called "The Acoustic Room," about which everyone upstairs seemed to care very little.

By the time I entered the basement, I understood why.