Sally Hope
It’s St. Patrick’s Day at the Wildcat. A band from L.A. called
Poets and Pornstars is playing its brand of Rolling
Stones-meets-Guns N’ Roses rock. The lead singer is a British man
in tight pants. The guitarist, keyboardist, and drummer also are
men.
And then there’s the bassist: A girl. Sexy. Tight tank top, mini
skirt, cat eyes, and Joan Jett hair. She pouts like Mick Jagger,
then looks sidelong at someone in the crowd with her lips slightly
parted.
“Who thinks Sally’s hot?” the lead singer screams mid-song. The
room erupts in thunderous applause. Most of this crowd knows her
already: When they watched her play guitar for the Titsofrenix,
when they bought jeans from her at True Grit, when they attended
classes with her at UCSB, or went to parties at her house in
I.V.
But none of them know her like I do. I have the inside scoop,
the backstage pass. I’m on every guest list. Her bandmates know me
by name. I’ve been following her career from the beginning: The
video of her lip-syncing to “Parents Just Don’t Understand”; the
photograph of her playing violin in the bathroom at age 8 — naked.
The first time she could play “Blackbird” all the way through on
her acoustic guitar. Her first show as part of a rock band, opening
for Blondie at the Majestic Ventura Theatre.
Yes, I’m something of a groupie. And though I’m not
alone — carloads of people from S.B. show up to her shows at the
Viper Room — I know I’m the most devoted. Well, me and two other
people in the crowd at Wildcat: the 50-ish woman who looks a lot
like me, and her white-haired husband.
That’s why I’m smiling so big on St. Patrick’s Day, when the guy
next to me says, “Dude, Sally’s hot.”
Because I get to say: “I know. That’s my sister.” — Molly
Freedenberg