]
March 8, 2003
Within the organized webs of chaos of Hollywood, California was a single studio that had several interviews going on simultaneously. Hectic tecchies ran about with errands and objects ranging from coffees to cue cards to entire heaps of equipment that needed replacement or whatever else could possibly go wrong with filming equipment.
They darted countless times between lots and rooms through hall ways and corridors. But, like tecchies, they were nothing compared to the event being documented.
The entire cast of the biggest Rock Band of the time-being that kept creating hit after hit were seated separately in rooms. Each room sat a member of the band. And with them was a separate interviewer. The interviewers possessed the same questions.
The end result will be a collaged, collaborative documentary of the Band's beginning. How such talented artists that were from around the world came together to create pieces of pure genius for the world to enjoy.
Their songs connected to the hearts of the human race. Teenagers, adults, and even some old folks that were eternally devoted to good music were hooked on them. The world was in the middle of an infatuated romance with the band itself, as well as the face of the band.
The face of the band, of course, was the lead singer. And lead Guitarist.
Her appearance, when described, seemed clownish and ridiculous. Yet, when you saw her, you thought the opposite.
She had appeared on countless magazine covers, been on the red carpet of many important events. Her presence was matching in caliber and impact as Madonna herself. Critics revered her to be the new generation's figure of her. The newest musical visionary, that just so happened to be a fashion sense all her own. She, also, made a statement all her own.
Rainbow chunks of hair were straightened only to be shook into a messy masterpiece. Tattoos covered her skin to the point that the only clear spaces that showed her naked tanned skin were her face, hands, and stomach. Eyes were always changing, shifting with her emotionality. Clothes were ranging from tough to daring. And even on her hands that were clean of any ink were countless overlapping rings and pieces of jewelry that were diverse and vaudevillian, to say the least.
And it didn't stop there. She had her fingernails painted black at all times.
Clothing companies and department stores would pay her millions to advertise their accessories upon her curvaceously fitted body.
She was the fashionable inspiration to rockers everywhere. To rebels who wanted to make a statement with the way they dressed.
Yet, she had done several photo shoots for posters so men across the globe could worship her in their private bedrooms on their own time. Girlfriends and wives roll their eyes at her. Most girls despised her for her effortless allure to the men.
For most things in Chase's life, she didn't have to try for her to receive it in abundance.
She was hosted on television shows, grand premieres, shows, concerts, and any other grand event that needed importantly well known people to compel other customers to attend.
Now, she was sitting back on a studio styled chair. Made of wooden sticks and cloth. A director's chair, basically. She would autograph it after the interview and hold an auction for collector's to treasure and hold for ungodly amounts of money.
Makeup artists had it easy when doing Chase's makeup. All they really focused on were her eyes and lips. Just a bit of color or flare in those places guaranteed a mesmerizing result. Chase was a beauty all her own.
Camera crews prepared like headless chickens with a purpose as she sat there. The interviewer was getting attended to by the makeup artists hurriedly as Chase grinned in patience, up nodding to whoever passed her by in amiable greeting. A carefree demeanor had her confidence even more accentuated.
The world had fallen in love with the work, appearance, and existence of Night Rose. And they were in one place together, being worshiped and documented for future generations to refer to.
Chase propped her elbows on the armrests of the chair, wrists dangling off the edge of it as calloused fingers were ringed. The metal of her rings shined blindingly in contrast to her tanned, fingers.
Makeup artists were doing finishing touches, some smiling widely. They were pleased with the results of their work. Chase had eye shadow of silver and blue. Mascara was only making those eyes impossible to look away from. And thick black eyeliner tied the whole present together.
She had small talk with the starry eyed makeup artists. What their favorite song was, and how each and every one of them were her biggest fans.
She would ask the questions, and answers came out of Chase like tiny enveloped gifts from the stars for them. They received her replies as the such. Chase, after all, was the face. In a play of words, she was the Rose. The face of Night Rose herself. The founder. The creator.
The Interviewer wore his best outfit for the occasion. He played the usual cookie cut of an Entertainment Journalist for the gossip column of a popular magazine. From what Chase could see, he only broke out of the mold by not dressing to be considered a fairy.
In fact, when the trio of makeup artists was through with her, she tilted her head to one side and grinned. He was pretty cute. If he hadn?t dressed towards the Designer names, she would even play her cards right. Alas, she set her hand under her sleeve to save for another time.
He stood at the door and switched places with the trio of makeup artists.
They walked out the door of the studio as he walked in. Mic was attached to cami styled shirt. It looked like a cami shirt in the sense of exposing her shoulders and collar bones. But it was remarkably customized. With tears, frays, and splatter stains of paint that gave it a lawless charm that was only to be truly characteristic of Chase herself. She constantly kept turning down proposals on opening her own clothing line.
Dozens of necklaces of silver and charms overlapped about her neck. Her wrists were riddled with bangles, wristbands, and other beaded bracelets. Lips were cerulean and mesmerizing. Chase, as many critics have said, was mesmerizing.
?At least I get the one on time!? The man joked plastically.
Chase?s grin showed one of carefree yet engaging curve. She didn?t say anything at first.
?Afternoon, Chase. It?s an honor!? One could see that he met with celebrities on a daily basis. The fact that he didn?t show any kind of reaction towards her that Chase was used to had her shrug and grin.
?Yo, interview guy. Didn?t catch a name.? It was said with the impish expression and grin that suggested that she would forget his name a breath after he told it to her. But she asked anyway.
Like expected, his name was jauntily given and it came as useless annoying sounds. And by the tone and way the words were said to her, he was a fairy. Fairy enough, in her book.
Finally, she tapped back into his jumpy orchestra of words. She never was one to listen unless enticed to.
?Your talent agent just arrived, he did not look too happy.
The poor man needs a vacation! Or needs to lay off on the coffee??
?For how much he?s paid, he should be all smiles. But I guess that?s why he puts up with all four of us.? She shrugged, sitting up slightly only to assure her rear wouldn?t get numb in that director?s chair they had her sitting in. She had been there for some time.
Looking good did not mean she didn?t have the stain of alcohol on her breath. The usual Goldschlager dosage. Her breath smelled of spiced cinnamon. It wasn?t a stench. At this point, it was her own personal perfume.
Suddenly, a tecchie spoke up. ?We?re rolling in ten!?
Interviewer sat on his chair as if it were a throne. Chase choked on a laugh, clearing her throat obviously. She made sure they could tell she failed at hiding her personal ridicule of the man.
?Don?t you worry honey, this won?t hurt a bit!? Were the last words off camera. Chase didn?t have time to respond, so only rolled her eyes.
?Aaaaand five?four?three?.two??
And the red light of the camera turned on. The Studio became sacred ground that forbid anyone to speak.
March 8, 2003
Within the organized webs of chaos of Hollywood, California was a single studio that had several interviews going on simultaneously. Hectic tecchies ran about with errands and objects ranging from coffees to cue cards to entire heaps of equipment that needed replacement or whatever else could possibly go wrong with filming equipment.
They darted countless times between lots and rooms through hall ways and corridors. But, like tecchies, they were nothing compared to the event being documented.
The entire cast of the biggest Rock Band of the time-being that kept creating hit after hit were seated separately in rooms. Each room sat a member of the band. And with them was a separate interviewer. The interviewers possessed the same questions.
The end result will be a collaged, collaborative documentary of the Band's beginning. How such talented artists that were from around the world came together to create pieces of pure genius for the world to enjoy.
Their songs connected to the hearts of the human race. Teenagers, adults, and even some old folks that were eternally devoted to good music were hooked on them. The world was in the middle of an infatuated romance with the band itself, as well as the face of the band.
The face of the band, of course, was the lead singer. And lead Guitarist.
Her appearance, when described, seemed clownish and ridiculous. Yet, when you saw her, you thought the opposite.
She had appeared on countless magazine covers, been on the red carpet of many important events. Her presence was matching in caliber and impact as Madonna herself. Critics revered her to be the new generation's figure of her. The newest musical visionary, that just so happened to be a fashion sense all her own. She, also, made a statement all her own.
Rainbow chunks of hair were straightened only to be shook into a messy masterpiece. Tattoos covered her skin to the point that the only clear spaces that showed her naked tanned skin were her face, hands, and stomach. Eyes were always changing, shifting with her emotionality. Clothes were ranging from tough to daring. And even on her hands that were clean of any ink were countless overlapping rings and pieces of jewelry that were diverse and vaudevillian, to say the least.
And it didn't stop there. She had her fingernails painted black at all times.
Clothing companies and department stores would pay her millions to advertise their accessories upon her curvaceously fitted body.
She was the fashionable inspiration to rockers everywhere. To rebels who wanted to make a statement with the way they dressed.
Yet, she had done several photo shoots for posters so men across the globe could worship her in their private bedrooms on their own time. Girlfriends and wives roll their eyes at her. Most girls despised her for her effortless allure to the men.
For most things in Chase's life, she didn't have to try for her to receive it in abundance.
She was hosted on television shows, grand premieres, shows, concerts, and any other grand event that needed importantly well known people to compel other customers to attend.
Now, she was sitting back on a studio styled chair. Made of wooden sticks and cloth. A director's chair, basically. She would autograph it after the interview and hold an auction for collector's to treasure and hold for ungodly amounts of money.
Makeup artists had it easy when doing Chase's makeup. All they really focused on were her eyes and lips. Just a bit of color or flare in those places guaranteed a mesmerizing result. Chase was a beauty all her own.
Camera crews prepared like headless chickens with a purpose as she sat there. The interviewer was getting attended to by the makeup artists hurriedly as Chase grinned in patience, up nodding to whoever passed her by in amiable greeting. A carefree demeanor had her confidence even more accentuated.
The world had fallen in love with the work, appearance, and existence of Night Rose. And they were in one place together, being worshiped and documented for future generations to refer to.
Chase propped her elbows on the armrests of the chair, wrists dangling off the edge of it as calloused fingers were ringed. The metal of her rings shined blindingly in contrast to her tanned, fingers.
Makeup artists were doing finishing touches, some smiling widely. They were pleased with the results of their work. Chase had eye shadow of silver and blue. Mascara was only making those eyes impossible to look away from. And thick black eyeliner tied the whole present together.
She had small talk with the starry eyed makeup artists. What their favorite song was, and how each and every one of them were her biggest fans.
She would ask the questions, and answers came out of Chase like tiny enveloped gifts from the stars for them. They received her replies as the such. Chase, after all, was the face. In a play of words, she was the Rose. The face of Night Rose herself. The founder. The creator.
The Interviewer wore his best outfit for the occasion. He played the usual cookie cut of an Entertainment Journalist for the gossip column of a popular magazine. From what Chase could see, he only broke out of the mold by not dressing to be considered a fairy.
In fact, when the trio of makeup artists was through with her, she tilted her head to one side and grinned. He was pretty cute. If he hadn?t dressed towards the Designer names, she would even play her cards right. Alas, she set her hand under her sleeve to save for another time.
He stood at the door and switched places with the trio of makeup artists.
They walked out the door of the studio as he walked in. Mic was attached to cami styled shirt. It looked like a cami shirt in the sense of exposing her shoulders and collar bones. But it was remarkably customized. With tears, frays, and splatter stains of paint that gave it a lawless charm that was only to be truly characteristic of Chase herself. She constantly kept turning down proposals on opening her own clothing line.
Dozens of necklaces of silver and charms overlapped about her neck. Her wrists were riddled with bangles, wristbands, and other beaded bracelets. Lips were cerulean and mesmerizing. Chase, as many critics have said, was mesmerizing.
?At least I get the one on time!? The man joked plastically.
Chase?s grin showed one of carefree yet engaging curve. She didn?t say anything at first.
?Afternoon, Chase. It?s an honor!? One could see that he met with celebrities on a daily basis. The fact that he didn?t show any kind of reaction towards her that Chase was used to had her shrug and grin.
?Yo, interview guy. Didn?t catch a name.? It was said with the impish expression and grin that suggested that she would forget his name a breath after he told it to her. But she asked anyway.
Like expected, his name was jauntily given and it came as useless annoying sounds. And by the tone and way the words were said to her, he was a fairy. Fairy enough, in her book.
Finally, she tapped back into his jumpy orchestra of words. She never was one to listen unless enticed to.
?Your talent agent just arrived, he did not look too happy.
The poor man needs a vacation! Or needs to lay off on the coffee??
?For how much he?s paid, he should be all smiles. But I guess that?s why he puts up with all four of us.? She shrugged, sitting up slightly only to assure her rear wouldn?t get numb in that director?s chair they had her sitting in. She had been there for some time.
Looking good did not mean she didn?t have the stain of alcohol on her breath. The usual Goldschlager dosage. Her breath smelled of spiced cinnamon. It wasn?t a stench. At this point, it was her own personal perfume.
Suddenly, a tecchie spoke up. ?We?re rolling in ten!?
Interviewer sat on his chair as if it were a throne. Chase choked on a laugh, clearing her throat obviously. She made sure they could tell she failed at hiding her personal ridicule of the man.
?Don?t you worry honey, this won?t hurt a bit!? Were the last words off camera. Chase didn?t have time to respond, so only rolled her eyes.
?Aaaaand five?four?three?.two??
And the red light of the camera turned on. The Studio became sacred ground that forbid anyone to speak.