BlackNotBlack.com

Buried Treasure 3: Pulp

As my band 40th Day staggered to an ending—this after quite a few years of travel through the lower forty-eight and a brief air kiss of courtship by A&M Records—the guitar player Bryon Bean and I did something amazing: we started a magazine. I didn't think it so grandiose at the time—we simply dreamed the idea up and did it. It only seems amazing now, after finding all the old issues in storage. Scanning them, it hit me what a bold venture it was. We had zero experience in publishing, but we secured an investor, lassoed a third partner to handle graphic design, and started printing.



The magazine was called Pulp. The first issue looked bad, sort of under-accessorized compared to its peers. But we improved quickly. By issue four, which you see above, Pulp was looking reasonably professional, ads were flowing in, and readers around Colorado were taking it seriously. That's Poe on the cover, who was white hot at the time and promoting her first CD. I remember she called personally and thanked us for doing such a good job with the interview and photos. Looking at the issue now, I can see why. It's a damned nice cover.

One of the coolest things about the magazine was that, as editor, I got to assuage any starfucker tendencies by meeting a lot of music celebrities. I interviewed Rage Against the Machine, Type O-Negative, Garbage (pictured just below), and many other bands. I received backstage passes to just about any show I wanted. I got VIP entry into parties and clubs, where I answered who/what/why questions from wannabe players then reveled in their looks of surprise at my answers. About ninety percent of the time they responded with, "You're the editor of Pulp?" Such moments are priceless.



Pulp was one of the first magazines to really integrate music with extreme sports, as you can see from the cover below. After a while we even started sponsoring extreme sports events. We put on a little something called the World Pro Snowboard Tour, which started in Korea and ended at Mt. Snow, Vermont. Magazine staff did double duty as coordinators, hosts, and stevedores. Our sponsors included Smirnoff and Playboy. We actually brought Playboy centerfolds to the slopes to do signings and host parties. One of my duties was to act as security for them. To keep the hordes at bay, I was given a canister of Sabre chemical spray. Later I would go on to work for Playboy, but that's another story.



Anyway, the World Pro Snowboard Tour went off fine in terms of competitions and publicity, but behind the scenes it was a spectacular disaster. Lexus was another sponsor, and they gave us two beautiful gold-colored SUVs to use during the tour. We kept a lot of gear in those vehicles and because so many of us needed constant access, some of the others took to leaving the keys on the front tires of the vehicles. I warned everyone it was a bad idea. When we were at Squaw Valley, Utah, I think I said something along the lines of, "White people steal too. You'll find that out if you keep leaving those keys out there." They didn't listen to me, of course, and sure enough, someone stole one of the SUVs. We reported the theft to the police and a chase ensued. The thief ran off the road and destroyed the Lexus. The story made the evening news.

Also at Squaw Valley, we had a 10x20 tent that we used on the mountain to host the Playmate signings. Someone (not me) forgot to stake it down one day and and gust of wind picked it up and carried it down the mountain, where it knocked over about a dozen skiers. There were other mishaps just as bad as the Lexus and tent episodes, but the Tour was also grand fun—we were out until two or three in the morning and then up at 5 a.m. to set up for the next day's events. We're talking professional level partying. Sal Masakela was our emcee. He's now on the E! Channel, and does a lot of extreme sports hosting for ESPN.

Below you see a few of my favorite Pulp covers. These were designed by Bryon, with possible assists from Dave Feroe, who was the third member of our little triumvirate. We tried to mix in local talent with the national acts we covered, and third below you see a cover showing Twice Wilted, who were Denver rock royalty.





Pulp also covered independent film, and as a longtime movie buff I appointed myself film critic and wrote under the name Juan Dos Passos. Actually I had four pseudonyms at Pulp, and I was so adept at inhabiting them that nobody had a clue they were all me. I realized this when my friend Jim told me one day how much he hated another of my alter egos John Saralan, that he was a giant asshole and his music reviews were always snarky and mean. I laughed about that for weeks.

I don't know if you've ever been to a film premiere, but there are two kinds—the ones for critics only, which are great; and the ones for both critics and fans, which usually happen on the Thursday night before the film's Friday opening. The latter variety are always packed, and seats must be reserved for critics. Sometimes the critics bring guests, or even give their tickets away, which means riff raff often infest the reserved section. These interlopers can get proprietary about the seats. Why, I don't know. They just do. And they're always typical Denver meatheads. No idea why that's the case either. Once, I attended a full screening and sat down in the reserved row and a couple of the aforementioned looked over and told me, in none too friendly fashion, that the seats were reserved.

I could have told them I was a critic, but one, they wouldn't have believed me, and two, I don't answer to meatheads. So I said, "Really? Who are they reserved for?"

One of the jokers said, "Quentin Tarantino." He and his friend snickered. I'm sure they thought they were extraordinarily clever.

I told them, "Okay, when he shows up I'll move."

These two suburbanites then decided to sic security on me. One of them got up and found the guard. I saw the conversation. I saw the confusion on the poor idiot's face. I saw the crestfallen look as the guard explained that I was a film critic, and by the way, sir, who might you be? That's a fond memory, and it encapsulates what was so cool about Pulp—it made me a party crasher, got me into places nobody, and I mean nobody, thought I belonged.

As a film critic I got to do cool things like fly to New York City and see Nelson Mandela host the world premiere of Cry the Beloved Country, and I got to interview Todd Solondz (who was shy), Maria Conchita Alonso (who was an amazing lady), Judith Godreche (cordial), Michael Rappaport (chill), David Caruso (bit of a tool, I must say), James Earl Jones (dignified), and many other fascinating celebs. I met Danny Glover, Richard Harris, and William Friedkin. I met Renee Zellweger early in her career, when she was at her most ambitious and beautiful, and spent an afternoon with her while a photographer named Jeff Navarro shot the below photos for the magazine. In the second shot she's holding an issue of Pulp featuring Bjork on the cover. If you read BlackNotBlack regularly, you may remember that I ran into Bjork in Iceland a couple of years ago.


And speaking of encounters with celebs, I couldn't resist posting this shot of me with the luscious Joey Lauren Adams. I was putty, as the photo makes clear. She was unable to build a lasting career for herself, but she did a couple of good movies, including Chasing Amy. She was super sweet. We talked about her voice, which at the time she said she was unwilling change even though it limited her career prospects (for those who have never heard Joey Lauren Adams' voice, imagine high b-flat with smoke on top).


Pulp also sometimes covered street fashion, and for one issue I was tapped to be a model. So there I am trying to look cool below, and I succeeded so spectacularly that I still look like that today. Did I just hear the sound of gagging out there? No, must have been the wind.


Anyway, even something as cool as Pulp had to end one day. We had enemies. Westword Magazine, which is part of the huge chain that includes L.A. Weekly, tried to steal our advertisers but failed. In fact, one of our advertisers showed us a letter Westword sent them that specifically suggested Pulp was not on the up-and-up with regard to readership numbers. It was an infuriating accusation, but it didn't harm us. No, what killed us was our sales manager, who was more interested in being a big shot than doing his job. He ran up a lot of credit debt on the magazine and kept it hidden until it all came to roost at once. He was a pure hustler, truth be told, and would have fit nicely into the Bush administration had he been politically inclined.

I ran into the guy a couple of years later. He pulled over next to me as I was walking along the road and offered me a ride. He was driving a station wagon and the back was filled with boxes. I asked him what was in them and he said meat.

I said, "Did you say meat, or did I misunderstand you?"

He explained that the boxes were filled with Kobe beef and he was importing the stuff now. There was big money in it he claimed, and I was thinking, People are going to eat meat that sat in the back of your station wagon? Anyway, that's the last I saw of him. These days, despite the damage he did to the magazine, I have fond memories of him. He was part of an amazing time, and, for a while at least, took an incredible leap of faith with us.

All this nostalgia is apropos, because the leap I am taking next is the most difficult thing I've ever done, and remembering what has passed gives me confidence for what is to come. I've always surged forward without looking and somehow survived—in jobs, in relationships, in everything. So starting in November the posts you read at BlackNotBlack will originate from San Sebastián-Donostia, Spain. I moved away before, of course, to Guatemala for two insane years, but that was a country where the dollar trades at 8-to-1 against the local currency. That same dollar is pure shit against the euro, and there is no doubt, I am not in financial shape to be taking this risk. But I'm doing it anyway, because, what can I say? That's who I am.

Labels: Nelson Mandela, Rage Against the Machine, Renee Zellweger Twice Wilted

posted by Egan Ehlers @ 2:06 PM