Maximus Rocks
Estrogen levels were off the charts on an unusually giddy Sunday night last weekend at L.A.’s fabled House of Blues on the Sunset Strip, as a predominantly female audience stood in line around the block to see the club’s latest headliner. With all the squealing, screaming, squeezing and shoving to get to the front of the stage, you might have thought N*Sync or some other boy band popsters were about to take the stage, until you took a closer look at the primarily blonde hordes pressed against the footlights and realized they were mostly late twenty-, early thirty- and even the occasional forty-somethings nearly busting out of their BCBG halters.
And the object of all this feminine attention hasn’t won a Grammy, an American Music Award or even an MTV Moon Man. No, the only trophy on his mantle is a bauble named “Oscar.” Many of the attendees may have only been barely aware of the name of his band, 30 Odd Foot of Grunts, but- they were definitely familiar with the rakish charms of its lead singer: Russell Crowe, the Down Under darling of moviegoers, film critics and tabloid reporters everywhere.
The ladies politely endured a trio of mediocre-at-best opening acts until a seismic wave of shrieks signaled that the gladiator and his cohorts had taken the stage.
There was definitely a Tom Jones kind of vibe happening on the venue floor, although as far as I could tell even the most ardent admirers of the actor resisted the urge to toss any undergarments onto the stage. One did lob up what Crowe initially thought was a love note, until it mentioned that she was a screenwriter. (“Surprise, surprise, surprise,” he exclaimed.)
Bearded, scruffy and rumpled, the Academy Award-winning actor slipped into the role of rock-and-roll bad boy as easily as he has that of Roman centurion, corporate whistleblower or hard-boiled cop.
Crowe clearly reveled in the part of rock front man, ribbing his bandmates at every opportunity and tossing empty cans of Australian beer (“not available in the States”) into the audience.
As the ladies soaked up his star power along with his suds, most of the men in the crowd hung out around the House’s various bars–although a few guys whooped and cheered for him, too (the show was in West Hollywood after all).
And then there was the music. Yes, the music, which was…well, let’s just say Russell’s no Sheryl Crowe…or Counting Crows, or even Cameron Crowe when it comes to musical innovation or adventurousness. Certainly nothing embarrassing (think Dogstar, to name a certian hunky actor’s clunky vanity band), but even his devoted enthusiasts were a bit underwhelmed.
The sentiment was best expressed by pair of nubile young thangs in barely-hanging-in-there low-rise jeans as they attempted to escape into the posh Foundation Room, the HoB’s elite VIP club. “He’s a great, amazing actor…but…”
After the show, those wearing prized black wristbands adjourned upstairs to the Foundation Room hoping for a chance to belly up to the bar with the notoriously hard-drinking lead singer–or at least to catch a glimpse of the most famous Grunts fan in the House, Nicole Kidman, who discreetly watched the show from a private perch on the second floor. Crowe and Kidman–now free of her burdensome marriage to some other actor–go way back to their pre-fame days Down Under and while sticking by the “just friends” refrain, have been keeping company together more and more frequently.
But those hoping to rub elbows with Australia’s most famous exports to Hollywood (sorry, Paul Hogan) were disappointed. Crowe, Kidman and their pals stayed secreted in the green room guarded by a stern security man, and the best the many ladies waiting outside got was a glimpse of Kidman peeking out to ask a HoB staffer for some cigars. But then, they already knew their idol was smokin’, in more ways than one. Now if only his band was as hot…
