Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SATURDAY, April 17, 1993 TAG: 9304170190
SECTION: VIRGINIA PAGE: C-1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: Kathleen Wilson
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
BACKSTAGE, STAR-GAZING LOST APPEAL
It's commonly known as meet and greet.That platinum moment most fans only dream of. A coveted opportunity to socialize with a band passing through town.
But as at least several local women learned at the Guns N' Roses concert Thursday night, rock 'n' roll's definition of "meet and greet" is considerably different from Webster's.
The reality shook up Lisa Donoso and Shannon Eaton. It reduced Carolyn Halsey to tears.
And it led a young woman from Appomattox who has all of the band's albums to call in Roanoke police and accuse band crew members of sexual assault.
Until around 3 a.m. the morning after the concert, I had a fun story. Let's see what the backstage difference is between Garth Brooks and Guns N' Roses.
But one look at the crude drawing of the naked, large-breasted woman on the "working personnel" badge that also crowed "the perils of rock 'n' roll" was all you needed to figure out this was where the Garthic comparisons ended.
Especially when one person who had to wear that patch was a 69-year-old woman serving the crew.
Out in the parking lot, all 24-year-old Carolyn Halsey hoped for was a glimpse of Axl Rose running from the limousine into the civic center. She did, after all, adore him.
"This is the first time I've been able to afford a ticket to see Guns N' Roses," she told me.
Early in what would ultimately be a 12-hour vigil, Halsey tried to explain her passion for the band.
"They're the most controversial, rebellious band around," she gushed in typical fanspeak. "They're not afraid to stand up for what they believe in."
She paused.
"I admire that because I wish I could be more like that."
But when a girl virtually shrink-wrapped in a black spandex miniskirt shot right past her onto a tour bus only to emerge with the coveted red post-concert pass, Halsey's long passion for the band exploded.
"It's just because she had on that little miniskirt," she sobbed to a roadie named Ron.
"Well, miniskirts do help," he teased.
"But I'm too big to wear clothes like that," she said quietly.
"That's rock 'n' roll," the roadie said before disappearing.
When the doors opened at 7 p.m. and the crowd barreled in, Halsey kept her post.
Shannon Eaton, 20, and Lisa Donoso, 22, were among the first to reach the barrier of metal and security-guard muscle in the front row.
When Ron the roadie asked if they were interested in a backstage pass, Shannon and Lisa were sort of excited.
Sorta nervous, too.
To get that pass, they'd have to follow him off the floor.
After much discussion and a lot of hesitation, Shannon and Lisa were spirited off the floor.
Strangers sitting in the near vicinity were concerned. A local security officer and I anxiously waited for the two to return.
Some 15 minutes later, Shannon and Lisa were back, armed with those red post-concert access passes.
Was everything all right, we asked enough times to get on their nerves.
It was.
"My choice," Lisa finally said. "Nothing happened."
"Really," Shannon echoed.
The young woman from Appomattox wasn't quite that fortunate.
I first saw her sitting in the stands to the left of the stage, mugging for one of the video cameras manned by the Guns N' Roses crew.
For what truly appeared to be her enthusiasm, she, too, was given a red badge.
Out in the parking lot, Halsey also got the news she'd been hoping for: Ron broke down and gave her a red badge.
At 2 a.m., immediately after the concert, the red badges gathered with two roadies who chose this time to clamp down on security.
Though I'd been permitted backstage and had spoken to just about everyone, including the Guns N' Roses manager, these two goons stopped me.
"I don't know who you are or why you've been allowed back here, but you do not have clearance here," the dark-haired one told me.
But their manager said it was OK, I explained.
"You were not selected to be up here," said the blond one emphatically.
"We do not like reporters," said the other, dismissing me.
It was then that I took a good look at the 100 or so red-badged winners.
They were all women. Pretty women. Dressed in black and lace, like most of the female portion of the 11,000 who attended this show.
I retreated downstairs, to the curtain that separated the rest of the universe from the world that exists in backstage dressing rooms.
The manager, who was on his way out, was as gracious as he'd been all night, instructing those around him that I was "OK."
Groups of the red-badged women were ushered in by the two roadies in groups of about 10 or so.
One young guy sat on a couch observing.
How in the heck did a guy get a red pass, I wanted to know.
He never did tell me. But he'd been in that room since before the concert. He pointed to a television set on the far wall.
"Remember how they were out videotaping the crowd at the beginning?" he asked.
Yes . . . .
"Well, the band was back here watching. Telling them which girls they wanted to see later."
At that moment, the pretty girl I'd seen in the arena earlier, the one from Appomattox, sat down next to me. She asked to be identified as Jane, which is not her real name.
"Now what happens?" she asked me.
Damned if I knew. I'd never been backstage like this before.
"My friend was. She met Poison. It was really great," she bubbled.
The dark-haired roadie walked over and told Jane she was first.
With the sort of self-confidence you try to muster for appearance' sake when you're actually a nervous wreck, she left the room.
When Jane returned five minutes later, her eyes betrayed her fright and panic as she sought out her friend.
"The one who took me back there pulled my top down and rubbed ice on my breasts," Jane managed to whisper. "The other one pulled my shorts up, making, like, a wedgie."
The friend who had met Poison grabbed her in concern.
There were eight men in the room, Jane said. All of the band members, except Axl Rose, who left right as she was ushered in. And several roadies.
When she protested, explaining she "was not that kind of girl," she said they told her that if she was too shy to take her clothes off herself, they'd do it for her if she'd just close her eyes.
When she again refused, she was led back to the hospitality room and told, "There were plenty of other girls who would."
"They kept telling me what an honor it was to be chosen," Jane said.
Jane saw band members Gilby Clarke and Dizzy Reed schmoozing in the hospitality room with a bevy of Virginia Tech Pi Phis they'd met the night before in Blacksburg. The contrast appalled her. The Pi Phis, it seemed, were asked if they were having a good time. Had they enjoyed the concert? Did they like Dizzy's keyboard solo?
"They didn't even ask me my name back there," she said to no one in particular.
Word got around someone was talking with "that reporter" and the dark-haired roadie, who seemed to be the master of ceremonies for this Guns N' Roses meet-and-greet, chose not to share his perspective of Jane's experience with the band when I asked.
In fact, his constant pressure to have me bounced turned into an all-out effort to avoid me at all costs.
On the way out, Jane decided somewhat reluctantly to talk to the police.
She didn't want her name in the newspaper, she kept repeating. She'd never felt more humiliated in all her life.
Jane identified the two roadies who had grabbed at her clothes to two Roanoke police officers.
When the police asked for their side of the story, they said, "She came in. She met the band. She left."
Jane left for the magistrate's office to file charges, but Roanoke police said Friday morning that no warrants had been issued. The magistrate reported the woman had decided "to think things over" before filing charges, police said.
Outside the magistrate's office, Jane told me the police made her feel like it was going to be her word against all of those men.
Wasn't there a way to let other women know to come forward if this happened to them, to make her case stronger?
The one question I kept biting back all night - the really not-politically correct question - finally came out.
"Why did you dress like that?" I asked, looking at the sheer one-piece black lace outfit she was wearing - and wearing very well. "Not that it really matters," I added with some embarrassment.
"The police asked me that, too," she said looking at me with the eyes of an innocent young woman who no doubt would never have guessed the exciting evening she had planned would turn out like this.
"But, this is what everybody wears to concerts," she said. "Isn't it?"
KATHLEEN WILSON writes the "Mingling" column for this newspaper.