Wilshire Boulevard. Avenue of broken dreams, where young hustlers and even younger wannabe artist managers from America’s corn belt arrive daily, fresh off the bus and looking for a career doing deals for Steady Rollin’ Bob Margolin or Rusted Root. Some will have what it takes to route acts like Acoustic Syndicate and Barry Manilow, while others will succumb to the depravity and decadence that is Southern California, only to end up wasted and wounded on a Rodeo Drive street corner holding up a sign that says, “Will book KORN dates for food.”

But to the victors go the spoils, and man oh man, check out them victors and feast your eyes upon the spoils. There’s Bruno, 275 pounds of pure muscle who became a booking agent just so could he break things. He runs with Willy Moe’s boys now, and you don’t want to get on his bad side. Not if you want NRBQ or The Knack playing your town anytime soon.

Then there’s Lizzie Carnation. You’ve probably heard the old schoolyard rhyme, “Lizzie Carnation grabbed her fax, and gave a promoter forty whacks.” But what they don’t tell you in school is the promoter loved it and she left him begging for more. You wanna see her for dates for Night Ranger and The Tea Party. That is, if you think you can handle it.

Yes, it’s a land of verbal agreements and Tommy guns, where the bark of a .44 signs the contracts for Edgar Winter Band, and switchblades and blackjacks slice and hammer out the details for Godflesh. It’s a land of cheap booze, seedy nightclubs and itineraries for Godflesh, Yellowjackets and Roomful Of Blues. It’s a land of dangerous curves, where hustle is muscle and panache gets you a date with Ash.

But don’t tell a word about this, okay? What you see here, like today’s new listings for Tom Cochrane and Tab Benoit, is strictly off the record, definitely “your eyes only” stuff. For everything that emerges from these bloody avenues of concert opportunity is on the Q.T., very hush-hush and very, very Pollstar-Dot-Confidential.