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Album Releases

HOME TOWN: Hollywood, CA
Scott Thomas (vocals/guitar)
Balthazar Getty (beats)

My name is Scott Thomas. My band is called Ringside. After reading the bio provided by my record company, I decided to write one myself. I am originally from Lafayette, California, a very conservative, sleepy town near Berkeley (where I usually claim to have been raised). After nearly dying at birth from a very rare spinal disease, being adopted, and accidentally burning down half of my sleepy little town, I inherited a record collection from an overdosed adopted uncle (who happened to have great taste in music!). His collection was massive. Now, because I burned down a neighborhood, it was made very clear that my youthful years would be spent locked up in my room, recovering from a proper ass-kicking. Fortunately, I had these great records – oh, and a Sears catalog guitar! I lived vicariously through the ages and pages of rock and roll. Beatles, Dylan, Stones, Burritos, Cat Simon, Garfunkel, Stooges, Clash, T-Rex, Depeche, U2, you get the idea. Soon, I was creating my own chords and words. I entertained wallpaper. Tough crowd, but I eventually won them over. At sixteen, I was kicked out of my school for either having pulled one too many stupid-ass pranks, or for clocking the dean of students and ensuing a small student riot. (Quite funny, actually). I wound up moving to LA, lived with a nice church-going family, and finished high school. I became very involved in theater, I even received a scholarship to NYU (Didn’t go. Loved a local girl – another story). I then moved out of their house and into a nineteen-eighty-four Camaro Z-28. I had a guitar, some pretty decent songs, and some pretty big dreams. I prostituted myself for a strong drink and a soft couch. Now, during this time, someone introduced me to this kid named Balthazar Getty, who was kinda making a name for himself as an actor. He and I really hit it off. His mom was upstairs having a party and we sat downstairs with Timothy fucking Leary (a friend of his mom’s), smoking weed and listening to the Bulgarian Women’s Choir. Best friends instantly! Soon, we moved in together. An old 20s building in Hollywood. Him – upstairs, me – down. He would make up these great beats on an SP-1200 while I strummed out songs on an acoustic downstairs. Despite the fact that we really did appreciate each others’ music, we never did think to connect the dots. He carried on acting, I worked as a limo driver, roofer, baker, and even a clothing designer. I made clothes for successful rock bands like No Doubt, who wore my stuff when they picked up a Grammy (which wasn’t easy for me. I would rather have worn their stuff while picking up my own Grammy). Over the past few years, I mostly just did construction, always writing at night. Bruised and battered hands on ivory keys, writing “Criminal” will forever live in my memory. I had some close calls with the “Big Time” but nothing really panned out. Finally, about 2 years ago, I decided to sell everything. My plan was to record my own record, press it up myself, buy a used Cadillac with a roomy back seat, and hit the road. Fortunately, fate had other plans for me. When not working on my “record,” Balt and I would get together and make music. His beats, my songs. Never knowing we were working on what would become our record! Friends of ours really started reacting to our stuff. They would say to me, “Scott, drop whatever else you’re doing. This stuff with you and Balt is really something!” Maybe that’s because we were having so much fun. We would just hang out in my garage, on the dirt floor, with a space heater and a couple parkas, just trying to impress each other. Gradually, my more serious songs from my darkest and most difficult times worked their way in. Eventually, our stuff wound up in the hands of some labels. We signed to Flawless/Geffen about 24 hours before I was to be evicted from my happy home, and finished what we decided to calll Riiiiingside. So here it iss, our “record.” That word still sounds funny. It is not perfect. Listen closely, you might hear telephones ringing, dryers tumbling, and friends stopping by. Maybe we should release it on “Flawed/Geffen.” Anyway, we like it, and we hope you do too, because if you do, then maybe someone else will too! My name is Scott Thomas. I drink too much, swear too often, and rock back and forth to the annoyance of everybody. I am a real softie. I am a thirteen-year-old girl, trapped in a thick-bearded, skinny-legged, street fightin’ man. And this is my diary.