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Presumptions suck. I know that. Have known it just about my entire life. But every once in awhile I forget. I let presumptions get the best of me. And I feel like a knucklehead. Take the other night at [The Fonda](https://www.fondatheatre.com/), where I’d joined a thousand-plus other like-minded souls to catch an onslaught of name-brand racket-makers run through The Stooges’ eponymous debut and David Bowie’s _The Rise and Fall of Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars_. The occasion?Above Ground, a now annual outing put together by Jane’s Addiction’s Dave Navarro and Billy Idol band member Billy Morrison in order to benefit [MusiCares](https://www.grammy.com/musicares).  As you might suspect, there were almost as many stars on the stage as there are etched in Hollywood Boulevard. As you probably also suspect, it was a fucking blast. Through and through. Yet I had the gall to call the game before it was even over.  The Iggy tribute came first. Billy Idol got the roar rolling with “1969.” (Sneerfully, natch.) Ministry’s Al Jourgensen brought the rouse to a close with “Little Doll.” (No comment.) But it was what came between which really floored me. I’m not talkin’ ‘bout the dark ceremonious freakery put on for the song “We Will Fall.” (Though the poignance -- and the pageantry -- was indeed rather remarkable). I’m talkin’ ‘bout Juliette Lewis, who remains a force of nature regardless of whose words she’s belting out.  And boy did she belt. Make that whip. Like lashings from Hades, only cooler. Much cooler. A whirlwind of dervish, careening across the stage, snarling and swaying and sniping, as if there were no proverbial tomorrows. I mean, timeless. Dig? Her “I Wanna Be Your Dog” was pure rabid; her “No Fun” was all derailed roller coaster. And no one who gets bitten by a junkyard dog while going off the rails looks down to check their watch. Yes, the menace Juliette displayed in summoning Iggy literally ripped time right off its tracks. That’s what made it easy for me to so hastily say “Sorry Fellas, the Chick Kicked Your Ass.”  Alas, as I implied, jumped-to conclusions are often wrong. Dead wrong. This case was no different. I’d presumed nobody could or would top Lewis’s fury. I didn’t take into consideration Navarro and Morrison’s considerable list of ferocious friends, let alone the ferocity of the songs to come. There’s Billy Idol, back to sneer his way through a momentous “Moonage Daydream.” There’s Bush’s Gavin Rossdale, alighting to deliver an equally moving “Starman.” There’s Perry Farrell, riding the sonic scramble that is “Hang on to Yourself,” before bringing down the house with “Ziggy Stardust.” Then, just when I was about to let presumptions set in again, Jack Black burst on to the stage with Bickey Boss and Missy Violet and pummelled through a savage and uproarious “Suffragette City.”  That did it for me. Or, I should say, that did me in. And I quickly descended backstage before came undone. So no, I don’t know who or if anyone sang the album-closing “Rock ‘n’ Roll Suicide.” (Sorry.) And since I did more headshaking than note-taking, I really don’t who all stood in for Iggy’s Stooges or Bowie’s Spiders from Mars either. I do know Navarro and Morrison bookended the stage and deftly led everyone from beginning to end. I also know that later came bassist Carmine Rojas, who’d backed Bowie during the Serious Moonlight and Glass Spider eras, and pianist Mike Garson, who played on more Thin White Duke records than anyone ever. And I know that throughout the two sets there were such estimable sorts as Billy Duffy, Twiggy Ramirez, Steve Stevens, Steve Vai and Wayne Kramer of the MC5. Mostly though I know it was the kinda night that can happen only in Hollywood. A star-studded showing fit for the cosmos. That the display also happened to be for a damn good cause only made it even more so. After all, if having our heroes resurrect our gods doesn’t help keep people Above Ground, then what will?