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The rock world lost a true original Thursday when Ace Frehley, KISS’s pioneering “Spaceman” guitarist, passed away at 74 in Morristown, New Jersey. His death — peaceful, according to family members — marks more than just the end of a legendary career. It closes the book on an era when rock meant more than just music; it meant magic.

“The magnitude of his passing is of epic proportions, and beyond comprehension,” his family shared in a statement that, somehow, captured both the personal loss and cosmic scale of Frehley’s impact. The timing feels particularly bittersweet, coming mere months after KISS took their final bow at Madison Square Garden — a show where Frehley’s absence spoke volumes about the complicated nature of rock’s greatest partnerships.

Born Paul Daniel Frehley in the Bronx, his journey from cabbie to cosmic rock god started with a Christmas guitar at 13. That modest gift sparked something extraordinary. By ’73, he was showing up to a KISS audition wearing mismatched sneakers (classic Ace), armed with nothing but raw talent and an attitude that would help define rock’s most theatrical franchise.

While Gene Simmons breathed fire and Paul Stanley soared above crowds, Frehley crafted his own brand of stage sorcery. That signature move — tilting his Gibson Les Paul skyward as fireworks erupted from its neck — became as recognizable as his silver-starred Spaceman makeup. Pure rock theater, sure, but backed by serious musical chops.

Those chops birthed some of rock’s most memorable moments. From the gritty punch of “Cold Gin” to his chart-busting take on “New York Groove,” Frehley’s guitar work gave KISS its sonic backbone. Yet like many great rock stories, his relationship with the band proved as explosive as his pyrotechnics. The split in ’82 was messy, but by then, his mark on rock history was indelible.

Even in his final years, Frehley kept pushing forward. His 2024 release “10,000 Volts” showed he hadn’t lost that spark, though health issues were starting to catch up. A “minor fall” in his studio — leading to hospitalization and the cancellation of his upcoming 2025 tour dates — preceded his passing by just days. Rock stars might seem immortal, but they’re as human as anyone else.

The complicated dynamics with his former bandmates never quite resolved. In what turned out to be one of his last interviews, Frehley reflected on KISS’s farewell with characteristic straight-shooting style: “I’m the kind of guy that never says never. I don’t hate Paul or Gene, you know? We’re rock and roll brothers.”

That brotherhood, despite its fractures, created something larger than life. As the first original KISS member to pass on, Frehley leaves behind more than just memories of painted faces and pyrotechnics — he showed that rock could be both serious artistry and spectacular entertainment.

His influence echoes through generations of guitarists, from the glam metal explosion of the ’80s to today’s theatrical rockers. Poison’s Bret Michaels perhaps said it best: “Ace, my brother, I surely cannot thank you enough for the years of great music.”

Maybe Frehley’s greatest gift was making the impossible seem within reach. Whether through his innovative guitar work or his transformation from street-smart kid to interstellar rock icon, he proved that sometimes the craziest dreams are the ones worth chasing. His passing doesn’t just mark the end of a career — it closes a chapter in rock history that helped redefine what it means to dream big and play bigger.

The streets of New Orleans are about to pulse with the heartbeat of funk — while somewhere in an alternate universe, politics continues its awkward dance with entertainment.

As the city gears up for next week’s NOLA Funk Fest, there’s something beautifully authentic about the way Spanish Plaza transforms into a living, breathing testament to musical heritage. The fest’s third annual gathering isn’t just another music festival; it’s three days of pure, unfiltered funk that reads like a love letter to New Orleans’ musical DNA.

But before diving into the festival’s rich lineup, let’s address the elephant in the room — or should we say, the unexpected vocal aspirations floating around conservative circles. Lara Trump (yes, that Lara Trump) recently tossed her hat into the musical ring, suggesting herself as entertainment for a proposed alternative Super Bowl halftime show. Her podcast declaration about not needing “woke losers to perform” landed about as gracefully as a tuba player trying ballet for the first time.

Speaking of actual musicians… The NOLA Funk Fest kicks off with something special: a heartfelt tribute to drummer Russell Batiste Jr., featuring the Original Pinettes Brass Band. Now that’s what you call paying proper respect to musical legacy.

The contrast between these two worlds couldn’t be more stark. While Trump’s musical resume boasts a controversial cover of “I Won’t Back Down” (which promptly backed down after Tom Petty’s family issued a cease-and-desist), the Funk Fest lineup reads like rhythm royalty. We’re talking Irma Thomas, George Porter Jr., and practically the entire Neville family tree — artists who’ve spent decades perfecting their craft rather than perfecting their podcast hot takes.

The festival’s Saturday lineup promises a particularly intriguing mashup: Master P backed by the Soul Rebels. It’s exactly the kind of evolution that keeps New Orleans music fresh while honoring its roots — something you can’t manufacture with political posturing and a Spotify account showing 2,731 streams.

Fred Wesley, James Brown’s former trombonist, will be there too. (Remember when trombone solos actually meant something?) The whole weekend feels like a master class in musical authenticity, with Galactic hosting an impressive roster of vocalists including the Queen of Soul herself, Irma Thomas, alongside rising stars Jelly Joseph, Erica Falls, and Maggie Koerner.

For those keeping score at home, Louisiana residents can catch this embarrassment of musical riches for $108 (three-day pass) or $45 (single-day tickets). That’s less than the therapy some might need after exposure to certain political figures’ musical endeavors — as political commentator Travis Akers so colorfully suggested.

The festival’s grand finale? A 50th-anniversary celebration of the Wild Tchoupitoulas album. Now that’s how you honor musical heritage — no alternative programming required.

Look, some things just don’t need alternatives. While certain corners of the political world seem determined to create parallel universes for everything from halftime shows to reality itself, New Orleans keeps doing what it’s done for generations: letting the music speak for itself. The NOLA Funk Fest isn’t just preserving culture — it’s proving that authentic artistic expression needs no political costume party to make it worthwhile.

And maybe that’s the real lesson here. While some folks are busy trying to create alternatives to things that ain’t broke, New Orleans is just gonna keep on funking. As they say down in the Quarter: laissez les bons temps rouler — let the good times roll. No alternatives necessary.

The final countdown has begun for MTV’s music channels in Europe, and the irony cuts deeper than a power chord. By New Year’s Eve 2025, the network that once declared “Video Killed the Radio Star” will itself fade to black, victim of the very digital revolution it helped inspire.

Remember when MTV wasn’t just another reality TV factory? Those days are officially numbered. Paramount Global dropped the bombshell that MTV Music, MTV 80s, MTV 90s, Club MTV, and MTV Live will go dark across the UK and Ireland — just the first dominos to fall in a global shutdown stretching from Paris to Rio.

The writing’s been on the wall for years, scrawled in the same neon colors that once lit up Madonna’s “Like a Prayer” video. Yet somehow, the finality of it all feels like watching your favorite record store close down. Sure, everything’s available online now, but something intangible is slipping away.

Former VJ Simone Angel captured that bittersweet reality in a recent BBC interview. “We need to support these artists and we all need to dance again and listen to music,” she mused. “And I know we do that online in our own little bubbles, but MTV was the place where everything came together.”

David Ellison, the freshly-minted Skydance/Paramount CEO, frames it in typical corporate-speak about “redefining legacy brands.” Translation? Even suits can’t ignore that YouTube and TikTok have long since stolen MTV’s thunder as music’s visual playground.

Social media’s reaction played out like a greatest hits compilation of generational divide. “I remember when MTV actually played music and didn’t suck. 80s MTV was the best,” wrote one X user, while another cut straight to the bone: “MTV was culturally and spiritually dead when it stopped airing music videos.”

The flagship MTV HD channel will stumble on, though calling it a shadow of its former self would be generous. These days it’s all Naked Dating, Teen Mom, and Geordie Shore — a far cry from the channel that turned Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” into appointment television and helped launch countless careers.

Today’s teens probably can’t fathom waiting around for hours just to catch their favorite video. They’re too busy crafting their own viral moments on TikTok or diving into endless streaming playlists. The notion of a shared musical experience through television seems as outdated as dial-up internet or flip phones.

This isn’t just about a few channels going dark — it’s the final verse in a song that began in 1981, when MTV didn’t just play music; it revolutionized how we experienced it. The network that inspired millions to shout “I want my MTV!” is now quietly ushering viewers toward their personalized streaming universes, leaving behind an empty stage where music and visual innovation once danced together.

Perhaps that’s just the way of things in 2025. But for those who lived through MTV’s golden age, this feels less like evolution and more like watching the last video jockey turn out the lights on an era when music television wasn’t just background noise — it was the soundtrack of a generation.

In comedy’s ever-shifting landscape, where success stories often read like modern fairy tales (or cautionary tales), Marc Maron’s recent confession about his long-standing “feud” with Jon Stewart hits different. It’s not just another tale of industry rivalry — it’s a stark reminder of how professional jealousy can warp perspective in entertainment’s pressure cooker.

Speaking with Esquire last month, Maron finally addressed the elephant in the room. “Jon never did anything to me,” he admitted, puncturing years of speculation. “I was just jealous.” Simple words, yet they carry the weight of decades.

The confession peels back the layers of 1990s comedy culture, when a single Tonight Show appearance could make or break careers. Both men cut their teeth at Comedy Central’s “Short Attention Span Theater,” but their paths diverged dramatically. Stewart, with his quick wit and camera-ready charm, rocketed toward mainstream success. Maron? Well, that’s where things get complicated.

“When I was coming up, he was this smart, cute Jewish guy,” Maron explained, painting Stewart as his idealized professional doppelganger. Someone who understood the game, played it well, and — perhaps most frustratingly — seemed to do it effortlessly. The kind of success that burns bright enough to cast shadows on everyone else’s achievements.

The jealousy manifested in increasingly hostile encounters. Maron would confront Stewart with an almost theatrical disdain — “Who the fuck do you think you are?” It’s the sort of behavior that, in retrospect, screams more about internal struggles than external grievances. As Stewart’s face graced magazine cover after magazine cover, Maron’s resentment festered.

Here’s where the story takes an interesting turn. Maron’s realization that his jealousy was fundamentally misplaced reads like a plot twist in a particularly well-written character study. “I was definitely gunning for something else,” he reflected. Not the mainstream success or talk show glory — his ambitions leaned toward something more philosophical, “to hold space and speak my mind.”

When Maron eventually attempted reconciliation through his podcast (oh, the irony), Stewart’s response dripped with what Maron perceived as condescension: “I’m sure what you’re doing is very creative. Good luck with it.” The exchange feels like a perfect encapsulation of their divergent paths — Stewart, the polished professional, versus Maron, the raw, unfiltered truth-seeker.

Fast forward to 2025, and both men have carved out distinct legacies that seem almost predestined in hindsight. Stewart’s influence on political satire through “The Daily Show” remains unmatched, while Maron’s recently-concluded “WTF” podcast (1,686 episodes strong) revolutionized long-form interviews and helped legitimize podcasting as a serious medium.

Maybe that’s the real punchline here — success in entertainment isn’t a zero-sum game after all. Sometimes the path to finding your voice means spending years shouting at someone else’s spotlight. In Maron’s case, the journey through professional jealousy led to exactly where he needed to be — even if he took the scenic route getting there.

In the ever-churning celebrity machine of 2025, where TikTok sensations become forgotten footnotes faster than you can say “viral,” Josh O’Connor’s rise feels almost rebellious in its authenticity. There’s something deliciously old-school about his trajectory — the kind that makes industry veterans nod knowingly over their oat milk lattes at Chateau Marmont.

Remember that face? The one Kelly Reichardt dubbed “timeless” (and honestly, when has she ever been wrong about talent?). Since his breakout in “God’s Own Country,” O’Connor has quietly — almost stubbornly — refused to play by Hollywood’s usual rules. No splashy Instagram campaigns, no carefully orchestrated paparazzi moments outside Craig’s. Just… work.

And darlings, what work it is. This autumn’s lineup reads like an actor’s fever dream: four distinctly different roles that would make lesser talents reach for their anxiety meds. There’s the tender exploration of love in “The History of Sound” (alongside Paul Mescal — a pairing that’s sent Film Twitter into absolute meltdown). Then comes the grit and determination of “Rebuilding,” where his Colorado rancher practically bleeds authenticity.

But let’s talk about “The Mastermind.” Kelly Reichardt’s latest isn’t your grandmother’s heist film — though she might actually enjoy it more than the latest superhero CGI-fest. O’Connor’s James Blaine Mooney (J.B. to his friends, though he won’t have many by the end) is a suburban dad whose art theft scheme unfolds with all the grace of a giraffe on roller skates.

The film’s pacing? Divine madness. In an age where streaming platforms are pushing for shorter episodes and quicker cuts, Reichardt and O’Connor dare to let moments marinate. Take that treehouse scene — nearly seven minutes of watching a man try to hide stolen paintings while slowly losing his dignity. It shouldn’t work. It absolutely does.

Against the backdrop of Vietnam (though J.B. barely notices — too busy with his own masterplan), the film speaks volumes about masculine privilege. Sound familiar? Some things never change, even in 2025.

What’s fascinating is watching O’Connor bounce between “The Mastermind” and “La Chimera” — two films about art theft that share about as much DNA as a penguin and a palm tree. “This is a really good idea,” he’d apparently mutter before scenes, a delightfully ironic mantra given his character’s spectacular talent for terrible decisions.

While his contemporaries are busy building their Web3 presence and launching NFT collections (seriously, enough already), O’Connor dreams of his Cotswolds garden. “Right now, I’m being guided by what gets me time in my own life,” he says, probably making his publicity team reach for the antacids.

With Spielberg’s next opus and Coen’s “Jack of Spades” looming on the horizon (and those persistent rumors about that prestige streaming series everyone’s whispering about), O’Connor’s star is definitely ascending. Yet there’s something refreshingly grounded about his approach — like he’s discovered some secret to navigating fame without letting it corrupt his soul.

“I keep pinching myself to be like: How has this happened?” he muses. Coming from anyone else, it might sound like PR-approved humility. From O’Connor? Pure, unvarnished truth.

In an industry that increasingly mistakes Instagram followers for talent, O’Connor’s quiet intensity feels like a throwback to a different era. His trajectory isn’t following the usual Hollywood playbook — and thank heavens for that. Sometimes the best stories are the ones that take their time unfolding.

The Final Countdown: MTV’s Music Channels Face Their Swan Song

Pour one out for MTV as we knew it. In what feels like the last gasp of a dying era, the network that once had us glued to our screens for the latest Madonna video is pulling the plug on five of its music-focused channels across the UK and Ireland. By New Year’s Eve 2025, MTV Music, MTV 80s, MTV 90s, Club MTV, and MTV Live will join the great video graveyard in the sky.

Former MTV video jockey Simone Angel’s reaction hits like a power ballad’s emotional crescendo. “Really sad” and “a little bit in disbelief,” she told BBC News — though anyone who’s been watching the network’s slow dance away from music videos probably saw this coming from a mile away, wearing day-glo and doing the moonwalk.

Remember when MTV was the beating heart of pop culture? Those glorious days when Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” had us collectively gasping at midnight, and Nirvana’s “Smells Like Teen Spirit” ushered in a flannel revolution? Well, darlings, those days are officially becoming as vintage as your mother’s shoulder pads.

The flagship MTV HD channel isn’t exactly dying — it’s just having an identity crisis that would make Madonna’s reinventions look tame. Trading music videos for reality shows like “Naked Dating” and “Teen Mom,” it’s morphing into something that would leave its original viewers checking their TV guides twice.

This isn’t just a British breakup song, either. Paramount Global’s playing this tune across Europe, Australia, and Brazil. It’s the kind of corporate restructuring that makes sense in boardrooms but breaks hearts in living rooms. The newly crowned CEO David Ellison’s talking about “redefining” rather than dismantling — though that’s about as convincing as a lip-sync performance at an awards show.

Social media’s been having a field day (because when doesn’t it?). “MTV was culturally and spiritually dead when it stopped airing music videos,” declared one X user, while another dropped this gem: “As far as I’m concerned MTV shut down in 1998.” Ouch, honey — that’s the kind of shade that would make RuPaul proud.

Let’s face it: in an age where TikTok serves up bite-sized music moments faster than you can say “I want my MTV,” and streaming services dance to our algorithmic whims, perhaps we’re witnessing less of a death and more of a very public retirement party. The channel that kicked off with “Video Killed the Radio Star” is now getting a taste of its own medicine — though this time, it’s the streaming stars doing the killing.

How deliciously ironic that the network that revolutionized how we consume music is now being revolutionized right out of existence. By the time these channels go dark in 2025, an entire generation will have grown up never knowing the thrill of waiting hours to catch their favorite video, or the shared cultural moment of a world premiere.

But maybe that’s just how the music video plays. In an era where our attention spans are shorter than a TikTok dance trend, perhaps MTV’s transformation isn’t just inevitable — it’s a preview of what awaits other cultural touchstones in our rapidly evolving digital landscape.

After all, everything changes. Even icons. Even MTV.

The music industry’s relationship with artificial intelligence just got a whole lot more interesting. Musixmatch, the Bologna-based lyrics and music data company, has pulled off what many thought impossible: securing groundbreaking partnerships with Sony Music Publishing, Universal Music Publishing Group, and Warner Chappell Music. It’s a deal that might just reshape how we think about AI in music.

Let’s be real — the tension between AI and artist rights has been the elephant in the room for years now. But Musixmatch isn’t just another tech company throwing algorithms at the wall to see what sticks. They’ve spent over a decade building trust with publishers and songwriters, amassing a staggering collection of more than 15 million musical works along the way.

“Without songwriters, there can be no music industry.” These words from Massimo Ciociola, Musixmatch’s founder and CEO, cut through the usual tech-speak we’ve grown weary of hearing. In early 2025, as AI tools continue to flood the market, his vision stands out — not just for its technological prowess, but for its unwavering focus on creator compensation.

The possibilities? They’re mind-bending. Picture this: film producers using AI systems that actually understand the emotional weight of a ballad, not just its tempo or key signature. Or consider how music analysts might track cultural shifts through data that goes deeper than basic metrics. (Remember when everyone thought trap music would fade out by 2024? The data told a different story.)

What sets Musixmatch apart in the crowded 2025 tech landscape isn’t just their impressive user base — though 80 million active users across Spotify, Apple Music, and Instagram certainly turns heads. It’s their commitment to what they’re calling “ethically trained services.” In a world where AI copyright disputes fill the headlines, this approach feels like a breath of fresh air.

The technical capabilities they’re developing sound almost like science fiction. Word-by-word synchronization? That’s just the beginning. Their systems can analyze moods, genres, even instrumental arrangements — creating something akin to a musical DNA sequence. For music business professionals drowning in spreadsheets and analytics, these tools could be game-changing.

But here’s the kicker — amidst all this innovation, Musixmatch hasn’t lost its soul. With a network spanning 225,000 publishers and nearly 3 million songwriters, they’re proving that technological advancement doesn’t have to come at the expense of artistic integrity. In fact, their approach might just become the blueprint for ethical AI development in creative industries.

The future of music isn’t a zero-sum game between humans and machines. As we navigate through 2025’s rapidly evolving landscape, Musixmatch’s vision suggests something more nuanced: a world where technology amplifies creativity rather than replacing it. And honestly? That’s a future worth getting excited about.

The music industry got quite the shake-up last week when Nicki Minaj dropped what might be the most dramatic mic-drop of 2025 so far. The Queen of Rap seemingly pulled the plug on her sixth studio album through a series of heated social media posts that had everyone — from devoted Barbz to industry veterans — doing a double-take.

“Ok I’m not going to put out the album anymore. no more music. Hope you’re happy now @sc. Bye, Barbz. Love you for life.” Pretty heavy stuff, right?

Behind those cryptic words lies a tangled web of business drama that would make a Netflix executive salivate. At the center of it all: a whopping $200 million dispute over Tidal equity that’s been simmering since Square’s acquisition back in 2021. The whole situation reads like a masterclass in why mixing art and corporate interests sometimes goes about as smoothly as oil and water.

But hey — speaking of industry drama (though admittedly of a very different flavor), here’s a tale that’ll restore your faith in old-school Hollywood problem-solving. Mark Ruffalo recently shared an absolutely golden story about saving Woody Harrelson from what could’ve been a seriously messy situation in New Orleans. The kind of story that makes you wonder if some celebrities still know how to handle conflicts without hitting the tweet button.

During a recent episode of Harrelson’s podcast “Where Everybody Knows Your Name” (and doesn’t that title just hit different now?), Ruffalo spilled the tea about their time filming “Now You See Me.” Picture this: New Orleans streets, late night vibes, and what started as a harmless fan interaction nearly turning into something straight out of an action movie script.

“Woody’s first response is not ‘shove someone back,’ but ‘immediately punch them in the face,’” Ruffalo explained, somehow managing to make this potentially alarming character trait sound endearing. Thank goodness for those Marvel-trained muscles — Ruffalo managed to pull his co-star out of there before things went sideways.

Ted Danson, who’s been around long enough to have seen it all, chimed in with what might be the most relatable response ever: he’d have been “the guy who said ‘I’ll be right back, I’ll call someone.’” Classic Sam Malone energy, even after all these years.

The contrast between these two stories feels particularly striking as we roll into 2025. On one side, you’ve got Minaj’s very public industry battle playing out in real-time through social media grenades. On the other, there’s Ruffalo’s tale of old-fashioned conflict resolution — complete with actual physical grenades narrowly avoided.

While Minaj’s fans refresh their feeds hoping for good news about that album (seriously, how many times can the Barbz handle these emotional rollercoasters?), Ruffalo and Harrelson are gearing up to bring their chemistry back to the big screen in “Now You See Me: Now You Don’t.” Sometimes the more things change in Hollywood, the more they stay exactly the same.

These parallel narratives paint a fascinating picture of how the entertainment industry handles its dirty laundry in 2025 — from digital age theatrics to good old-fashioned barroom diplomacy. Maybe some problems really are better solved with a well-timed bear hug than a tweet storm.

Netflix’s latest documentary sensation proves that sometimes the most compelling stories are the ones we think we already know. Victoria Beckham — forever etched in pop culture as Posh Spice — has finally opened up her world to viewers, and the result is surprisingly raw, refreshingly honest, and occasionally uncomfortable in all the right ways.

The documentary’s London premiere turned into an unexpected family showcase, highlighting a detail that sent social media into overdrive: Victoria’s niece, Libby Adams, bears an uncanny resemblance to her famous aunt. Sporting a sleek black satin number that could’ve been plucked straight from Victoria’s own collection, Libby became living proof that some family traits are simply impossible to shake off.

But let’s not get too caught up in the surface-level genetics game. This three-part series digs considerably deeper, peeling back the glossy magazine covers and perfectly posed Instagram shots to reveal something far more intriguing — and at times, deeply unsettling.

Take, for instance, the shocking revelation about that infamous 1999 television appearance. Just weeks after giving birth, Victoria was subjected to a public weighing — a moment that would be unthinkable in today’s supposedly more enlightened entertainment landscape. The incident left deep scars, contributing to her long-standing battle with eating disorders. It’s a stark reminder of how far we’ve come, and perhaps how far we still need to go.

The documentary doesn’t shy away from addressing the elephant in the room: what it means to be “Mrs. David Beckham.” There’s something almost Shakespearean about watching Victoria navigate the delicate balance between supporting her husband’s stratospheric career while fighting to maintain her own identity. The struggle feels painfully relevant in an era where personal branding and authentic selfhood often seem at odds.

Meanwhile, the premiere celebration offered glimpses of the next generation coming into their own. Between Libby Adams’s playful social media updates (including a spot-on comparison of Romeo Beckham to John Travolta’s Tony Manero) and Cruz Beckham’s surprise musical performance at the launch party, it’s clear the family’s creative streak runs deep.

What emerges from both the documentary and its launch celebration is a portrait more complex than any tabloid headline could capture. Victoria Beckham’s evolution from pop star to fashion maven isn’t just another celebrity reinvention story — it’s a master class in resilience, adaptation, and the art of remaining essentially yourself while becoming someone new.

The series serves as both time capsule and mirror, reflecting not just Victoria’s journey but the massive cultural shifts of the past quarter-century. In an age where authenticity is supposedly prized above all else, there’s something refreshingly honest about a woman who’s never pretended to be anything other than exactly what she is — even if what she is has changed dramatically over time.

Hollywood’s unspoken rules about aging actresses have long been a source of frustration — yet here’s Demi Moore, strutting into West Hollywood’s San Vicente Bungalows like it’s 1996 all over again. The veteran actress turned heads at a recent Bobbi Brown cosmetics event, proving that some stars simply refuse to fade into that good night.

Moore, now 62 (though honestly, who’s counting?), showed up in classic Hollywood fashion. Picture this: an oversized black wrap coat that could’ve been stolen from a film noir set, paired with leather trousers that probably cost more than a month’s rent. The kicker? A pair of khaki suede stilettos that somehow made the whole ensemble work — because of course they did. It’s Demi Moore we’re talking about.

The event itself celebrated Sara Foster’s new gig as Bobbi Brown’s celebrity ambassador, but let’s be real — Moore’s presence stole the show. There’s something rather poetic about her attendance at a cosmetics event, given how the industry’s been obsessing over her seemingly ageless appearance since the Ghost days.

Speaking of appearances, Moore recently sent her Instagram following into a tizzy by reviving her iconic Striptease-era bangs. “Bangs — now and then,” she posted, crediting Gucci for the throwback moment. It’s worth remembering that Striptease made her Hollywood’s highest-paid actress back in ’96, commanding a cool $12.5 million — a figure that raised eyebrows then and still impresses today.

The San Vicente Bungalows gathering offered up an interesting slice of Hollywood’s generational pie. Sara Foster, 44, turned up in see-through tartan (because why not?), while Katherine McPhee, 41 — who’s married to Foster’s father, in one of those only-in-Hollywood family trees — opted for a coordinated look. Yet somehow, Moore managed to outshine them all without really trying.

But here’s what’s truly remarkable: while some of her contemporaries have either retreated from the spotlight or waged losing battles against time, Moore’s carved out a different path. She’s neither trying to recapture her youth nor accepting Hollywood’s traditional retirement age for actresses. Instead, she’s doing something far more interesting — she’s evolving.

Take her upcoming role in Landman’s second season. After fans grumbled about her limited screen time in the first season, Moore’s character, oil executive Cami Miller, is set to take center stage following the death of her on-screen husband (played by Jon Hamm). It’s the kind of meaty role that actresses of a certain age rarely get offered, let alone nail.

Moore’s trajectory from Brat Pack darling to respected industry veteran offers a masterclass in career longevity. While the San Vicente Bungalows event might have been just another Hollywood gathering on paper, it served as yet another reminder: some stars don’t just endure — they evolve, adapt, and somehow manage to shine brighter with each passing year.

And perhaps that’s the real story here. In an industry that often treats aging actresses like yesterday’s news, Demi Moore isn’t just surviving — she’s thriving. And doing it with those killer stilettos, no less.