ON JUST A STRING AND A PRAYER BANDS FACE STRUGGLE TO BREAK INTO INDUSTRY.

Byline: Brent Hopkins Staff Writer

On Grammy night, they'll be working.

This evening, four women from the San Fernando Valley will unpack their bags for a Mississippi casino tour, their first together. A long-haired, sensitive guitar player will sit in his North Hollywood apartment, strumming six strings and murmuring Spanish lyrics into a microphone. Members of a wild collective known as Carbon 9 will trade their crazy makeup and electric guitars for drums to entertain the rich and powerful of the music world.

As the music industry pauses tonight to honor its best, these musicians will all keep working, keep dreaming, keep pushing, hoping it will bring them closer to that elusive career as rock stars.

``We were the band that struggled for years to get the record deal and it just burned us out,'' said Stacey Quinealty, a car company theme songwriter by day, Carbon 9's charismatic frontman by night. ``All the labels were interested, but it got to be so business-oriented, it just killed us. We had no spirit, no drive, and it ruined a lot of relationships.

``The bottom line is, you gotta do this because you enjoy it, not to get a deal.''

Home recording studios and computer programs such as Apple's Garage Band or Digidesign's ProTools allow aspiring musicians to cut good-quality tracks in their bedrooms, while Web sites such as MySpace.com allow bands to promote their tunes and sell their wares worldwide with ease.

But as that gets easier, record labels consolidate, record shops close, radio becomes more homogenous. And as the barrier gets lower, allowing anyone with a computer and free time to create a band that doesn't sound half bad, the sheer volume of would-be musicians creates a crowded field for the music business to try to pick its future stars.

MySpace, which didn't exist just four years ago, now boasts hundreds of thousands of bands, which makes the job of people such as Tim Devine, senior vice president of artist and repertoire for Columbia Records, very difficult.

``Ten years ago, an artist had to wait for downtime at a studio or have a friend who was an engineer to get a decent demo,'' he said. ``Now, anyone with a garage band and a decent Mac can cut one at home. The number of unsigned demos has skyrocketed, yet you can only fit so many golf balls in the glass jar.

``It's a monumental task, but I still look for the same things: original material, impactful material and an artistic presence.''

Carbon 9 has just those things, yet it remains unsigned and its members still work day jobs. The closest its members will come to the Grammys this year is playing an after-party with their side project drum ensemble.

Darwin DeVitis, a 33-year-old Van Nuys homeowner, does graphic design and spends three hours a night practicing lightning-fast runs on his array of electric guitars. Matty Milani, 36, from North Hollywood, lays tile and plays drums. Singer Danny Cistone, 31, acts, directs, produces and works as a double for Frankie Muniz on ``Malcolm in the Middle.''

``To be honest, I'm struggling financially right now,'' said Cistone, who moved out from Philadelphia and dons a massive robot suit and marches around stage as the apex of Carbon 9's aggressively bizarre live show.

``I get into these passion projects, my savings get drained, then I get lucky. I haven't waited tables yet, but I'd do it if I had to.''

Then there's Quinealty, who favors a more handsome, less threatening Marilyn Manson look with his pierced lip, styled hair, heavy makeup and custom-designed suit. He lives in Toluca Lake, writes music for auto shows and Radio Shack, carries a cell phone in a Crown Royal whiskey bag.

In spite of his jarring stage persona, he's unfailingly polite and businesslike when the microphone's out of his hand.

For an 11:30 p.m. gig on a Friday at Paladino's in Tarzana, they show up at 4:30. At 11 p.m., they're finishing their makeup and plugging in their computers, getting ready to unleash a show that involves dancing little people, computerized suits and loud, frenzied melodies.

Jimmy D, the club's booking manager - who's seen many bands come in with dreams and go home with nothing in his 26 years on the scene - smiles at Quinealty and hands him a wad of money, topped by a $20 and secured with a rubber band.

``They're one of the few original bands around here who gets paid, guaranteed, each time,'' he says, cramped inside the tiny dressing room off the stage. ``But it's a brutal business.''

And though this town has everything a band needs to make it, it's tough playing clubs for a few hundred bucks and selling T-shirts from a duffel bag.

``L.A. has always been a very difficult market for independent artists,'' said Alan Miller, co-publisher and co-owner of the music magazine Filter. ``You can't just play random spots around town; you've got to develop a fan base. If you're making great music and you're really committed, people will find you.''

That's the hope of Alejandro Laborde, that ponytailed guitarrista who spends his days working in the mental health field, his weekends teaching guitar at a Sylmar cafe and his nights working with two bands, a solo album and an electronic project on the side.

``I'm not doing 100 percent music, but I see myself as a professional,'' said Laborde, 34, who studies the industry as he works toward a degree in music from Valley College. ``If I really want to, I could play covers, do weddings, be a house band somewhere. I'm not seeing the fruits yet, but I hope they'll come.''

He first picked up a guitar as a child and lately has been playing rhythm and singing in a rock band called Noxdiei when he's not working on his other projects. He's so dedicated to his art, he lives apart from his wife, Elizabeth, who's studying psychology in Rosemead. He admits a sense of guilt that he only sees her three nights a week, but says they've found a way to make it work as they move toward their respective dreams.

He's done all the things you're supposed to: played in the likes of B.B. King's Blues Club at Universal CityWalk, put his music out on the Internet, developed an affiliation with Tia Chucha's Cafe Cultural in Sylmar to get his name out there. And he's still laboring.

So are the four members of Exit, who live stretched among Reseda, Northridge and Hollywood and made a splash heard 'round the world during a U2 concert in November.

Holding a sign that advertised their musical talents and referenced one of the Irish mega-group's lyrics, they caught the eye of Bono and the frontman literally pulled them out of the crowd during a gig at Staples Center.

Taking up the band's instruments, Exit played their idols' ``Out of Control,'' earning them notice of record executives and the rock press as far away as New Zealand. They'd played a scant four gigs together, but got interviewed on the BBC. It was the opportunity any band would kill for.

And yet, with the fickle spotlight of stardom upon them, 10 years after guitarist Courtney Lavender and bassist Susan Hamilton first started playing coffee shops in high school, Exit still has the pressures of real life holding it back.

They've got rent, they've got bills, and while they'd like to shift to part-time jobs and focus more on their budding music careers, bands are demanding, expensive endeavors. As frustrating as it is to juggle day jobs and rock dreams, that demo they need to catch the ears of DJs and record execs won't pay for itself.

Trevi Fligg, 27, long-haired and lanky, sings and works reception. The 24-year-old Lavender answers phones and plays guitar. Hamilton, 25 and known as ``Affa'' to her friends, is an accountant, while 24-year-old Pam Bluestein, the drummer, spends her days desperately trying to get fired from her job as a customer service representative for a janitorial service.

They've got the eyes of the rock world on them, but they're very cognizant of the fact those eyes have a very short attention span.

``Say a year from now, this dies, we don't have our feet in any doors, no one remembers us as the U2 girls,'' says Hamilton, who's witty and quick-fingered on her bass. ``Then we'll do this the old-fashioned way. We'll go out and tour, we'll sell shirts, we'll keep trying.''

Fligg, who's been on the verge of falling asleep since the clock struck midnight and has to be at work the next morning, nods numbly in agreement.

``It'll take a lot of hard work and a lot of luck,'' she says, laboring to keep her eyes open. ``We've had our luck, now we'll see where we can go with it.''

She stands up, shakes awake as Lavender primes her sparkle blue Stratocaster. Bluestein knocks her sticks together and Hamilton's bass thunders into song. Fligg, finally awake in the very early morning, squeezes her eyes closed, opens her mouth and begins to sing.

Brent Hopkins, [phone]

brent.hopkins(at)dailynews.com

CAPTION(S):

4 photos

Photo:

(1 -- color) Carbon 9 guitarist Darwin DeVitis and singer Stacey Quinealty perform during a show at Paladino's in Tarzana.

(2) Exit drummer Pam Bluestein plays as the Valley band rehearses at Sound Arena in Tarzana last Thursday. The all-female group is trying to make it in the music industry.

(3) Carbon 9 singer Stacey Quinealty performs during a show Saturday night at Paladino's in Reseda.

(4) Alejandro Laborde practices his guitar while visiting a friend in Sylmar on Thursday.

Andy Holzman/Staff Photographer