As you may have noticed, I took a break from Beat This in the last issue of Bay Times. I just basically needed a respite from the process of deciding what to write about, attending this event or that, chain-smoking in the eerie glow of the computer monitor late at night and meeting deadline near sun up with a stiff neck. Taking this brief vacation did me a world of good but I’d like to dispel a few rumors regarding my sudden absence from these pages. A roving group of irate muscle queens did not attack me in a self-induced roid rage and break my fingers so I couldn’t type, I did not finally suffer a highly anticipated drug overdose nor did my loved ones instigate an aggressive intervention, it wasn’t my turn to be Nan Parks, and I wasn’t bound with Rainbow colored restraints and thrown in some parade committee members basement in an attempt to squelch my annual vitriolic Gay Pride Day assessment and try to ruin the festivities and feelings of unification for the less jaded queer percentile of the entire rainbow colored money economic entity. I suffered none of these situations at all, at least not yet, but I did do something I haven’t been doing nearly enough. I’ve gone from seeing almost no live music to jumping right back into it with a vengeance.
It all started a couple of Saturdays ago at of all places upstairs at Kimo’s the mostly glass gay bar on Polk Street, and coincidentally the first gay bar I ever laid eyes on in my life when I was about 15 and my vacationing family unwittingly ended up strolling on Polk Street after a sandwich at Tommy’s Joint. People inside Kimo’s wore short shorts with cowboy boots and belts that wrapped around twice and black Chinese slippers and scarves and bracelets and hankies in pockets and leather jackets and caps. I figured they must be the people who read the books with titles like Young Buttfull, Mouth For Dick and The Midget’s Giant, that were displayed in the window of the bookstore we just passed. It was all very exotic, and actually all these years later, the idea of rock bands playing the tiny stage upstairs where usually only drag acts are featured seemed quite exotic as well. I climbed the narrow steps of Kimo’s in time to catch a fun band called Tourettz La Trec doing a great job of covering the Pink Floyd song “Lucifer Sam.” They were immediately engaging and likeable, the basic bass, drum, guitar outfit with the addition of a fine keyboardist adding flourishes of driven pop-ish influences to swirling psychedelia, not to mention handling the vocals. I love bands featuring keyboards, which many more bands seem to be doing theses days.
Next up was Clone, a band I’ve been very anxious to see as they’ve come highly recommended by a few people whose opinions I trust. Plus they have a very imaginative and mysterious website/legend of their origin that reads like a goth-damaged para-normal sci-fi comic adventure, even veering slightly towards the realm of concept album or rock opera alter-egos, band members with whacked out names, three of the five members are blonde, synthesizer and vocal effects figuring prominently and songs that bear merely a number as a title on their debut lp, which is called Not Feeling Quite Yourself Today?
They took the stage and tried their best to correct some technical sound problems inherent to such a small place with limited equipment resources and eventually got underway. One member of Clone, the bassist is formerly of the well-known female rockers 7-Year Bitch and her formidable ability on bass creates the pulsing spine of a very fresh and intricate sound. The rather mellow and unassuming looking guitarist played some seriously aggressive and terse licks, sharp and flying like shards of glass yet bound by intricate interplay with the bass. Add this to a really great drummer plus some recorded rhythms from the keyboard and lots of added textures and sounds via synthesizer and you’ve got this sort of nasty dark and dramatic mutated disco, and the blonde female vocalist, wearing dark hornrimmed glasses and one of those long silk Chinese dresses was the mistress of ceremonies. She stood there calmly until the vocal part came in and suddenly was transformed into a wild-eyed host of seemingly multiple personalities, speaking, singing, howling, and growling her way through song after song, employing a vocal effect contraption when mysterious feedback problems would allow. You could tell inspite of this casual and intimate venue that this charismatic frontperson had a real flair for dramatics and completed the overall package of a very engaging and unique outfit. I say watch out for this band, something very good is going on here. I bought Clone’s somewhat hard to find (most record stores sold out of the disc quite rapidly) debut CD on the way out, winking at the Tranny cocktail waitress with a heart of gold. I hope Kimo’s hosts more events like this one in the future.
The next show I caught was the following Wednesday at Bimbo’s, the long awaited appearance of Thee Headcoatees, the female counter-group associated with the DIY indie-rock model band Thee Headcoats. Having been around for at least 15 years by now, putting out record after record on their own label on their own terms, this British trio have always enjoyed a loyal cult following of their spirited and basic approach to rock and roll with a punk-rock and 60’s retro pop aesthetic. On that night Thee Headcoats opened and Thee Headcoatees were to headline. They are three girls, Holly, Ludella, and Kyra, at one time said to be the girlfriends of the Thee Headcoats, and they put out records with Thee Headcoats playing the instruments and the girls singing under the name Thee Headcoatees. One of their more well-known songs is the hilariously raunchy single, “Come Into My Mouth,” a gem of a song that I’ve introduced to a number of drag queens who have appropriately lip-synced it in gloriously filthy performances. I was very excited to be seeing them finally because they rarely ever play the states.
After probably one of the best sets I’ve ever seen by Thee Headcoats there was a brief break and they returned to the stage with the three girls up front. I was struck by what remarkable beauties they were, dressed very simply, not overly made up, just stunning and very British. They broke into their first number with Kyra singing lead, a song called “Wildman” and the lovely freckled blonde with the big smile and slightly upturned nose went rigid and stiff and bounce-y, eyes widening with every word as she attacked the microphone, looking punk as hell but sounding proper and harmonizing with the other girls singing back-up—until she let loose with a magnificent scream characteristic of many of their LPs great moments, exploding with movement, punks rage rolled into one brief moment. Then the song glides to its finish and the girls rotate, the next taking the lead, in this case Holly Golightly, the Headcoatee who has done the most solo work of the three. It’s actually kind of shocking to see just how many solo records she has put out, about 5 or 6, all bearing that simplistic edgy guitar driven punk rock thing with a definite hit of early sixties retro influence, and usually a very clever cover tune, something old and good like an Ike and Tina Turner song or something by Pretty Things or The Undertones or The Sonics, which speak of the devil, Thee Headcoatees went into a great version of “Have Love, Will Travel” and the crowd went wild. Which brings us to a certain point that isn’t so pleasant, and forgive my generalization but I’ve really grown to dislike the predominantly heterosexual, beer swilling retro buffoons and their mod little girlfriends who dress like they’re Lulu’s best friend in some early sixties british teen musical comedy, who come out in force every time Thee Headcoats play Bimbo’s. People who always like to pretend they live in a different era than present have always really scared me for some reason, which explains my disdain for the whole swing band sensation, but when they dress like that and start feigning English accents as they order their stupid dark ales and get more “pissed” and act like a bunch ill-mannered yahoos having a moment because they seem to deserve one more than the rest of the crowd because of the way they’re dressed, it just really makes me roll my eyes. We were taking in a show that for all practical purposes was enchanting and fun and essentially we left it because we couldn’t stand the people around us any longer. I purchased the latest Headcoatees LP Cessation! on the way out as consolation and we wondered aloud in the cab on the way home if they did “Come Into My Mouth” and the cabby must have too, asking, “Now what kind of show was playing there?”
The next show I took in was a triple bill at Bottom of the Hill featuring Skunk Anansie, Black Kali Ma, and Fabulous Disaster, a rarity in that seldom is there a multi-band bill where I want to see all of the bands. The first of them Fabulous Disaster is a four-piece outfit featuring my friend Nancy Kravitz on bass, a name synonymous with female rock n roll for over a decade in these parts, not to mention her hands-on essential involvement with the Folsom Street Fairs main music stages, and a formidable list of former bands she’s played in, the girl is rock and roll personified, if credit is given where credit is due. This was my first time seeing her latest band and by far Fabulous Disaster is the best band she’s plucked the bass for yet. They were astonishing all the way around, one of the fastest, tightest, harmonizing, all-girl punk rock things I’ve seen. Down the line, it was like this, the drummer kicks serious ass in a punk rock fashion, beating the fuck out of the drum kit, Nancy just gets better and better all the time on bass, the guitarist (who coincidentally is married to the guitarist in Clone) is damn good and very studied yet her technical adeptness seems effortless, like she really has fun playing and adding the amazing harmonies and back and forth vocal interplay with the vocalist, who can sing really really fast as well as clearly, all the while commanding the stage like a frontperson while fully being connected with the band. Watching their tough and tight set, I began to wonder why certain less talented bands get signed or get more exposure than some who are more deserving in my opinion. Fabulous Disaster is a band definitely due for a big break of some kind, and they have had some very good shows and subsequent press from appearances in L.A. Look for them and catch a set, you’ll know what I mean.
Black Kali Ma did a fine set, satisfying a quickly growing crowd as the night went on, but at a point during their set my ears began giving me serious warning signs that I had better retreat to a quieter place in the club or I may never be the same. They apparently went over very well but I spent most of their set outside on the smoking patio discussing the finer points of ear protection with Nancy and running into many cool people I haven’t seen in ages.
While waiting for Skunk Anansie to take the stage the club got very crowded and we were pushed up against the kitchen window side stage when I spotted a celebrity right in front of me and gulped, it was Joan Jett! The crush of the capacity crowd was making it almost impossible to move anywhere in the place so Nancy, who works there also, quickly ushered Joan and her friends into the kitchen just behind us for their personal comfort. Joan Jett was in town because she and her band were playing the San Jose Gay Day. My friend turned to her and asked, “What will it take to get you to play our gay day up here?” to which Joan responded with a slight smirk, “Money.” She looked truly great with short blonde hair, and I was surprised how petite she is.
When Skunk Anansie hit stage, they eclipsed all, and from beginning to end were powerful almost beyond description. This is one fucking phenomenal band who have been more than ready to finally break big here in the states, and after a show like that, it’s inevitable. I just kept saying, “oh my god,” my mouth dropping open song by song as Skin, the bald black female vocalist bounded and sprang about the stage like a caged panther, aggressive, seductive, flirtatious total Godhead. They careened through some crunching monster metal with more brains and politics than hair and guitar=penis posturing, and the crowd went wild with an explosion of movement to match that of the players onstage. I just soaked it all in and couldn’t help thinking that age old Rock Critic thing that Dave Marsh said years ago about Bruce Springsteen, not his exact words but the basic sentiment, “This is the future.” Here is this band mixing an amalgam of styles, weaving in and out of expectations based upon gender and race and status quo and there is no denying how truly forward and ahead of the rest they are. Skin had this crowd in the palm of her hand, guiding them from intellectual political headbangers to acoustic only softness exhibiting a vocal ability that encompassed such an awe-inspiring range I was spellbound. At times it seemed that she must have had even operatic training at some point, yet she seems so very young! Her talent seems adequately matched by the members of her band, magnificent but never above and beyond their cohesion as a unit. This was most definitely the best show I’ve seen all year, so great it’s difficult to find the right words to describe it. I couldn’t help but notice that Joan Jett was equally enthralled, having been coaxed out of the safety of the kitchen for a better vantage point. Look for Skunk Anansie’s third LP Post Orgasmic Chill out soon on Virgin Records as well as their first two LPs, Sunburnt and Paranoid and Stoosh. Essential listening, and don’t miss the chance to see them live ever!
Finally I would like to dedicate this column to the memory of a great man who passed on last Sunday, David Dysart or Puddles as he was known to many of his friends. A fixture for years in the South of Market Community and a DJ at many haunts in the neighborhood, David is largely responsible for handling and developing some of the finer elements or features of The Folsom Street Fair that have made it one of the largest public events held annually in California. If it weren’t for him I’d have never been given the chance to ever DJ at an outdoor street fair event, and Rock and Roll wouldn’t have reared it’s head so consistently from the stages at Folsom Street Fair. His achievements are clear and noted and his friendship and presence will be greatly missed. Throw one back at your favorite Soma haunt for Puddles, forever alive in our memories.