Author: rockfag

Remember this last gay day how upset I was when Canadian raunch rappers Stinkmitt were cancelled from the main stage because the entertainment schedule predictably ran overtime?   The band, their fans and many eager folks wanting to catch them for the first time were sorely disappointed by this scheduling mishap, but oddly enough it brought about some good things, like the decision for a young local upstart, Cochon Records, to put out Stinkmitt’s sophomore release, The Red Album, due in stores on November 28, just in time for everyone to snatch up multiple copies for the many people you know who would adore the high quality gift of new music from Canada.   In case you haven’t noticed, there are a huge number of Canadian bands making their marks on the pop charts, in the music blogosphere, with the indie kids at college and within any number of stylistic references from alt-country to electro-pop, all from our neighbors up north.   One genre you don’t hear about as much is Canadian rap or hip hop though there has always been some representation of this starting in the 80’s and mirroring the popularization of Rap music worldwide.   Then about two years ago, fresh on the heels of electro-clash sensation and fellow Canadian, Peaches came this mysterious female powered outfit called Stinkmitt.   Some listeners might categorize their sound as closer to the electro-clash innovations of Peaches or Avenue D but what set Stink Mitt apart a bit was the actual undeniable vocalization skills employed by their two female figureheads.   They actually could hold their own just fine as MC’s, spitting out rhymes as fat and filthy and boastful as any male dominant rap act and in addition to this they could both sing, one of them possessing a remarkably soulful and strong wail reminiscent of Alison Moyet or Helen Terry or even Diva House mainstays like Martha Wash.   To further the entire Rap-style mystique the vocalists created the distinct personas or alter egos Jenni Craige and Betti Forde, two Canadian cougars living the trailer park life, loving food, having multiple children, fucking underage boys, getting their tubes tied, drugging and date-raping men, pimping themselves out for sexual services, smoking lots of chronic and even getting it on with each other.   This was quite a pretty picture to create in the style of the male dominant self-aggrandizing, often misogynist and masturbatory world of rap music.   It’s brilliant parody and Stinkmitt serves it up fearlessly.  Their first LP Scratch n Sniff provided more laughs than ought to be allowed, everything they said and did was quite simply deliciously wrong.   Additionally they backed it all up with a fantastic live appearance here at the Eagle Tavern, proving that Stinkmitt can put out in the performance sense, the mad skills of their record fully delivered like battle MC’s in competition.

Needless to say I was anxious for the arrival of their follow up LP, and very curious as to how they might try to possibly top their first record or continue the legacy they had started.   What might their focus be?  Where were they going to go, what territory could they forge their way through to strike a nice effective shocking blow to common sensibilities, Canadian censors and their fans?   The cover art on their new CD kind of says it all and all I could say was “Good God.”  The Red Album features a gold and white tea cup full of blood with a tampon submerged in it like a tea bag. I immediately wondered how many stores might very well refuse to carry this disc because of the cover. I knew we were in for a wild ride.   The first single release from the disc is called “Crime Scene” and it’s quite simply about menstruation.  I couldn’t stop laughing.   This act simply knows no boundaries or limits when it comes to taste and topics considered taboo.  Likening the ever-euphemized menstrual cycle to a crime scene just slays me, and honestly I really don’t know how people might react to this shocking image, let alone the graphic lyrical treatment or celebration of the revered/reviled time that all men will never understand   and have grown to fear.  In a way I think this furthers the ongoing emasculation of rap’s inherent misogyny that Stinkmitt have created by way of just expressing ideas about things in the same way that male rappers have done for years.   2 Live Crew had “Me So Horny,” Stinkmitt has “Crime Scene” and I guarantee you, this song could disturb a lot of men intensely. “I’m on the rag, but I don’t let it stop me/I’m gonna burst if somebody don’t pop me/right here right now get the yellow tape out/ seal off the room—your doomed.” This is an achievement I must commend. The song ends with a female reporters voice saying, “I’m reporting to you live  from a very serious crime scene, authorities have not yet issued a statement but I can tell you, there is blood everywhere.”  Indeed.

Other topics handled on the red album are the hedonism of touring (“Roadkill”), taking pictures while having sex (“Fotograph”), a mythical sexual predator (“Jabba the Slut”) further explorations of   sexing up the very young (“Secret”) and phone sex (“Freakline”).  The third member of Stinkmitt, producer and keyboardist Bigstuff takes on a much more inclusive role on this disc, handling a couple lead vocal spots. His production on this disc is as crisp and clean and slick sounding as ever, that big old 80’s dance music sound, well executed , lush and large. I wonder if he will tour with them this time.

The good news is we’ll soon enough find out when Stinkmitt plays the Eagle Tavern coming up in February.

About a year ago I ran into a friend whom I hadn’t seen in some time.  He looked really good; like he had been taking better care of himself, rested, bright-eyed and had gained a little weight.  I asked what he’d been doing to prompt this transformation, thinking it might’ve been rehab or just a few months at home with the folks in a quieter part of California.  He responded by telling me he had been in prison.  It had something to do with failure to appear in court for some old lightweight charge or another and a routine ID check by the cops and boom there he was in San Francisco County Jail #3 in San Bruno for six months.  Being an average curious faggot, the first thing I asked him about of course was if he had a lot of hot prison sex, a question prompted by countless fantasy jail cell scenes in gay male porn movies viewed throughout the ages.  He, like all other ex-convicts I’ve ever asked, promptly responded with a curt “No.”  I guess it’s nothing like it was in Jeff Stryker’s Powertool.  I kind of figured that it wasn’t really—no group cells with tan perfect depilatory-creamed gym bunnies in white briefs whose only crime must have been having cocks that were just too damn big, just waiting for lights out to begin long sessions of versatile manly sex play only to get caught by the warden and be punished in ways that don’t seem to be like punishment at all.  “No sex whatsoever?” I asked.  “No late night lockdown gang-rape?  No blowjobs for cigarettes? No furtive expressions of love in the pervasive darkness of incarceration?  No fondling of hormone-induced breasts on a nurse-killing murderer turned checkerboard chick?  Who was Our Lady of The Flowers anyways?  No secret sessions with a sadistic warden?” Nope, nothing like that at all.  However, he did have another illumination from his time spent in the belly of the beast that he was all too eager to share, and frankly it was one of the finest compliments I had received since the time when someone tripping on mushrooms ran out of the bar where I was dj-ing and up to the next corner and were found on their hands and knees vomiting and crying out, “The music in there is so evil!”   My friend told me that in his particular tier or cellblock or pod in that San Bruno facility, the official word was that, “Don Baird is the bomb Hole In The Wall DJ.”  I should really reflect on why news such as this makes me so happy and, uh…well, proud, proud like Richard Speck must have felt when Divine said “I blew Richard Speck,” in the movie Female Trouble, or as proud as he must have felt parading around the prison yard with his new boobies.  Well maybe not that proud.  I’ve had Richard Speck on my mind lately ever since a friend told me about a web site called Electricchair.com, where I saw among other aspects of prison life on death row and mpeg files of actual executions, video footage of the famous and now deceased nurse killer cavorting around a cell with his black boyfriends snorting cocaine and showing off his new breasts.  Oh the humanity!  And how in the hell do they get hormones in prison, let alone video cameras! I want a video camera!  I wonder if it was made from a blow dryer.  I wonder if you can give a tattoo with it as well.

At any rate, it’s nice to know you’re appreciated, or held in high regard by a group of people somewhere, and for some reason the exact location of that group really thrilled me.  I can’t really say why.  Probably the same reason I kissed a boy I met for the first time after he told me of an unspeakably violent thing he had done.  It was a few years ago outside of Club Uranus where I met this angelic looking punk rock boy with a Mohawk, small and fragile looking yet glowing with an aura of recklessness.  I struck up a conversation with him and was instantly taken with his southern accent and composed sense of proper manners, a quality often forgotten here in laid-back-goes-high-tech California, where the hippie aesthetic eroded the basic form and now the Internet has catapulted it even further out of reach, creating a new realm of non-conversationalists lacking in social skills without a mouse in their hand or a lap-top in front of them.  This charming punk rock vision proved that there’s nothing old-fashioned about being a gentleman. He was from Tennessee.  We seemed drawn to each other in such a way that we were soon continuing our conversation in a cab to my house.

Once at my house, over cigarettes and coca-cola we each started sharing our basic backgrounds, where from, family things, etc.  He explained to me that in the town where he grew up his father was a very rich and powerful man, in spite of his cruel nature and close-minded intolerance of such things as gayness or dyeing your hair purple.  I responded by telling him that my dad was far from rich and powerful, in fact he was the janitor of the elementary school that I attended and to top it all off he had a wooden leg, his was missing from just above the knee.  The boys’ eyes widened and he drawled out, “Oh my god, my daddy’s missing a leg too.”  This was the second or third odd coincidence or parallel we had learned about each other, and this one gave me goose bumps.  After calming down a bit I asked, “How did your dad lose his leg?”  Without batting an eye he drawled out, “I shot it off with a shotgun, I can’t tell you how many times I tried to kill my daddy.”  Of course that’s when I kissed him.  What else could I have done?  It seemed quite clear to me.

That kiss was placed so naturally for the same reasons I would literally swoon over such songs by The Smiths as “Sweet and Tender Hooligan,” or “Handsome Devil.”  They romanticized a character who had committed criminal acts, even murder, making excuses for him, saying “Look into those mother-me eyes,” excusing an act of murder by saying of his victims, “But she wasn’t very happy anyway,” or “But he was old and he would have died anyway.”  After junior high school years filled with novels by S.E.Hinton like The Outsiders and That Was Then, This Is Now, it seemed quite natural to place the misunderstood bad-boy teens with criminal leanings but a hidden and bittersweet sensitivity into a realm that was definitely heroic as well stirring in that love-that-dare-not-speak-it’s-name way.  Hoodlum ways are always appealing to a younger impressionable starry-eyed boy.  If you had to, you would lie for them, steal for them; even hide a gun for them if they asked.  It would turn you on.

Of course, later on in college came the similar fascinations with Arthur Rimbaud and his entire renegade, consumptive and totally homosexual poetry—put out there brazenly and with no apologies, the absinthe-swilling, ass-eating, French dandy perv who was no stranger to jail and flamboyance.  Then of course, came Jean Genet and his much examined absorption into the world and mind of the prisoner and the criminal, taking it to a whole new frightening and beautiful philosophical intensity.  Upon closer inspection I guess I could understand the pleasure it gives me to know that prisoners in a facility hold me in some high regard.  The feeling is mutual and actually not so mysterious at all.  Come to think of it, how many proposals of marriage has Richard Ramirez the hillside strangler received from young women since he was apprehended?  Hundreds I bet.11-21-1999

One night recently my roommate Tish bounded into my room excitedly clutching a latest issue of some fashion magazine she subscribes to saying, “Oh my god oh my god guess what guess what guess who’s in the latest issue of Harper’s Bazaar?”  I responded inquisitively and non-plussed, “Courtney?” She shook her head no, quickly thumbing through the pages to show me.  “Alexander McQueen?” No again. “Okay, Don, who do we really love in New York?”  Before I had a chance to say the words she shoved the open magazine at me and there they were in an absolutely glamorous large photo gracing the Theater page of Harper’s, a pair of dynamic performers whose brilliant act was born right he re in San Francisco and over the past two years has become a sensation in New York, a scandal in L.A. at Madonna’s 39th birthday, and a tradition in many a jaded heart on both coasts around this cheery bittersweet Christmas season, the unforgettable Kiki and Herb!   There they were indeed, Justin Bond all leggy and sullen in a white mirabou jacket sitting atop the piano, a drink on one side and Kenny Mellman her brilliant accompanist at the bench, dressed in the finest formal wear this side of the captains table on a Princess Cruise Line.  I know that they’ve gotten plenty of great press since starting their shows in New York, in Interview, Paper, Village Voice, and even more recently The NY Times, which had Kiki and Herb’s shows sold out and turning away hundreds at the door, but for some reason seeing them in Harper’s Bazaar really just kicked total ass!    I was so proud of our former local talents who busted out of this town and worked diligently to establish their act in New York. Clearly Justin and Kenny have taken hold of “the city that never sleeps” and are currently working on bringing that magical maudlin world of mayhem, melodrama and mixed drinks known as Kiki and Herb to an off-Broadway production.

The Harper’s Bazaar article also had the greatest lead-in sentence: “ Kiki and Herb are cabaret’s answer to The Blair Witch Project:  no budget, lots of underground buzz, and so frightening to watch.”  The writer seems to have caught a glimpse of the qualities that prompted me years ago to refer to Justin Bond as San Francisco’s most dangerous performer.  There were so many moments I witnessed during Kiki and Herbs legendary runs at the now defunct Eichelbergers that were indeed frightening and awe inspiring, like the time she climbed across a table of guests and swung open the window and screamed “Just don’t get too comfortable out there!” or her risky monologue about the then still missing kidnap/murder victim Polly Klass and the brutal rendition of “Pretty Polly,” an old Irish folk song once done by Judy Collins full of cold stark, violent, grave-digging, imagery, or her medley of “Suicide is Painless,” with “Smells Like Teen Spirit” merely days after Cobain’s suicide, opening a show with a snappy rendition of “Niggahz and Bitches” by Snoop Doggy Dog or that one Christmas show medley that combined “We Wish You A Merry Christmas,” with “Heroin” by the Velvet Underground, adding a whole new urgency to the often forgotten, “Oh bring me some figgy pudding” verse.  In fact Kiki and Herbs Christmas shows were always delightfully un-cheery, Kiki unable to hide her disdain for the holiday as her saccharine smiles would melt away and the nice words of a traditional carrol would end up being spat out like a curse or insult, followed by a personal Christmas story of her own, something down-trodden and low, a tragedy that would make The Gift Of The Magi seem pleasant.  Of course over the years Kiki has also ripped in to the entire religious meaning of Christmas with such blasphemous fury and ribald notions of the nativity that The Catholic League of Civil Rights of America included their act in a list of the ten most anti-catholic shows around.

Justin Bond’s over the top characterization of Kiki is breath taking in its scope and depth and detail and history.  The voice is strong and capable but enhanced with these airport lounge singer/cruise ship crooner/Shriner convention entertainer-isms, making for a sort of trash-charged cabaret style, vocals that hit harder, crack with emotion, verge on fragile or growl furiously.  It’s the between-song banter that really exemplifies where this voice is coming from, the telling of Kiki’s personal and professional triumphs and tragedies.  This is where Bond’s talent soars, in storytelling—weaving the web of tales from a show-biz life, expressing her beliefs based on the events that shaped her and Herb’s lives. Kenny Mellman, or Herb, has faithfully provided the music that launches, frames, embellishes, burns along with, and propels Kiki through a glimpse of their world with all the bent skewed awesome and instinctual performance genius necessary to match his partner.  I’ve seen Kenny play so hard there was blood on the keys and that has always impressed me.  This pairing of talents has such a symbiotic intensity that you just know Kiki and Herb would’ve died without each other if they hadn’t met in that mental institution as children.  There you have it—wasn’t I just talking about Justin and Kenny and suddenly I referenced Kiki and Herbs personal history?  With such fascinating characters presented so fruitfully, laden with theatrical nuance, and countless stories about them, the lines get blurred.

Needless to say, I was very excited to learn that after three long years since leaving San Francisco Kiki and Herb were due to return for a one night only appearance at a campaign fundraiser for Mayoral candidate Tom Ammiano.   It seemed the perfect time for it, Kiki and Herb riding the crest of a momentous wave of success and media coverage could mark their return as triumphant and lend their talents in support of the first ever write-in candidate in SF history to make it to a run-off election for mayor, prompting a fresh rejuvenated hope for community representation here in “Everyone’s favorite city,” the place so many of us want to love again.  As Justin said when we spoke the day before the show, “Kenny and I now live in a city (New York) who’s Mayor is a fascist, so we understand supporting this campaign.”

I had the opportunity to sit and chat with Justin and Kenny, drinking black hotel room coffee and smoking in a non-smoking room of a downtown hotel.  Our chat was a bit unstructured and all of us admittedly weren’t at our most vibrant.  We decided later that based on jet lag and personal prime times for conversational exuberance we should have interviewed at 2 am instead of 5 pm.  Nonetheless we covered a few choice topics of interest.  One of my favorites of course was all of the famous people who have come to see their show.  They liked that one too.  Justin was particularly thrilled on the night Lou Reed and Laurie Anderson were there and another night on one side of the room sat Gloria Steinem and on the other the late Quentin Crisp.  Sandra Bernhardt has been to the show twice in the last month and they’ve talked to her before.  “She said she wanted to write something for us,” Justin added followed by a maniacal laugh from both of them.  The list continued including Katie Holmes from Dawson’s Creek, Rufus Wainwright, Momus, and Michael Stipe.  They went on to describe a star-studded birthday party in L.A. for photographer Greg Gorman with a guest list that included Leonardo diCaprio, Kevin Costner, Holly Hunter, John Hurt, Rupert Everett, Mink Stole, Jason Priestly and more.  As for upcoming magazine features to add to their already impressive list, Kiki and Herb were doing a photo session upon returning to New York this week with Vanity Faire, and current issues of the Advocate, and Genre have pieces on them.  Kenny also mentioned that a guy he knows has written his Masters thesis on Kiki and Herb and that will appear in the Gay and Lesbian Quarterly in January.

Over the last year Kiki and Herb have touched on a few current events as they always have in the act including the Columbine Shootings, or as Kiki referred to it, “The Concubine Tragedy,” performing the song “I Don’t Like Mondays,” in a tribute to all the beautiful little victims, especially the one girl who for her senior class talent show did a Contemporary Christian-themed Mime routine and the irony was not lost on Kiki, who said,  “Everyone who chooses a career as a contemporary Christian Mime Artist has chosen a high risk profession to begin with.”  Taking stock of other tragedies in the recent past they recalled doing a JFK Jr. tribute with the Shona Laing song “I’m Glad I’m Not A Kennedy.” Both Justin and Kenny bemoaned the fact that there hasn’t been a really good tragedy to play off of in awhile.  Kiki didn’t get too worked up over “ethnic cleaning” and refugees in Bosnia, “because lets face it ladies and gentlemen, they’re not going to be a part of our audience.”  Justin  also pointed out that they no longer take mushrooms before every show like they used to ritualistically, but contend that their show is definitely powered by alcohol.  They still have an occasional person walk out of a show offended by the material, but in the longrun Kiki throws more people out of the show than walk out offended.  They recalled a night when an unruly person in the crowd was finally told by Kiki, “Everyone here hates you.”    When the word dating came up I asked them if they, in lieu of their growing popularity, were doing much of that.  Kenny said, “ I’m single,” while Justin responded with, “I’m married…or I’m at least involved in a primary relationship.”  Take note.  They gave me a few hints about what to expect from their new show but didn’t let me in on everything.  One thing was certain though, the show was the thing—the fruit of their efforts and something they were proud of—what they were anxious to show the fans who nurtured this monster called Kiki and Herb.

It must be said that the entire Ammiano fundraiser produced by The Tom Tom Club at the transmission Theater and Paradise Lounge was not only an endless array of diverse and solid entertainers paced smoothly all night long, but it also produced a feeling of belonging, a sense of focus, a clear and direct goal to work towards.  I hadn’t felt this way since I lay down in the street and let my friend spray paint my outline on Castro and Market while others lined the streets watching for cops with our warning word being “Mary” if one was spotted.  Remember?  Well, it was so good to feel something besides bitter and pushed around and backhanded by the city we love yet seem to be losing.  I saw hope for the first time in awhile—but hope doesn’t visit a voting booth and punch a hole, YOU do and will come December 14, or you are a bed wetter.   Your sheets will be hanging out the window for all to see.

When it was time for Kiki and Herb to go on—emcee Ggreg Taylor suggested that all of us sitting on the floor stand to make room for all the people filling up the back. This crowd was huge and excited. I was right up front where I wanted to be and Herb came out and started playing and singing an intro and there was something just a bit more intense about him—pounding the keys harder singing louder starting out at manic as opposed to mellow.  Thirty seconds had passed and herb was already on fire! Then Kiki shot out on stage drink in hand, arms in the air and wearing a new dress!  This was the first time I’d seen her in anything but that trademark snagged silver and black Foxy Lady Boutique dress—ever.  They tore into a rousing version of “(hit me baby) One More Time” by just-turned-old-enough-to-vote Britney Spears.  The rendition was brutal—complete with from-the-video dance moves, Herb screaming back up vocals like a man on fire.  The crowd so loves and so misses Kiki and Herb, who in turn slip right into the medley they used to open with years ago of  “Flamingo/When Doves Cry.”  The house was ecstatic.

Once the crowd had calmed a bit Kiki led into her first real story of the night, one they had alluded to when we spoke the day before.  She explained their history, meeting in an “Institutional” where they were each other’s only friends, how they were there because they were, in those days what they called retards.  “Some people don’t like that word these days, and would prefer specially-abled or mentally handicapped but that word is ours.  We reclaim it, kinda like black people do with the word nigger.”   She went on to explain as they grew older it was apparent that herb was gay and other kids would tease him.  Kids can be so cruel. The story continues dipping into a treacherous juvenile schoolyard nightmare of fag bashing via the song “You’re Ugly” by the group Butt Trumpet.  Then it goes even further and as Kiki takes you there to the tragedy of Herbs multiple rape, the pain and anguish and shame and horror comes forth on Herbs face as he plays the piano with the force of his attackers penetration from behind, thrusting the pain forward, hips smashing against the piano, pain rushing through keys and into the notes, twisting and pounding his body in a way Jerry Lee Lewis never did and Little Richard wanted to.  And Kiki takes it right into that verse in “Horses” by Patti Smith where Johnny gets raped in the locker room, of course changing the name to Herbie.  This was the rape of Herb, a tragedy which she of course saves him from, but he is hospitalized and unclear if she was really there for him—he cant remember, but she was and the whole ordeal comes to a emotional epic conclusion with a song called ‘I’ll Keep on Loving You” by either Meatloaf or Journey, I can’t remember.  My God!  I’ve never hated the smoking ordinance in this state more than I did at the conclusion of this medley!  I noted that Herb had become far more of an expressive character than merely an accompanist in New York.  In fact—the bond between Kiki and Herb seems to be the area where the most change and development has taken place.  This was impressive, and like just about every queer male in the house, it turned me way the fuck on.  Is that sick?

Their set continued on with a  stunning powerful version of “This Is Hardcore” by Pulp, a brilliant song made even more fantastic by Kiki’s rendition, a trick she’s often been able to do with a contemporary pop rock hit.  Sometimes an artist will do a cover song in such a way that it changes forever your memory of it, you’ll never hear it again without hearing it as you heard it performed that certain time.  Kiki and Herb have done that to a number of songs for me like Radiohead’s “Creep.”  Perhaps they have a knack for doing this to smug and popular brit-pop.  They may have made their mark here for certain, and the title “This Is Hardcore” just kept running through my mind after their set as just a general description of their show.

One perky number that was actually a sing-a-long called “Banging in The Nails” originally done by a group called The Tiger Lillies who come highly recommended from both Kenny and Justin, is one of the most blasphemous filthy naughty you-are-definitely  -going-to-hell-for-liking-this-song kind of ditty.  It makes a fun little audience participation number singing as fast as you can, “I’m crucifying Jesus/I’m banging in the nails/I’m bang bang bang bangbang/ bang bang bang banging in the nails.”  You got it!

Kiki and Herbs set wound down to a close with a song that I’ve always hated but their version completely changed my mind and sounded beautiful. It was Kate Bush’s “Running up the Hill.” Its arrangement was slightly slowed down and askew, but in a gentle way.  It made for a poignant closing song to a set that I thought a lot about and it just boggles the mind.  I ran into an old friend afterwards and he said, “She’s got more teeth and they’re much sharper.”  I ran into another who said “Running up The Hill” made him cry.  I remembered how many times I laughed uncontrollably during the set, and I thought, all of this success is coming their way and yet their show seemed if anything, harder, stranger, scarier, and more dangerous than ever.  And you were thinking perhaps that all the media attention was possibly due to a toned down and nicer Kiki and Herb?  It’s so hard to say why one of my favorite acts is becoming so popular but I knew they would.  Because Justin Bond and Kenny Mellman are genius.

I was just watching the tail end of Entertainment tonight and they were plugging an upcoming television show about disastrous wedding events caught on surveillance film and or home video.  One example was the bride dashing outside before the cake cutting ceremony and making out with the best man, stripping to the waist and almost getting caught by the groom.  The really great one was not only frightening but gave me a wonderful idea—it showed a wedding party during which about a dozen guests sprayed that marvelous seventies party favor Silly String all over the happy new couple and little did they know how this strange material reacted to candle flame.  The bride and groom burst into a quick and vibrant ball of flame that just disappeared instantly, hurting no one!  Thank heaven for natural fibers, synthetics could have meant a honeymoon in a burn center and visits from Michael Jackson.  Since no one was hurt I decided this was a green light to just go ahead and try it at home, as I hope many children deducted from this footage as well.  With Halloween stuff hitting the stores, I’m certain shelves are well stocked with the flammable fun in a can so if you want to really liven up a party even more just remember what you saw on television.  Also, Halloween is the only time you can readily find a few choice cosmetic items on the shelves of your favorite Walgreen’s like fake blood, blood colored nail polish (sometimes called black red) and glow in the dark nail polish as well, although there is a special product sold year round called Yellow Away that is used to remove yellow stains from over-painting your nails.  It goes on clear and unnoticeable but once you’re near a fluorescent black light your nails glow like a gin and tonic!  No holding your nails up to a light to charge or anything—one coat and you’re good to go.  I wonder why.  Oh yeah, one more little known pyrotechnic trick comes to mind that I thought I would share—powdered non-dairy creamer, like Coffeemate is delightfully flammable—blow a small handful at a candle and see for yourself.  I’ve seen a wall of flame created with one jar and two tiki-style flaming patio lamps.  While on this subject, I would like to ask you, my loyal readers, if any of you can breathe fire.  I hope to enlist the aid of an experienced fire-breather who could teach me how to do this trick—I’ve promised myself to learn by the millennium so time is of the essence.  Reach me by E-mail at Rockfag@aol.com.  Experienced fire-breathers only.

On to other incendiary subjects, one of my very favorite bands whom I’ve written about numerous times, The Murder City Devils, breezed through town again at the tail end of what seemed to be a very long US tour, just before returning to their home base, Seattle.  The last time I saw them was several months ago at the Café Dunord—where the band poured it on to a crowd that seemed too-cool-to-move except for a few of us down front.  Our motion was noted and the rest of the crowd got a well-deserved scolding from vocalist Spencer Moody about how they were playing their asses off up there and  “if you all don’t wanna move maybe you should be in the other room drinking or something.”  Then the drummer actually lit his drum kit on fire with some flammable liquid in the perilously low ceiling-ed basement venue.  It was a great show and I got to talk to a couple of the band members afterwards, telling them how we play their records frequently at a bar where I DJ, especially their song “Broken Glass,” during which we would sometimes actually break glass when it played.  It is one of my all-time favorite songs ever; a tribute to Iggy with it’s creepy but smart farfisa organ and simple lyrics building to a screaming crescendo of “I like the sound of you rolling/ I like the sound of you rolling in the broken glass.”  It is perfect, as was their second LP, Empty Bottles Broken Hearts, just a glorious rush of 12 songs all about rock and roll, being in a rock band, wanting to be a star, the domestic pitfalls of being a rocker, rock and roll retribution, a song about a dead rocker, an ode to the transience of the rock and roll life style, the love for an audience that a rocker has, and of course, a song about drinking as well as a song that provides a brief synopsis of one of my all time favorite movies, Night of the Hunter.   It was definitely one of 98’s finest releases and to date still remains a favorite and in constant rotation when I deejay.

Well, I went to the bottom of the hill to catch the Murder City Devils’ return to SF after many months of touring and it seems that life on the road agrees with them.  They all looked great.  The show was an 18 and up, sold out affair with a multiple arrest taking place outside as we arrived.  We managed to squeeze into a decent vantage point just as the band took the stage.  They came on strong, loud and bristling with movement and energy, guitars slinging, bodies momentarily airborne, tattooed arms in blurry motion, just five musicians all playing at full tilt and the keyboard player, the only female in the band, adding her more subtle but essential and brilliant flourishes while looking nothing less than exquisite and cool, smoking a cigarette as if that stupid statewide ordinance never even existed.  The audience erupted in that predictable spastic mosh-pit dynamic—you know, one idiot ape retardo begins to flail his arms about, catching chins, smacking faces and slamming his body into the now forming circular wall of needling little defensive fuckwads who push at anything or anyone who gets jostled their way by the one idiot ape retardo.  Before you know it you’re caught in the middle of it and you’re thinking that somewhere between anarchy and gang rapes at Woodstock a great deal of meaning has been lost.  At the risk of sounding like an elder fuddy-duddy, these kids just don’t get it.

But the Murder City Devils played a great set, a set that showed they had been doing plenty of the one thing that is best for any band–playing live shows regularly to strange new audiences night after night on tour.  Nothing makes a band more competent and versatile.  The end of this tour found the group not fatigued or battered by the road but rather in top form, charged with new levels of showmanship and spectacle, cruising with ease at full throttle and looking like they were having fun.  They roared through an exhilarated ardent collection of songs, half old favorites and half all new material and it was short, sweet, sexy and tough, no need for a superfluous encore.  As we filed out the door, the one idiot Mr. Mosh from earlier was caught between myself and my friend Jerry and with my lips nearly touching the back of his neck I said, “retardo!”  He responded with an appropriate look.

The following night The Murder City Devils were slated to play at the popular Rock and Roll club Sixteen, just around the corner from the Hole in The Wall where I was spinning that night.  Since the band is a definite staff favorite it seemed only natural for me to put on a very long disc and duck out of the booth for their set.  While planning my departure someone approached the booth and asked me where the Hole in The Wall was.  I looked up and said, “You’re in it,” and realized it was their guitarist Dann Galucci.  I just happened to be playing a selection from Empty Bottles Broken Hearts at the time. He had remembered talking with me at the Café DuNord show and had been meaning to stop by for some time. We talked about the previous nights’ set and what new bands he liked and how I was definitely jumping ship to catch their set next door.  He told us what time they were going on and said, “You’ll be up front, right?”

When the time came I slapped on an Iggy Pop’s greatest hits disc and Pete the manager and I dashed over to sixteen, where the courteous door staff happily let us in and we headed through the jungle of tube tops and rock and roll hair to the back of the club where the band was set up to play in one corner of the dance floor.  The club was crowded but the space was far more comfortable and civilized than the previous nights venue.  The band members started to take their places and Dann told the crowd this was the final show of their tour and basically they were set for having a good time and suggested that we dance and do the same.  Then they opened with “Broken Glass.”  It was just a little bit of heaven, one of those great rocking moments where a certain reckless abandon takes over and you know you are going to be in pain the next day but it just doesn’t matter, nothing matters but the music and where it takes you.  I spied the set list and noted that all the songs on it were basically old favorites and I thought to myself, “I’m not leaving till this is over, if the long-player ends they’ll cover for me!”

The band just continued reeling through their set, one punchy great after another, like “Dancehall Music,” a great cut that clocks in at about a minute and a half, bemoaning the lack of venues for kids to hear live music in every town usa, and

“Dear Hearts” and “Cradle to the Grave” and more.  Long about the third or fourth cut Dann the guitarist suddenly walked into the crowd while playing, right into me and kissed me open-mouthed right in front of everyone.  Needless to say, I was impressed and I’m moving to Seattle tomorrow!  Kidding, but I must say, if I’ve ever had a sort of crush on a rocker over the years, that memory has been eradicated by just this one moment.  I was walking on air and feeling like a silly teen.  What can I say, that guitar-slinging tattooed rocker is dreamy!  Then a few songs later, vocalist Spencer said to the crowd, “You know when I’m out someplace and I hear our music being played it always makes me feel really uncomfortable for some reason, but earlier tonight we were at a bar just around the corner and they were playing our music and it felt great.”  What could be better?  We were thrilled.  Then the drummer capped the night off by covering his drum kit with alcohol and lighting it on fire.  Pyrotechnics—how fucking perfect.  The last note resounded and I tore out of there and back to the dj booth and slapped something on.  Dann stopped back in to say thanks and goodbye—they were leaving right away because as he told us, “Most of us have to work tomorrow.”

“You have to work?” I asked incredulously.

“Yeah, I bartend.”

I love rock and roll.

 

Finally, there’s an event coming up that I wanted to preview because it stands to be a unique and stunning show for the days leading up to Halloween.  Taking place at the Café Dunord on October 26, 27, 29 and 30 at 7pm is The Grimm Guignol—Three Cautionary Tales.  This marks the return of Omewenne to theatrical production of any sort since her two very well received and critically lauded productions of Nico:  My Empty Pages, a biographical stage play written by and starring Omewenne as Nico, which placed her firmly as a grand new talent in the local theater scene.  This time around, working with art director Terrance Graven of the Butoh Troup Collapsing Silence, Omewenne has researched, written and adapted to stage versions of The Brothers Grimm collected Household Tales—which were like little horror stories before they were prettied up by Perrault and Disney, stories far more savage than the standard children’s material they became.  Omewenne researched even further back in the history of the stories digging up some goodies like father daughter rape, fetishized mutilation and child-flesh lust, etc.

Grim Guignol gets its title from a style of theater developed when the French were guillotining the bourgeoisie called the Grande Guignol, which translates literally as big show.  Influences are also drawn from Antonin Artauds Theatre of Cruelty.  Omewenne hopes these three monstrosities will bring in the savage side of the beginning of the dark dark holiday season.  A couple of these stories will be recognizable from childhood, another brutal time period for many.  I can’t wait.  There will be no reservations, first come first serve only, admission is $15.  Have you priced stage blood lately? This is the first of several similar projects planned by Omewenne and Graven–their production company, Unattended Children aimed at bringing theater back to the basement–the underground–vive la revolution!

I gotta say, sometimes when life feels utterly hopeless and abysmal and everything seems to not be going the way you’d like it to and you’ve really hit the end of your ability to Pollyanna your way out of the doldrums in any way shape or form, I suggest you crack open one of the local Weeklies to the section listing venues that feature live music and see what shows might be going on that very night.  You might be pleasantly surprised to find maybe a band you really like is playing, or a band you’ve been curious about, or even a band wit h a crazy name that you know nothing about at all, and you could go see them instead of fantasizing about your own funeral and wishing ill upon those whom you feel have treated you poorly or acted in ways that fully disregard your feelings and or any sense of decorum, good manners, or knowledgeable distinction between right and wrong.  If you can, like I did, put aside all the vivid violent fantasies running through your mind involving each and every individual who ever dissed you, told lies about you, fucked your boyfriend, fucked your ex-boyfriend, ripped you off, borrowed things they never returned, used you to advance their own career or social standing, got high with you then publicly referred to you as a drug addicted mess, fucked your other ex-boyfriend, broken a promise of confidentiality, stolen a trick right out of your arms, or hurt or threatened anyone you cared about and finally got you to really start to hate “everyone’s favorite city” for all it’s seemingly shitbag inhabitants  and all the while thinking of themselves as your friend—if you can shelve the morbidly detailed punishments of these half-wit whores and back-stabbers dancing about your mind for just long enough to get out and catch a show, live music can be a remarkably effective way to pull the plug on your own personal pity party, yank you out of your depression and even stop your imaginary postal rampage, gunning down your friends like high school students on a safe fantasy level that keeps you from committing other rage fueled acts against them in real life, like kicking them in the crotch or pulling all their hair out or visiting their home and blowing out the pilot lights out on their stove, turning on the gas and leaving.

The event that caught my eye while wallowing in my emotional hell was being held at Stinky’s Peep Show on Folsom St., so I didn’t have any excuse to skip it because it was too far away.  In spite of the fact that I know I’ll end up feeling better if I go, getting there at all is half the battle when I’m in that need to cheer up type mode.  It certainly was a very pleasant surprise to see an old friend Damien, arguably the most handsome door person south of Market and clearly the most polite, working the door at Stinky’s.  He’s worked the door of just about every venue in the neighborhood at some time or another.  He ushered me in with a handshake and made me his guest.  I was quickly enveloped in a scene I’m only somewhat familiar with but definitely feel at home in—a predominantly heterosexual crowd of swinging open-minded rockers and freaks seeking that good old cathartic, sexual and angst-ridden experience of loud and live rock and roll as well as some odd punk/lounge/karaoke/peep show features in the back lounge which I have yet to enter.  In addition to this a variety of larger rounder and bouncier go-go girls are a staple for this club and I really love the big bold and beautiful attitude and presence in a nightclub during these days of never-too- thin, never-too-fit hyper-body consciousness.  I was particularly fond of the blonde babe who danced while eating a box of donuts

I caught the tail end of a set by Blue Period the ever-evolving visually flamboyant new wave/glam rock five piece band fronted by gender maverick and fellow rock writer Adrian Roberts.  It’s been awhile since I’ve seen them and it appears that they have a new guitarist and a stylistic leaning in a much harder direction.  The last song of their set was a very rough and energetic romp, complete with syncopated jumps, terrific rock star posturings on Adrian’s part who was looking very Velvet Goldmine, and some pretty tight stop-on-the-dime musicianship all around.  Everything seemed harder about them—the guitar, Adrian’s vocals, Swirlie”s throbbing kinetic bass, just all of it—this song was long and enticing and crunchy and powerful.  It makes me excited for their soon to be released second LP.

Next up was a group called The Glamour Pussies and they were an outrageously sick and appropriate act for stinky’s peep show.  Imagine four girls wearing white foundation undergarments with fake pussies and fake nipples pinned to the outside, lots of pin-up girl-styled long, piled and stacked hair, a few tubes of stage blood, some mock cunnilingus, a dramatic onstage interpretation of  “the curse” or the onset of menstruation, a between song multiple-birth miscarriage, etc , etc, etc.  The vocalist was the main ovulator and a voluptuous naughty beauty of that Stinky’s big girl style, screeching like a crazed hillbilly madwoman banned to the menstrual hut.  I had a feeling their set was gonna be messy when I noticed the tarp placed first on stage during their set up.  I had no idea how foul a concept could get—but it was pretty funny.  It had a curious effect on the guys in front who had started contact dancing in that lame retardo macho kind of way…with each other.  “Oh my god I’m starting my period,” followed by a frightening long scream of terror.  Is it like that?  I have to admit, they were really cracking me up.

The headlining act and the one that got me all excited about going out , Texas Terri and The

Stiff Ones have the dubious distinction of recording a song that ended up being my absolute favorite cut to spin when I DJ for several weeks running.  The song is called “Lifetime Problems” and was originally done by The Dicks the Texas punk rock band fronted by blues/rock wunderkind and local artist Gary Floyd many many years ago.  Gary himself told me that he thinks Terri’s version of the song is even better than the original.  Texas Terri and The Stiff Ones lp Eat Shit was a difficult disc to find—it belonged to a fellow dj whose entire collection  seemed to be hard-to-find, and then he quit, so I went to the show knowing there would be copies for sale there and I would soon have a real gem of an album to add to my personal collection.  While waiting for their set to begin Brigitte Brat or God’s Girlfriend the seven foot tall trans-bitch guitar goddess wandered up and said hello—I told her how excited I was to see this band and she told me she had been hanging with them for a week and she could introduce me.  I spotted Terri milling about the crowd greeting people—she seemed to know everyone, all the fans.  It was unusually unpretentious and refreshing to see.  When they finally took the stage and ripped into the first song it was clear we were in the presence of a balls to the wall rocker—a girl who was more into Iggy and Mick or even Jim Dandy Mangrum of Black Oak Arkansas than she ever was into Nancy Sinatra.  I was also amazed at the way many of the crowd members seemed to know all the words to every song, as she punched the air and bent and strutted and shed her see-through blouse and complained about nipple laws and having to conceal them with black electrical tape because of nipple laws.  When the band ripped into a cover of The Stooges “Down in The Street” it seemed like a perfectly natural thing to do, which is saying a lot about a band’s set so far if they can pull that off, and they did, but that’s not all.  Terri left the stage on an elongated bop around the whole club leaving the rhythm section chugging hard and tight and the guitarist just laid into a lengthy and blistering solo that had the crowd going crazy.  It was the kind of solo that a groupie puts out for.

I knew they had to be doing the song “Lifetime Problems” probably last and I was right.  Terri said, “This song was written by Gary Floyd, are you here tonight?  Where are you? Well Gary Floyd wrote this and Gary Floyd is my Husband!”  For that song Brigitte Brat joined the band onstage and I gotta say she kept up on guitar in a way that really impressed me through that tense and fast paced scorcher of a song.  Curious name for a song that truly helped me forget most of my problems.  Liked it so much I bought a t-shirt on the way out, but come to think of it, I mostly bought the shirt because it says “Eat Shit” on it and sometimes that message will come in handy, I know it.

 

Well, they came, they reunited, they played two shows vowing that they were the last ever, celebrated the release of their posthumous EP Lovesucker (again), made that entire record available for free as a downloadable mp3 file on the internet (see kittyfeet.com), and had many first-timers transfixed and lots of old fans grinning ear to ear and banging their heads like they hadn’t done, oh, since maybe their last reunion show almost two years ago.  But this time heads probably banged a bit more fervently with the knowledge that this would indeed be the last show ever by local rock and roll majestics and in my book, one of the truly perfect examples of everything a great rock and roll band can be.  That band is Bomb.  For a particular stretch of time they were the ultimate in satisfaction, the definitive rock and roll experience, the forbidden blasphemous renegades.   With their raw aural potency and musical depth of genius, the over-the-top ritualistic antics, and the unhinged unpredictable insanity, Bomb was simply the greatest band on my planet.  I’ve written them up many times over the last decade as they’ve never left me at a loss for words, in fact bassist/vocalist Michael Dean often provided the most amusing anecdotes from on the road by collect phone calls, chronicling the various strange exploits and predicaments encountered on a Bomb tour across the states, which I usually printed verbatim, as they were fascinating and gave a rather graphic indication of so many details that only a demented rock and roll lifestyle could produce.  That of course was many years ago, and we watched Bomb go through many changes over the years.  We saw the departure of original guitarist Jay Crawford for life in Europe, being replaced by a young Doug Hilsinger from Philly, then the eventual return of Jay to the continent and the band, creating the super-charged double-guitar line-up that saw the band through its finest moments.  Among these high points was the eventual interest of a major label, Warner Brothers, who distributed the bands fourth record Hate Fed Love, produced by Bill Laswell.  Perhaps their darkest, most dense and complex offering ever, Hate Fed Love, was of course a big hit with their loyal following created by tireless touring in the states and Europe but it wasn’t a big seller for Warner Brothers who eventually dropped them and now the disc is out of print and actually hard to find.  If you see it at you’re local used record store, snatch it up, it’s well worth the $3.95 it will set you back, just for their cover of Leonard Cohen’s “Suzanne” which I coincidentally overheard coming from the darkened theater of the Century one night as I filled out an application for a DJ position in the lobby of that tenderloin strip joint once.  I couldn’t believe that a girl was stripping to the mournful version of one of the more depressing songs in pop musical history as rendered by Bomb.  If I were in the band, I would have felt like I’d finally made it in some weird sense.  And come to think of it, many of Bomb’s shows would seem to end with everyone on stage stripped nude anyway.

It was a number of different elements that led to the demise of Bomb, be it personal and professional differences, obligatory rock and roll substance abuses and rehabilitation, Yoko Ono, spontaneous combustion, airplane accidents, etc., the band went their separate ways, pursuing varied interests both inside and outside the realm of rock and roll, including fatherhood, living abroad, new bands, highly developed internet entities, furthering education, working as bartenders, even working with yours truly as a cook in a restaurant.  Guitarist Doug Hilsinger has kept the highest profile in the music department with a variety of bands including Hedonist, Gifthorse and his present band Waycross.  Michael Dean bassist and vocalist has also been very busy and the fruits of his efforts are best exemplified by a visit to his shamelessly mastubatory yet fully intriguing website kittyfeet.com.  Here you will find out everything he’s been doing for the past few years, and thanks to certain technological advancements of modern day home computing, you can also download many musical and visual offerings.  As well as his own post-Bomb musical projects you can also find all the information you need about Bomb in there too.  One incredible offering culled from his website is an out-take from the first Bomb reunion recording Lovesucker.  There was a cut meant to be included on that disc but drummer Tony Fag vetoed that idea for some reason.  The song is called “If I Were a Gurl,” and the website explains quite well how the cut came to be and how you can download it for your own listening pleasure.  Thankfully Eugene my fellow Hole in the Wall DJ and huge Bomb fan has a writeable CD thingy  (I’m so tech savvy) and has burned copies of it to play at the bar, because it is an unbelievably brilliant piece of music.

Playing on a theme present in other Bomb songs such as “Spoked Feet” with it’s opening lyric, “The girl that I miss is just me in a dress,” “If I Were A Gurl” explores the realm and possibilities of gender fluidity, something many of rock and roll’s most sensational figures have dwelled upon at one time or another.  But here Bomb take the idea for an epic anthemic 18 minute romp that from beginning to end is utterly powerful and intriguing and most certainly never boring.  Each drum beat, guitar foray and resonant throb of the bassline is positively essential and realized and not filler believe it or not.  People frequently ask about it whenever it’s played, commenting “It’s beautiful,” or “It’s so satanic,” or my favorite, “It’s a tranny anthem!”  It is definitely one of the finest songs I’ve heard all year, and to download your own copy of it go to http://kittyfeet.com/mp3.htm then if you are fortunate enough to have a friend with a CD burner you can have a copy of your very own to impress your friends at parties.

Back to the final Bomb shows, the first took place at the Cocoderie in north beach and it was amazing.  As far as Bomb shows go, this one was particularly dark and powerful and intense beyond belief.  I knew we were in for something huge and monumental when after a very leisurely long time setting up and a noodling psychedelic guitar-off intro by Jay and Doug, Michael walked onstage barefoot and wearing just a T-shirt and a pair of black briefs, but the playfulness stopped after the nearly a cappella version of Mrs. Happiness from their first LP, To Elvis in Hell, when Tony placed himself behind the drum kit.  From there on out it was a fucking dark and powerful affair.  The crowd was a definite Bomb-loving group of folks, ready to see the sacred wonderkind    rip it up, and they did, probably louder and darker and scarier than I’ve ever seen them play.  They also announced before this all started that they would be playing a free show at The Eagle Tavern’s second anniversary party that coming Wednesday, a surprise bit of news that nearly put me through the roof.   Not only would this show not be their final show after all, but their true final show would be held in a bar that I frequent, have DJed at before, and is one of the few gay bars around that ever plays Bomb’s music, or Rock and Roll for that matter.  And just for the record here at the onset of the big Folsom Street Fair Weekend and all the Leather Community events, pageants, secret edge-play parties and stylistic stratification symposiums by which you will be judged, read, chewed up and spit out by each other based on how your gear fits and if your “boy” has maintained it properly all weekend long, it is my understanding historically that the original leather bars of yesteryear most definitely featured rock and roll music, not disco, not Cher’s new song, but Rock and Roll, the music favored by the bikers whom you model your little outfits after.  I’m glad that someone has the sense and sensibilities enough to remain true to that detail and The Eagle Tavern has for two years now, peeling back the many layers and upholding a fundamental and honest sense of tradition that most have forgotten.  Faggots are so fickle.  Well, they are.

That night at the Eagle was a tremendous party, with the extra treat of owner Joe Banks handling the DJ booth between bands, something he’s been doing a bit more of on some Friday nights lately, and his archival knowledge of music and general instinct and tastes have always set the standards of and broadened the scope of all the music played at both The Hole in the Wall and The Eagle.  It’s always a pleasure to find him in the booth.  I’ve also just learned that Bryon from The Hole, one of my favorite DJs in the city will now be doing every other Friday night at the Eagle, and in spite of his innocent boyish looks, he has a penchant for sick and twisted rock and colorful obscurities.

By the time Bomb took the stage I was feeling pretty festive, satisfied to see that a number of people I had told not to miss this show were there and ready to be dazzled, mystified and blown away.  After a few minor sound bugs were worked out the band roared into a very long set concentrating mostly on selections from Lovesucker and Hate Fed Love, plus a few from their earlier records.  The dark and scary tone of the previous show was still somewhat present but the quality that loomed more prominently over this set was one of distinctly solid musicianship.  These players created such a finely tuned monstrous machine of a band, everyone shining equally, everyone’s timing impeccable, everyones interplay spellbinding and complex.  Michael Dean was in great form, reminding me fully just what a tremendous vocalist/frontperson he is with his great range and clever phrasing and his irresistably magnetic angelic/demonic persona.  The show was like a dream that just gets better and better.  I was fully drawn into it and at times felt waves of nostagia hit me, getting all warm and sentimental and almost teary-eyed but in that happy way.  Jay and Doug are definitely two of the best fucking guitar-wizards this town will ever see, and Tony Fags drumming is like a power bigger than himself, other-worldly, out of body even.  T

Towards the end of the set at least one member, Jay had disrobed completely, like old times.  Just after the show and the following couple of days when I ran into people who were there they kept saying things to me like, “I thought you were gonna snap your head right off your neck,” or “You certainly seemed to be in your element that night,” or “You were wild!  Are you always like that?”

“Well, c’mon, this was Bomb’s final show ever,” I replied,  “But I might be.”

Long live Bomb!

I heard a funny Halloween joke:  How do Hillbillies celebrate Halloween?  Give up?  They pump kin!  Now I should run a disclaimer or apology to all educated people from the greater Appalachian territories committed to eradicating antiquated stereotypes and all incest survivors as well, and probably some coven of witches in Oakland even for trotting out an insensitive little one liner laden with possible issues for some individuals, because here as we approach the new millennium the collective consciousness should have progressed beyond such unenlightened levels of thought such as a joke like that, right?  Eat me.  As we near the millennium we should free ourselves of the confines and shackles imposed on us by society such as the fully passé and transparent notion of political correctness and the sociological and even spiritual hierarchy implied by it.  As I see it, the dawn of the new millennium should be met with a minimum of pretending. Wouldn’t that be unique! Imagine the truth instead of a series of studied responses to situations that might mean something to you if you weren’t white middle to upper-class American citizens, donning the proper mask on a stick for a variety of expressed ideological positions, feigning a deep concern with altruistic conviction just for appearances sake so others will note which rung of the humanitarian ladder you perch on and how near it is to the sky burial platform-the final transformation of the uber-enlightened.  I’m over the yardstick of individual spirituality being based on such lame criteria as how many Free Tibet concerts you’ve attended, your drug trip at the last Burning Man, how many pierces you have, how “green” and cruelty-free your household sundries and body products are, or how you really feel about migrant field workers, desecrated Tibetan temples or the children working in sweatshops for Kathie Lee Gifford.  It’s time we stop acting as if we really care about certain things just to be viewed as a better person with an enriched soul by others who are scrambling to be viewed in that same move-over-Mother-Teresa-and-Ghandi-the-light-of-inner-peace-shines-out-of-our-behinds way.  This whole millennium thing is really starting to get a touch elitist-ask around if your own consciousness is at the proper level for it.  There will always be  people who know better than you if your soul is ytk ready-people who recycle always and have spent at least a summer or two wearing skirts,  working the earth and checking vibes at Wolf Creek Oregon’s Faerie camp or wearing the earth on LSD in the desert for Burning Man.  They know.

Now, back to Halloween.  It suddenly came to mind as I was writing this that one year I saw possibly my all time favorite costume, on about three or four different people who had the same clever idea.  It was the year that Indira Ghandi was assassinated, shot eight times, and I saw a few people wearing Sarongs with eight bloody spots and thought this was the naughtiest of all possible responses to a tragedy.  I couldn’t stop laughing.  Since that time I’ve always searched for a similar topical tragedy to emulate on Halloween but it just hasn’t presented itself.  At press time I still haven’t figured out any particular costume and generally don’t go all out in that department, in fact I usually view the overall day with a bit of disdain as it usually stretches out to encompass several days of different events and costumed revelers acting out and drinking themselves sick on my street dressed as sexy fetish witches or Jason from Friday  the 13th.

I’ve always considered Halloween as the official kick-off point for the entire holiday season, and you all probably know by now just how much I adore the whole glorious suicide, stress and good will towards men peak months.  The millennium is certainly adding to the momentum of it all-this is the last Halloween of the millennium and this simple fact is likely prompting many folks to make it an extra special one, and there’s a variety of options and events to choose from to help make it memorable.

Top of my list for this year is an event just a day or so before the 31st that I’m thrilled to see and that is the play Grim Guignol at café DuNord.  What Halloween would be complete without the charming elements of blood and gore and mayhem and crimes against the flesh, and what better place to see it than a restaurant/bar!  Brought to you by the new theater company Unattended Children and brainchild of Omewenne, this ghastly trilogy of tales proves to be frightening, unnerving, and unusually gruesome, with a cast of talented committed actors whom my cat Handsome adores, as they have held most of their rehearsals here in my home and they lavish attention upon him, the most popular member of our household.  However, once they dig into rehearsal, handsome gets all skittish and jumpy and cowers in my room, the screams of pain and plunder so vivid and frightening I caught him trying to phone the police the other day.  At any rate, this is a very exciting first production from a theater group ready to stir up a somewhat droll and standard theatrical community.  Imagine, theater with no gay nudity involved.  It’s a novel idea.  Remaining shows are Friday and Saturday, 7pm Café Dunord, no reservations $15.

On Halloween night there’s an event at the Filmore that I’m certain will be an absolute blast-it must be because every year for as long as I can remember the venue has featured the same attraction on Halloween, and that is the magnificent, kitschy spooky rockabilly wonderband The Cramps.  Kicking around for over 20 years now, their sound has remained a consistent, bent and over the top psychobilly rock and roll that defies you to not have a grinning funfilled good time.  Front man Lux Interior is like a mixture of Iggy, dead Ricky Nelson and a nasty stripper drag queen.  He always starts a show all dolled up real pretty and progresses to a half naked soaking wet madman with a microphone shoved down is throat, breathing heavy.  Guitarist Poison Ivy is the rock of this group-her rockabilly stylings a bonafide institution, her hair among the biggest in rock and roll and that never-changing deadpan disinterested sneer.  She can also make a guitar sound just like a chicken!  Deadbolt opens the show and they claim to be the scariest band alive.  They’re a laugh riot live and a staple in many of my DJ shifts with their skewed sense of surf guitar horror humor.  Cool show to see at a great friendly and historical venue.

Across town at the Maritime Hall is quite possibly the definitive Halloween show when The Creatures return to San Francisco yet again.  In a move that has been met with very favorable responses both from live shows and in record sales as well, Siouxsee and the Banshees pared down to the experimental duo of Budgie and Siouxsee known as the Creatures and recorded new material and have been thoroughly enchanting audiences with their shows.  It seems the enigmatic Siouxsee has really hit upon a creative realm that she seems to be quite happy with.  With  the Banshees on hiatus after a long interesting life,  The Creatures seem to be bristling with a new energy possibly afforded by the freedom of their non-affiliation with Geffen, the banshees label.  The Creatures are distributed by Sioux records-her own label.  My friends Adam and Michael the Canadians are certain that this Halloween night concert will be the best choice of events for the last Halloween of the millennium.

Finally there is one other event I thought I would mention as a fun choice for Halloween and that is The Hole In The Wall Saloon, where I will be dj ing the entire night and I have distinct plans to play the most frightening and scariest of sets ever.  I’m not talking that cutesy Monster Mash type of scary music, just lots of stuff from the darker side of things and few other audio surprises.  Remember this is the last Halloween of the millennium so I’m gonna be giving it my all and trying to scare even the most jaded Satanists and serial killers and cannibals and mothers.

After previewing an upcoming show in my last column as a rock and roll event not to be missed, and I noticed that all the other papers lauded the event similarly, I was completely bummed out to learn that Riverside, California’s bright new band on the verge of ruling the world, The Bellrays had cancelled all their upcoming shows including last Saturday at Bottom of The Hill because the drummer Ray had suddenly quit the band.  I was planning on attending with my two evil Canadian friends who were the ones that turned me on to the Bellrays after seeing them open for Destroy All Monsters at the Paradise a while back.  They were so impressed by their set they purchased their hard-to-find CD Let It Blast, a crudely recorded 17 song affair laid down live with no overdubs in a 15×15 foot practice space.  The caustic duo then lent the disc to me and in no time the cut “Good Behavior” became a staple in my DJ sets.  Any song with the opening line, “Your Momma’s in jail,” is just gonna be a staple, as well as the song “Killer Man” with it’s opening line “Killer Man take a ride in my car,” and it’s repeated chorus of  “Killer man I am your temple.” sung with all the fervor of a gospel hymn—from the other side of the river Euphrates, backed by a band that crunches furiously like the best of Detroit’s garage-y Stooge-ish nasty rock and rollers, but with a little more R&B and soul influences.  You can understand why we were so disappointed to hear of their cancellation.  Even worse was the fact that an original member had left the band.  What would this mean to the Bellrays?  And right as they are about to break big.

Subsequently I saw my friend Lance from Texas, a former Hole in The Wall DJ currently working a dream job within the music industry who knows more about so much great music I’ve never heard of that it’s almost not right, and he told me that The Bellrays aren’t going to pack it all in over this, thank heaven, and are definitely in the market for a new drummer and he actually knows someone who is auditioning for them.  So, I’m pleased to say the departure of their original drummer will not spell the end of a band that’s destined for greatness and high regard.  I look forward to another chance to see them in the near future.

Speaking of Lance, he has turned me on to more incredible music over the last year than any one particular source and I’m forever grateful for his recommendations.  One of his more recent tips was a band he told me about called The White Stripes.  I looked all over the place for this disc on the Sympathy For The Record Industry label, a great label that’s been around for about ten years and recently released a compilation called Alright This Time Just The Girls featuring many of their finest mostly female acts over the past decade.  I picked up that two CD set while in search of The White Stripes and boy what a package it is!  There are a total of 48 different acts featured, some as familiar as the Muffs, Hole, The Geraldine Fibbers, April March, and Thee Headcoatees to a smattering of short-lived even one time only acts like The Trip (who score with the best cut of the set, “Help Me”), the Grown-ups, Candypants, Electrocutes, and other underground sensations like The Detroit Cobras, Free Kitten, Buck, The RedAunts, and more.   The best thing about this compilation is the simple fact that it has prompted me to seek out many of the artists featured for more of their recorded efforts.  With some acts the search is difficult, for instance The Detroit Cobras are a great gritty R&B/soul outfit who cover very interesting and obscure Detroit-based 60’s garage band songs and are now defunct.  I gathered information on them by running a few searches on the internet, leading me to a great site from of all places The Netherlands called Grunnen Rocks (http://www.grunnenrocks.nl/hoofd.html) a band and label list compiled meticulously with the simple motto, “Have fun listening to good music,” that is so detailed and linked to other sources it’s shocking.  It was here that I learned some more background on the White Stripes, whose debut CD I finally found at the Virgin Superstore, a place that kind of drives me mad to shop in but in some cases it’s the only place I can find certain things.  Plus I always get a kick out of the listening stations there, lining the walls and scattered on posts throughout the store because quite frequently an excited and oblivious person will break into song while listening on the headphones—especially in the rap section.  It’s like a personal karioke bar in their own heads or something.  It was especially beautiful listening to this drunken homeless person sing along to Holes Celebrity Skin, air guitar included.

Now, about The White Stripes.   They are a brother and sister duo by the names Jack and Meg White and they’re from Detroit.  The picture on the cover of the CD has them dressed in red and white only and to be honest they look like they are about 12 years old, a bit skinny and awkward yet undeniably hip, especially the girl with her kinder-whore little girls dress on and a white feather boa.  The CD itself is made to look like a large red and white striped peppermint candy, like from Brach’s.  Judging so far from the package you might anticipate some sugary sweet Archies-type precious pop novelty group but what you get is far from that, worlds away in fact.

It’s hard for me to believe the sounds that come from these two young people and equally hard to explain what I find so appealing, even mesmerizing about this record, and why it ranks high on my top ten list of best records I’ve heard all year.  Much of its appeal must have something to do with the overall pared down minimalist bent of the instrumentation—just guitar and drums with occasional tambourine and maybe some tapping on bottles as well. This as well as the heavy levels of reverb and distortion applied in recording makes for a large and gritty and rough sounding disc, thick with atmosphere like a sweaty, sweltering, smoky, nicotine-stained, dusty roadhouse.  Along with this sort of southern bluesy feel comes a sort of regional rock and roll grind and unhinged over-the-top angst indigenous to Detroit and it’s rich history of influential rockers.  Vocalist/guitarist Jack White also has an impressive history in music himself, running Italy Records, a very small label that has put out a series of mainly seven-inch singles by bands like The Hentchmen, Rocket 455, The Dirtys and of course The White Stripes.  He was also in a band called Two Star Tabernacle who did one single with Andre Williams.  This disc is co-produced by Jack Diamond who produced Andre Williams’ great LP Silky.

Jack White’s vocals are also a treat, singing in a higher nasal register that brings to mind the vocals on The Meat Puppets first couple records, maybe even a touch of Gordon Gano of The Violent Femmes, and even a young Bob Dylan, covering Dylan’s “One More Cup Of Coffee” on the disc.  Another great cover they do is “St. James Infirmary.”  But the original songs on this debut disc are the heart of the matter with The White Stripes, ranging lyrically from blues simplistic to folk wordiness and most of the songs clocking in at just two minutes long.  Each song is like a fresh sonic blast of something old or fundamental and stripped down yet imbued with something about the present, some mystery quality that is contemporary yet focussed on a tremendous respect or fascination for musical history, a retro rapture that won’t be bothered by accusations of breaking no new ground because this music knows it’s soul is old.  It’s an irresistible sound.  Buy The White Stripes.

Was it ever a fun week for media-watching!  Day by day some absurd tragedy after another, and damn near all of them were in amusement parks!  Indeed, accidental deaths at places where people take children to have the times of their little lives are tragic and rare, with theme parks always shrouded in some wistful magical slogan like Disneyland’s “The Happiest place on earth” or bent on creating some kind of magical kingdom or cartoon wonderworld replete with larger than life familiar-from-Saturday-morning characters skipping around, posing for pictures, tickling the kids and creating just a joyous bright and happy happy happy colored world, it just shoots things to hell when a strap isn’t tightened just so or a cable snaps or a ride operator smokes PCP or has a Vietnam flashback about his missing arm and wham, blood splatters across the happy face of American family style leisure, from the baby’s  stroller to mom’s sun hat and all over the kids cotton candy! So what does it mean when there are five such amusement park deaths or accidents in one week?  Hmmmmm. A lot of changed vacation plans for many an American man, wife, and 2.3 children over Labor Day weekend maybe?  I know I’d think twice before considering packing up the brood in the family sport utility vehicle and heading off towards Six Flags Over oh-my-God-there’s-been-an-accident-that-will-take-years-of-therapy-to-stop-the-panic-attacks-over-the-mere-mention-of-the-word-vacation.   In one dark week towards the end of summer there were four separate incidents of thrill rides ending in death, injury or sky-high rescue operations in various theme parks across this proud nation, and upon investigation of each incident there’s a quite a few very real, even disturbing details that make you wonder about the parents of the victims, the ride operators, the park employees, the corporation that owns more than one of the parks where accidents occurred, and the ever-present and obvious question, why did this happen?

The most curious of these cases would have to be the death of the 12 year old boy in Santa Clara who perished falling from the famous ride called The Drop Zone.  As I read the story in the newspaper my mouth sort of dropped open with the information, “both severely mentally and physically handicapped.”  It struck me as odd that such a child would be placed on a ride where one is elevated to the top of a tower then dropped to a high speed free-fall broken just before hitting the groundlevel, for his personal enjoyment, especially with out a parent next to him.  As I understand it, the person next to the boy on this ride was by coincidence an employee of the park, not specifically on duty to aid the handicapped patrons or anything, he was technically off duty….or was he?

This situation brought to mind a particular movie I saw for the first time recently, Andy Warhol’s Bad, a very dark comedy about a woman who runs a boarding house/electrolysis clinic full of lowlifes who she commissions out to clients to commit acts of violence, like killing a neighbors dog, killing an unwanted baby, killing a wealthy couples autistic child, etc.  In one memorable scene a young mother talking on the phone and awaiting the arrival of another woman paid to kill her crying baby, gets tired of waiting and throws the screaming child out the window herself from a height of probably three or four times that of the drop zone.  When it hits the street a mother with an unruly child walk by and the mother says, “See, that’s what will happen to you if you don’t stop being such a brat.”  In another scene Perry King sets out on a job to kill an autistic child at the request of the child’s mother but he just can’t go through with it and storms into the parents room and throws the money at the mother and says “Do it yourself.”  Well, I know these are pretty absurdly dark themes in this film but I couldn’t stop thinking about them and that said person in the seat beside the accident victim.  Wouldn’t he have noticed during the 25-second plunge that the boy had squirmed free of his safety restraints or whatever led to his falling from the ride?  Just exactly what was his job title there at Six Flags?

It’s all still under investigation but I have a theory.  It applies as well to another tragedy of a few years back, the airplane crash of little Jessica Dubroff the would-be first seven year old pilot to fly cross country.  Remember how Jessica’s mother didn’t seem really very upset over her daughter’s death?  It was that resolute calmness that prompted me then to believe that her mother was merely exercising her reproductive rights by taking the life of her fetus not in the seventh month but rather the seventh year of her life.  Well perhaps the harsh tactics and moral policing of rabid Right To Lifer’s for the past couple of decades has pressured so many pregnant women to go through with delivering children that were not planned or wanted or were even the product of rape or incest that the formation of a secret ring of pro-choice post-natal assassins has developed to make right some apparent wrongs by getting rid of children that were never really wanted but came to be out of fear, fear of being judged by others, fear of being ostracized as a sinner, or even fear of taking shrapnel in an abortion clinic bombing.   What better place could there possibly be to set this situation straight than an amusement park?  Take out an unwanted kid here and there, throw in an occasional adult death to cover it up to a certain extent, command a performance for the media by the grieving mother and it’s a done deal—one step forward for the Pro-Choice Movement, just a bit after the fact but taken care of finally.  The ring of assassins could be employed by the park as a sort of undercover security crew, snapping cables here, safety straps there to rid their clients of unwanted pregnancies that progressed well past the in vitro stages.  The service could be attained much in the same manner as illegal abortions used to be, ask Frank Sinatra’s mother or take a trip to Tijuana or seek the advice of that one doctor that every girl in town has the number of hidden in the very back of her address book.

This whole situation reminds me of a time when I actually attended a Solano County Fair for some godforsaken reason and I noticed in a long line for a thrill ride called The Drop To Hell, a woman tightly holding on to the hand of a screaming child who was obviously scared to death of getting on this ride.  The laughing mother with the iron-strong grip was chuckling and saying, “Ride with momma on The Drop To Hell!”  Indeed.

On to other things, by the time this is out, I will have just seen a great band at Bottom of the Hill who just released their second LP and are stirring up quite a bit of attention, called Verbena.  From Birmingham, Alabama, this trio’s latest Into the Pink, is one of the most enjoyable and thoroughly strong releases I’ve heard this year.  Produced by former Nirvana drummer And Foo Fighter Dave Grohl, and bearing certain stylistic similarities, the music press is already trying to tag them the “new Nirvana” which is such an awful thing to do to a band.  So they are three-piece rock band with a song or two about guns, so what!  All I know is this disc just rips and the first single from it is called “My Baby Got Shot.”  This record could easily be a very big hit and it’s definitely worth a trip to the record store right now.

Another Bottom of The Hill show that I can tell you about in advance so you won’t miss it is the return of The Bellrays.  This band of riff slinging rough and dirty Detroit-style rockers Ala MC5 and Stooges had the brilliant idea to match that rock-monster sound up with a soulful kick-ass female vocalist with R&B pumping through her veins.  The results are phenomenal, especially live, and recently they were named Best Band by The L.A. Weekly.  When I caught them live the first time I was amazed at how young they all were to be sounding so gritty and traditional and real.  This is another band to watch out for, making a mighty real noise.  The Bellrays will show you quite clearly what is soul and what is soul-less, and where a tank of soul-lessness ain’t gonna take you.  The show takes place September 4 so get your tickets from ticketweb.com.

One final note, a friend phoned me up the other day to tell me that he was watching Bravo profiles the other day and they were doing Madonna and when the interviewer asked her who she most admires she said, “It used to be Hillary Clinton but now I’d have to say P.J. Harvey.  I think she is visionary.”  Right the fuck on, Madonna!  That made my day.