Sex, Drugs and Rock 'n Roll

Now, many of you have been accustomed to hearing about my many oddball obsessions--among them cheese, the Kama Sutra, Jerry Hall, purple hair (yes, yes, I know it used to be blue, but for some odd reason it's gone purple now. I bow to its whims), Henry Miller, hating Sex and the City, etc. I'd like to add another one to the list: local bands.

I think when you live in New York, you have to be crazy not to go and see the local bands. You can hear virtually any kind of music, and though you hear a lot of crap, you also hear some bands that are really amazing. I've gone three bands in three nights, and though I do feel a little wobbly, it was well worth it.

Last night, as many of you know, was the Heather concert. I took Miss Julie to Arlene's Grocery to see them. Several members of Heather are in the bands Hair Supply (a hair band tribute to Air Supply) and Satanicide (a mock heavy-metal band). Specifically, my friend Griff--one half of the Mad Brits--plays drums in all three bands. (For those of you new to our little chat, the Mad Brits are Griff and Allie, the hard-partying, most crazy, married rockers who are much, much cooler than me. They consistently tell me that they lead very boring lives, but every time I go out with them, I slink woozily back in at the crack of dawn like Bertie Wooster, usually while they're deciding where to go next).

Well, Heather was just amazing. For one thing, they're all hot. Now I know that being a musician always makes a man hot, but it's particularly hot when you're a talented musician. Heather made me feel like I was sitting in someone's garage in a shredded concert T with a beer in my hand, listening to someone's band. A very 70's vibe. Miss Julie and I were just saying how we wanted to be in the back, away from the speakers, when they started. By the end, we were way up close to the stage, rocking out (which, in this case, means jumping around waving our arms in the air and shouting. It just sounds cooler if I say rocking out)

Aftewards, we partied with the band. Actually, we just hung out and had some drinks, but, again, it sounds cooler to say we partied with the band. Griff and Ali were as fun and generous as ever, and I kept promising to put them in the next blog entry. At the end of the night, Griff was saying, "We still have to do something cool for the blog entry" and all I could think was, "Are you kidding?"

Because the whole night was like some Jefferson Airplane documentary, complete with me following a snowy white rabbit into another world. We were joined by bassist Drew, singer Dale and guitarist Gerard. (Other guitarist Phil I never met, but allow me to say that I finally have proof that a guy can look cool in a porn star mustache). The rumor was that Rufus Wainright, who I saw at the show, wanted Drew to be his bassist, but he knows that if he leaves Heather I'll never forgive him. Drew, by the way, had a big cut on the side of his noise from where the mike hit him. He was actually bleeding on stage, but I think he was so busy playing that he didn't notice. Miss Julie and I liked that--it seemed very rock and roll. Gerard is a fellow dogwalker, as is Ali, and the three of us meeting made me think of a perfect nerve.com article called "Sex Advice From Dogwalkers" ("Sex Advice From (Insert Profession Here)" is a nerve.com regular feature) (Remind self to pitch article). Dale left first, and I think it's generally not a good idea to tell him that his hair reminds you of the mane of the lead singer of Quiet Riot--mostly because I think he's going for a more 70's look. (Sideburns, maybe?) The rest of us non-performing groupies blearily and dutifully followed the band members as they progressively partied down the Lower East Side. I managed to outlast Gerard and his-friend-whose-name-I-can't-remember, although perhaps that wasn't a good idea. Towards the end of the night, they were assuming the politely pained and vaguely amused expression that I see so often when I'm thoroughly fucked up (forgive the less than precise description, but I really can't think of a better way to describe the condition I was in).

After we were reluctantly ejected from a bar on the edge of Chinatown by an irritate bouncer who wanted to go home (it was 4:45, after all) I was started to crash in a way that can only be compared to a fiery zeppelin. But, with increasing disbelief, I found that I was still willing to follow the Mad Brit party train as we walked over to John's house. John, who was the big, shaggy, blond haired, amiable fellow I met earlier in the night, is apparently the son of one of the Mamas and the Papas, though I never figured out which one. We arrived at his apartment, past an irate doorman who clearly considered us riffraff, to find that all surfaces in John's apartment were covered with sleeping people who John apparently did not know. It appeared that we were going to be forced to party on the roof, but since it was cold, we had to go on an expedition for sweaters for everyone. Now at this point I was only drifting in and out of consciousness, but as far as I can tell, four other people showed up with lots of drugs and since the waking people outnumbered the sleeping people, the party moved inside and the sweater issue was moot.

I think Griff and Ali (and co.) were genuinely disappointed and puzzled by my decision to go home to sleep, but since the sun was rising, I decided to bow to convention and embark on the drunken sunrise journey home. Actually, the usual convention is a drunken sunrise journey to the nearest 24-hour greasy spoon, but nobody seemed hungry and I was starting to think I needed a cane or some stick to keep me propped up.

Anyway, I woke up this morning feeling only vaguely human, but the point of this sordid tale of the city is that it's fun to go see local bands. You hear great music, and later you can party like a rock star. True, I can only do this once in a while, but it's nice to know people who are completely faithful to the sex, drugs and rock n' roll lifestyle.

Luckily, if you live in New York, there are plenty of options for live music. Satanicide is playing a reunion concert at Bowery Ballroom on June 28, and there's a Hair Supply show coming up soon. Gerard, who's apparently in a half-dozen bands when not walking dogs, has a show in one of them coming up at the Knitting Factory on June 8. (Gerard, write a comment and tell me your band's name again). We still eagerly await hearing Puracane, Ali's triphop band, and Griff tells me that Heather plays with my beloved Les Sans Culottes all the time. Put that show together folks and I will do your publicity! (consisting mainly of cute rocker t-shirts and constant haranguing of my blog audience).

If you don't support your local bands, they'll be extinct. Look what they're trying to do to CBGB's here. That place should have historic landmark status.

As for me, as good as they were, I think I need a break from bands. I plan on lying here with my feet up and a bag of frozen vegetables on my head*, eating cheese and watching Golden Girls reruns. I'll leave you with that appealing image.

*I bought this bag of frozen vegetables when I first moved in, planning to make stir fry. However, it is far more handy for icing twisted ankles and cooling hungover heads, as the bag molds nicely around the offending body part.