By LA Weekly
By Henry Rollins
By Weekly Photographers
By Shea Serrano
By Nate "Igor" Smith
By Dan Weiss
By Erica E. Phillips
By Kai Flanders
But aside from straight men in fur coats, you knew this was a successful party because a) at least a third of the crowd spilled over into the back patio, blissfully ignorant in their nicotine haze; b) attention-craving lonely hearts were shaking it solo on the dais under the kliegs; and, most important, c) the energy was peaking even as the lights went up and peeps had to be thrown out. (Andrew Lentz)
SUICIDE GIRLS BURLESQUE, KENNEDY, BLOOM at the Echo, January 10
Rather than yet another burlesque troupe, it’d be nice to see more lewd and tattooed nubiles like those on Suicidegirls.com forming rock bands. That said, despite its curious name, the Web site seems to have its booty — and brain — in the right place: celebrating unconventional forms of beauty, pushing boundaries of sexuality, viewing ink and piercings as artful forms of expression.
Unfortunately, the vibe at the Echo wasn’t much different from that of a strip club, and the lascivious spectacle lacked the coy sensuality that made the burlesque revival, in its infancy anyway, so refreshing. Two (all-male) trios opened up: Bloom, a tight and punchy outfit meshing T-Rexish melodies with Billy Squier–chunky guitar licks, followed by Kennedy, who didn’t fare as well as on record due to broken bass strings and a crowd of dudes growing impatient for the punky poontang to follow. By the time the glam-popsters got to their final number, even Ken’s nauseating chug-a-lug of an entire bottle of Jack Daniel’s (or was he faking us out with Lipton’s?) couldn’t generate much excitement.
Not so for the main event. Horny hipster boys hooted while spike-belted groupies, computer-nerd types and a noticeable butch contingent stood on chairs to glimpse their favorite cyber-tarts in the flesh. Titillating skits included a beer-swigging session turned wet-T-shirt jig to Joan Jett, and a kitchen-themed three-way scramble to “Chocolate Salty Balls” from the South Parksoundtrack. There were lots of pasties and panties, and of course posing, prancing, grinding and girl-on-girl kissing — nothing you wouldn’t see most Hollywood go-go dancers do on any given night. Still, the Suicide Girls have obviously marketed themselves so well, it’s not really about what they do or don’t do at this point, but who they are and what they stand for. Too bad this brash tit-Ã -tÃªte didn’t explore what that is. (Lina Lecaro)
THE PENFIFTEEN CLUB, CHEVY METAL at the Malibu Inn, January 9
The Malibu Inn ain’t what it used to be. With recent renovations doubling its capacity and aggressive new management planning to bring the likes of KRS-One, the Dead Kennedys and General Public to its stage, the old roadhouse is starting to look like House of Blues West. The first-generation surfer dudes still haunting the place on Friday didn’t seem to mind, though. Judging from the stunning assortment of Malibu Stacies packing the floor to see Foo Fighters’ gifted drummer, Taylor Hawkins, crank up some moldy oldies with his weekend cover band, Chevy Metal, the term “Sunset Strip” has even more draw as an activity than a place.
It was unfortunate, however, that most of the beautiful people arrived too late to catch the early highlight of the evening, a set of the Penfifteen Club’s patented “ZZ/DC” funk-rock boogie. Aside from the botched ending that threatened to turn their otherwise spot-on cover of “Don’t Bring Me Down” into an Electric Light Or-castration, it was a triumphant evening for the phallic focus group. Their “Ms. Hilton” has been getting serious airtime as the rock & roll raspberry that socks it to Paris Hee Haw–style every time she milks a bull or steps in pig shit on her “reality” show, The Simple Life, so there was real electricity in the air when the Penfifteen Club whipped it out for their loyal fans.
You have to credit P15 front man Luke Tierney for having the foresight — and foreskin — to record an affectionate tribute to the ditzy dame a solid year and a half before she endeared herself to millions in the most downloaded sex romp in history. The affiliation has certainly proved productive: With “Ms. Hilton” the second most requested song on Santa Barbara’s KJEE, Penfifteen’s four horsemen of cock-rock have the distinction of being the only unsigned rock band in regular rotation on a Clear Channel–owned station. Viva la revoluciÃ³n, boys. (Liam Gowing)
(Photo by Wild Don Lewis)
THE DOLLYROTS, TRIPOD, XO at the Smell, January 10
Feeding on the Aether in precise, propulsive frenzy, Tripod’s dynamic, sexual tyrannosaurus of sound is absorbed into the audience and atmosphere with the speed of hepatitis-laced sputum. The temperature of the punk (a sawdust stick used for igniting fireworks, burning slowly in this case) stays constant. The guitar works as a percussive, wavering beacon passing over the nail-gun bass lines, summoning a discofied soul at various points with the essence that is the high hat, as the defiant rumble of rock music pulsates.
The Dollyrots (a trio who surprisingly appear in Hewlett-Packard advertisements, extolling the virtues of doing it oneself) bodysurf inadvertent feedback waves, strumming in precision with shouty fury, their jagged static pop shooting out at odd angles.
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