Cum on, feel the ’8os nostalgia (again)
If you’re old enough to remember the band this column was named after, and ever
sported a conch belt, Aqua Net or spandex (preferably all at once), the book Hollywood
Rocks! will serve as a sobering reminder of just how scary the Sunset
Strip ’80s metal scene looked without a Jack Daniel’s haze. Still, bad hair be
damned, it was a wild time (take it from a former Coconut Teaszer doorgirl).
Cleopatra Records, which published the book, has just released a companion
CD box set and, last Wednesday at the Key Club (formerly Gazzari’s),
prepared a night of flashback-flavored cock-rocking. Silver-haired MC Kim Fowley
looked totally outta place amongst the studded wristbands and leather pants (but
didn’t he always?), while other old-schoolers seemed to have aged surprisingly
well — especially headliners Jetboy (who were always more punk than the
rest; lead singer Mickey Finn still sports his signature mohawk). An all-star
jam never materialized, but Ratt’s Stephen Pearcy did lay it down for a
rousing climax. Seen feeling the noize: porn star/Howard Stern regular
Jasmine St. Clair, former Scream queen Dayle Gloria, Riki Rachtman
(who introduced Jetboy by telling everyone in the crowd under 35 to fuck off .
. . bitter, are we?), and White Trash Debutante Ginger Coyote.
The Suicide Girls may look foxy in their birthday suits, and they
might even give some good sex advice on their Indie 103.1 radio
show every Sunday night, but they ain’t good bartenders! We found that out last
Friday night at the RBK (that’s Reebok to you non-logo-lingo-minded types)
store on Robertson, when the tattooed tarts were tapped to serve cocktails at
Vapors magazine’s party hosted by sk8er boy Stevie Williams.
The drink line was brutally slow and when we finally got to order, they’d
run out of cups! The upbeat sounds of DJ Stretch Armstrong
nearly made up for it — as did the after-party, held at BoJesse Christopher’s
Metro night at Concorde. And finally, the granddaddy of dance
parties, Electric Daisy Carnival came to town (well, San
Bernardino) Saturday to prove once and for all that raving isn’t dead. Despite
the rock stage this year, EDC was all about the pumping electro rooms, where
kids in Technicolor plastic jewelry straddled speakers and stared at the pretty,
pretty lights as they gyrated mindlessly into the wee hours. Heck, and we thought
it was almost time for their embarrassing retrospective book!
Advertising disclosure: We may receive compensation for some of the links in our stories. Thank you for supporting LA Weekly and our advertisers.