Pussycat Pussycat...

Forgive the cunctatory gap between my last musing and this'un, no excuses offered except the intervention of a flu bug which short-circuited my will to write, now that it's burned out of my system after singeing my bronchial tubes I am more inclined to wax poetical and what could be more appropriate a subject then the recently observed now sadly departed Valentine's Day? (Every day should be V-Day). Gods and Monsters made obeisance last Friday night in the form of a lovely show upstairs at the Pussycat Lounge, the lower Manhattan den of propinquity that downstairs still (!) functions as a topless a-go-go joint after the long neo-puritanical reign of Rudy G. failed to dim its lights or extinguish its subterranean subversive essence (dunno how you feel about this, but in a world where violent maiming and killing is daily tv fodder...nay, celebrated, certified entertainment, rated G...a little bit of Rated X, as in the Miles Davis tune of the same name, is okay by me, we're all consenting adults here... okay, anyone under the age of 18, stop reading this immediately! RAUS!)

And the occasion was a benefit for God's Love We Deliver, the charity set up to deliver meals to AIDS Victims, organized and hosted by punk-rock femme superstar Black Flamingo, she of the 7 inch spike heels. Hosted by Wolfman Jack's fraternal twin brother Mr. Frank Wood, the night was one of the strangest and most enjoyable trawls for this here reporter/participant through a cavalcade of underground New York bohemian rock-life, I particularly enjoyed the lilting pipes of Allison Gordy (one of Johnny Thunders final singing accomplices) and her whirling dervish of a violin player. We played hard and fast at the witching hour and despite the shambolic shape of the PA there (the upstairs room resembled more or less a Bavarian hunting lodge a day or two or three after the hunt and la grande bouffe) we connected solidly with the glassy-eyed children of the night who came out in sub-frigid weather to support such a worthy cause. Ernie and Billy played with their customary fire and Jason was a madman on sax, Ami spread her supercharged sensuous Eastern vibe and Michael made the young girls weep for joy...the boys in the band (hah hah) checked out the downstairs room on the way out just long enough for a whiff of commercial sexuality (Danger: Topless Girls, Dancing!) to permeate their virgin nostrils but not long enough to be dunned for an outrageously overpriced exotic cocktail...

Quiz Time: What glamorous European comedic actress of the 60's (one of this writer's favorites) died tragically in 1990 by jumping from an 8-story hotel room window in Lausanne? The first respondent who correctly identifies her wins a copy of my recently reissued "Improve the Shining Hour" album on Evolver/Rykodisc...

"Death be damned...Life!" (Don Van Vliet)


xxGary