On May day, the last May Day of the millennium I might add, in the late afternoon I stopped by The Eagle Tavern for a special Rainbow Motorcycle Club May Day/Kentucky Derby Day Party featuring mint juleps, food, live music and (gasp) wagering on the horse race, although I saw nothing of this. When I arrived the Derby was finished and the only evidence of the event was the heavy flow of mint juleps, which I had never had before. They are strong and good, and the gathered crowd was the usual fun, eclectic, and boundless crew of bikers and friends out for a good time. I arrived just in time for the main musical feature of the day, Black Kali Ma, the unsigned, unrecorded band featuring vocalist Gary Floyd, punk-rock veteran of The Dicks, Sister Double Happiness, and blues outfit The Gary Floyd Band, fantastic print and multimedia artist, and one of my most favorite queers on the planet. Black Kali Ma played the longest set I've heard from them to date and it was nothing short of fantastic. It's more than high time for the industry to jump on this band, if not for my own selfish desire to have something recorded by them in my hot little hands. They are ready, with an ample amount of great songs, a more direct hard hitting certainty as a unit than I'd yet seen from their previous sets, and Gary seems pleased as punch to be back in the good old hard rockin' mode, a bit of a departure from his more traditional blues persona in The Gary Floyd Band, a very rich period of his career which has recently been compiled onto one solid new testament of a disc called Back Door Preacher Man on Inner State Records. Buy it-it's essential.
I've noticed also lately that a host of bands from here and abroad have been covering material by Gary's first band, the Dicks. Mudhoney did a long time ago, as well as The Jesus Lizard and more recently the Swedish Rock sensation Turbonegro and a great band called Texas Terri and the Stiff Ones, who take the song "Lifetime Problems" and turn it out so fiercely that Gary actually said he likes their version better. I also recall a time when I saw the band Bongwater in one of their rare live appearances and they performed a cover of the Butthole Surfer's song called "Gary Floyd" a delightful ode to the man and his twisted punk rock glory and inspiration. So, take a tip, people, Gary Floyd is and has been a huge influence and driving force for a good many years in rock and blues, with a body of work that backs it up and a current work in progress that shouldn't be missed. Go see Black Kali Ma, go buy SDH, The Dicks, The Gary Floyd Band, and see what all the fuss is about. It's not like I haven't said it before. This is a sure thing.
When I heard that Grace Jones was appearing live at Club Universe this last weekend, I decided then and there that I was going. I had never seen her live and recently at a friends house I listened to a new collection of her numerous hits end to end and had to admit that her recorded body of work was entirely engaging, innovative and stylistically varied and brazen. She struck me as a very unique artist whose work I was never very attentive to. I managed to get photographer Marc Geller into the idea of going along and taking a few shots, amused at the prospect himself. The folks in charge of such matters at Universe were most accommodating and efficient with our almost last minute requests, which impressed me even more after we waltzed into the club and I got an idea of the overall scope of the club and event and the work it must take to produce something this massive. There were a million people there! Just trying to get a general idea of the layout, where the stage was, where the best vantage point for viewing may be, where the nearest bar to that point was, etc. was nearly impossible as we tried to negotiate our way along one edge of the room and the sea of sweaty hot undulating bodies. Thank heaven for cocktail waitress/vocalist Veronica Klaus, the first familiar face I saw that night , who blazed a trail through it all, clearing the way with a cocktail tray so we could see what we were up against. It was a constant pummeling by the busy bodied discofantasyland revelers, and we assumed from all we had heard that Ms. Jones was not likely to hit the stage anytime soon so we beat a hasty retreat to the restroom at the back of the place and wandered through a couple of lounge areas upstairs and in back. Then what else was there to do but descend upon the big round bar and drink and gaze at the flesh parade while planning our next maneuver come show time-the stage left approach. That's where we ran into The Steve Lady, who laughed and exclaimed, "Isn't it just fabulous being here?" I was hard-pressed to say if the comment was sarcastic, but my lack of response was telling of a general bewilderment. Steve then excitedly started telling us about the Ann Magnusson (actress/performance artist/television star/former half of the experimental duo Bongwater, and former member of Pulsallama)show he had seen earlier that night which he was raving about, and it sounded shockingly good, magnusson physically attacking and humping audience members, exposing her pussy and even singing a five song bowie medley. He was still quite moved by it all and we marveled over the fact that Siouxsee, Grace Jones and Ann Magnusson had all played in town on this night.
Attentions then turned back to the flesh parade, and I started talking to Marc about how everyone uses steroids often prescribed by doctors to combat wasting syndrome in HIV+ patients to be buff and how odd, dangerous and rampant it is in the gay male subculture and a particularly large and handsome shirtless stud caught all of our attention and as soon as he passed The Steve Lady said, "He has a cock that 's ten inches long." The music and lighting changed signaling showtime and we all headed after him, plunging into the dank fleshy world of bodies pumped and glistening with sweat and razor stubble, closing in on us like the dead sea on Roman soldiers. Squeezed together like cattle, people began to assert and define there personal space as a male percussionist began playing a long and nondescript intro on stage. I watched the crowd shifting about me and noticed right away that all the shirtless guys were gravitating towards each other and subtly feeling each other up-eventually smiling at each other knowingly as if they share the same connection for black market injectable steroids and know for a fact that if they look this good, they must be healthy and disease free.
Then Jones appeared, on some higher level platform, all hat and glasses and fan blown fabric, dimly lit, dramatically posed and opened her set with "Slave to the Rhythm". I was immediately struck by how small she was, having for one reason or another always thought Grace Jones was about 6'3". Well she's not , and nor was this opening number any tower of song-it was a bit weak which you don't want to be before a group of shirtless gay buff boys squeezing by each other in a tight crowd, especially when blue neon letters spelling out, "The backroom is open" are shining bright over a doorway just to the left of the stage. She got a rise out of the crowd and a more solid grip on her next number, "Walking In The Rain," not to mention a quick and simple change of outfit, something that occurred with every single song. This fact kind of impressed me because the changes were quick and the clothes weren't entirely out to lunch freaky, save for the washboard abdominal tin woman breast plate get up, the tool-shed chic she chose for "Pull Up To The Bumper." It seems to me that Grace Jones in spite of her forays into ultra weird outfit ideas, can always pull off a more classic or couture look with a certain aggressive refinement-she's done her turn on the runway I guess. By far my favorite song of the show came quite early on and I fully didn't expect it. The stage was dark and suddenly up on the raised platform there was Grace in exaggerated fashion French-isms, playing a large accordion and breaking into "La Vie en Rose" the spot lights bathing her in polka dots as she sang it in far better voice than any of the recorded versions. She disappears in the dark again and this time returns in a tan fringe jacket and braided wig dancing all skank-like and earth mother to a rousing version of "My Jamaican Guy ." During this song a trio of shirtless ones beside me began to finally talk after feeling each other up for awhile. Their conversation went like this: Buffboy#1-- "Is this your first time seeing Grace?" Buffboy#2-"no" Buffboy#3 --"then You've seen her before…where?" Buffboy#1-"Palm Springs?" Buffboy#3-"New York?" Buffboy#1-"Miami? Buffboy#3-"Well then let's go." They quickly departed for a night of carnal pleasure, I knew because they all looked enough like each other. My friend and dedicated photographer Marc was sweaty and uncomfortable and his assistant was succumbing to the ways of buff fag-dom, letting some little buff fag strip his shirt right off of him. It was time to leave, I knew because Grace broke in to another of my faves by her, "Strange." Perfect for an exit, or dismount. I saw Steve Lady on the way out and said, "La Vie En Rose and my night was complete." Does that make me a major fag?
Grace Jones oeuvre at
