litterbox

Outer space

by John O'Neill

IT'S HARD TO believe it's been a full calendar year since America was turned on its head. Sometimes I think about Lyndy, who but for the grace of a bum knee was scheduled to pull duty on that first flight out of Logan. Once in a while I remember that nice couple at our wedding whose son didn't get a good-bye phone call off before the north tower crumbled. And Cubby – an old pal and a major fuckup – who, fortunately, managed to get himself canned from his upper-floor job when his routine of arriving with the previous evening's party still fresh on his breath wore thin. Then there were the various outrages, the plain, stupid things like small minds committing hate crimes and issuing lists of songs no longer suitable for the ears of us poor sheep. But we're resilient. We've weathered NYC's singing cop, "God Bless America" during the seventh-inning stretch, and most important, the entertainment industry's self-absorbed quest to make sure that we knew they cared. We have even moved forward, kinda. Last time I flipped on the tube, there was The Anna Nicole Show. For better or worse, we are returning to normalcy – if not striving for something better.

The O'Neill household is no exception. It is no secret in the circles that I move in that this old boy – as outgoing as one could hope for once the sun sets and the soiree gets cooking – is seldom a ball of fire in the morning. Peevish might be the suitable word. But all that is changing, due in no small part to the Saturn V Featuring Orbit's new Having a Twist Party With ... (Big Ben). The Saturn V (pronounced "five," or "vee") are a bit of a local supergroup (members have done hard time in almost legendary outfits like the Crawdaddy's and Phantom Surfers), which is a moot point, as they're the type of band nobody seems to care about anymore. A lot of it has to do with the look, and the V resemble a bunch that would be cast in bit roles in the black-and-white episodes of I Dream of Jeannie. Add to that the admittedly revolting Pabst Blue Ribbon knit hats they favor for live appearances, and you have every Haight Street fashion rocker's nightmare. Old guys in matching dinner jackets does not cool make.

More likely it's the sound. While the band reach down to deliver frat rock the old-fashioned way, Orbit and the boys downplay the R&B neo-stomp and shout for a more traditional sound: three-part harmonies, phony dance crazes, and dopey themes carry the day. Twist Party owes more to Joey Dee and all the other twist riders who recorded a Live at the Peppermint Lounge album than to anything that has transpired in music in the 40 years since. The rock and roll is more refined, like a classy Friday night at the supper club. Cocktails, not drafts. Fur stoles, not sleeve tats. Tunes are coolly delivered, loosely played, and blissfully innocent. The simple, new-morning activities, like watering the flowers and opening the windows, are almost therapeutic with the boys wailing in the background. Things feel, well, hopeful. Sometimes having a foot in the artless familiarities of yesterday helps to keep one moving down the unknown path ahead.

E-mail John O'Neill at litterbox@sfbg.com.