By Duncan Scott Davidson
If they could bottle the Woggles, the world wouldn’t need anti-depressants.
The wriggly Woggles
I arrived at 12 Galaxies not exactly depressed, but just having one of those decidedly non rock and roll, rapidly-approaching-middle-age moments: fuck, it’s late. I’m tired. Maybe I should’ve stayed home, went to bed early. The place was more than half empty, which burned me a bit, as it’s the fucking Woggles here, people. From Hot-lanta, G-A? You may have heard of them? The Guardian’s own Cheryl Eddy wrote a pick about them last week, I guess that wasn’t enough. The next time they’re in town, I’m making damned sure the mayor is sober enough to declare it “San Francisco Woggles Day” or some such shit. I mean, I overcame my “adult moment” to get my ass to the club…what’s your excuse?
Opening act Top Ten, featuring the always entertaining Tina Lucchesi (Bobbyteens, Trashwomen, Deadly Weapons, et al) on vocals, was onstage, so that was a plus. The guitar player, or should I say bad-azz axewoman, Erin McDermott, had on this most awesome denim vest that looked heisted from Neil Young’s closet circa ’73, but like tailored to be sexy and not Canadian. I just checked their Myspace, and her favorite band is Cheap Trick, so, you know, that cements my marriage proposal right there. I missed openers Les Hormones, who I heard were fab, which is good, since they’re fighting an uphill battle with the French appellation. French Appalachian? Now, that’s another story. That shit would be hot.
But really, it was all about the reigning kings of the garage, the Woggles, and once again, they didn’t disappoint. Thankfully, the club was more crowded by the time they came on. The Woggles are the type of band that are so cool, they make you think shit like “I can totally rock a three-tiered, blood red, silk ruffle shirt with matching ruffle cuffs. Chicks will totally dig me in that.” And the next thing you know, you’re wondering what the fuck this thing is doing in your closet.
The key, I think, is to just keep them in your earhole via iPod 24-7, then you’ll always feel that indeed, you are just the motherfucker to be rocking said tri-layered crimson ruffle shirt (their band get-up of the night). You know, guitarist the Flesh Hammer (i.e. Jeff Walls, ex-Guadalcanal Diary, for those with indie rock roots) showed up in some kind of Nehru jacket fer chrissakes, and that was just his walkin’ about town duds. This is a band with enough swagger and confidence to convince you that white pants are a good idea.
How'd that shit get in my closet?
Within the first few songs, they launched into “Get Tough” from the 1997 Telstar album of the same name, singer Manfred “the Professor” Jones leaped onto a table and commenced wailing on the harmonica, while the Flesh Hammer got down on his knees in the crowd and throttled his Danelectro (the masonite guitar--not the drummer, who spells his nom de rock with a “k”). Every woman in the joint was doing the bunny hop. After that, it was a blur. I’ll tell you, a dancing woman holds true to the old saw about sex and pizza: even when it’s bad, it’s kind of good. It had to be good, as it was such a freestyle bacchanal that even my clumsy, arrhythmic ass was doing an only somewhat self-conscious watusi. My favorite dancer of the night was the girl in the Fred Perry track jacket…very stylish indeed. It wasn’t long before everyone but the drummer was off the stage (maybe they should get him one of those marching band drum harnesses), the crowd shaking ass and tea kettle, Manfred singing on the end of the bar before leaping off. Now, wait a minute, you’re telling me that I can’t have “San Francisco Woggles Day”? Fuck you, then, we’re making International Woggles Day. “Ragged But Right,” “Got a Heat On,” “Don’t Give Me No Sass,” and the other side of the tracks classic, “Ramadan Romance” were all ripped into, along with a bunch of others.
Prancing with the Prof
These guys have been around since 1987… I was a junior in high school, still bright-eyed with rock and roll possibilities. Hell, I probably owned a Nehru jacket. And they still light it up, every single time. Clearly, I’ve got no excuse to go thinkin’ like an adult on a Tuesday night. I only wish my daughter could’ve been there, as I know she would’ve danced her wee butt off.
“There it is,” drummer Dan Elektro said, getting up from behind the kit after the encore. “If you’re in a band, and you don’t play rock and roll, well -- I can’t see why not.”
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