The storied Metro Bar in the Castro moved down the street to Church and Market a while ago (the old space became the suspiciously Metro-alike Lookout) -- and people worried for its future. Luckily, the minds behind the Metro are sharp enough to know they need a draw, and the new Metro has already become a premiere trash-drag venue (multiple Joan Crawford tribute nights aside.)
It's even managed to lure one of San Francisco's bloody, beloved drag traditions, The Cookie Dough Monster Show, run by Cookie Dough herself (with her cute DJ partner MC2), from its pleasant perch at Harvey's.
The biweekly Saturday night drag-stravaganza may be big on low-budget thrills, but its offal-covered heart is always in the right place. This Saturday, May 10, features the freakishly unexplainable House of Salad, whom I adore. These underaged children will grow up to be starz someday, I tell you -- starz.
"The truth can finally be told, Marke B.," said Trannyshack mama bear Heklina when I talked to her about her raucous 12-year-old trash-drag weekly at the Stud going dark in August. "I was gonna shut it down on our 10th anniversary -- that's just such a good, round number -- but I was in talks for the past two years with some big time studios about a Trannyshack reality series, so I kept it going. But I guess that's dead in the water now, so it's time to move on." Alas! But hurray for Heklina taking time out to figure herself out. And Trannyshack may return as a monthly, so that would be nice.
There have been so-so-so many disgustingly wonderful Trannyshack moments in the past dozen years to try to remember fully. I think I was at the opening night in 1996, but I was on a lot of meth then, so who the hell knows? Anyway, here are some performances for the ages. I'll be adding more in the next week as soon as I get off my ass and fight my way out of this paper bag hangover (never huff Aquanet people -- it'll make your tongue stick to the roof of your mouth.) And there are a ton of Trannyshack vids on YouTube -- except for some reason they've taken down clips from "Filthy Gorgeous: The Trannyshack Movie" -- I wanted that one where Juanita More and the dwarf get naked for "Put It In My Mouth." Anyway! Enjoy!
Are you bored with the series yet? Well don’t be, because we plan to drive this sucker right into the shiny, dripping dance floor. (Click here for part 1 and here for part 2)
For those just catching up, we’re asking the City’s most prominent fairies for their favorite “gay” videos, which is a bit of a takeoff on the “Gayest. Music. Ever.” cover story we ran a few weeks ago. This week, we’ve asked writer, DJ, and all around bon vivant Matt Sussman, aka Missy Hot Pants, for some of his faves. Let’s get gay on the giga!
“Oooh, blog-opportunity!” quoth Sussman, when we told him we’d pay him ten dollars to sit still long enough to contribute. “What can I get for ten dolla? Not "anything you want," just these gay-ass clips.
xo,
Missy
Samwell, "What What In the Butt"
The Village People, "Sex Over the Phone" Ed Note: Warning! For some reason, I shit you not, Prince and the NPG are removing all clips of this at a furious pace. Therefore, after the jump, we present a really gay French parody video, in case this one gets “Princed” …
After the jump: Mae West raps! Eartha Kitt prowls! “Hairdresser”!
MIA-Spike Jonze gossip and more Treasure Island views
Work dat skirt: a stiltwalker at TIMF. All pics by Kimberly Chun.
Sighted backstage on Saturday, Sept. 15, at the Treasure Island music fest: Spike Jonze, supposedly dating MIA for a hott minute - though as I write they may be on the offs once again!
Whether or not you dug the lineup (or the wind chill or the femme-mullet count), you had to appreciate the views from the isle. Here are a few more pics from Sunday, Sept. 16:
(Obligatory disclaimer: Yes, I love bubblegum pop. If you have a problem with that, bite me.)
I am in serious denial. I can’t believe that the wobbling, nervous (or stoned?), first-time-in-a-talent-show performer at last night’s VMAs was Britney – my Britney. I remember the days when even those who hated her music had to admit that she was a fantastic (and quite attractive) performer. And even through all the media mess she’s become tangled with in the last few years, and her fantastically horrible reality TV show, what’s kept me going – and rooting for her -- is remembering just how mesmerizing she can be on stage. And so I’ve been eagerly anticipating her performance at the VMAs, hoping she’d blow the skeptics away with her trademark snap and sparkle. But no.
AP Photo/Mark J. Terrill Who are you and what have you done with my Britney?
She looked out of practice and out of shape (and I don’t mean her slightly plumper body, which would be sexy if she didn’t look like she’d borrowed it for the night and therefore didn’t know how to wear it,) as though she couldn’t keep up with her choreography and definitely couldn’t handle those heels – and that both of those things were distracting her from pretending to sing. It was so painful to watch, not only because of the vicarious embarrassment factor, but because I really like Britney and wanted her to do well. I only wish she’d taken into account whatever her limitations are (Quaalude addiction? Too much time defending her mothering skills and not enough in the dance studio?
"Photo by Kurt&Bart. I miss this Britney.
The amount of alcohol required to forget she ever married KFed?) and shaped a performance that highlighted her existing strengths, rather than trying – and failing – to embody her former self. Still, I’m not inspired to take shots about how she’s a wash-up at 25 (shame on you, Sarah Silverman). Instead, I’d like to give her a hug, introduce her to my former therapist in Westlake Village, and watch my “Toxic” DVD until my girl makes a real comeback.
Down ye olde Okkervil River (from left: Scott Brackett, Brian Cassidy, Will Sheff, Patrick Pestorius, Jonathan Meiburg, Travis Nelsen). Photo by Todd Wolfson.
O Will Sheff – should his parentals have named him Wit Sheff? I had fun chatting with the brain-teasin' 31-year-old Okkervil River songwriter - catch the first part of the talk in this week’s Sonic Reducer. Here’s more from that interview, and for the proper soundtrack, behold the band at a free performance today, Thursday, Sept. 6, at Amoeba Music in SF.
Bay Guardian: So how did this new album, The Stage Names, materialize?
Will Sheff: Basically when I wrote Black Sheep Boy, I wrote it in the country during the winter, and I wanted to go somewhere else to write this album. When we go on tour it’s hard for me to write songs - I don’t get to touch a guitar unless it’s on stage. I wanted to go somewhere else totally different and I had a cheap deal in Brooklyn and it seemed as different as possible from the place where I wrote Black Sheep Boy. I had a fourth floor apartment, tiny, a room big enough for bed and chair with an open window. And I’d sit by the open window and write songs. I find if you have to walk four floors to get up there, it’s just as isolated as being out in the country. Outside the window there was all this life and hustle and bustle. Then I went back to Austin and recorded the album.
BG: Did anything specific inspire the songs?
WS: I watched this documentary about Clara Bow, the “It Girl,” one of the first movie stars to be famous because of her perceived sexuality. There was something about her that people in ‘20s thought was sexy. She came from a really bad background - her mom was a prostitute and locked her in closet and turned tricks. Then she won some sort of beauty contest and got cast in It. She had a coarse personality and got this reputation as being unpolished. The thing that everyone loved about her became the thing that got turned against her. And these totally untrue urban legends were spread about her.
When the talkies came along, her accent was so strong that studios wouldn’t give her work. Really her life in movies ended. And you think a lot about that, someone who’s an ordinary person who gets swept into this dream world. You wake up a little worse for wear.
BG: Can you relate to her experience, being in a popular band?
WS: I experienced it in my own tiny way - what it’s like to have people think something about you that don’t know you, whether it’s something great or something bad - especially with this record doing better than any of our previous records.
There’s some backlash that has very little to do with us and has to do with other people’s perceptions of hype. It’s amazing how personal people can get about you - not just bloggers - whether it’s positive or negative. People who don’t know you at all! I think that’s very interesting. It works in a negative way where people cast aspersions on your character and haven’t met you, and people cozy up because of the songs, and think you’re their friend. It’s a false intimacy but that’s what a lot of artists are looking for. I know a lot of artists who have a hard time dealing with basic interactions in real life.
BG: Really? Is that true for you?
WS: Maybe a little bit. I think most singers in bands are very awkward people, I’ve discovered. I don’t know if they were born that way or if it’s a function of what you do. Maybe I’m a little bit awkward. But my observations about this have nothing to do with me or my life.
Yes, dears, I know Perez fricking Hilton posted this earlier today -- but the thing's gone so viral, my inbox has gotten overloaded from rabid, hyperintellectual fans! Plus, I use more exclamation points!!! So here I repost it for you (and for me -- I really can't stop watching it.) Plus it's kind of a personal triumph. It's, in a way, vindication. And isn't that what blogs are for? Self-obsessive revenge?
A little while ago I wrote a Super Ego column about how the new bear generation -- Bear 2.0 -- is more in touch with its feminine and techno dance sides. I got a lot of shit for it. But .... proof! Hot hairy holland pastel-shirted proof! Sweeeet.
Freekend alert! Glitterbox, Chrome, Dirtybird, more
It’s gonna be one of those crazy too much weekends on the club-freak circuit again. Luckily, I’ll be chasing drag queen Jackie Beat’s voluminous tinfoil skirts and jamming to Morris Day and the Time at fab street fest Sunset Junction in LA -- somebody bring me a mirror! -- so I don’t have to choose. But for those not hoofin’ it to Silver Lake, here’s a few picks -- a l’il rundown on the run-up, as it were. Run around! Got a party I missed? Give it up. I’ll add more as the weekend approaches if poss. I’ve got a lot of makeup to do.
Oh, and if you haven’t seen Avenue Q yet, get yer ass down to the Orpheum Theatre, quick. As America’s premiere queer Arab American leather disco hip-hop muppet whore, I highly recommend the work of my fellow monsters (especially the Bad Idea Bears ! My people!).
Bad Idea Bears rule
I also wanna plug one of my fave haunts – Club 222, which has far too much good stuff going on all for me to remember. Stop by for a drink, dance all evening, wonder where the hell you are in the morning. Then tell me when you find out.
Help, I hate it, but I'm a slave to the forthcoming Girls Aloud single (Sept 3 release).
It's killing me. No official vid yet -- but here's the recordholders for most consecutive UK top 10s debuting the song at T4 on the Beach. I'll really regret pumping this when I can't escape this little ditty in the Castro this fall .....
Remember way back when a group of disillusioned Burners decided to challenge the status quo by forming their own version of the Burning Man Organization (BORG)? They called it BORG2, and they planned to unseat BORG 1 – or at least inspire a change in its art funding policies – through their “anything you can do, I can do better” approach. Thing is, BORG 2 just couldn’t quite get its act together, and the project unceremoniously fell apart.
Well, it seems the reggae world is now hosting its own version of the BORG2 madness, where fun-fur-wearing desert rats are replaced by dreadlocked dubsteppers. On the left? Reggae on the River, the penultimate reggae festival of longtime repute that seems to be almost as much a mecca for the steel drum crowd as burning man is for DJ Lorin lovers. On the right? Reggae Rising, the BORG2 of this particular conflict, led by former Reggae on the River contributors. The issue? Both want to throw a reggae festival. At the same place. On the same day.
Blessed be to the advances in technology that allow alert concertgoers to capture performers at their most uncouth.
Most recently, Faith Hill upbraided a front-row fan for gettin' too gropy with hubby and tourmate Tim McGraw's private parts (TMZ has the video here). And of course there's the now-famous Beyonce tumble (TMZ has it here).
Who needs concert videos when the between-songs shit is so juicy? Anyone who owns a copy of Having Fun With Elvis On Stage -- no songs, just banter, some of it quite rambling and surreal -- knows what I'm talking about.
Beatle Watch Day 2: "Across the Universe" viewed with mixture of dread and fear
By Robert Bergin
Last week, Sean Manning posted about a bunch of lame-o’s protesting the usage of Beatles anthem "All You Need Is Love” in a diaper commercial. Whether the lame-o’s in question also knew about next month’s blockbuster film/Beatles tribute/Boomer-nostalgia epic Across the Universe remains in question, but I think it’s safe to assume that anyone who bothers to research Luvs’ marketing campaigns for instances of song-sullying probably didn’t let this flick fly under their radar.
The variable, then, must be artistic integrity - a quality dubiously associated with rock musicals. Mamma Mia and Tommy have their fans, but those productions succeed mostly because their audience has an emotional attachment to the show before the lights even dim. All the story has to do is not suck.
(I once saw a play called Steven’s Last Night in Town, which was essentially a flimsy excuse for a bunch of actors to sing Ben Folds songs. My favorite part was probably the intro to “Uncle Walter”: “Blah-blah-blah - here’s a conversation that has nothing to do with your uncle Walter.” Awkward silence. “Hey, remember your uncle Walter?!” Seriously, that’s, like, exactly what they said. Verbatim.)
Anyways, go watch this. Back? OK, so director Julie Taymor is clearly sitting on something new, right?
This week's vid: Kanye, Zach & Bonnie "Prince" Billy's country grammar
Children of the corn. Collage courtesy of Harp.
OK, we give - Kanye is still king, especially after we peered at the inspired new, YouTube-y video for his single "Can't Tell Me Nothing," which was posted this week on his site. Call it "Menace II Future Farmers of America"? Behold comedian Zack Galifianakis - glowering manfully on his North Carolina farm, dancing with John Deere shit and cavorting with fresh-faced milk maids in some St. Pauli's Girl commercial gone horribly, hilariously wrong. Check musician Will Oldham, aka Bonnie "Prince" Billy, striking gangsta pose on country roads. And naturally Galifianakis's tummy is a marvel to observe (see more of it on his recent live comedy DVD filmed at SF's Purple Onion).
Apparently West enlisted Galifianakis after seeing him perform standup in LA, sayeth Billboard. So kudos to Kanye for letting the silly pair undercut the lyrics' toughness with wit and a little weird, backwoods Old Joy. Expect more when West's LP, Graduation (Def Jam) - oooh, scary! - emerges in August or September.
Mo' MIA, Daft Punkette...and prime time musings from Berkeley
By Robert Bergin
A rather old photo of MIA.
Two nights ago, a dear friend and I walked around campus. Our states were altered, and we talked to things that don’t usually talk back to people. Very good listeners, those things. Needless to say it was a sissy-sentimental sort of evening, so when we walked past our campus’s beloved campanile at 11:57 p.m., what else to do but sit down and wait for the bells to bong? We’d be the first to welcome in Thursday - that was the idea. So we sat. And sat.
Yep. Sittin’ sittin’ sittin’. Nice night. Oh, yes, very nice. I wonder where Thursday is? Oh, he’ll be here. Strange, I’ve always known him to be quite punctual. Yes, me, too.
(Thursday is, of course, a man. Thurs Day. Say Thurs. A very ugly name for a woman, but it works great for a dude. He’s probably in one of those ESPN Ironman things, pulling big rigs.)
After what was assuredly more than three minutes, I checked my cell phone. 12:03 a.m.! All this time we’d been waiting at the front door, and he’d snuck through the garage. Called him a trickster at the time, but in retrospect, he was just being polite. Not waking the neighbors.
It’s a good time be young in Berkeley. A while back Jon Carroll wrote a very nice column about the summer of love. If all this feels a bit like a Carroll knock-off, well, I can’t help it. He writes very well, and if his experiences are as honest as his prose, then he lives very well, too. So, my apologies.
Anyways, a while back Carroll wrote a very nice column about the summer of love. I can’t find it online, but the gist of it was that no one really thought of it as, y’know, the Summer of Love. It was just a bunch of people sitting around in a park, welcoming each coming moment. Sort of living out Person Pitch, 40 years before that album’s time. And while Berkeley has had that blissed-out vibe for the past couple months, at least from my perspective, there’s been a tangible air of anticipation as well.
Y’know that episode of Pete and Pete where Big Pete waxes eloquent about how the Fourth of July marks the summer’s apex? For a lot of us kids, tonight’s Daft Punk concert feels like that. All the hikes, the road trips, the feet out the shotgun window, the fire escape sunsets and the People’s Park basketball games, it’s all been a prelude to tonight.
We are going to dance a lot.
And MIA’s playing at Amoeba the following day? Which one, yours or ours? Ours?? Shit. It’s good to be young in Berkeley. You should probably come over - this weekend is going to rule.
What’s that you say? A YouTube video? I got your YouTube video right here, buddy.
By Molly Freedenberg
...except they have better publicists. And lawyers. And whole record companies fighting to keep their embarrassing foibles out of the public eye. In the case of Beyonce, or Ms. B-Day (am I the only one amused that she named her album – phonetically, at least -- after a device that cleans your ass?), who fell head-first down some stairs at her Orlando concert on Tuesday, it’s probably all of the above. It seems B’s team is asking people not to post YouTube videos of the singer’s somersault (which, by the way, she impressively ignored as she got up and continued to sing), and Sony has begun to make copyright claims on each of the videos. I’m not going to argue about what a stupid waste of resources this is, or about how this video has gotten B. more attention, and in more circles, than anything she’s done recently has gotten her. No, I’m just going to say that I wish I had a whole team of people protecting me from my public foibles. Like, say, my drunken antics at the bar last Friday.
You can see Beyonce fall down (or not) in our neighborhood on August 31.
(By the way, though many of the videos of "The Fall" have been removed, tons of others keep popping up. Just search YouTube for "Beyonce Orlando fall").
What the hell is happening to young Hollywood? Nicole’s maybe heading to jail (with a Good Charlotte bun in the oven); Paris was in the clink and out of the clink and back in the clink again; Britney’s on the threshold of a full-scale meltdown (and you thought the head-shaving thing was the worst it could get); and now LiLo – the only member of this skanky club that actually has discernable talent – is back in trouble with the law, recent rehab stint be damned.
What can we learn from Lohan’s troubles? In her hour of need, let’s turn to some of her finer song lyrics. Newly poignant meanings abound. Cries for help lurk between every rhyme. Who cares if she didn’t actually write ‘em all – she sang ‘em, man. Conjecture away!
All you need is…less diapers, more navel-gazing ‘60s nostalgia
By Sean Manning
In a move that’s sure to send the diaper industry to its knees - and the general public into an era of unabashed pants-pooping - an announcement will be made at the Musicians for Peace stage at this year’s Monterey Summer of Love Festival to protest Proctor and Gamble’s use of the Beatles “All You Need Is Love” in a TV ad. Get it? Like, “Luvs.” Why? ‘Cause that’s, like, our anthem, man. Get yer stinking hands off my anthem.
What’s most surprising is that the folks at Luvs even went for a Beatles song in the first place. Those rights must’ve been expensive, right? Besides, hippie children don’t even wear diapers. They squat and bury. You know, to be closer to the earth and stuff. Why not drop a fraction of the cash and get Wayne Coyne to write a little ditty specifically for these ads? It’d probably be a real toe-tapper, and he’d name it something catchy, too, like “Overflowing Bladder Vs. the Bear Hug Stretch Diaper of Olympus Mons (Interstellar Leaky Bottom) Pt. 1.”
BoBs over Bay-ghdad: Best of the Boy... I mean, bands
By Robert Bergin
Ghost Boobs, kids love 'em! Gravy Train!!!! strikes a munchy pose. Courtesy of nyc.metblogs.com.
Perhaps you’ve noticed a lot more bated breath among your neighbors. More expectant glances at calendars and watches, perhaps. Well, there's a logical explanation for all that anticipation. The Guardian's "Best of the Bay" issue drops next week.
But you can’t wait! You’ve gotta have those value judgments! In your hands! In your computer’s hands! In your brain! Now!
Enter the RIPs (Rejected Intern Pitches). I’d say something like, “Consider this an appetizer to next Wednesday’s main course,” but I think you and I both know this is just a silly blog post filled with random stuff. So on with the awards!
Best Band of All Fucking Time: Fall Out Boy, no duh. Or should I say…Fall Out BAY. Oooohhhh.
Best Shamelessly Hip Music Video that You Are Watching While Living in the Bay:
Best Initiation into Gravy Train!!!! culture:
I think I’m a little too much of a corn-fed heteronormative frat boy to truly appreciate this band. Not that I actively dislike them or anything: hypersex just isn’t really my thing. Still, even though I went to their Bottom of the Hill show a couple weeks ago mostly to check out the opener, Experimental Dental School, I thought it’d be interesting to bring along a companion that didn’t know anything about the headliner.
So I sent an e-mail to my fraternity’s listserve saying I had an extra ticket, and I get a response from a friend we’ll call Biff. Biff, in addition to having a heart of gold, fulfills a few of the requisite external qualities of your prototypical frat boy: sandals, muscles, a strong affinity for Sublime, et cetera. I told him it’d be fun and internally prepared myself for a night of awkward vibes and incredulously raised eyebrows.
Of course, we weren’t even there five minutes before I came back from the bathroom to find Biff slovenly making out with some girl in a velvet dress in the middle of an already sexed-up crowd. (I’m not sure what was better or worse, the instance itself or his shrugging explanation, “She didn’t even give me her name. She just said ‘I’m from LA.’”). Sleazy? Yeah, but what’s the point in turning your nose up at smutty thrillseekers? Fiery loins…just another thing Gravy Train!!!! and my fraternity have in common.
(Ed.: And if you're curious about that sexy GT, check out the cute animated video for "Burger Baby."
Blame it on my newish obsession with Chromeo, but this punk and rock diehard is suddenly getting all excited about electropop. I suppose it was really only a matter of time, considering I grew up doing kick-ball-changes to Marky Mark (and his Funky Bunch), and have been indoctrinated into the world of house and breaks by six years of Burning Man - and what is electropop if not the marriage of those two danceable genres? Either way, after weeks of devotion to Black Tuesdays (Cutiepie DJ Lance spinning Minor Threat and Joy Divison at Delirium), suddenly the following events are what have my motor running (or my turntable spinning?) this week:
Ratatat and Devlin&Darko
Leave it to the culturally savvy folks at Flavorpill to get some badass acts for their anniversary party. Tonight's shindig at Mighty features Brooklyn duo Ratatat, who have been opening for Daft Punk in Europe, and Devlin&Darko, who have somehow managed to make Paul Simon's 50 Ways to Leave Your Lover a dance anthem.
The noses were small, the dresses were expensive, the Mayor was in attendance, and the music was sublime. Yep, I crashed the annual SF Symphony Opening Gala, chockful o' Zellerbachs, Wilseys, DuPonts and whomever else rich-like, and lived to blog all about it (despite being almost kicked out for yodeling during the singing of the National Anthem, ahem.)
"Pose for the Guardian? I've been in National Geographic, and I thought that was weird ..." (actual quote)
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