By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Alfonso Delgado
By Courtney Hamilton
By Joel Beers
By Peter Maguire
By Charles Lam
By Charles Lam
Photo by Jack GouldIt was a sad week in Radioland: venerable (he's looking pretty good for 74) Aussie Richuhd Blade finally retired his turntable at the world-famous KROQ. "Sad?" say you. "All he did was deliver spit-soaked blowjobs to Berlin and go tanning!" Maybe so. But the demise of the beefy, blond new waver signals the dark shadow of the Inland Empire's lunkheaded Angry White Boy domination at the station that first brought us queer dance anthems from the Pet Shop Boys and whoever it was who sang "Oh L'amour." Now, of course, 106.7 beams out all Korn, all the time. And that, friends, is a very, very bad state of affairs. One day, you're batting your eyelashes at the gay-as-the-hills Wham! and the next you're getting raped at Woodstock. Testosterone rage makes us mad!
With the masculinely effete Blade goes KROQ's last chance to keep its dwindling supply of female listeners —although, come to think of it, KNAC always had its share of freaky metal girls with big Idaho hair, and we hear Tommy Lee is pretty popular with the ladies. And then there's the titty seal of approval: nobody flashes titties like chicks at an Ozzy show. So we guess when we say KROQ will lose its dwindling supply of female listeners, what we really mean is KROQ will lose its dwindling supply of purty, smart, funny, nice female listeners—like us!
But hey! The retirement of Richuhd Blade can mean one thing and one thing only! Eighties Retirement Party at Live Bait! Whooooo!
Following an abortive session at the gigantic theme park that is Yankee Doodles, we stopped by Live Bait's cavernous meat-market on April 29—and when we say "by," we mean "by." We never made it inside, though we could hear the sibilant keyboard hisses of Berlin's "Sex" (what else?) spinning right round, baby, right round, and our toes they were a-tapping. But we had ambitious plans for ubiquity Saturday night and could only allot 20 minutes or so to each of our seven destinations. And with our tax situation the way it is—we're broke as a joke, but thanks go nonetheless to the three fine people who contributed to the Commie Girl Tax Relief Fund—we spent those 20 minutes waiting outside for the manager to come out and comp us. Don't you want us, baby? The manager was apparently busy. Damn manager.
But we can tell you who went in: old people, and we mean old as Richuhd Blade! Also, there were lots of gold chains on the men. And we're not just saying that because we cooled our heels for 20 minutes and never got in. We're as neutral as the paint on an Irvine subdivision.
There were miles to go before the dawn, so we headed to the Lava Lounge for Big Sandy & His Fly-Rite Boys along with some hepcats from, like, England. The dance floor was a danger zone—just like that Berlin song!—with spike heels flying like broken bottles in The Outsiders. We like rockabilly just fine (not to mention those little rockabilly boys) but have never figured out why anyone choosing a decade in which to ceaselessly pretend to live would choose the 1950s. It boggles our puny mortal mind.
We thought if we made tracks to the Blue Cafe for Downey boys The Blasters, we might see our personal friend Dave Alvin, a former Blaster and brother of Phil. We didn't. But after a truly kick-ass show (each song better and more rocking than their big hit, "Marie, Marie"), we did see a very drunk 45-year-old brunette in a leather skirt and bandanna top try to whisper in the ear of singer Phil, who was sitting on the patio. Every time she tried to whisper to him, her breasts kept falling onto his face. Phil? He liked it. Her? She said she had to get back to her husband.
We closed Saturday with a trip to the supersecret Long Beach location where Third Grade Teacher was entertaining a very pretty (and surprisingly thug-free) after-hours crowd. Third Grade Teacher is the darling of the hip Silver Lake set, featuring a cute, blond third-grade teacher droning as tunelessly (and mesmerizingly) as the Velvet Underground's Teutonic goddess, Nico. We dug it. But while everyone's knickers are oozing over the fact that Miss Thing's an honest-to-God third-grade teacher, we'd like to point out that it's not an uncommon feat. The LBC alone is home to more coolio-hipster art teachers, English teachers and substitutes than you can shake Shave's Dave Cornblum at. We can think of seven off the top of our pretty little head. And Commie Mom? The best third-grade teacher in the entire world! Thank you. Thank you very much.
With the Inland Empiring of KROQ, we thought it appropriate to hit OC's home-away-from-Riverside, Huntington Beach. Basic Skateboards' annual back-yard party on April 29 featured legendary old guy (but not as old as Richard Blade!) Salba hitting an empty swimming pool, along with local hero Omar Hassan and a bunch of other tattooed sideshows. But the party, despite its madding crowds and ungodly parking problems, was surprisingly knucklehead-free. We didn't even spy anyone doing that macho, I-will-dominate-you handshake where they turn their hands so theirs is on top and think they're being subliminal about it. They are not being subliminal about it. Ick.
Viva la Revolucion! Commie Girl recommends the Henry Rollins Band at the Galaxy Concert Theatre for Cinco de Mayo. Ladies: perhaps you'll be able to shake him and his neck out of that celibacy funk they've been in since the beginning of time. CommieGirl99@ hotmail.com