By Alejandra Loera
By Adam Lovinus
By Gustavo Arellano
By Nate Jackson
By Marcus Alan Goldberg
By Reyan Ali
By Gustavo Arellano
By Nate Jackson
But I'd made nary a note in my superembarrassing Winnie the Pooh notebook (Christmas present from Mom) when I saw Rebecca Schoenkopf, a.k.a. Commie Girl, standing outside the club, looking as if she were going to cover the show. Drats!
"I bet you're going to write about this, aren't you?" I hissed, brandishing my mechanical pencil.
"Touché, Rosen," she snarled, jabbing me in the shoulder with her ballpoint pen.
"Bring it on, Schoenkopf! Bring it on!" I shouted, doing my best impression of a menacing martial-arts move.
"I'm only going to write about how beautiful the two women are," she said, smashing her pen against the curb and holding the jagged end toward me.
"The ones who look like Susan Powter and some character from Twin Peaks?" I asked, tossing my pencil from hand to hand and then flipping it around behind my head, tucking it behind my ear and running into the club.
Unfortunately, the matching-Hawaiian-shirt-sporting Tiki Tones had just finished the last song of their first set—a plucky cover of Devo's "Girl U Want"—and were taking a break before playing again.
Which would have been fine if my roommate hadn't wanted to leave to go meet up with the rest of our friends, all of whom had already left Bamboo Terrace, which was kind of my fault since we were so late. It was shaping up to be quite a shitty evening.
I made us stick around until the band started playing again because I had to see the go-go dancer whom I'd heard was like the best go-go dancer this side of, um, this side of, well . . . anyone know the name of a really good go-go dancer? She was captivating, if only for the psychotic intensity with which she go-go'd. Most go-go dancers have this sort of bored, unimpressed, ice-queen look about them, as if they're just dancing in a cage because they have nothing better to do. Not so this go-go dancer! She sliced the air with her go-go hands and knees as if her life depended on it. She was all about the go-go. She could write Chicken Soup for the Go-go Soul.
And the band was good, too, in a surfy instrumental way that was more like what I always imagined them to be and less like the sound on their most recent album.
So I'd say it wasn't really that burnt after all.—Alison M. Rosen Let's Do the Time Warp Again! TSOL
This was a benefit for the Surfrider Foundation, but it could just as easily have been called Chain Reaction Family Night—there were lots of old punkers who brought their kids to this show, which is kinda cool but also kinda not. OC punk's golden age has a seriously nostalgic bent to it for a lot of kids today (like the '60s were for all of us who wore tie-dyed shirts to high school back in the '80s—yes, we can admit this now), even though it's a false, overly romanticized version of an age they never lived in and can never truly replicate—but, for a little while, at least they can pretend. A perfect example was the scrawny kid we saw who looked about 13, sporting high, spiked hair and a freshly minted black Ramones tee with the sleeves cut off. Since when did Wal-Mart open a punk-rock boutique?
Ah, well—we had fun playing dress-up in our youth, too. Our point made, we'll just offer a few details from TSOL's set—Jack Grisham in a frilly, hot-pink, lounge-singer shirt; "Abolish Government"; "Superficial Love"; "Code Blue"; yes yes yes, great great great, blah blah blah. What we'll cherish most was the moment when Jack brought a preteen girl onstage, duct-taped her to a plastic chair, and then launched her out into the middle of a whirling mosh pit as Jack blurted, "The cool thing is that my 13-year-old daughter is here tonight, and this is exactly the kind of stuff I tell her not to do!" The crowd was careful, though, and just gingerly jostled the lass, never letting her or the chair drop in spite of Jack's "Come on! Somebody's gotta try and knock her down!" pleas.
Damn kids today—they just behave too much!
Send CDs, tapes and the all-important contact info to Locals Only, OC Weekly, P.O. Box 10788, Costa Mesa, CA 92627-0247.
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