By Adam Lovinus
By Lilledeshan Bose
By Gabriel San Roman
By Rachel Mattice
By Stephanie Zacharek
By Daniel Kohn
By Nate Jackson
By Mike Seeley
But still, this didn't used to happen. It must be the fumes. (Alison M. Rosen)Doll Hut Heaven
By the time you read this, the ugly, obscene, created-solely-to-prop-up-evil-capitalist-societies Valentine's Day "holiday" will have been vanquished for another year. Good riddance, we say! And, um . . . yes, okay—we're single again. Single because last year, our Significant Other dumped us because they "weren't ready for a relationship with anyone," and yet a scant three months later, they were traipsing around town with someone not ourselves. Feh! Andy Bell was right: Who needs love like that?
Linda Jemison and her famed Doll Hut would never spurn us, so we wound up here on this cold-ass evening, looking for a whole lotta unconditional lovin'—and we got some! But damn, her building could use some reciprocation. Linda tells us the Doll Hut is in need of a good refurbishment: holes need patching, carpet needs replacing, walls need shoring up with something stronger than band stickers. And it seems that if you stand outside the club and gaze at the building, at certain angles, you can see inside, and we don't mean through a window (proceeds from a Jay Buchanan gig the weekend previous are going toward some Hut improvements—thanks, Jay!).
Meanwhile, you can help out by drinking at the Hut a lot more often than you have been. That spiffy, shiny new House of Blues in Anaheim may be fun, but don't forget who was here first. Share the wealth. Linda's is OC's Rock-Club Church, after all, and regular attendance is expected, so let us burden you with a heap of wicked, Catholic-style guilt. Also, remember the Doll Hut in your estate planning! That'll get you into heaven for sure.
Yet it was hell we were hoping for when Comes With the Fall began their set. These North Carolina men have one of those long-winded names that leave us wanting to hate them just so we can spout stuff like "Comes With the Fall should come with a refund!" But they were actually pretty decent, all about big afros atop pipe-cleaner bodies and loud, crunchy, psychedelic-funk, wah-wah excursions that suggested Lenny Kravitz fronting Soundgarden, with maybe a smidgen of Fu Manchu stoniness. Not bad—redundant as all hell, but not bad. Plus, they were very nice and grateful to us when we bought one of their CDs. We may have been their only sale. Always-reliable Go Forth (once known as the Goforthgetters way back when) had no big bad hair, no bad outfits, no bad notes and no bad songs—just good ol' unpretentious rock & roll, all hardened and impeccably hooked out. Especially wondrous was the tragic-teen tale "Suzy" and that "Get Out Shut Up" tune, which may or may not be the actual title, seeing as we left their CD back at the office. But when we buy KROQ someday, we vow immediately to summon Go Forth to the heavy-rotation playlist—they're just about the most perfect, poppy, rock band, and we ain't just saying that because they've been on a couple of OC Weekly compilation CDs.
Choker were a passable, somewhat-generic alterna-rock machine for their first few tunes until they went into one called "Spit Me Out," which felt meatier, bouncier and better—a stinging love sphincter of sonic splendiferousness. The band itself was led by a bespectacled, nervous-looking front man who could speak nothing wrong, probably because the crowd was so numb due to the severe alcohol/wind-chill-factor combo. (Bespectacled, nervous-looking front man: "This is a song about my cat." Numbed crowd: "WOO-OO!") Pussy love songs aside, we thought it funny how similar this tune was to Jay Buchanan's soon-to-be-legendary "If You Leave." The key line is "But if you run away again, I'll kill you!" but Jay takes the blunter "I'll kill you if you leave!" approach.
Hadn't seen Smear in a long time, though it ain't like we haven't tried. Seems that Brea's best-ever band has been busy luring bodies into the Boogie in Anaheim, which we can never get into because we're genuinely repelled by the fake titties and spiky hair. Smear are actually the perfect band for that scene, though: no schmaltzy power balladry here—just a bunch of heavy-metal, disco-boogie, porn operettas coupled with the occasional outburst of poo humor and ass-sex references ("Used Ass Paper" should win a Grammy for . . . um . . . something). Love ya, Smear! Don't ever get too serious. (Rich Kane)Send tapes, CDs, show dates, whatever to Locals Only, OC Weekly, P.O. Box 10788, Costa Mesa, CA 92627.