By Charles Lam
By R. Scott Moxley
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By Gustavo Arellano
By R. Scott Moxley
By HG Reza
The first annual Orange County Music Awards Saturday night may have been sadly lacking in nipples and J.Lo's ass, but it made up for it by not featuring performances by Lit or Sugar Ray. Yes, the poppy charmers are the only proof we have (them and skate rats) that OC matters, according to the recent VH1 special Orange County: American Hip Factory (an hour-long "news" program for which I was apparently the only person in the world who wasn't interviewed). In other fun Sugar Ray news (courtesy of BiteMeZine.net), pretty boy Mark McGrath and his anonymous backing musicians (after all, none of them have smelled Madonna) will be playing a bunch of Six Flags theme parks come July. Dude, if your mom will drive us, my mom said she'd pick us up!
Where were we? Oh, yes! The music awards and the lack of nipples—unlike Gwyneth Paltrow's peek-a-boo Oscar Night performance! (I know it's like a month ago now, but I'm still hearing people dis Paltrow's saggy funbags. Friends, I understand this may be a new concept for you, but that's what breasts look like sans 600 cc's of saline. I thought they looked quite fetching and pert—and, not withstanding clueless VH1, we all know it's what I think that matters.)
So! The music awards! Well, there were many people there! (The Galaxy Concert Theatre was in fact sold-out! With people even being turned away!) And there were many bands in attendance, some of whom I had heard of! (Of the 65 nominees in various categories, I had never heard of 43.) And there were drinks! And I was drunk, though, unlike the pretty blonde with the great knockers at Fullerton's Continental a few weeks ago, not embarrassingly or disgracefully so! Either way, that's probably why I lost the napkin on which I'd been taking notes, which is why I really no longer have anything of interest to say! For you, here's what I can scavenge from the muddled recesses of my sad little brain.
•Linda Jemison, formerly of the world-famous Doll Hut (which was also overlooked by the hip-makers at VH1), was stunning and buxom and looked happy and rested as she presented the first award (for Best Female) to Ashley Bee, of whom I have never heard. Linda's boys, Wonderlove, went on to win many awards.
•King Kukulele suggested we team up to steal Wonderlove's reserved table—right up front and directly next to the awards catwalk—and then immediately backpedaled in pussyfooted fear. We stole the table anyway, even though King Kukulele was acting like a scared little baby.
•I was not asked to present anything nor to judge, so I sneaked backstage and asked pretty co-producer Allison Bodger of KOCE's Sound Affects why the hell not. "Not to be political or anything, but the Weekly didn't want to sponsor the event," she said. She then dashed off to set something up.
•It was funny watching bands ask for drink tickets and get shot down.
•Unlike the Galaxy's hip-hop show in February featuring Rhyme Poetic Mafia, nobody actually got shot.
•Some people were sniping that there was dead air between band performances, but for the "first annual" and for something this local, I thought it was smashingly produced. Also, there was neat metallic scaffolding onstage, even if the lighting cues were off.
•There was no dance floor. This was especially tragic during the set by Alturas.
•Co-producer Martin Brown of Live Magazine claims that the requirements for showcased bands to find a sponsor for the program were dropped a long time ago in the face of negative reaction. The only prereq was the $25 entry fee. I'm told the Weekly did not sponsor the event because of the entry fee.
•Alturas, which did not win for Best World Music, got the hottest and most sustained ovation of the night after their fantastic set. As polished and passionate as the Gipsy Kings, Alturas were a revelation. They lost to Common Sense. Boo.
•Wahoo's guy (and co-host with Barger) Wing Lam called out the Weekly from the stage, saying he wasn't actually in The Mafia.
•There were lots of parents there—and people in prison bands. I had a really cute date.
•I was not asked to present nor to judge.
The jury's still out on Costa Mesa's The Huddle. Personable and pretty bartender Dana wants to start giving to the community, and she invites you to come in Monday for the first of the Huddle's benefit nights. Bartender tips and proceeds from an auction will go to fighting breast cancer.
But at the same time, some people have told me they get a whiff of a White Power vibe from some of the lugnuts in there; others have said everything's mellow and they've never had a problem in what's just a friendly neighborhood bar. I went in again Friday night to see what was up, and there were roughly quadruple the number of patrons as last week.
Most people were friendly and mellow, as advertised, but there were some characters who were weird—in a bad way. One handsome bald guy in a suit was standing next to me at the bar, and I asked him why he was wearing ear plugs. He looked at the bar and moved his lips. No sound. I told him I couldn't hear him. He kept saying things, sometimes to the bar, sometimes to me, always without making a noise. Another man, also good-looking, was hostile and gave off the odor of date rape. Finally, three guys on their way in the door were spitting, "I don't trust that fucking beaner." It was explained to me that this was in reference to a Latino guy who had been the one to start it. So fucking what?