Texas Terri & the Stiff Ones/Lisafer/Boobie Trap
The Gypsy Lounge
Sunday, April 30
Glowing from our OC Press Club win Sunday (a third place for Best Weekly Beat Portfolio, a.k.a. this column), we were feeling the love of the filthy masses as we headed to the Gypsy Lounge after the awards dinner. Who, after all, wouldn't want the privilege of basking with us—award-winning us! Greatest Rock Critics Who Ever Lived us!—in our warm, effervescent aura? Everybody wants to, of course. While we came initially to check out the last gasps of this daylong benefit for Dennis Danell's family (the smaller, non-Offspring-associated benefit), we eventually found ourselves surrounded by Locals Only groupies, our much-cherished anonymity having somehow been breached. More about that later.
Boobie Trap (why, yes, it is a breast reference) warmed up with an instrumental that sounded like it was from a B-grade horror movie or a punk take on a classical sonata. They were good and scrunchy, and their singer had an impeccably clear set of pipes that were just rough enough to get all her I've-been-fucked-over points across (in her chest beats the heart of a been-done-wrong blueswoman).
Lisafer were okay, too, a bit harsher in that old-style punk way, though their stage banter was more entertaining. Highlights: "All you pussies get the fuck inside—this ain't no square dance!" "This next one's about chicks with fake tits! Hope they burst and you get real sick!" "This one's about blacking out drunk!" and "You can't have my Xanax! It's the only thing stopping me from shooting yer asses!" Charming! That is, until we heard the words "nigger" and "faggot" mumbled from the stage, which naturally is a stupid, tired, desperate-for-attention device. Memo to All Who Would Brand Themselves Punk: the idiocy of using the word "nigger" should be obvious. But those tight black-leather outfits and metal chain accessories you love, which make you look so adorable? A direct fashion evolution from the urban gay-male underground S-M fetish scenes of the '50s through the '70s. Not feeling so hetero now, hmmm?
Around this time, our groupies started ambling up. There was Rick from Motorsoule, who drooled over us and rather unnervingly remembered lines from old columns we'd long since forgotten. He's a nice guy, though, and he told us to tell you that—ahem!—"Motorsoule fuckin' rock!" and that they're playing the Tiki Bar June 20 with the Streetwalkin' Cheetahs and Motorchrist.
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Then Texas Terri & the Stiff Ones came onstage, and while we took note of Terri's flaming Dale Bozzio hair, Rick seemed more turned on by her mouth, demanding we scrawl "Mick Jagger lives in Texas Terri's lips," even though the last time we checked, Jagger was still very much alive in his own lips. Then some guys from Velvet Fire drifted over—a band we've dissed, though they actually seemed to like that, the sickos —and they had lots of nice things to say about us, too. We'll be nice back by dropping word that they need a new bassist—buzz Tim at (714) 488-0676. Then a drunk punk snuggled up to us, angrily insisting we once talked shit about his band even though we hadn't (Rick would've remembered). He made some threatening motions and then slithered away. Not that we were worried or anything—Rick had our back! We looked up to see Terri taking her top off, exposing a pair of black-taped nipples. She later replaced the tape with OC Weekly stickers. See? Everybody loves us!
IT CRAWLED FROM THE MAIL BIN DECEPTICANS, NO HOLDING BACK (8-SONG CD) Proof that a little studio sheen can work wonders. Decepticans self-released a rough, scraggly EP last year, hard on the ears, but you at least sensed their passion. This is better, where all their melodies are given room to breathe amid a swirl of raw, catchy riff-rock. Their Nirvana influences drone throughout, which can give them an early '90s nostalgia feel, but they know how to riff right—they toss off some tremendous monster chords that slam around beautifully. Lotsa sweet, pissy lyrics, too, like "You better hope you die soon before I get to you!" Grrr!
Send CDs, tapes, and the all-important contact info to Locals Only, OC Weekly, P.O. Box 10788, Costa Mesa, CA 92627-0247.