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COUNTERCULTURE
Hello, I'm your new racket reporter. No, it is not a tennis
column, nor a sequel to Bebe Emmerman's junk mail
review. It is an honest view of this thing I affectionately
call racket—probably most of you use the noun music.
The three most influential people in musical history for
me are Roy Rogers, Bob Dylan, and James Brown. Bet
that whets your interest.
My current stereo was found abandoned in an apartment
on Buford Highway. Six months later I understand why.
The little lights on the control panel don't flicker like
they used to, and when the turntable comes on, you
have to chase the arm because it wants to play the last
song first. Compact discs? Forget it; there isn't a hole to
plug one into my rig, and besides I'm just not ready.
Only this year did I finally get a touch-tone phone.
Don't worry though, I'm not a hopeless oldies freak.
In fact, I hate that "Under the Boardwalk" song. Truly it
is important to be open to new music, so if y'all hear of
any abstract country-fusion bands featuring a tuba sec
tion, give a holler.
Let me say polish isn't necessarily a virtue to me
unless it is on a real chrome bumper. I have witnessed
more than a few talented player's quest for it do
irreparable damage to their ability to access their spirit
and spontaneity. Give me somebody with a pulse!
Vocal ability gets a little leeway with regards to polish
because it is an extraordinary thing when a person—with
out picks, sticks, or buttons—can tra-la-la really well.
Fancy equipment doesn't impress me either. Who the
hell wants a keyboard that simulates the cockpit of a stealth
bomber? Just what this world needs, more buttons to push.
What happened to pianos?
Girls in the Nose
In case you were wondering what the upcoming weath
er is gonna be like, the hot stuff is to continue slap dab
until the first week of September. This is due to a band of
Texas thunderstorms passing through the metro area that
otherwise call themselves, "Girls in the Nose".
Moral Hazard fans can expect a similar commitment
from these girls in terms of enthusiasm, warped senses of
humor, and willingness to share with their audiences what
passion looks like in their world.
They'll do two concerts on the way back home from
Rhythm Fest; one at the Variety Playhouse Wednesday
Sept. 5, the other at the Otherside Sept. 6.
Take One
Wherein S.V.'s new music writer Treble Yell
tells us a bit about herself, bad Barry White
and the even badder Girls In the Nose .
Girls in the Nose:
kickass lesbian rockers from the Lone Star State
This is a kickass rock thing; some of their tunes include
originals such as "Menstrual Hut," "Prisoners of
Pantyhose," and "Honorary Heterosexual Lesbian." After
hearing the cut "Bite Me", I don’t believe I would let any of
them pet sit for me, but I might like a date.
Let's show some support for these gals. For more infor
mation see the calendar listings and an ad elsewhere in this
issue or call 624-4882. Also, their ten song cassette is
available at Charis and Wax 'n Facts.
Trivia Time
In the early 70s—in gay bars particularly—whose
music would have the crowd up on the second note, leav
ing their Zombies melting on the table? Who was the
incredible, smooth-one, the king of "aw baby" music?
You're right! It's Barry White and the Love Unlimited
Orchestra.
Well, Barry came to town earlier this month. My
inquiring mind wanted to know, what the heck is of Bare
up to? Is he still a baritone? Has he lost a bunch of weight?
And who is gonna show up for this?
The day before the show, I went down to the Fox to get
tickets for me and my able-bodied companion, Gleena
Wartmuller. I approached the security guard for inside
information, hoping to arrange an interview. Now, maybe
it was because I had my dog with me—or maybe because
that security dude was interested in the Mr. Hotlanta con
testant who buzzed by with a saddle slung over his shoul
der—anyway, he said he didn't "know nothin' about Barry."
For the show I put my best foot forward, wearing my
blue suede shoes and godzilla t-shirt with the "Dress to
Kill" on the front; Gleena looked outstanding in her
Turkish gypsy drag outfit. The crowd generally dressed
colorfully and conservatively—except for a couple of
trend setting guys in suitcoats, ties, Bermuda shorts, and
kneesocks. They may have been off-duty mailmen, I
don't know.
Barry is a big, tall man, which is one reason he could
safely be so cordial to fans standing in front of the
stage—giving them handshakes or one of those black
hankies that he was slowly, seductively, and continuous
ly patting his face with. Ain't nobody gonna snatch
Barry White off no stage and make off with him out the
side door. No, no.
He started the set in a shiny, blue and gray suit; the
thing could have been sharkskin or could have been
latex, hard to tell. He changed outfits about three quarters
through the show, possibly because he wore a hole in the
left trouser leg near the top, if you know what I mean. No
grabbin', but there was definitely a whole lotta rubbin' goin'
on.
Oh yeah, about the music. The Love Unlimited
Orchestra—10 violins (7 were women), two trumpets, a
couple of trombones, two keyboards, a guitar, bass, drum
mer, and a percussionist—was great. The three back up
singers—two women and a man—were terrific, bouncin
and behavin, exhibiting great zesto, I mean gusto.
John Robert, the orchestra conductor, turned the stick
over to Barry late in the show for one of my personal faves,
"Love's Theme". Mr. Robert also played one mean trum
pet solo and managed a great lefthanded snag of a mic
stand that Barry had tagged while leaving the podium.
The crowd was very moved by the performance, as was
evident by the smoochin' and cuddling going on. I got a lit
tle shy myself when Gleena started sucking my thumb. I'll
bet, per capita, that more people get laid after a Barry
White concert than almost any other on earth.
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Southern Voice/August 30,1990