Creepy Crawl Punk Venu

 

If it’s anything St. Louis has no shortage of—it’s the various small-dive punk clubs. Some open, some close—R.I.P. as rents go up with the gentrifying neighborhoods. Your best bet is something in the shuttered industrial-district on the grimy edge of city limits, a rose-carving in a wrought iron-gate for the dank atmosphere of auto-exhaust and the sewers.

Cheap shows– $10 for a night of mayhem, if the bands on the bill aren’t terribly well-known.

You have a thrasher, maybe a left-wing skinhead from the old Eastern bloc countries who weaves through the audience in a green bomber jacket, his boots laced-up with red anti-fa shoelaces. Punk is maybe an open-minded series of observations, individually subjective for all the strange flavors of variety. He looks like “that guy from Anthrax”, as you could only be referring to Scott Ian, like earnest gung-ho driftwood and goofy-foot guitar hopping like cargo shorts and raked guitar strings.

You also have “wise-guys” with the sly, perceptive art of observation. Maybe he’d be a cartoonist or just a clerk at 7-Eleven. View-askew, a cap turned sideways and a clever t-shirt of some scribbled vintage. His state is constant bemusement through a pair of pop-eyed glasses.

Don’t forget the crew of goth chicks, skin as pale as cottage-cheese in the artsy, performance-based world of witchcraft and “large, in-charge” antics. She definitely knows what she wants, the raven-haired streak of appetite and life-force like a fish tank of gleaming glass beads and murkier smells of paint and incense. Pick one or the other, like sisters differentiated slightly by personality but still wonderfully mysterious.

You have the blonde, dreadlocked stoner and “outside-the-box” thinker with a tragic overbite and clenched, silent intent hanging his arms out of his Rastafarian shirt colors for a hop and kick of the hackey-sack. . . . . a game of ultimate-frisbee. Attention Deficit Disorder as the mild, silent-type who fits the bill of all stoner-lore and comic-relief.

And there’s a sour, chirpy lark who’s small but as overflowing with punch as an atomic warhead for chewing gum and eyes lighting up with mischief. Contrarian and street-wise like a pill of cyanide, swallowing a straw of pixie-stix and flailing around until she collapses from a blown-out sugar-high and gets back on the stage to do it again, diving back in the pit.

These would be Lydia’s friends. . .. . . a gang of indie-media slackers living off their parents’ largess and in the artistic lifestyle of alt-rudderless experience. Where Lydia goes, they go—fleshing out this Beetlejuice 2 movie as the plot coalesces in a strange world and becomes a film.

You will here more about them. . . . . the St. Louis experience. Stay tuned!

 

Creepy Crawl Punk Venu

Goth-Rock for These Times

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A quick peek at the goth-rock scene in London that stared it all, edgy and defiant and blase like the imps of Western Europe staring-down the Berlin Wall.

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Call them “The New Romantics”. Lydia can relate.

Left-ward, politically and highly artistic and sensitive– and into causes such as animal rights or Amnesty International or anti-nuclear power movements, they’ll shoot you a whiplash smile like a tribe of depressive brats in wicked eyeliner invading Cathedrals like imps, androids, waifs, poets, and black angels.

Surely, death-obsessed like decadent odes to rainy skies and urban decay– and portals into netherworlds of club-culture and “beat, happening” in mannered languor as strange & unusual as kids are impressionable and drawn to darkness.

Death on a practical level is like a vulgar t.v. repair-man of practical, unclean mind as death is far more romantic than bringing home a paycheck– where selling your soul is not more big a thing than getting your truck refinanced at Lou Fuze auto-dealer with the colored flags and giant inflatable “King Kong” bouncing like a black-cat firecracker along the main drag on Lindbergh.

Lydia lives in the city of tumbled-down feld-spar as St. Louis is made out of “moods and territories” that overlap and shade into each other as worlds will collide and we will have a very clever movie. I couldn’t turn to another town for better inspiration.

Beetlejuice 2: Hawaiian St. Margarita Coaster as you have a fiend in a lawn-chair, his feet in the kiddie pool, and knocking back a case of Busch beer.

Hang on with us, and more cinematic truths will unfold for the reader’s eye. . . . .

“Life is like an empty beer-bottle. . . . . . you always know what you’re gonna get”.

Goth-Rock for These Times