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

Black Crepe Flocks & Silver Celluloid Dreams

imgD2   514dOKjBGXL._SX309_BO1,204,203,200_

The Nightmare. The Dream-time. Overdosed on bullshit, we all grew up convinced that we’d become rock stars, celebrities, and billionaire CEO’s.

You see it– over heaps of rotting, sheltered largess– how the truth is always grimmer.

And funny— if you have a soft spot for literal “escape-artistes” or better known as malignant dreamers.

Like slackers who claim to be “workaholics”— perhaps dark angels (– or beautiful, tortured freaks?) roosting over their water-colors and canvasses like world citizens of the MTV generation.

And here—assembled in this little inverted inlet of adolescent elan & slurry—

. . . . . the hallowed art room. Weep a jaded, bloody tear—like an acid/fractal corsage burning on the French gates of bohemian allure. Lo, the mortification.

Neither perky, nor perky. . . . . more like rays & skates swimming below the radar of the civilization-keepers, the granite-faced coldness of uptown museum giving. And how—dubious and penniless—it never stopped them from doing exactly what they were going to do anyway.

A dark fire, organic and rich—like a top-knot tied in some street agitator’s hair, standing with his back turned and arms crossed before a mural.

It was the indie cachet that mattered.

Call it French/Polish. Or Czech-Sicilian. Or any lone Portugeese/Hungarian misfit glowering over a mouth full of mushy, toothless gums with a bottle of wine and token beret.

Like street theater—acrobats, stilt-walkers, and clowns fanning-out to pick-pocket the unsuspecting like grinning astrological sun-faces and the theatrical color purple. Murky paintings of European prostitutes and café Marxism like the tricky riddles of Pablo Picasso confounding the bourgeois with a scribble in the bare, empty air.

Add, subtract. . . . . distract. Then divide by zero and cancel-out all standards to prove the infinite answer. There, all along justifying their shoddy example.

Artful minds. . . . . funny how that aligned.

A beggar’s banquet for dodgy humanities degrees. The only thing to do was bitch about movies.

For society was in some advanced state of decay as the postmodern condition rose amid a forest of video monitors and music-video hijinks. Like bread and circuses for “Alternative Nation”– the MTV broadcast propping-up the endless 1990’s smorgasbord of “chill”. Come as you are. Greet me, eat me, exploit me, consume me— like a complete, fully-wrapped package.

A poster—a video-box. A STATEMENT.

You only saw the sizzling, final product at the red carpet premier or other such overly-slick media event—perhaps at the white, sandy beaches of Cannes.

Beggars, thieves, and hanger’s-on.

It was mostly a state of disrepair and ambitions largely doomed to completion. It was the kind of artsy prestige that appealed to the junior purple-beret crowd holding up a flower and picking the petals in a haze of sweet perfume and acrylic paint-smells. Languid, droopy, depressive features like the misshapen, lumpen murk of a goldfish or other such mutated urchin.

Shyness, non-conformity. The courage of expression. How the gamin needs to bleed a little when they sing, the urban art-house angst like pained, droopy flesh torn in the gears of modernity.

The sculptor of verisimilitude, life-like and uncanny.

Lost in the flickering river of decrepit celluloid, like a faded and dying flower of human inspiration. Silver nitrates “killing you slowly” in an acrid bath of photo-room chemicals—crying mimes and angst-filled philosophers. Razor-tape, snipping scissors, and precise editing-room devotion. Giving one’s all and collapsing in exhaustion like sweet, unrequited death.

SHE. . . . . hashing over some obscure quirk in a movie, a hallmark pitch-shift, a change in tempo, a favorite scene—something odd & unusual. The grotto where you dwell. . . . .

Breathless and insistent, holding up an index-finger as if to pause all traffic. . . . . and recollecting herself as she expounds afresh on a different track. Holding her hand up—don’t speak—don’t ruin the moment—and then “release”. Am I man, or “Fifi” the French poodle on command?

The world needed a hero. Or visionary leadership in this non-volunteer democracy. Waking up to find “all wars fought”, as if “everything had been done”—and how the pillars of good citizenship may as well have wilted and withered into crushing apathy.

Freedom. . . . . horrible freedom. A power in negation, a wasted economy like an indented space on the couch. A veto, a thumb’s down. Everyone was a critic.

The air was stale, empty and thick. . . . . you could practically choke on it.

With art, perhaps came “too many choices” and the inability to concentrate one’s forces into a hard little nugget of unforgiving ownership. How to commit one’s obsession, one’s neurosis, one’s passion—and somehow turning it around into a profitable following.

But for naught. . . . . amid the metallic screech of starlings in some plaza of an old European capitol—the market segment of hungry dollars lost to crumbless anonymity, the faceless hordes.

Wretched, ugly humanity as impersonal social and marked forces crushed the weak underfoot.

The poet, joker, and thief—or the rapt, unblinking attention of “just anybody” before all the living sparks died in this cold universe– acceptance never your real home. Yes, that final emptiness at the center of that bottomless, swirling maelstrom found in desperation and unhappiness and seduction.

So it was, to “stand alone” and be judged and dissected. Even then, as the papparazi held up their popping flash-bulbs like a kind of obsessive-compulsive pecking of bottom-dollar tabloid interest—and the bodyguards held back the crush of onlookers.

Tell that to the young lordship of the remote control, for what makes the slit-eyed, lizardy interest perk-up from jaded slumber. How the forces of media production waved-in cranes and trucks and sets for you—just to lay down a slot of broadcast programming like an indifferent dish for your 13-28 target niche. And the union crew, hoggish and sweaty murmuring into walkie-talkies like expendable, reeking meat as “brand signifiers” were the order of the day.

More like corporate “shorthand” or associations with flippant, idle consumerism within arm’s length—even as your thicker service economy thralls saluted with a spatula and got back down to work in a pizza parlor. Time was money. . . . . and convenience blessed “the spoiled”.

Lo, the mortification.

Sure, the technology and modes of production were at our hands—making the personal, political readily enough with “DIY” or do-it-yourself workshop culture.

But somehow it all got pulled-down in the common Marxist sloth. . . . . doing what came naturally, “what was easier”, anyway.

As the omniscient Marlboro cigarette was flecked between twiggy fingers in dodgy cultural cachet paid for, with a song. Tear it up into a million pieces—or maybe we were just the inhabitants of another mostly-wasted art period.

oscar  sherri_bobbins_alt

Black Crepe Flocks & Silver Celluloid Dreams

Princess Brat Hostess

wpid-wp-1444570459613.jpeg    wpid-wp-1444570746832.jpeg

For youthful, fresh perspectives– you can’t go wrong with local community radio as kids have the naivete and faithlessness to declare themselves a punk princess impressio in a doll-house of young, kicking energy for the sake of local interest and avoiding true career callings. Lydia runs along the punk/artistic circles and gleefully drags-along her clique of oddball friends, like “skate-rats”, “hippie-girls”, and street characters as they bicker around themselves and fill in stretches of dialogue in the glittering hang-out of Utopia Studios.

The odd, the strange, the unusual, the transgressive– bands playing and imagery flashing on from a projector “like a real head-trip”. Below is footage of Nirvana playing at a campus studio up at Evergreen State College in Olympia, Washington. You can see ingenious blue-screen tricks and some of what’s in the background is from Haxan, a 1922 Swedish/Danish film that was once narrated by Beat oddball, William S. Burroughs.

An hallucinogenic trip for kids dancing and writhing in the strobe-lights to strange energies as it gives you more of a feel for who Lydia is, or what’s true to her character as you can’t write-down this stuff, necessarily– only watch and appreciate.

Coming to a theater near you, “Beetlejuice 2”!!

(– At least how I see it. . . . .)

Princess Brat Hostess