This comes from the Washington post’s website. This artist creates super realistic sculptures with a twist.
Caution: There is artistic nudity in a couple of the photos.

http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/gallery/2005/12/29/GA2005122900888_index_frames.htm?startat=1

As if they weren’t bummed out before…

This is what they look like when terribly lame shit isn’t happening to the band….

Seriously, can somebody quit casting that voodoo shit on the Arab Strap? Maybe they pissed off a warlock or some garbage…

You may remember last month when we posted about their tour support, A Whisper in the Noise, getting beat up and robbed (refresh your memory here), but now the Arab Strap themselves just got taken for 6,000 bucks. Not an easy pill to swallow for a band on tour. What’s next, Aidan Moffat overdosing?

Arab Strap Robbed In Philadelphia On Tour

New York, NY — April 11, 2006 — On the second leg of the tour, Arab Strap were robbed of their money on Sunday night, April 9, in Philadelphia.

Arab Strap and their crew were at a restuarant and approximately $6,000 cash was allegedly stolen out of their bag between the hours of approximately 8pm and 10:25pm. Tour manager Teresa Murray said, “The band and I were at Nick’s Roast Beef Restaurant (located at 16 South 2nd Street) and I forgot my purse at the table and when I returned to the restaurant, all the money was gone.” Police dusted the scene for fingerprints and removed all video surveilence cameras in the bar. Everyone is cooperating and no arrests have been made at this point.

Transdreamer Records’ Sally Pye comments: “It’s a sad day when these things happen. It’s so difficult for bands to tour these days and it’s literally all of the money for the tour. Hopefully, we will find the thief.”

This is the second incident of a criminal act on the Arab Strap tour. On March 28, 2006 in Seattle, supporting band A Whisper In The Noise was attacked at knifepoint in an attempted robbery resulting in the tour manager’s front teeth being knocked out.

If anyone has any information regarding this recent theft, please call the Philadelphia police department at 215-686-3093 or 3094. The band’s tour continues in Chapel Hill NC tonight, April 11.”

BAD NEWS
SAME BAD NEWS

Sorry to bum you out. Here’s something that will make it all better:

awwwwwwwww

I attended a Cabaret show last night. Words I sincerely never thought I’d lay claim to, that’s for sure. A cabaret show called “L’effleur des Sens” at King King in Hollywood, CA. My friend Diane from the LA Weekly got a group of us on the VIP list, which, if you’re going to do cabaret, is a must. (You’d think so, anyway.)

Turned out the first 25 people there were on the VIP list. The area reserved for regular patrons, or “peons” as I like to think of them when I’ve managed to evade joining their ranks, was completely empty. Even the doorman was amused–which I think we can all agree is an uncommon state for 6′5″ hulking dude with an earpiece and the requisite all-black outfit.

After some minor confusion we were escorted to our booth–which consisted of a red leather booth seat curved around a lightweight table adorned in black vinyl. The table itself brought to mind my parents’ Bridge parties and gave me a slight longing for a Fresca and some cocktail mix. While the Planters weren’t on the menu, a two drink minimum was in effect and the waitress was at our table in a heartbeat to get the party rolling. First round was delivered and then we waited. And waited. And after nearly 45 minutes, the show began. (I’d been misinformed that it began at 9:00, when, in fact, it began at 10:00 pm)

First up, a French number performed by a man and the entire troupe of dancers. Suddenly I wondered how a person could tell the difference between “good” and “bad” cabaret? The sinking feeling in my stomach, I recited the mantra I Will Be Open-Minded, I Will Be Open-Minded. There’s that self-conscious thing I feel when someone is doing something live and in person that I would never, ever do because I’d feel like a total tool. But I was in for the entire hour, so I figured I might as well put my analytical side to work if my creative spirit remained unmoved. My first observation: while the dancers wore military uniform jackets and hats with black panties and garter belts, the male dancer’s version which featured blue boxer shorts (my friend Jen swears they were from Old Navy) was a little less than stellar. A man should bring something tight, black and banana-hugging for the first number. It’s only fair.

At any rate, much to my actual delight the show skyrocketed upward from there. My instinctive need to judge evaporated before I knew it. Those girls were hot in the kind of way that made me reaffirm my commitment to Mat Pilates and Yoga. And they could dance! The program flowed from French chanson to Portishead, James Brown (a solo number performed in a small loft area to “It’s a Man’s World”) followed by a slightly disturbing number I like to refer to as the “Spousal Abuse Tango.” My immediate neighbor, Melissa, was repulsed by the simulated violence and snorted “That’s not even real.” I reminded her that it was a fantasy albeit it a little sick–but I agreed that she did have a point and that it might be better dance if the woman at least fought back. My friend was beside herself with contempt. “She wouldn’t even have to kick him in the nuts. Just something.”

Minutes later a willowy blonde did a Cirque du Soleil type solo number on this bright red ceiling-to-floor hanging fabric. Highly dramatic stuff that I definitely wouldn’t try at home. Ever. It completely made up for the questionable faux fight/dance production preceeding it.

So on and so forth…more dancing, fabulous costumes…at some point they whole group did a very sassy dance to “The Boots Were Made for Walking.” The dancers wore purple and black striped leotards…and matching boot/legwarmer hybrid things. (I’m sure there is a real word for this particular garment, but I’m not down with the jargon.) And, of course, fully exposed black brassieres. If these outfits aren’t currently available at American Apparel they should be.

A real highlight was this crazy sexy white (not wet) t-shirt dance that I can’t really describe other than to say I was pretty sure we’d see an exposed breast, but the ladies skillfully avoided crossing that line. I’m guessing that none of the straight men in the room were able to stand up for at least 20 minutes after the conclusion. Assuming there were straight men there, that is.

The final number was Tina Turner’s “Proud Mary” complete with mesh mini-dresses–and the girls shakin’ it at warp speed, seemingly without breaking a sweat. Each dancer did a little strut of her very own to the middle of the room, struck a pose before returning to the shimming ranks. We cheered. And possibly hooted and hollered.

My final assessment? High energy, great music and choreography and tons of personality. This show embodied what a stripper pretends she does for a living when she says “Dancer.” For my first-ever Cabaret experience it was really great–and at one hour, exactly the right length to encourage me to try the genre again without hesitation.

http://www.kingkinghollywood.com/cabaret2.html

Shadow is as stiff as the CIA agents in this video. Watch for his buttery-smooth hand jive at the end.

This Monday night I went to Spaceland in Silverlake (i.e. Los Angeles’ L.E.S. equilivant) to see the NY Dolls–figured if there was ever a perfect setting, this would be it. Small rooms (300 cap?) seem to breed the best drama when you’re dealing with a legendary band. I arrived early but not as early as the line of leather jacket-clad individuals waiting patiently to enter the building. Everything was in order with my ticket, so my friend Kathie and I headed over to Leela Thai for dinner. While we talked (topics: new Shooter Jennings record, the alarming number of people Kathie has inadvertantly given food poisoning in the past few years, the Dresden Dolls upcoming in-store at Virgin) the place began to fill with refugees from the Spaceland line who were obviously satisfied that it wasn’t going to be a problem getting into the show. Sometime during our meal Dolls’ drummer Brian Delancy had grabbed a solo table on the patio and was proceeding to wolf down a serious plate of noodles. We pretended not to notice his crazy table manners as we paid our check and headed back over to Spaceland.

As is my custom, once inside the club I scanned the room for punk rock legends in attendance. Clem Burke (drummer, Blondie, Dramarama) was there–or so I heard. I needed verification, which came in the form of a totally embarassing conversation, that played out roughly like this:

I approached table where a woman was sitting with Roy Trakin, Senior Editor at HITS Magazine. I’m only dropping his name to explain why his table seemed a good starting point for Clem-verification.
Me: (in hushed faux-conspiratorial whisper/giggle) “I’m scanning for celebrities.”
Woman: “Well, Clem Burke is here.” (laughs)
Me: “Oh Wow! Are you SURE its him, because someone else said that too!”
Woman (snorts) “Yes, I’m sure. He’s my husband.”
It was at that moment I realized that I was the only one in on the faux-ness of my conspiratorial whispering. She just thought I was an asshole. I agreed aloud that she’d definitely be the expert on all things Clem Burke…and skulked over to another spot to join my friend Matt.

A few minutes later the band took the stage. Now, I have to tell the truth: 1) Not a huge NY Dolls fan for life, and 2) I went to this show hoping for the best (i.e. they rock, sound great, no one has a heart attack, people sing along with big fat happy-to-see-you-guys smiles on their faces, etc) but more realistically was somewhat expecting the worst (i.e. they sound like shit and play for 4 hours anyway.) I’ve had some ba-a-a-a-d and experiences testing out new material by longtime artists, made more awkward because they generally occured in a record label-funded/controlled situation. But I’ve never had so horrible a time as to prevent me from giving an artist who I really liked at one time during their career the benefit of the doubt when he/she/they show up with their latest offering. It’s the respectful thing to do and anyway, blah, blah, sometimes it doesn’t work out and I end up feeling pretty depressed and sorry for the artist. But I do sincerely want it to be good, and that is what was in my heart when I took up my friend Kathie’s offer of a ticket to this particular show.

Anyway, the NY Dolls hit the stage. Sylvain Sylvain and David Johansen only original members, of course, Steve Conte (guitar), Sami Yaffa of Hanoi Rocks (bass), Brian Delaney (drums) and Brian Koonin (Keyboards) rounded out the band. They started off kind of slow–loud and everything, but the energy wasn’t there immediately. After they covered the Janis Joplin version of “Piece of My Heart,” things punched up a few notches.

The band really couldn’t have asked for a better crowd. Much to my relief, the songs preceeded with the dreaded words “And now…a new song” were actually pretty OK. To my ears, the new material sounded like never-before-heard Ramones-esque ballads that fit in quite all right with the tried n’ true material. The biggest difference, of course, was that the crowd wasn’t singing along to these songs. Oh…there was one rather unfortunate song, which Johansen told us was, “…the single. If we live that long.” It was about monkeys or monkey love, and part of it reminded me so much of “Radar Love” that I couldn’t get past it. And it was a little, teeny, tiny, eensy bit cheesy.

A bit later, when they launched into a certain poignant moment, my friend Matt solemnly slurred into my ear, “Are you writing down that Sylvain Sylvain just dedicated “You Can’t Put Your Arms Around a Memory” to Johnny Thunders? Because that’s a really important part of the show.” And it was.

The rest is a little bit of a blur–there was a point where the couple in front of me became so, uh, amorous that I had to tap them on the shoulder and point out that while I appreciated their love I REALLY couldn’t see–and then they politely let me sneak by them and then not-so-politely blew pot smoke into my face for the next 5 minutes. Hence the statement “the rest is a little bit of a blur.” Who can complain? Nothing is more punk rock than a contact high.

The band did two encores and played for about an hour and a 1/2…and I have to say, although one or two are looking a wee bit jowly, if you let your eyes blur out a bit it was easy to pretend that the clock had turned back even if I was only a wee child when they used to play CBGBs.

The show felt a little like a family reunion at times…and the goofy grin on David Johanson’s face sealed the deal for me. A GREAT night, a memorable show that I am glad I pulled myself off the sofa to go see.

Oh yeah–on the way out I realized Lucinda Williams was at the show with the sexy executive at Fontana Distribution she’s dating. (And Clem Burke’s wife didn’t even have to I.D. her for me, either.)