Black Metal Divawear, Esoteric Spooktastica and 80’s Love Calls
So I haven’t been posting all that much lately due to the finish line looming very close on my first novel. I know I promised you all horror and fantasy and witchcraft and all that, but living inside the novel’s reality is taking me back to life in 1993, when no one ever heard of a Kardashian. Forgive me if I’m not exactly in a rush to come back to right now.
Or am I? Because the other reason for such intermittent posting is because I didn’t exactly intend this blog to become Memoirs of a Brooklyn Goth-Metal Partygirl. Which is kind of what’s ended up happening now that I’m back in the clubs. The past few weeks have been a sampling of everything from dancefloor transcendence to S&M Velveeta, and still quite a bit more to go as I find my way to the nights worth coming back to. And it’s surreal to be catching back up with the east coast goth scene during The Great 2010 Witch House Blowup. (More on this later, but for now, about damn time.)
But what is blogging if not about your passions? I think I’d rather write about all the same dark weirdness as planned, but as encountered from real life, diary-style over Bloggity-Blog type posts. Gleefully splatter around all the same dramatic flourishes I use in writing fiction, to tell my own story as it happens. It’s much more fun that way, wallowing in pretty words like Pollywog in my lingerie drawer.
So, onward.
Dimmu Borgir! I cried little invisible black tears over missing Enslaved, the band I’d really meant to come see, but, metal is metal, and I made the most of it and ended up having a pretty good time anyway. I can’t remember who said it first but yes, the singer reminded me of Cher, too.
Friday night was spent in Alphabet City. Weird when the event organizers are playing a background of Willow and a soundtrack of New Order. Sword and sorcery for the visuals, New Wave for the sounds…both very, very stimulating retro elixirs, but they just don’t go. Dead Can Dance would have been a much better accompaniment if they wanted to stick to the former, and for the latter, anything Adrian Lyne or at least huffing his fumes. Like the movie I watched right before I left for the club. 1990’s Bad Influence!
Skinny Puppy and James Spader in the same movie!!!! Too bad they had to ruin it with Rob Lowe. Seriously, they picked Lowe to be the bad guy? Molly Ringwald’s nemesis in Pretty in Pink – so loathsome, yet so hot – should have been the one orchestrating this downfall. It was painful watching The Spader cram himself into a painful little box of L.A. executive meekness when he’s so much better doing the needling.
But, dig the fetish fashion, which hasn’t quite broken out of the 80’s yet. LOVE it. No PVC, no latex, the smell of wealth and drugs wafting about the edges, and everybody looks like a grownup. That white off-the-shoulder tube dress is gorge.
Another party scene set in a grandly decaying mansion filled with candles and well-dressed perverts.
Anyway, it turned out to be kind of a meh night, I ended up making the bar into my desk and got back to brainstorming the last couple scenes of my manuscript. Until this launched me off the barstool:
What happens when those on the side of social justice are out to get laid. That bassline flows like nectar and she’s got the voice of an angel. I haven’t heard this in forever and it got me thinking on the walk home about what a raw deal Sinead got over shaving her head and daring to speak her mind.
From Wikipedia: “While she initially chose her bald look as a statement against the traditional view of women, years later O’Connor said she had tried to grow her hair back but after being asked if she was Enya, shaved it off again.”
*snort*
Last night I got to Secret Robot just in time to catch White Ring. Turns out I like them more than I thought I did, this track especially:
White Ring – Suffocation by BoringByTheSea
