Friday, October 26, 11:35 p.m.
-minus 10 minutes,” bar manager Bree says, zipping across the vacant concrete lot behind Beauty Bar. I’ve staked out a spot far enough back, I figure, to keep from getting sucked into one of the mosh pits I hear inevitably start at Deadly Seven performances thanks to the bare-chested, Mexican wrestling-masked goons who dart around.
The stage—relocated to the tall whitewashed brick wall—is ominously set with rubber gloves, spray cans, balloons and a keytar. Instead of a drum kit, a DJ/synthesizer rig is draped in an American flag reading “The Kuntz,” who turn out to be D7’s backing band. Above, a projector displays jazzercise porn, the LA riots, snarling dogs and clips from Kill Bill and a documentary on The Clash. It’s hypnotic, like a Clockwork Orange-style news reel.
When the doors open at 11:45 p.m., the crowd is eager to get a good spot for D7’s traditionally dramatic entrance. The unpredictable nature of this group means that almost no one knows when the show will actually start, and I’m not about to miss their big entrance.
“I might like you better if we slept together,” I sing along with Romeo Void’s “Never Say Never.” A preemptive smoke bomb goes off, and for a second I consider whether or not D7 would actually stink-bomb its own show. Who the hell knows what’ll happen tonight?! Well, Morpheus Blak does; Friday is his night at Beauty Bar, going strong since last January. Just seconds ago he was DJing inside, but now he and the rest of the, ahem, Kuntz take the stage, he in an all-black ensemble of kilt, army boots and a vest stocked with ...“What are those, tampons?!” I say in disbelieve, recoiling from what should have been bullet shells, instead finding white plastic applicators. Blak is hosting, DJing and, yes, playing guitar for D7’s Bloody Covers CD-release party.
Finally, it happens. Just above the yard’s fence, a red flag goes up, ambulance and fire-truck lights strobe, thousands of firecrackers go off in a deafening gunshot crackle, and smoke wafts around like on a Vietnam War movie set. A dozen riot-geared guys storm in, and seven women in camo jump on stage, middle fingers blazing, “a wild pack of dirty sluts,” the video clip declares Lust, Pride, Envy, Wrath, Greed, Sloth and Gluttony. The production value is low, of course, but well-choreographed!
It dawns on me almost instantly that the girls are singing “Wild in the Streets” over a backing track. Oh well. With all that jumping around and starting onstage fights, one couldn’t expect them to hold perfect pitch. It’s more of a cacophonous group karaoke but with spitting and hair-pulling. The CD has a better sound quality, appropriately scratchy and staticky. It also occurs to me that one of the punk blondes is very, very pregnant.
“We’re a bunch of dirty whores,” they sing, adding a bit of military cadence to the beginning of their cover of Sigue Sigue Sputnik’s “Love Missile F1-11.” In a prior interview, D7 founder/vocalist/keytar player Pride told me she actually received a call from a Sputnik band member saying he likes the song’s new treatment. Not that praise is something they seek. More than performing, the ex-showgirls seem to be amusing themselves onstage, and we just get to watch.
With each song some new dirty fetish is explored, using electrical tape pasties, nun and Catholic schoolgirl getups and lesbian kisses. In black velvet capes, carrying candles, the ladies enjoy some good ol’ vampiric fun dragging a frightened innocent—presumably a virgin—on stage for a little harassment. She’s stripped down and flung to a shirtless man in a pig mask.
Covering Patty Smyth’s “Goodbye to You,” the girls don prom dresses and guzzle beer with their pig friends. One slips and falls in a mock-overdose incident, the faux EMT staff dramatically carting her off. She returns for the finale during which they throw out what I at first assume is Halloween candy from black cauldrons and then smear themselves and each other in fake blood, singing angrily, “We don’t care about you/F--k you!” with 14 sets of middle fingers high in the air, six more if you count the band members. “F--k you, too!” the crowd shouts back. What else are we supposed to do, throw flowers? These girls will happily kick our asses and take pictures on their cell phones!
“Halloween candy?” I ask, dipping my hand into the remaining cauldron as everyone files back into Beauty Bar. Not surprisingly, everyone turns down the handful of bloodied tampons.
Xania Woodman thinks globally and parties locally. And frequently. E-mail her at [email protected] and visit www.thecircuitlv.com to sign up for Xania’s free weekly newsletter.