By Jared Chausow
By Katie Toth
By Elizabeth Flock
By Albert Samaha
By Anna Merlan
By Jon Campbell
By Jon Campbell
By Albert Samaha
The hyper-achiever (whose birth name is Dana Stinson) somehow found time to call me for an interview, brashly beginning by saying he "hated" the original "Lady Marmalade" record by LaBelle. "I heard it so much when I was a kid," Rockwilder admitted. "It wasn't till I had to hear the song over that I paid attention to what it was and learned to respect it." (Naturally, I worshiped it from the start, especially after unraveling its extremely lurid lyrics.)
Interestingly, original LaBelle member Nona Hendryx recently told me that the song's title hooker can be a man! "I know what she's talking about," said Rockwilder when confronted with this creole shocker, "but as a kid, I didn't know it was about prostitution at all. That would have gone along with the little nasty books I was reading under my brother's bed."
It certainly fits into Moulin Rouge, which is the biggest acquired taste since ostrich burgers. "A lot of people that don't like it don't like it," conceded Rockwilder, "but a lot of people that like it love it." Well, what I love is a fun game of word association, mister, so here goes. Christina Aguilera? "Her voice is so dangerous. She does so much with it." (Not to mention with her hair.) Janet Jackson? "She's like a sister to me. She pulled me out of what was going on and put me in a whole different flow and brought my name to a whole different level." (Me tooand now she won't even say hello!) Beyoncé Knowles? "She's working on a solo album," said Rockwilder, who added that fellow group member Michelle Williams is doing a gospel record. I abruptly hung up, feeling a sad pang of uncertainty about what Child's destiny will be. (Completely irrelevant sidebar: I just figured out what "Say My Name" was ripped off ofthe Glade commercial that goes, "Plug it in, plug it in"! What do I win?)
In an even less related musical matter, DJ-producer Mark Ronsonwho's next doing a Jimmy Fallon record, I sweartold me he's heard snippets of Michael (Misdemeanor) Jackson's upcoming CD, and parts of it sound up-to-the-minute boy bandy, while others include contributions from Jay-Z and the late Notorious B.I.G. Plug it up, plug it up? No, Michael's like a sister to me!
Both hair and butt plugs seemed welcome at the Satanicide concert at Brownies, an unprepossessing club on Avenue A, where clean-scrubbed locals cheered for the band's Spinal Tap-like send-up of big-haired, Jersey Shore metal. Satanicide gets it so rightfrom the studded T-shirts to the flicking tongues, devilish gestures, and recycled chordsthat they would have been a hit even without the enjoyably kitschy opening band (Les Sans Culottes) and free barbecue in the back. Lead singer Devlin Mayhem (played by photographer Dale May) wails like Axl Rose on (more) crack, performing so strenuously that he asks for a 10-minute break after the first song. He's backed by Aleister Cradley (lawyer Phil Costello), a wannabe stud who hides a (homo-) sexual secret, but sings about wanting a "slice" of a girl named Heather; The Baron Klaus Von Goaten (publicist Pemberton Roach), who preens in a silver mask, licks his own hair, and grunts epithets in bad German; and drummer Sloth Vader (professional dog walker Andrew Griffiths), who mainly sticks to the music, which against all odds is rousingly right-on. There are impediments to the band's success, though. "A reputable record company wanted to sign us for $5000," announced Mayhem at the apex of the evening. "But we don't have that kind of money."
Barbecues come with a disco beat on Fire Island, which is still in a bit of a time warpthe vending machine is the only place left on earth that sells Frescabut this stubbornness is as compelling as its "Meat Rack" wooded sex area is strangely erection-toppling. Up and down the island's planks, coke mirrors double as grooming devices and boyfriends travel in pairs, wearing identical shorts and holding bunched-up T-shirts in their right hands as they swivel in topless sync. It's eerie, I tell you. (The rationale must be "It's safe sex because I'm basically fucking myself.") Things get a little more identity-driven on the day of "the invasion," whereby a gang of tarted-up drag queens from Cherry Grove floats into the Pines on a cruiser, disembarking one by one as the lead diva cracks jokes about their dentures and "muscle pussy." The tradition supposedly started when the "creative" types forced themselves on the Pines, where the rich, uptight queens didn't necessarily want them. Now, I suspect, the rich, uptight Pines queens go to the Grove, dress up in drag, and come back to invade themselves. Still, it's a funsy frolic of fucked-up frocks and tucked-up cocks.