Every day is Halloween for Motherfucker’s Michael T, but that didn’t stop him from getting dressed up as Dr. Frank-N-Furter of The Rocky Horror Picture Show for Motherfucker’s party last Friday at the Roxy. He performed the infamous song “Sweet Transvestite,” in corset, no top, and fishnet stockings, to rousing applause.
He wasn’t the only freak in the crowd. As usual the Mofo audience went all out: There was a Ken doll still in his packaging roaming around the dancefloor, Shiva shook his blue thang to the tunes provided by DJ Justine D., and Courtney Love staggered around in a drunken stupor.
Also appearing was Willi Ninja and his House of Ninja crew. You might remember Mr. Ninja from the movie Paris Is Burning and the voguing phenomenon it chronicled. (No, young’uns, Madonna did not invent voguing.) Willi and his posse of dexterous dancers struck a pose—there was nothing to it—making doing splits while on their backs look easy to the rest of us out-of-shape clubbers.
On top of a speaker was a go-go girl who didn’t need a Halloween costume to look scary, but who donned one anyway. Yes, Sophia Lamar, painted white, wearing some sort of Flying Nun-gone-bad outfit, was nothing short of spooky, especially when you considered that the fake boob peeking out over her boa was pointing straight up at the ceiling.
DJ Tommie Sunshine, who came as the walking dead, wearing an Asbury Park T-shirt, hung out with Carlos D., who is obviously too fashionable to dress ghoulish, and was simply His Royal Gothness.
Me, I was Madonna, circa the 1985 Like a Virgin era (yes, I had the “Boy Toy” belt, the black rubber bracelets, the crucifixes, and the big white bow around my hair) which prompted Strokes producer Gordon Raphael, an old friend from Seattle, to exclaim, “I always wanted to meet you!” To which I replied, “I want you to produce my next record. I wanna go rock!”
I asked Gordon, who is living the high life in London, how’s things. “Can’t complain!” In spite of all the world press Mr. Raphael’s received, he seemed most excited by the feature on him in his former hometown’s paper the Seattle Weekly, written by Weekly music ed and Voice writer Michaelangelo Matos.
Elsewhere, it was the night of a thousand Courtneys. At the Kult 48 party held at the Deitch space in Williamsburg, one man playing Courtney in a not-so-pretty-in-pink dress struggled to stay upright, keep a cigarette in his mouth, and drink two beers at once. Talk about realness! The man in question, Stefan Neufeld, a designer for local label Hungry Demon, even brought along a blood-smeared Frances Bean—complete with heroin works tied around her leg—and a bottle of OxyContin. Ms. Love made friends with Melissa Burns of W.I.T.—or rather a hairy-chested man dressed as the pouty-faced singer, a/k/a Mark Spalding, another Hungry Demon—and a member of Devo. The fake Ms. Burns donned a gold sequin halter dress, completing the look with a perfectly feathered blond wig and sporting a little bit of a pooch in the midriff area. No word on where the real Melissa was (probably at home practicing her perfect pout in the mirror).
When I wasn’t chatting up Melissa and Courtney, I was wondering what the high-pitched squealing noise was and if I could kill the person responsible for this atrocity. The sound was emanating from deep inside the Hell House, which featured art installations protesting our president (“Die Pigs” was scrawled on the wall in fake blood) and two zoned-out kids watching TV, one brandishing a knife. Once inside, I found the perpetrator of all the ghastly noise: Excepter, wearing a silver tinsel wig and screeching nonsensically into the microphone with a bunch of dudes who looked like they were in A.R.E. Weapons banging away on drums. Did I mention the naked guy? Yeah, so what if he was painted silver? He was still naked. I ran in terror.
Also scary was Roy, post-white-tiger attack. Siegfried was M.I.A. Nearby, G.I. Jane mingled with two guys dressed as baseballs, and an Indian powwowed. Two costumes I missed but wished I coulda seen: Chloe Jo, the glam Gloss girl, done up as a Latin thug, and techno DJ Kimyon, piling his dreads on his head to resemble Erykah Badu. Said the DJ: “As the evening progressed, I magically transformed like a gay butterfly from Erykah Badu into . . . Miss Cleo. It felt wonderful.” And likely looked wonderful, too.