Betty Blowtorch and Candy Ass
at Continental, July 27, 2001
August 5, 2001 Continental has a reputation for hideous door policies, and last Friday night bolstered its rep. Trigger, the owner/bouncer, was at the door wearing one of those Chinese bamboo hats that looked like a cymbal sitting on top of his head. He couldn't find my name on the press list. I showed him my ID and he snorted, "I can't read." Ha ha, very funny, but not at all, actually. I started to get really pissed off. I told him to keep looking on his List. He wouldn't. So I sneaked a peek at the List, and he promptly yelled at me. "I'm right there!" I shouted and pointed to my name. "Oh, they must have spelled it wrong," he muttered. Then he told me to settle down. Note: Unless you're my mother, don't ever try to pacify Jeanne Fury with a shitty attitude, because you'll only make me angrier.
Side note: Trigger also yelled at Brother Fury, a.k.a. Pablo, the very next night, right before the Murphy's Law show. Let it be known that the Furys don't like Trigger, and we think his hat sucks.
Thank the Holy Ghost that Betty Blowtorch and Candy Ass were playing. I can't think of two better bands to turn my frown upside down. Let's get it on.
Betty Blowtorch shred my ass like they were a Cuisinart. Bianca Butthole (bass, vocals), Sharon Needles (guitar, background vocals), Blare N. Bitch (guitar), and Judy Molish (drums) are Hollywood smut peddlers, and I love them. Bianca, Sharon, and Blare played in a band called Butt Trumpet before meeting Judy and forming Betty Blowtorch in 1998. This band is rock 'n' roll the way God intended it: vulgar, fast, loud, and balls-out. They can also write some wickedly funny lyrics. Think AC/DC, Nashville Pussy, KISS you get the idea. The more sex and stink, the better. Jumping on the stage at Continental in front of a packed crowd, they ripped into "Shut Up and Fuck" from their spanking (and I do mean spanking) new CD, Are You Man Enough. Horny and nasty rock bitches rule.
Blare N. Bitch (who, at one point, played her guitar behind her neck) and Sharon Needles cleansed my soul with their outrageous guitar playing. Judy Molish would have you believe all things in life are as, um, tight as her drumming. And Bianca Butthole is just blasphemous when you put a mike in front of her mouth and a bass in her arms.
"This is for all the sluts in tight pants!" roared Bianca Butthole, with her tattoos blazing off her arms and chest. "Who's gonna get this slut right here drunk and take her home?!" Butthole wanted to know as she pointed to some chick in the crowd. Before anyone could offer their assistance, Betty Blowtorch delivered "Dresses" ("Dresses, dresses, WE HATE dresses") followed by "Love/Hate," "I Wanna Be Your Sucker," "Part-Time Hooker," and "I'm Ugly and I Don't Know Why." "This is for all the guys with big cocks! We love big cocks!" was Butthole's touching prelude to the song "Size Queen." For the record, I'd really hate to be the guy in charge of satisfying this band. Madonna would be an easier customer.
In the middle of Betty Blowtorch's set, a tall guy and his Jane Pratt-lookalike girlfriend pushed their way through the crowd and stood right in front of me. "I hate it when big guys push their way to the front," shouted a gruff voice from behind me. I turned around to add my two cents, and, lo and behold, was face-to-face with Chip, the ex-drummer of the Lunachicks. "I feel like dumping a beer over his head!" she said with wide eyes.
Betty Blowtorch ended their set with "Hell on Wheels" followed by a small fireworks show that left Continental swathed in white smoke so thick you couldn't see the band on stage. Before New York City's own Candy Ass got ready to play their set, I felt my way toward the bar for a refill. Then the fun started.
Some chick started a big fight at the bar with some portly dude, and they were ready to go at it. So the chick hurled a not-so-empty bottle of Corona at the portly dude, and it came dangerously close to whacking me in the pelvis. My cohort was not so lucky. The bottle of Corona smacked into her drink and cracked the glass like a bitch. We went up to the bar to get a refill, but the bar wench wouldn't comp us the drink. What the hell is wrong with the Continental crew? To get back at them, my cohort drank from the split glass, cut her lip wide open, and bled all the hell over the place, forcing me to staple her lip back together and douse it in Elmers glue. She looks really fucked-up, but I think we made our point. Not that the bar wench cared. Damn.
Hmmm, what would turn my fresh frown upside down? Why, a Betty Blowtorch T-shirt of course. Blare N. Bitch was sizing me up (gulp!) before deciding that a wife-beater would be my best bet. I didn't argue with her. Cool, my own personal from-the-gutter stylist.
Speaking of style, Candy Ass have it to spare. Galadriel (lead vocals), Hopey Rock (guitars, vocals), and Karen Curious (bass, vocals) have been sweetening the collective bum of this city since 1998, with rollicking punk rock and pop music. The Toilet Boys' Electric Eddie was on drums but it was his last Candy Ass show because the Toilet Boys are coming out with their first full-length LP and have to tour to support it. In spite of that, Galadriel's whooping and bouncing was supremely entertaining next to Hopey's blue Mohawk and Karen's '80s revival hair. They rocked really hard, leaving my ass thoroughly candied.
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