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November 10, 2000 Halloween in the city: Because New Yorkers need a holiday to proudly wave our freak-flag, to parade up 6th Avenue with prosthetic butts strapped around our waists and to give craggy uptight librarians and lawyers a chance to slut their stuff in drag. We're all so hip, it actually hurts. For those of you that made the pilgrimage to Greenwich Village for the annual Halloween parade, I hope you got to see the damn thing. I sure as hell couldn't. It's getting next to impossible in this city to gather as a community and party down. Mind you, we have all of Central Park to parade through, where space is aplenty, but some bonehead insists on keeping the show on one avenue. Incidentally, after walking around the city for over an hour, how is it that I wound up with not a single piece of candy in my pockets? No one gives out candy in this city. Forget the mutant-march; at least gimme some friggin' Pixie Stix or Skittles.
After giving up on the parade and Halloween in general, I force fed myself some less-than-halfway-decent Thai food and headed east to Arlene Grocery in a last-ditch effort for a toothache and something visually unnerving (so help me God, if I see some doof dressed up as The Crow... I thought to myself).
But let's start with the basics. Na-Na-Natasha. She's one ferocious dame. She's unbelievably feline-looking, with her lean, athletic frame and wide-set almond eyes outlined in thick, black eyeliner. Add long, straight platinum-blonde hair, slick, pouty red lips and the kicker platform cheekbones that only her German and Austrian DNA could provide and you've got one mesmerizing lioness. And this is all before she picks up her bass and starts singing.
"Happy Halloween," Natasha cordially greeted Arlene attendees with a wide smile. Once the music set in, she began slowly and rhythmically thrusting her shoulders and hips to the undercurrents. She can bend backward at the waist farther than any human being I've ever seen, and I've been to my share of luau parties where, after a few cocktails, everyone can limbo like pros. Natasha stuck her tongue out, and sneered and snarled her lyrics. This woman's tongue-action was so feverish that she could've licked the skin off of a pineapple. Vocally, Natasha mixed sultry, between-the-sheets whispers with raspy, melodic rock-growls. It's easy to equate the music of the MGB to pure, erotic ecstasy. The music is Natasha's bitch. No wonder the majority of the crowd was twenty- and thirty-something guys.
But the vixen was not the only one running the show. Guitarist Greg Griffith and drummer Todd Irwin unleashed noise like a giant lawnmower shredding a field of porcupine quills. Their craftsmanship is what saves the music from getting disorderly wrapped in a hairball of chords and beats. Somehow, the music draws its strength from beckoning the listeners, rather than blowing them away. I should have asked MGB how they do that, then maybe I'd get more dates. Everyone was thanked profusely for showing up on Halloween, and the band took turns snapping pictures of the audience. Natasha admitted that the band wanted to have some kind of costume party but didn't get around to organizing it. She also said rather sheepishly that no one would have dressed up anyway, prompting those in costume to jump and shout, "Hey!" and "I did!," as if insulted. Sheesh.
So I guess I wound up with a bit of candy, after all.
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