A Taste of Moscow

The scene is Sayreville, N.J., home to Bon Jovi and very little else. I take that back; there's a place called The Falafel Factory down the street. I lament that I will not be able to visit said establishment on this particular trip. I have a schedule, after all. I have a purpose for being in this place, strange as it may be.
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I am standing in a parking lot, across the street from a squat brick building that must be a VFW hall. The smell of tomato sauce hangs in the air. Surely it's spaghetti-and-meatballs night at the VFW. But I'm here, in this parking lot, with long-haired people in black concert T-shirts proclaiming their favorite bands as Iron Maiden, Joe Satriani, etc., to see late-twentieth-century guitar hero Yngwie Malmstein. He's headlining at this place, the ever-so-unironically-titled Starland Ballroom. I love the name in that "so lame it's awesome" kind of way. The parking lot reeks of cigarettes, pickles and cheesy '80s metal, so it makes perfect sense that Malmstein is playing inside. I wonder what awaits me. But I am unafraid. I fear no evil, even if it does wear skin-tight spandex and an acid-washed denim jacket.
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For some reason I have purchased, unknowingly I can assure you, a VIP ticket. This entitles me to VIP parking (100 feet closer to the building than regular parking) and early entry into the club (about 45 seconds before the non-VIPs). Did I mention I bought the VIP treatment for Yngwie-effing-Malmstein? (Cue smoke machines, satan fingers and all that.) I don't know who this guy is, other than that he's supposed to be an amazing guitar player of the rock-gods-of-leather-pants genre. This guy used to play stadiums, I think, and probably still does back home in the motherland (Germany). Inside I find a seat at the bar and order a drink. I'm astounded that they sell wine -- real red wine, and not just of the zinfandel sort. The place is actually quite nice, I have to admit, a definite step above the shitholes I once played in as bass player for a punk band called Violent Society.
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I bullshit with friends for a few minutes before the first band goes on. It's a thrash band from Queens, N.Y., called Martyred. They're not bad. The bass player looks like the son of an accountant, and the rest look like regular guys you'd see hanging out at the local 7-Eleven or in an arcade somewhere in 1986. But they're tight. They shred. (Yes, I just said the words "They shred.") They wrap up and the staff breaks down and sets up for the next band in amazingly proficient time. Then the night begins. Goth-looking guys with spiked hair and dark, shredded clothing take the stage. A guitar shrieks, the bass grumbles, the drums provide a stuttering boom of backbeat. They have presence, these guys, however strange that sounds. They have made this their job.
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Then the singer leaps onto the stage. My jaw actually drops, no shit.
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He's painted his face with makeup a la Jack Nicholson's version of the Joker -- much too neat and tidy for Heath Ledger's take on Batman's nemesis. He's donning a red, buttoned-down vest and checkered pants. Tattoos sleeve his arms. I listen to his voice, which isn't terrific, but he's got a weird accent -- striking, memorable. I can't place it. I have no clue what to make of these guys. Something about them seems ... off. Between songs the lead singer of this band, called Anj (pronounced "AHN-jay"), announces that they are, in fact, from Moscow, Russia. After every song, or at least it seems that way to me, the singer belches, "More scream! More scream!" I don't know if he's aware of it, but he is effing hilarious. (That's him in the picture.) I love this band.
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Check them out on YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ew9YQVRSlHE. The link leads you to a video for Anj's song "Gorbachev" from their latest album, "Russian Roulette." I find it hilarious, and a little sad, that the video equates freedom with blue jeans, Twinkies and Coca-Cola falling from the sky. But maybe that's the point: the ridiculousness of freedom through capitalism. I love this song and -- yes, I know I've mentioned it once already -- I love this band.
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After they finish their set, Malmstein comes on soon after. He swings his guitar around his neck. He does acrobatic kicks in his fringe-laced cowboy boots. He tosses hundreds of guitar picks into the audience, for which my fellow concertgoers risk their lives. He blowdries his hair between songs. To be fair, he plays an incredible set ... y'know, for a bloated late-'80s pseudo-metalhead icon. He really is an amazing musician, but his music is so dated. Even so, it is nice to see the guitar solo live on, even if it is merely in the form of a reanimated corpse that should have been kept in its lace-and-leather-lined grave when it died 15 years ago.

Fashion Victim

Life, as they say, is about balance. Last week I was in St. Louis visiting a Jordanian businessman and his family. I stayed at their house, about 25 miles outside the city, on a nice-sized property off the beaten track. One night I accompanied him and his wife downtown -- St. Louis has a surprisingly decent downtown -- for FashionWeek, where I attended my first runway fashion show in a hotel in the shadow of the Arch. It was interesting, to say the least. How do models walk like that?
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After scarfing down burgers at the Burger Bar in Lumiere Place (I had the veggie burger, of course), we ended the night atop the Four Seasons, overlooking the Mississippi beside a reflecting pool. The night came to an abrupt end when a fellow FashionWeek attendee had an allergic reaction to a macadamia nut he'd eaten. He looked good enough in salmon-colored hives, which makes sense considering it was FashionWeek and all. We started the drive back to St. Louis' outer reaches around 11 p.m.
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So that was FashionWeek. A few days later I found myself at the Electric Factory in Philadelphia for what some people (not me) might call SatanWeek. With the aid of a couple Blue Moons, I stood through three or four (they kind of ran together) black-metal bands such as Skeleton Witch and Dimmu Borgir, which opened for Danzig. I have a problem with black metal. I don't care that they profess to worship Satan or that I don't pretend to understand the words they're screeching. My issue with black metal is that thay have no sense of humor.
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I ended the too-long night with my friend Pat, standing in the parking lot till 2:15 a.m. waiting for Mr. Danzig to show his alabaster face. While I didn't hang around long enough to see him, I did see Steve Zing, former drummer of Samhain and current bass player for Danzig. The show was ... sad. I still love Danzig's music, but his live show has suffered over the past 17 years. That's understandable. But the sound was horrid. And I hate to say this but I may be getting too old to be going to heavy-metal concerts and buying T-shirts with upside-down crosses on them.
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Then again, I said the same thing last year.