Marilyn Monroe or Brigitte Bardot? They both had blond hair, water-bed eyes, and more curves than Lombard Street, but Monroe had that arousing, nearly sinless vulnerability while Bardot always seemed so, well, naked. Never was a woman more naked when fully clothed. Seeing her go-go dance was enough to make even that rapscallion Serge Gainsbourg confine himself to muttering only her initials. All I'm saying is that a dance party called "Bardot Au Go-Go" will have to be fairly titillating to live up to its namesake. The folks at Liftoff! SpaceCapades and Castle Pink Frankenstein assure me they are up to the challenge. Expect live go-go girls, rare videos, sassy wares, Parisian backdrops, and psychedelic visuals from Liquid Lights. Francophile DJs Pink Frankenstein, Brother Grimm, and Alec will be spinning rare French pop, sexy soundtracks, and '60s Europop. Get gassed, get gone, and go-go baby. "Bardot Au Go-Go" will be held at the Cocodrie on Friday, Oct. 23, at 9 p.m. Tickets are $7; call 986-6678.
Unlike most clans in the region, the Soussou of Guinea, West Africa, observe no caste system, making cross-pollination and collaboration a natural part of their creative lives. WOFA, a 10-member troupe of seven male percussionists and three female dancers, is one of the very finest examples of this liberal social group. Creating complex polyrhythms on traditional Lower Coast instruments -- djembe, a drum fashioned from a single block of wood and covered with goat skin and small cattle-bells; balafon, a traditional xylophone; wassakhoumba, small calabash discs strung across a curved piece of wood -- WOFA honors the traditions of West Africa with snake dances and a 15-minute ritual piece performed during nightlong circumcision ceremonies. WOFA appears at Zellerbach Hall in Berkeley on Saturday, Oct. 24, at 8 p.m. Tickets are $14-26; call 776-1999.
During a Rancid show in New York City, thousands of angry, young men in combat boots were commanded by their newly anointed glands to shout, "Show us your tits!" as the lead singer of the Toilet Boys sauntered across the stage wearing a corset, a garter belt, and leather boots. So, you see, it wasn't entirely the crowd's fault. Dozens of even-minded critics have fallen into the same trap, glorifying the trashy allure of Miss Guy -- slender, wet-lipped, heavy-lidded, and platinum-blond like Deborah Harry; snotty, snarling, and tattooed like Tim Curry. Some critics have found themselves so entranced by Miss Guy's exotic late-'70s visage that they have been unable to put their libido in check long enough to actually listen to Miss Guy sing. If they had, they might have noticed what the, um, discerning Rancid fans did: That is, heavy lipstick and lace aside, Miss Guy is definitely vocalizing with a full package. The Toilet Boys play full-throttle '70s-style balls-and-cock rock because Miss Guy is a guy who likes everything fast, hard, and to-the-point. As those from the East Coast might have guessed, the Toilet Boys come out of the sweaty, ultrahip flanks of Don King's "Squeezebox." Guy spins there; the rest of the band -- an eye-catching assortment of East Village-punk boy meat -- have all done stints go-go dancing so they're not afraid to wear rock 'n' roll T-shirts cut midriff or bluejeans tight enough for a sperm count. They strut, they strip, they sweat, and during the nerving climax -- after the disc sander and the blowtorch have been exhausted and all the flash pots have exploded -- Guy climbs onto the shoulders of his shirtless 6-foot-7-inch guitar player and pumps out "Vibrator." It's no surprise that several low-ceilinged nightclubs have nearly caught fire. Rock 'n' roll is dangerous stuff, but the merchandise is worth it. The Toilets Boys support the Donnas at Bottom of the Hill on Monday, Oct. 26, with Me First opening at 9:15 p.m. Tickets are $7; call 621-4455.
-- Silke Tudor