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House Of Tudor 

Tiki Tones; Rudy Ray Moore; Phantom Surfers; Rogue's March

Wednesday, Jun 14 2000
With The Leisure Experiment, the Tiki Tones have launched their seaside guitars into a futuristic Jetsons stratosphere filled with glowing vacuum tubes and transistors. Their new world is filled with soft, shiny surfaces and super-short skirts; the music bubbles and bounces across self-cleaning white floors with sparkling Moogs and loops of weightless girly la-las. It's as appealing as an aquamarine swizzle stick, as alluring as false eyelashes and go-go boots, as delightful as a pleasure cruise around Mars, and as comfortable as pre-warmed lounge chairs. Unlike so much modern electronica, this '60s-inspired dance music carries the heat and affection of an analog fantasy, and if you're a little behind the times, like me, you'll want to stay for a very, very long time. The Tiki Tones perform at "Secret Agents Shag" on Friday, June 16, at the CW Saloon with Project: Pimento and 10 Foot 5 at 9 p.m. Tickets are $5; call 974-1585. They also open for the Ventures, who are celebrating the release of Gold (rerecordings of 20 instrumental classics), put out on Pat Boone's label of the same name, on Saturday, June 17, at the Maritime Hall along with Casino Royale and Electric Peach at 8 p.m. Tickets are $15-18; call 974-6644.

The master of blaxploitation is back. Considered the predecessor of rap, the sexually explicit rhymes of Rudy Ray Moore (aka Dolemite) had to be sold from behind the counter of record stores brave enough to carry them. Even in the '70s, when the sexual revolution should have made such expressions trouble-free, his "party" albums such as Dolemite for President, Eat Out More Often, and I Can't Believe I Ate the Whole Thing seemed to tease the bounds of open-minded liberalism, even while his appearances in blaxploitation flicks like Dolemite, The Human Tornado, and the ultimate Petey Wheatstraw: The Devil's Son in Law made him an underground cult superstar of sorts. With his 1997 release, The Hip Shakin' Papa, we found the mack daddy making his singing debut surrounded, as usual, by a menagerie of glistening, seam-stretching babes. Sadly, Moore is more adept with sleaze than soul, and only the rumbling lesbian lament "Willa Mae" gets the juices flowing in that old-fashioned Dolemite way. Thankfully, Moore has musically minded fans who, inspired by his guttural career, are determined to keep the X-rated party album legacy alive. Enter our own Phantom Surfers and their paramount achievement XXX Party. While the liner notes are sprinkled with high-minded quotes from Friedrich Nietzsche, Simone de Beauvoir, and Decimus Junius Juvenalis, the recording is an unbridled exploration of lascivious surf ha-ha. Within 20 pelvis-pumping surf songs we are offered 400 ways to fuck with legions of 18-inch cocks, throngs of bobbing bosoms, a few repulsive orgies (Tipper Gore, Il Dulce, and Justice Berger), lewd ABCs (C -- Crisco party, D -- diaper pussy, H -- hambone bush job, K -- King Kong ball sack stretched out from tea-bagging, X -- excuses for premature ejaculation), heavenly punk rock gang bangs (Wendy O. Williams, Sid Vicious, Stiv Bators, and Darby Crash), frequent appearances by Rudy Ray Moore (and other manly men who wipe their asses with glass and hit their dicks with rocks), and revamps of classic songs ("Necro Sue," "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Orgy," "Let's Fist Again"). For some reason, sex is always funny and, as Moore says on the opening of the record, surf music makes your dick hard and your pussy wet, and the Phantom Surfers know how to make surf music. How can you go wrong? Rudy Ray Moore and the Phantom Surfers come together for the "Pimps, Players, and Fat Record Collectors Ball" on Saturday, June 17, at the Justice League with the Cantankerous Lollies opening at 8:30 p.m. Tickets are $10; call 440-0409.

Combining the energy of early Social Distortion with the world-weariness of the Low and Sweet Orchestra and the poetic destitution of the Pogues, New York's Rogue's March travels through red-light districts, jail cells, and one-night stands with the street-savvy swagger of men who have seen it all but still feel it most of the time. Along with Flogging Molly, the Rogues have become favorites of Irish-loving Pogues fans; while the band is accompanied on occasion by uillean pipes, lap steel, and accordion, the fact rises more from gritty storytelling than inebriated instrumentation. Lead Rogue Joe Hurley has an oddly seductive cigarette-thick snarl that keeps his wistful ballads rough and the rollicking sing-alongs durable. No doubt he is the kind of tough mug men depend on in a pinch and women worry about in the early morning hours; and that's exactly what you look for in drinking music -- a singer who lets you smash chairs and sob about it later. The Rogues' latest release, Chaser, does all that and more. Like the Pogues' If I Should Fall From the Grace of God, Chaser offers tangos, waltzes, jigs, and laments, amid a parade of New York-flavored rock that is aggressive, direct, and defiant. While Hurley clearly has the soul of a streetside confessor, he doesn't waste time on embellishment and pretensions. If he touches you and you bounce off the walls, so much the better. Rogue's March supports Flogging Molly on Saturday, June 17, at Slim's with SC Volunteer opening at 9 p.m. Tickets are $10; call 522-0333.

About The Author

Silke Tudor


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