By Drew AIles
By Taylor Boylston
By Bree Davies
By Emerald O'Brien
By Gina Tron
By Jon Solomon
By Drew Ailes
A few weeks ago, Jones met with Wedgeworth to ask about having live performances at Monday council meetings. So far, she's agreed to feature local music once a month. "On the one hand, you could say, 'Well, that's not that big of a deal.' But I disagree," says Jones. "I think this might be the most dramatic, and by far the biggest, gesture that the Denver city government has ever made in honoring and recognizing local music. Part of the point of getting the music into city council is that that's where the politics take place, and there ought to be a shift in politics that recognizes and supports local music. The bottom line is that it pays for the city."
In the case of the Dalhart Imperials, it paid off with a delightful blend of heartbreaking honky-tonk for a group of citizens assembled to hear the usual zoning droning. And don't think Jones's jack move got past me: He made a shrewd choice in selecting the Dalharts, and I couldn't help but wonder if the message would have been as well received had Mike V. and Alien Pimp been throwing down.
As it was, with the exception of Wedgeworth and Brown, who sat back in his chair tapping his fingers together in Mr.-Burns-like delight, the rest of the councilmembers had that old deer-in-the-headlights look. Either those folks are the most stoic people on the planet, or they were as bored as fourth-graders during a reading of War and Peace. Maybe next time, Jones should pick Mike V.
Losing my religion:Last Saturday night, despite many invitations to sin, I attended midnight services. And I wasn't the only miscreant trying to get in touch with my soul; the inner sanctum was packed tighter than a can of sardines. Okay, so maybe we weren't at this Church for a midnight mass -- just a midnight massive, hosted by porn stars Ron Jeremy and Tiffany Holiday and featuring sets by DJ Portia Surreal, renowned turntablist DJ Rectangle and local stalwart Jonas Temple.
Since the event was officially dubbed Sexxxtravaganza, I fully expected to witness gratuitous acts of hedonistic debauchery that would guarantee I'd need to seek absolution Sunday morning. But the night was about as titillating as watching a Shannon Tweed double feature on Cinema-X with a few hundred strangers.
First up behind the decks was Surreal. The Gotham-based erotic-fetishist-cum-table-jockey, who donned knee-high stilettos and a painted-on corset for the occasion, spun a capable but mostly flaccid set. Fortunately, the twin sisters she unveiled a little later were far more bangin'. And she wasn't the only entertainer whose endowments eclipsed her act. Before Jeremy, clad in his trademark sweats and a Funky Monkey T-shirt, introduced Surreal and her subsequent go-go exhibition, he effectively reduced himself to the dick everyone had already assumed he was. "I'm living proof that anyone can get laid," Jeremy said sagely.
And then, when Surreal commenced to grope/spank the Church's resident divas to Temple's grinding, fiery beats, Jeremy added a little play-by-play: "You wouldn't see Penn and Teller scratching each other like that." Summarizing Temple's stimulating performance -- the best offering of the evening -- Jeremy offered this lame quip: "How'd you like Jonas Temple? They call him that because he spins religiously."
Next up was Rectangle, the cat I'd really come to see. Although he's normally a master blaster behind the tables, Rectangle's set here was downright square. Kicking things off with Usher's "Yeah," an undeniably hot cut that's a no-brainer for lighting up the dance floor, he then cued up House of Pain's "Jump," followed by "Walk This Way," the Run D.M.C./Aerosmith collaboration. Unless your DJ title is followed by the name Z-Trip, it's never a good idea to mess with this type of material. If Rectangle had mashed it with some other tracks, I might have given him a pass, but he played them straight up. And it got worse. Rather than dig through the crates, he threw down joints by Sean Paul, J-Kwon and the ever-popular but way-played-out "PIMP," by 50 Cent. As that song, with its "I'm a motherfucking P-I-M-P" refrain, gave way to "Magic Stick," I was thinking that if you exchanged the P with a G, you'd have an apt description of Rectangle's set: minimal turntable dexterity -- save for some errant scratching and a cheesy echo added to the chorus of "Tipsy," which jilted J-Kwon's cadence -- with segues that were choppy as hell.
Despite this gimpy performance, somebody kept getting on the mike every few minutes to yell, "Make some motherfucking noise for DJ Rectangle!" I gotta tell you, if I were spinning a set as wack as that, I wouldn't want someone beating my name into people's heads. I'll give Rec another chance; after all, he's a DMC Champion. But if I were to base my opinion solely on Saturday night's display, I'd recommend a moniker change -- perhaps to something like SupercalafragilisticDJWackadocius.
I'll be praying for his recovery.
Upbeats and beatdowns:On Friday, April 16, Danya River celebrates the release of its new disc at Avogadro's Number in Fort Collins. On Saturday, April 17, Maris the Great premieres his new family-oriented variety hour, Dead As Fuck, at the Soiled Dove, with the Commodes, D.O.R.K. and Saving Verona. And finally, last Saturday's CD-release party in honor of Tyfoid Mary, which was postponed because of water damage at the Ogden, has been rescheduled for Friday, May 14. Tickets for the April 10 date will be honored.