Volume 4, Issue 14
July 11 - July 24, 2002
by Rob Williams
If you read last week's column (vol 4 #13) you heard all about random celebrity sightings at the PS Lounge. Well, gentle reader, it was just such a sighting that launched me into a night of mayhem and debauchery this week. I was minding my own, sipping on a cocktail du jour when I notice this tall brunette in sequins and glitter makeup over my right shoulder trying to get a drink. She waved cash, she shouted, she pouted. What was I to do, you ask? Fair reader, shame on you. In this time of national crisis no one should go thirsty, not a femme fatale nor a ne'er-do-well alike. So, channeling my inner boy scout I hailed a barkeep for this lusty lass, whose name I soon learned was Lily.
Lily, as I mentioned, was a tall cool drink of water on a sultry Sunday night. Turns out she's a singer/trombone player for the "Yard Dogs Road Show," a touring variety act supporting of Eddie Joe Cotton's book tour for his latest work, Hobo.
Yeah, it sounded like a line to me too. But I was sitting at Lily's table anyway, so I listened some more. At this table there was an equally stunning blonde in similar makeup, a guy who looked something between a hobo and rodeo clown and a sassy hungarian girl named Delilah--that sort of stacked the deck in Lily's favor. Soon I had a flyer in hand and a whispered promise in my ear. I looked the flyer over carefully.
Cryptic directions to a junkyard in Commerce City, hand-lettered over a blood red bit of paper. Well, what the hell else was I going to do on a Monday night? So I quickly agreed to meet Lily and crew, at least for a drink.
Now I'm not sure how many of you have ever been drinking in a junkyard before, but there are only a few rules. Bring your own, and bring enough to share. Junkyard accommodations are rarely posh leatherette booths, and the meeting center may well be a 55 gallon oil drum full of burning trash. Armed with this knowledge I procured two pints of Beam, a twelve pack of Miller and headed for the junkyard.
Crammed into the shadows of the Blade-Runner-like refinery and bordered by a trailer park awaited the main stage, a converted truck bed jammed packed with drums, guitars, washboards, and, of course, swords. Why swords, you ask? Well, you can't very well attempt a sword swallowing act with out one, much less chop a watermelon in half over a naked guy on a bed of nails, right? But I'm getting ahead of myself. The night started with some loud punk rock in the garage courtesy of the Scott Baio Army, but soon the opening freak show began.
Sword swallowing, bug eating and straitjacket escapes soon followed. Despite technical difficulties, Missy Kilowatt still managed to light a 60 watt bulb with her holiest of holies. That was enough to get the beer flowing. Let me just say that after the guy self-fellated on a bed of nails the top was off the bottle of Beam and we were all passing it around, trying desperately to get that image out of our minds. When Missy came around to pass the hat I carefully tipped her a pint of Beam wrapped in a paper bag.
On to the main act. How do you describe the Yard Dogs? Part Cabaret , part STOMP! , part jug band, part lounge act, part vaudeville --all played out on the set of Junkyard Wars.
And I'm not sure that even begins to explain the experience. Let me just hit some of the highlights: the Bone Daddy Burlesque Show, that featured more shakin' than Jerry Lee's right hand. Guitar Boy, the lightbulb covered king of big hair, justice and the American way via three chords and the truth. Fire breathing/fire eating fire dancing Hellvis and the Hellvettes, not to mention an amazing torch singer whose breathy voice even drowned out the smell of a passing cattle train.
And that was only half of it. There was still the King of the Hobos playing instruments as diverse as washboards and mop buckets with fury. There was also more sword swallowing and bone crunching antics from the mysterious mystic known as Tobias. Then after all that there was the rocking country of the Yard Dogs Band, with the aforementioned Miss Lily leading the charge on trombone.
I lost count of beers consumed, sips of whiskey and time. Each act is a little different, each a little more daring, each building to a crescendo of laughter, applause and more debauchery. By mid-point the arranged circle of discarded auto seats had given way to dancing revelers and the occasional bout of public nudity.
I found Delilah somewhere in the wreckage late into the night as the show evolved into neo-primitive percussion on junkyard trash, including the destruction of a late model Buick with sledgehammers and golf clubs.
Cathartic? You could say that. Inspiring? More than a little. The kind of show that makes you want to run off and join the circus or ride the rails on a lifelong barter system of trade with your fellow gypsies, duping marks, dodging yard bulls and generally making a dishonest living while having a smashingly good time? Oh yeah. If Kity or I ever disappear look for us on the Yard Dogs Road Show Touring Schedule.
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