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AGUAfantastica
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AGUAfantastica
kilroyrogers's Details
Army brat and evil genius with a rare streak of humility totally unbecoming in Hollywood. Does becomming have one or two "m"'s???
I am the manager of AGUAfantastica. Google those f*&*%ers and see what east L.A. Anglo kids are up to- you'll be shocked and fascinated. Influences include, well, just go to the website and go to I tunes and buy the friggin' record already. Not a bum track on the album. Do I sound like a manager???
Cheerio, ROy ROgers Oldenkamp
I am the manager of AGUAfantastica. Google those f*&*%ers and see what east L.A. Anglo kids are up to- you'll be shocked and fascinated. Influences include, well, just go to the website and go to I tunes and buy the friggin' record already. Not a bum track on the album. Do I sound like a manager???
Cheerio, ROy ROgers Oldenkamp
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NEON BABYLON MADNESS!! AGUAfantastica + Black Lips
Posted by kilroyrogers on January 05, 2006 at 12:01 PM
Here's a review of the AGUAfantastica/Black Lips show from CITY BEAT by crit ROn Garmon
HOLIDAY 'BABYLON'
The Black Lips lead the sex-’n’-scatology charge at Kim Fowley’s free-for-all
~ By RON GARMON ~
What becomes an elderly minor cult figure most? Probably failure to show up for his own event. Rumors and disinformation as to the whereabouts of the eminent Mr. Kim Fowley abounded at the Knitting Factory’s “Neon Babylon” event last Wednesday (December 21), as two of his latest protégé acts howled and fans battered one another without mercy or injury. Despite the King Freak’s dereliction, a pleasingly unpleasant evening’s diversion was had by his royal court, hangers-on, and cynics of the press.
Producer-songwriter-hustler Fowley has been a fixture of Hollywood rock ’n’ roll since the Eisenhower administration, and served scene and self as a sort of eminence greasy for longer than most of the town’s music has-beens have been alive. He’s figured into the careers of KISS, Joan Jett, Alice Cooper, Darby Crash, and Frank Zappa. Talent comes, implodes, deliquesces, is mopped up and sent home via Greyhound, but Fowley still lurches on amongst us, resplendent in his shaven skull and lemon-yellow suit. Part Svengali, part Herman Munster – I’ve heard so many stories of his boorishness, seen him hauled in state from one venue to the next and roll glowering past the blighted dreams of better men so often that I’ve started a Kim Fowley Death Watch in another publication. He obliges me by living.
DJ Don Bolles had the easy work of making the main bar area ring with long swatches of Bowie-Zep-Flaming Lips as I riffled the pages of a book in between visits from a surprising number of scene vets. The $5 cover also let in some prime fringies and skeezes, but all boozed together amicably in the long walk-up to openers Agua Fantastica. The pride of Burbank, AF is a winsome sextet of cutie-pie youth specializing in eccentric garage-band crunch-tators. Armed with winning smiles and outré instrumentation (clarinet, trumpet, and flugelhorn), the kidz did loud execution on tunes with titles like “Viet Mom” and “Plastered in Paris.”
As is typical with Fowley dos, there was lots of between-set high jinks. This evening, the crowd was called on to rate unnatural sex acts as committed onstage by audience members. One poor fool came out as a “puppetsexual” and did an act that didn’t involve fisting. Some chick began by fellating a florescent tube, which flicked on and glowed brightly as it traversed her vagina. The winning act was the decidedly non-sexual accordion-humping of Count Smokula, a seedy jongleur oft-seen on the Strip in fez, cape, and pancaked face torturing his sorry squeezebox to the hoots of tourists. The lady with the light fixture huffed out loudly, waving her prop like a scalded drum major.
It had been a couple of years since I’d last seen the Black Lips, but their elegant hype of “Swell Maps trying to cover the Swingin’ Medallions” was spot-on. A quartet of pretty boys from Atlanta – and one of the last discoveries of the late, lamented Greg Shaw – they’ve gone from generic two-chord shithammer to a very palatable rivet-bucket blues with fine proto-punk overtones. Their new LP is Let It Bloom, out on In the Red Records. As a live act, the Lips made their bones on the rat-hole punk touring circuit with a variety of evil and scatological antics. Their appearance at the Silverlake Lounge a while back was marked by penile guitar solos and much Ipecac-inspired puking from the band. The fun part is that these boys are way too good for such catch-penny geeking. They do it because they want to.
The Lips began tamely enough, scorning the absent Fowley for “cowardice” before the audience began to shove and smack each another. Most of the violence was caused by one idiot mosher who insisted on plowing into everyone, including a girl who responded with several blows to his impassive face. The boyfriend dutifully waded in, his punches doing little but offending the stunned-drunk miscreant, who sniffled, “I just wanna have fun!” Meanwhile, the Lips’ Cole Alexander (guitar, vocals) whipped out his penis and pissed full straight into his own mouth for the finale. “I heard it’s supposed to be good for you,” mumbled the drunk to my right.
12-29-05
HOLIDAY 'BABYLON'
The Black Lips lead the sex-’n’-scatology charge at Kim Fowley’s free-for-all
~ By RON GARMON ~
What becomes an elderly minor cult figure most? Probably failure to show up for his own event. Rumors and disinformation as to the whereabouts of the eminent Mr. Kim Fowley abounded at the Knitting Factory’s “Neon Babylon” event last Wednesday (December 21), as two of his latest protégé acts howled and fans battered one another without mercy or injury. Despite the King Freak’s dereliction, a pleasingly unpleasant evening’s diversion was had by his royal court, hangers-on, and cynics of the press.
Producer-songwriter-hustler Fowley has been a fixture of Hollywood rock ’n’ roll since the Eisenhower administration, and served scene and self as a sort of eminence greasy for longer than most of the town’s music has-beens have been alive. He’s figured into the careers of KISS, Joan Jett, Alice Cooper, Darby Crash, and Frank Zappa. Talent comes, implodes, deliquesces, is mopped up and sent home via Greyhound, but Fowley still lurches on amongst us, resplendent in his shaven skull and lemon-yellow suit. Part Svengali, part Herman Munster – I’ve heard so many stories of his boorishness, seen him hauled in state from one venue to the next and roll glowering past the blighted dreams of better men so often that I’ve started a Kim Fowley Death Watch in another publication. He obliges me by living.
DJ Don Bolles had the easy work of making the main bar area ring with long swatches of Bowie-Zep-Flaming Lips as I riffled the pages of a book in between visits from a surprising number of scene vets. The $5 cover also let in some prime fringies and skeezes, but all boozed together amicably in the long walk-up to openers Agua Fantastica. The pride of Burbank, AF is a winsome sextet of cutie-pie youth specializing in eccentric garage-band crunch-tators. Armed with winning smiles and outré instrumentation (clarinet, trumpet, and flugelhorn), the kidz did loud execution on tunes with titles like “Viet Mom” and “Plastered in Paris.”
As is typical with Fowley dos, there was lots of between-set high jinks. This evening, the crowd was called on to rate unnatural sex acts as committed onstage by audience members. One poor fool came out as a “puppetsexual” and did an act that didn’t involve fisting. Some chick began by fellating a florescent tube, which flicked on and glowed brightly as it traversed her vagina. The winning act was the decidedly non-sexual accordion-humping of Count Smokula, a seedy jongleur oft-seen on the Strip in fez, cape, and pancaked face torturing his sorry squeezebox to the hoots of tourists. The lady with the light fixture huffed out loudly, waving her prop like a scalded drum major.
It had been a couple of years since I’d last seen the Black Lips, but their elegant hype of “Swell Maps trying to cover the Swingin’ Medallions” was spot-on. A quartet of pretty boys from Atlanta – and one of the last discoveries of the late, lamented Greg Shaw – they’ve gone from generic two-chord shithammer to a very palatable rivet-bucket blues with fine proto-punk overtones. Their new LP is Let It Bloom, out on In the Red Records. As a live act, the Lips made their bones on the rat-hole punk touring circuit with a variety of evil and scatological antics. Their appearance at the Silverlake Lounge a while back was marked by penile guitar solos and much Ipecac-inspired puking from the band. The fun part is that these boys are way too good for such catch-penny geeking. They do it because they want to.
The Lips began tamely enough, scorning the absent Fowley for “cowardice” before the audience began to shove and smack each another. Most of the violence was caused by one idiot mosher who insisted on plowing into everyone, including a girl who responded with several blows to his impassive face. The boyfriend dutifully waded in, his punches doing little but offending the stunned-drunk miscreant, who sniffled, “I just wanna have fun!” Meanwhile, the Lips’ Cole Alexander (guitar, vocals) whipped out his penis and pissed full straight into his own mouth for the finale. “I heard it’s supposed to be good for you,” mumbled the drunk to my right.
12-29-05
NOISE
Posted by kilroyrogers on December 02, 2005 at 10:22 PM
Hollywood is nonstop noise, white noise, sirens, wailing hookers, crashing cars, clanging geetars, churchbells, black choppers, the list is endless and my ears haven't been assaulted like this since I bought the first BLACK SABBATH album back in '70! Saw '
em live back then to and you didn't, you had to see the lame DIO shiz or OLD OZZIE. haha
em live back then to and you didn't, you had to see the lame DIO shiz or OLD OZZIE. haha
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