ITS NOT JUST Charlies Angels and the ladies of Sex ...
Actually, the term "party" must have been in a report from British intelligence, since the actual event turns out to be more about cobbling together a pricey club night in the hotel's spacious bar. Trapped in this insane World Without Free Alcohol, I head down the street to get drunk at a discount at the Baby Doll Lounge, where a cameltoe isn't just some frivolous pop reference but is, in fact, a serious matter of economic survival in this age of chaste strip joints.
If you doubt me, pull out a $5 bill and watch as an accommodating dancer grabs her lacy panties and proudly intones, "I'll pull it up as far as you want, baby." That's a better quote than I'd ever get from the members of Fannypack?and since one of the gals is underage, I'd get arrested for even trying. But I still return in time to see the actual live performance, since Jessibel, Belinda and Cat are fine purveyors of a snarky brand of dance-pop. JJ Fad remains the obvious reference point, but their sales-to-hype ratio might sadly continue to invoke Shampoo.
And let's give props to the Tommy Boy label for keeping it real in acknowledging that people were paying for their own drinks because the company's still broke. It would've been just as easy to have come up with a pathetically transparent lie about how the law forbids an open bar in a closed area where minors are performing?which, God knows, is certainly what I would've come up with in a similar situation.
No such problems for the affluent New York Press, of course, where staffers were drinking like true Micks while exploiting the open bar at Poolbeg?although you could certainly tell when the paper stopped running a tab, because the place cleared out like Dirty Dingus Magee had just walked through the door. But that's okay, since there was plenty of Tiger Beer being handed out at the debut live performance of Iron DJ at Opaline.
This Iron Chef variation, of course, would have been a lot hipper if they'd come up with the idea back when people still cared that Carrie was dating Aidan. You can be pretty sure that an idea's been tapped out once William Shatner has been dragged into a related knock-off. This particular event is salvaged by host Ben Morrison, who's kind of a bearable version of Eric Bogosian. Or, more accurately, Spalding Gray with a funnier disease and a will to live. Since Bogosian and Gray are the Shatners of Manhattan, the whole thing kind of works out.
Anyway, New York Press favorite Joshua Gabriel?whose demeanor suggests more of an Iron Deficient DJ?defiantly takes on DJ Fat Fingaz with only a crateful of mediocre 70s schlock. Gabriel manages a fine job of spinning some gold from the likes of REO Speedwagon and Bill Conti, although the game gets kind of loaded when Barry White shows up in the collection.
Fat Fingaz puts on an equally fine show, and the winner will be the audience once the producers figure out that the judges should keep their pithy remarks to themselves during the sets. In the meantime, it's certainly exciting to see any concept that actually forces local DJs to innovate. It'll still be a generation before they can simply go for a good obscure gag by digging up an old mix of "Cameltoe."