Musical magic made with aid from alcohol, gratuitous sex

Friday, November 20, 1998

Musical magic made with aid from alcohol, gratuitous sex

COLUMN: Being creative naturally leads to use of

fake genitalia, cheap gin

Many readers (and editors) complain that all I ever write about
is drinking, drugs and sex – without the rock ‘n roll. They claim
that as music editor, writing for the Arts and Entertainment
section, music should sit at the forefront of my column topics. So,
this week, I strive to relate how music wouldn’t exist without the
drinking, drugs and sex. In fact, I think some people can be
rockstars without ever picking up an instrument or belting out a
musical cord.

The scene: Alex’s apartment, 5:30 p.m., Friday. He will direct
myself and several others in a music video for his film class. My
role? One of Casey Wright’s back up singers – a Baby-Be-Gone
Go-Go-Girl.

"Here’s the script," Alex proclaims between phone calls. "You,
Jen, Ruben and Ivan will back up Casey in the band. Take a look at
your lines and let me get your measurements for the ’60s dresses
I’m ordering."

"Whoa – who’s playing the Pope?" I inquire. "Does he get a Pope
hat?"

"Thomas. Of course he gets a Pope hat!" Alex maniacally
declares.

"Cool," I relate, poring over the lines. "So, do you want us to
sing the chorus along with Casey or do you want some doo-wop thing
or … "

"You guys can work that out later, get some dance moves, the
whole she-bang," Alex says with a wave of his hand. "Where’s … ?"
he mumbles to himself. "He should be here by now … "

But something feels amiss. As Ruben sits stoned on the couch, he
intently tears through page after page of his 17th century
literature and Thomas lolls around on his sofa in the adjoining
apartment, I require amusement.

"Hey, want a shot?" Alex offers, smiling conspiratorially

"Wow!" my eyes light up. "Could I?"

After a palm-sized cup of vodka, I find it easier to get into
character. We walk to the Melnitz rehearsal space, picking Jen up
at her work along the way, me blabbing to everyone about my lack of
post-graduate plans. I am utterly enthralling.

Upon arriving at the white-walled rehearsal space, Casey whips
out his costume.

"Casey, gees!" we all exclaim, staring at his crotch in disgust
and wonder.

"Did you make that thing out of a pillowcase?" Thomas
inquires.

"Yeah, I was hoping to make the pubic hair from yarn, but
fortunately, I found this great black scrunchy gift wrap stuff
instead," Casey explains enthusiastically.

"Impressive," Jen notes.

"Yet, somehow, I find it strange that it would probably never
occur to a female to construct enlarged genitals for herself in her
spare time," I reply. "But maybe I just know the wrong sort of
chicks."

Once Alex leaves to make camera changes from the upstairs
control booth, the practice begins.

"You people," Thomas begins reading. "Wait, – the Pope’s
Italian," he recalls, changing his tone to that of a thick-accented
Brooklyn mafia member. "You people are loathsome, deviant drones.
How you can waste your life with such uncivilized, hedonistic
behavior is beyond me!"

Ruben, filling in as Keith Richards, replies, "Well, maybe if
our mothers had taken birth-control pills," he pretends to take a
swig from an imaginary bottle of liquor and improvises, "we
wouldn’t be here."

A wrestling match ensues, and then it’s our turn.

"We could make sweet love and I really think we should," Jen and
I croon tunelessly alongside Casey. "But I don’t want any Casey
babies commin’ out of you!"

Once the video screen pops up, revealing us on screen, there’s
no stopping the creative flow.

"We could do a Muppet move," Jen suggests, throwing her arms out
before her.

"I was thinking more along the lines of a fly-girl thing," I
mention, falling to the floor, attempting a pelvic backthrust, or
whatever it is that those limber groove-dancers do. "You know, like
from ‘In Living Color’."

"Yeah," Thomas excitedly intones, "and you could pump your asses
out and Casey could run down the line, slapping them!"

"Tasteless, but it just might capture the effect we’re going
for," Alex agrees.

Then, after drawing butts and genitalia on the chalkboard, we
leave for Ralph’s Fresh Fare (arguably the finest grocery store on
the planet), where we pick up a half-gallon bottle of Canadian club
and Seagram’s gin – both on sale.

But I won’t bore anyone here with the details of the rest of the
weekend’s debauchery: men cooking meat, Jen and I whining that
people should always cook us food; the next morning when we awake
to more shots of whisky; two bottles of wine, Brie and crackers
consumed in the car outside the laundromat later that evening,
where we meet "Psychic Sara" and I accidentally wash my clothes
twice (oops, wonder how that happened); coming home to a party in
progress where I buy beer for minors (like, we’re talking strange,
pesky high school kids) after being awakened from my passed out
state; more sangria and a ruthless Sunday of wretched hangovers
where Jen and I have to make our own brunch because no men want to
cook it for us. (Well, Ruben did fry up some mean garlic eggs.)

But no – that aspect of our rockstardom will not fill the pages
of this Arts and Entertainment section, you panty-wadded
music-lovers. Are ya happy, now?

VanderZanden is a rockstar by nature, and sings along to Iggy
Pop’s and Kate Peerce’s "Candy" like nobody’s business. Or so she’s
been told.Vanessa Vanderzanden

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