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1,000 Scars
A Review of the 1,000 Scars Party for the Dee Snider Movie, StrangeLand
It's
pretty hard to be a journalist at a party. For me anyway. I'm too busy
scamming my next free beer and trying to have as good a time as is
humanly possible given the party's parameters. Showing up at Night of
1,000 Scars, the premier party for Dee Snider's movie Strangeland at
Webster Hall, my expectations weren't very high. I'd been receiving
info-packed press releases from the guy booking all the acts, Keith
Alexander, of Brooklyn's Modern American Body Arts, that certainly had
me intrigued. But Webster Hall? The Mecca for every bridge and tunnel
loser looking to dance on ladies' night? I had my doubts.
Well, all of those doubts were quickly laid to rest the moment I
encountered the smiling young lady holding the guest list clipboard and
actually had no problem whatsoever gaining access to the monstrous
club. Seconds after stepped through the door, I ran into both Keith and
Brian, the charming club manager, which I took as a good omen. And soon
I was swept up in a stampede of the hippestÑand
hugestÑcrowd I've seen assembled in quite some time. Pierced,
tattooed and dressed in black, Gotham's most ghoulish guys and gals
skulked from one elegantly appointed room to another, taking in the
sights. In the third floor salon, a tribal piercing demo was going on
in a quiet corner, a frail man's epidermis being decoratively adorned
with feathers. On the main stage, two different piercing scenes were
happening simultaneously. A regular I recognized from Click + Drag,
with wonderfully long and luxurious two-tone locks, was being sliced
and skewered, while on the opposite side a half-naked woman was having
her breasts jabbed with threatening needles. And amidst it all, looking
slightly dwarfed by the 20-foot-high video screen, a devilish go-go
girl capered, cracking a long, looping whip.
I noted that the club had been redecorated since my previous visit what
must have been years earlier. There were more than enough bars to
service the thirsty masses and plenty of slouchy couches for the lazy.
But what was really shocking was how impressively the hip outnumbered
the square. For every Wall Street geek in a suit and tie, there was a
gaggle of goth kids decked out in draping black lace. And for every
two-, three- or foursome of lame-ass guys in khaki bermuda shorts,
there were mobs of modern primitives, traveling in tribal packs.
And probably even more surprising than the actual presence of so many
spectacular party goers was the fact that so few of them looked
familiar. When I would approach a knot of scantily clad tattooed cuties
to ask if they were "from around here," many shook their heads. It
seems that the abundant budget for this stellar event even allowed for
the import of cool! Very cool, indeed!
As I cycled through the club, each time I entered the smaller second
story dance floor a different scene was taking place on a small side
stage. I spotted Lolita, of Eulenspiegel Society fame, and the woman
responsible for keeping the kinky well informed through event-based
e-mailings, wielding a vicious whip. She was using it on a fragile
blonde, whose back was a relief map of angry red welts. The uninitiated
sat around the raised platform with their mouths agape, or stood off at
a safe distance, whispering nervously to their dates. The next act up
was a spangled hoochie-coo dancer who was shaking her sequined sweater
puppies in a most un-Giulianiesque fashion. I didn't stick around to
see if she revealed more skin. I was desperately trying to see a
friend's fetish fashion performance, so I kept scrambling from one
floor to the next, searching in vain.
In one trip up the treacherous stairs, I stumbled upon Screw's beerless
eater, Al Goldstein, and his adorable date Rose. "What they hell are
you doing here, Al?" I exclaimed, floored that the Clown Prince of Porn
would be interested in seeing so much modified male flesh with no
promise of pussy eating. He was trundling toward the VIP room when I
left him muttering something about nipples.
Ah yes, the VIP room. It wouldn't be a big club bash without the
requisite VIP room. It turned out to be the fourth floor balcony, where
free alcohol was being handed out liberally and a decidedly un-Twisted
Sister-like Dee Snider was holding forth in front of a kleig-lit video
camera. I did attempt to get close to the newly-gothed-out dinosaur
rocker, but when the crush of the crowd became more than I could bear,
I opted for additional free booze instead.
Back downstairs again, still in search of that Pat Field's fashion
show, I blithely dismissed a duo of apes on the small stage. I was
looking for, at the least, some nudity! How about "the dungeon?" I had
heard an out-of-town domme and the ladies of Nutcracker Suite would be
in the basement, so I headed down. Goth Dom Lilith Stabs was nowhere to
be seen, which was a bit of a disappointment. But Nutcracker Suite was
in full force, bending a buxom blonde over a pummel horse in the midst
of a casually assembled circle of gawkers. Not enough nudity for me,
however, and I returned to the main room just in time to see the troupe
known as Extreme Torture Discipline. Three heavily modified young men
were strung up from a huge rig of metal, chains and counterweights,
making what could only be called a human mobile.
At first the three merely dangled from the cat's cradle of rope
attached to the five hooks dug deep into their backs. But as the mobile
started to spin, they picked up momentum and eventually they were
flying, kicking off the stage amps and soaring toward the ceiling. To
me, this was the most impressive act of the night. Yeah, I've seen the
Genitorturers and I've suffered through enough piercing demonstrations
to hold me for all of eternity, thank you very much. But the
combination of ritualistic hook hanging and the flat-out exhuberance of
these guys was inspiring in a way most "shock the shit out of the
straight people" stuff seems to fall short. Of course, I'm sure you
readers would've had more appreciation for their female compatriot who
was strung up all by herself, her unfettered breasts flying and
soaring! Finally, nipples! (I guess it would be pointless for me to
mention that one of the dangling gentlmen exposed his genitals? No?
Okay, well when I get to see dick in public, you KNOW I've had a good
night!)
I distracted myself by traipsing up and down the stairs some more,
still not finding that fashion show and eyeballing the darling dommes
down in the dungeon until the main stage was glowing in the dark with
Bile, a thunderingly loud industrial band. They were followed by an
equallyhigh-decibel band, Crisis, with a dreadlocked female lead
shrieker who stomped around the stage with violent conviction. I
actually overheard a few guys professing their sexual fantasies,
starring this vixen. Madonna she wasn't. But then, this wasn't MTV,
either.
Eventually, exhausted by my unsuccessful search for the Pat Field's
crew and the incessant up-and-down necessary to procure free beverages,
I inched toward the exit. It was almost midnight—early by my
standards—but the party had started at 7:00pm, and by the witching hour
they would start allowing the unwashed masses entry. In lieu of cabbing
it up to Bound, the new fetish party, I decided that what I needed to
top off such a successful evening was a stop at San Loco. While waiting
for my Burrito Loco, it occurred to me that I hadn't seen much
shameless promotion for the film: no lengthy trailers or poster
giveaways. There had been t-shirts for sale, but for such a costly
event, I would've expected to be accosted by an army of marketing
types, eager to fill the theaters with the attending hipsters. Perhaps
they were going to let the party speak for itself. Excellent idea!
Because if that party was any indication of how cool the movie would
be, Strangeland is going to be a big success.
[Written in the late '90s sometime...]
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