Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: THURSDAY, June 22, 1995 TAG: 9506240002
SECTION: EXTRA PAGE: 1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: CHRIS HENSON
DATELINE: LENGTH: Long
But, what of Roanoke's underbelly? Is there one? Is there a grit to go with our grace?
Heck yeah!
Friday night at Night Lites - It's hard to say what's going to happen to this new hangout on Campbell Avenue. While some 60 alternative bands are booked to play over the next six weeks, the teen scene that's developing there may not last. No lease has been signed. The place is just kind of ... open.
"We're playing it by ear," says Scott Wile, who helped set up some of the shows and is working the door on Friday night. "We had about 200 people here for Swank on Monday."
Wile has "a vision of a living room, where kids could hear their music."
The Arizona band Horace Pinker is blasting a set of power-trio originals. The musicians are all '90s angst and kidding around for the 20 or so people here.
"I'm real sorry we stayed in tune," says the singer. "I don't know what happened."
The club looks like a maelstrom hit it. An empty salad bar is against one wall, chairs and benches against another, all to make room for crowds of kids.
Dave, Night Lites' band booker, says it's easy to get good national bands to play here. "They do it 'cause they love it," he says. "Sometimes they even make money."
Dave, who won't give his last name because he's on parole, says he hopes to add other attractions as well. "We want to do all-ages shows so the kids will have a place to go," he says. "And we have a place set up for body piercing."
Watch this space.
Saturday Night at Girls, Girls, Girls of Virginia Inc. - The "T & A Cafe" is embroiled in almost constant controversy. Whether it's a wayward wedgie, copyright infringement or the ever-changing sign out front, something is always afoot at the Triple-G.
This intrepid reporter decides to check it out. Matt and Gerry, two of this reporter's intrepid friends, offer to come along.
In order to do this we wrestle with the same question every sensitive man asks before such a venture: Will our wives give us permission?
"Sure," they say in unison. Then they break out the purses and give us spending money. What's going on here?
Having your wife's permission to go to a strip joint is like having your parents' consent to get a tattoo. What's the point? Gerry puts the evening into perspective. "Why do I feel like we're Ritchie, Potsie and Ralph Malph?" he asks. The drive to Franklin Road is a quiet one.
At the door, the bouncer warns us only four dancers are left. He lets us in at a discount.
Inside is a stage that features a chair, a smudged mirror and a pole running 18 feet from floor to ceiling. About 25 men sit at tables scattered along the front of the stage and on a balcony. They are nursing Cokes, Mr Pibbs and nonalcoholic beers. Girls, Girls, Girls lost its ABC license in January.
It's after midnight and time for the first dancer. The announcer sounds sort of like a pirate. "Aaaarrrrrrrr! Fellas, are your ready for the lovely Miss Storm?"
A few of the guys hoot and half-heartedly say "yeah."
"Aaaarrrrrrrr! Can you give me a 'hell yeah?'" says the pirate.
The "hell yeahs" come like timid responses in a French class. Finally one gentleman cuts loose with a good pig call.
"Aaaaaaaarrrrright, fellas," says the pirate. "Give it up for Storm!"
Storm's routine requires a startling amount of flexibility.
Several men in the audience throw wadded up dollar bills at the nimble Miss Storm. I can't help thinking someone's going to put her eye out. There is a railing that keeps the audience six feet from the stage.
She climbs the pole, slides to the floor upside down, gyrates suggestively, gives a shake in front of the mirror and exits stage right.
It's not for the young or the timid, to be sure, but nothing that hasn't been on HBO.
Isis, named for the Goddess of fertility, is next, wearing an impractical pair of chaps. She dedicates her country routine to someone named Cecil.
Finally, Ecstacy hits the stage and does more writhing, etc.
While each woman has her own motif, they all end up in pasties and a g-string. "Where do you buy pasties?" wonders Matt. "How do you stick 'em on?"
At the end of it all, I can say this: We stayed at Girls, Girls, Girls of Virginia Inc. for about an hour and not a single woman shucked on down to the cob, so to speak. There were no "wayward wedgies," not even a poorly placed pastie.
But I wouldn't say the evening was a bust. Our wives let us go on a little adventure. We did the testosterone thing and they trusted us.
Who wouldn't trust Potsie?
Sunday Night at the Park - The Park is a private club that has its technique down. Thanks to some great DJs, the building throbs at a constant 120 beats a minute.
At 10 on Sunday night the bar is virtually empty. The Park, Roanoke's premier dance space, is energetic even in repose. Colored lights sweep across the ample disco floor, anticipating some action.
In the dressing room, Brandi Alexander is applying a duct-tape Wonder Bra to her bosom, before zipping on a long, black, velvet dress. Jessica Rae applies a deep coat of lipstick and sprays her hair. The room is a haven; it's where wigs and Lycra, and maybe a few sequins, go when they die.
By 10:30, an audience of 40 or so has gathered to see the Sunday night drag show, a weekly feature at The Park.
The music swells and the lights go down. Here comes Brandi Alexander lip-syncing a song about a cheap man. Moving from table to table, she points at various cheap men in the room. Before long, one of them hands her a dollar bill.
Here's Jessica Rae in a black two-piece number. Her lively act gets the crowd going. Birthday girl Anita Mann arrives in a '50s Biker Babe outfit. But it is Miss Grace Kelly, wearing a big Motown pompom, who brings down the house. By the end of her song, her fists are full of dollar bills from adoring fans.
Each girl lip-syncs and dances and flits around the room. There are costume changes galore. As in the movie ``Priscilla, Queen of the Desert,'' they perform high energy classics all about men.
It's a glorious spectacle - a close-knit community enjoying a laugh at no one's expense.
So, Roanoke does have its wild side. There's room for everyone to get out and raise a little heck now and then.
But, if you're going to raise it, make sure you ask your significant other. It's the polite thing to do.
Memo: ***CORRECTION***