"Can we, as a country, all
2004: Band sluts
hit the road
been a long while since I felt like being a band
slut, the best feeling in the world.
I fell hard for Diamond Tuck & the Privates
back in November. They
snapped me out of a funk with their first song,
a mix of heavy metal, glam rock, Oregon pride and
total HOTNESS. An eight-piece band carefully culled
from the lifers of the Portland rock scene, these
guys and gals know how to throw a show. Captain
Diamond is 6’2 and covered with tattoos. As
the leader of the pack he makes the call on whether
the boys wear pink or white denim and coordinates
eye makeup, too. His best outfit is sweat and man
was he wearing it that night.
Kelly’s Olympian was packed. The band barely
fit on the makeshift. Midway through the show Diamond
waded out into the crowd, made out with a lucky
slut and then mounted the bar, preaching a chorus
of sexxxed up YEAHS to adoring worshippers, pouring
a drink down his smokin’ hot chest and reclining
in his best Burt Reynolds pose. The band and the
backup singers broke it down to a whisper while
Diamond told all us pretty ladies just what was
in store for us. The volume came back up and the
whole ensemble rocked out—complete with choreography—til
every last panty was wet and every t-shirt was sold.
I went home shaking my head in disbelief. I’ve
known this Diamond fellow for YEARS. I’ve
seen him in a hundred rock bands. But oh-my-goodness
I had NO IDEA… I woke up the next AM still
wondering who the lucky slut was he made out with
on the floor. I vowed to kill her.
Two months later the band was appearing at Slabtown
with another Portland all-star band, Starantula.
I’d seen Starantula four years before and
thought I knew what they were all about. I was wrong.
In that time they’d changed from a lounge-punk
novelty act to a blistering four-piece RAWK band.
Think the Jimi Hendrix Experience fronted by Jim
Belushi dressed as John Travolta. You cannot NOT
dance to Starantula.
Diamond Tuck played first. The estrogen in the room
was so thick that I decided to let him alone. I
made love to my tequila and danced my ass off instead.
When Starantula took the stage I accidentally fell
in LUV with Kelly Gator—Fireballs of Freedom
lead singer and axe slinger—right in front
of his girlfriend! My eyes were crossing and she
could tell. She glared at me through the smoky sweaty
haze and I conciliatorily made out with seven people:
two chicks, two drummers, two strangers and DIAMOND,
who very politely asked, “Viva, will you come
make out with me in the bathroom?” We sucked
face on the floor while his guitar player Private
Mike took a piss right over us.
The morning after I was still in love. I was shocked
by my lingering lust
and went to the clubhouse to tell Blondie. Blondie
said, “That’s not love. That’s
Blondie had been celibate for like weeks. She was
in that lipstick-buying, cat-petting phase of the
MenSuck continuum. It was getting harder and harder
to get her to go out. Then I got beat up and everybody
except the men I was fucking felt sorry for me.
Blondie was even willing to be my wing-woman. I
took her to 72nd Avenue where the band parties and
made her make out with Private Mike. Diamond and
Private showed us a real bitchin’ time, taking
us to rad bars east of 82nd and finally to drummer
boy House Arrest Dan’s house where Blondie
danced to Hall & Oates in her legwarmers and
Diamond made out with me in spite of the stitches
in my swollen, bloody lip. One short week later
we were on the road to Bellingham, following Diamond
Tuck & the Privates on their tour of the Northwest
Bellingham ROCKS. It’s got something of the
energy and excitement of the Satyricon scene in
its much-storied heyday. Lots of little rock’n’roll
bars are lined up on State Street. Nearby Horseshoe
Café and Tavern has a 24-hour breakfast and
a groovy cowboy pulltab lounge. Blondie and I had
biscuits & gravy there for dinner and then got
slutty in the bathroom after the long greasy drive.
Blondie put on her makeup in the midst of a full-on
dyke battle, sometime lovebirds tearing each other
apart but still not immune to Blondie’s considerable
charms. Blondie is every dyke’s wet dream.
I slipped out of my tight jeans and lavender black-eye-accenting
sweater into fishnets, short white denim skirt (Diamond
had informed me that the “theme” of
the evening was white denim) and red knee-high alligator
boots and we ran to the rock club.
The bands and their bitches were all there and I
instantly started to swoon, but Blondie needed vodka
TOOT SWEET. We wandered the streets looking for
something other than a tavern and wound up at the
Factory—another super cool Satyricon-y bar
with, thank God, liquor. Blondie downed three vodkas
with Red Bull in quick succession and I medicated
with two. Back at the 3B, I flirted and twinkled
and didn’t notice that Blondie looked like
a beautiful schizophrenic about to throw herself
out a window. I got her some water and took her
to the bathroom for a nice puke photo shoot. Soon
Blondie felt blonde again. “Glad I got that
over with!” she chirped.
Diamond and Co. took the stage and took the TOWN.
The locals gawked
in shock while we Portlanders danced and screamed
and made out. The local paper was there to document
it all, fell in love with Diamond and took notes
for a front-page feature in the Bellingham Daily.
These guys are IT, man!
Diamond was wearing his pink leather captain hat,
a big black monkey fur jacket, a tight white t-shirt
and tight white Levi’s. Private Mike had on
white denim trousers AND matching jacket, his white
private hat and aviator specks. And his Flying V,
which he played as masterfully as he’d been
playin’ Blondie. House Arrest Dan and bass
player Private Andy are the lookers of the band
and are deadly. What kinda girl doesn’t fall
for the rhythm section straight off anyway? They
wore head-to-toe white denim, too. Then there was
THE WIZARD, Greg Gallant, wielding a Flying V, black
handlebar moustache and long black Ozzy hair. He’s
all Black Sabbath at night, but during the day is
your average pot-smoking Converse-wearing northwestern
cutie. Finally, the pistol-hot Hidden Valley Singers:
Lucinda Beth, who is, according to Diamond, “More
woman than most men can handle,” Heather from
DOTS who is blonde and has hamburgers tattooed on
her sternum and wears groovy polyester pantsuits,
and beautiful, honey-voiced Cameron, aka “Cam-Shaft,”
the world-famous hula-hoop boy. Cam is tattooed
and skinny and uses the ladies room so you can ogle
him in the light. He plays a mean tambourine.
Blondie was in fine form by now and joined the rest
of us sluts on the floor, shakin’ it HARD
to Starantula—the best dance band on the West
Coast. Starantula’s got it and there ain’t
no doubt about it. Every girl from every walk of
life jumped out of her seat to swoon and shimmy
and sing along to their rockin’ cover of “Fooled
Around and Fell in Love.” Cam hula-hooped.
The after-party was at the hotel room. Everyone
had been on the road for days and was smelly and
sleepy. Diamond lent me his chest as a pillow and
covered me with his monkey fur. Private Mike and
Blondie curled up in the alcove under the vanity
mirror after raping each other for hours. Everyone
else watched TV.
The next day we had breakfast with the whole motherfucking
band. The boys and girls trickled in—each
hotter than a jar of Hot Mamas. Me ‘n’
Blondie giggled and cuddled, feeling like the luckiest
girls in the whole world. What band sluts get to
stay the night and then stay for breakfast?! We
felt just like My Little Ponies, smeared mascara
After breakfast we headed to the Murder Bar, so-called
because Ted Bundy, the Green River Killer and the
D.C. Snipers all partied there. Everyone orders
white Russians. I take mine black. Local bar slut
gets excited about my black eye. Says she just got
the shit beat out of her by her old man but the
cops took HER in for four nights. In fact she was
fresh outta jail that morning. I admire her ring.
She guesses that we are rock’n’rollers.
Private Mike tells her the band is Iron Maiden and
that we’re off to Japan in eight hours. Tells
her Blondie is his wife of seven years. Blondie
melts all over the bar like a softserve sundae smothered
in hot caramel.
We have two more rounds at the Murder Bar and then
stumble out into the late winter sun. It’s
time to go home. Blondie and I rub noses with our
band boys and speed away in the Volvo, reliving
every slutty detail over the dreamlike five-hour
drive home. We know that Diamond Tuck & the
Privates have more band sluts than any band in the
world. But man don’t it feel goood to be back
in the saddle? Huh, Blondie?
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