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http://www.myspace.com/trophywives
Straight and Frankenstein tall stood Kim Fowley in the low-roofed Redwood Lounge last weekend. Presiding over another installment of "Hollywood Sexual Underground", the legendary songwriter-producer-impresario was haranguing a roomful of sweating freaks and lovelies when I clambered in off the street on another boiling hot Friday night. "Are there any lesbians or drunks in the house tonight?" he intoned from somewhere near the ceiling, glowering about the narrow room like a rock 'n' roll Vincent Price. There were no confessed Sapphics, but that the place was packed with lushers was discernible by the naked nose, yet nary had a peep arose from the bar. Amateurs, I snorted. Just wait 'til L.A. Decom. Impossible to rattle, Fowley breezed through the intro to The Trophy Wives, who let out as deafening a caterwaul as I've ever heard loosed in the place. The lead singer's mic died, but the drummer went off like a long string of M-80s and the narrow bar began to suitably rock. Grinning, I left, loping south through Little Tokyo and the Arts District as the floating parties and nuzzling lovers heralding the start of another off-the-hook weekend. —Ron Garmon