By Terrence McCoy
By Allie Conti
By Chuck Strouse
By Scott Fishman
By Terrence McCoy
By Ryan Yousefi
By Ciara LaVelle, Kat Bein, Carolina Del Busto, and Liz Tracy
By Pepe Billete
I remember it, vaguely. Pete Townshend was right, and not just about himself. That old movie Logan's Run hit the tip, too, with its premise that an unsurpassably happy and pleasure-soaked life ends -- must end, literally -- at age 30. Heck, mine certainly did. Heck, I even have younger brothers turned 30 -- happy b-day (July 10), Chuck and Roger. Heck, now the Lord God of Local Rock, Pete Moss, has gone over the precipice and fallen into the valley of the past-their-usefulness-to-a-vibrant-and-throbbing-society. (A deep, deep valley.)
But, yo, it was good to know Moss lo these many years. A drunken bum of a janitor (I'd sell parts of my body to attain that position) who says he can be reached at his girlfriend's phone number (1-900-HOT-BABE), Moss has contributed as much sound and vision to South Florida music as any other single person. It's too bad he turns 30 tomorrow (July 16) and thereby abandons a decade-plus of brilliant work. At least he's going out with a party, not a wake: This Saturday at Churchill's Hideaway such legendary Moss-draped outfits as the Eat, Boise and Moss, Rooster Head, Johnny Tonite, and, possibly, DT Martyrs, along with Diane Ward, will gather to rock for the old-timer. (Notice how I didn't force the phrase "rolling stone" into this item? A younger writer surely would've.)
Good ol' Miami Rocks, Too! is already gearing up for the fifth annual showcase of area talent. Though it doesn't take place until my birthday (February 4, 1993, and, no, I won't say which one), the Rocks bosses are as of now soliciting entries. Send a quality -- presumably high-quality -- three-song demo, a one-page bio with phone contact number, a photo, and fifteen smackers to Miami Rocks! 750 E. Sample Rd., Suite 209, Pompano Beach, FL 33064. (Deadline's October 15.)
Some of you decrepit geezers might remember some years ago how the Cameo Theatre was home to solid-cool rock and roll, from Ramones to Dead Kennedys to a bill that featured the Replacements and fIREHOSE and Charlie Pickett. (God, that was a show, drinking the afternoon away with Westerberg and Stinson, lounging comfortably with maybe 200 others in the vast hall, walking ten miles in the snow to get to school....) Those of us who haunted the venue on punked-out nights, when Richie Shelter was booking the insanity, could rarely avoid running into (ouch!) a bearded giant in black leather: Serge Villart. He grew up in San Luis Pinar del Rio, Cuba, developing a knack for art, which led to work on satiric newspapers, which led to imprisonment for ten years. After arriving in Miami Beach in 1979, Serge -- everybody's always called him Serge, as if he had no last name -- has hacked out a living with his art, creating signs, commercial graphics, club decor. He also began a fanzine at one point -- Slick: the Punk's Pick. Beginning tomorrow Serge will present his first public exhibition of his paintings, primarily acrylics representing Caribbean "maidens" and other wildlife. The reception is tomorrow at 6:00 p.m. at the Clean Machine, that groovy launderette at 226 12th St. in Miami Beach. Call 534-9429. (At least I didn't wax nostalgic over another of Villart's old hangouts -- Flynn's.)
I know it's been reported elsewhere, but some people seem to think that validation comes only through a mention in this here space. Okay. Fine. The winners of the best amateur blues band competition: Piano Bob and the Snowman. Like Roach Thompson Blues Band before them, the hard-pounding duo will go on to compete for the national crown. We offer congrats and wish luck. In other blues news, Roach and company will perform at Club M this Friday and Saturday to help raise funds for the South Florida Blues Society.
"Blues Singers Receive Recognition" it says here. Ha! Big joke! Very fuffin' funny. Soopuh Jerry J will host a salute tomorrow (Thursday) at 12:30 p.m. at WEDR-FM (3790 NW 167 St.) wherein Bobby Blue Bland and Tyrone Davis, immortals each, will receive proclamations from the state, county, and the cities of Miami and Opa-locka. You're welcome to go hang out with a pair of legends. (This event was planned for June, which is Black Music Month, but scheduling problems bumped it up.)
A group of radio-journalism students from Piper High School's adult education course, looking for a way to stay on the air during summer is buying time on WSRF-AM (1580) beginning this Friday. Their "alternative progressive format" -- dubbed Radio Alternative Workshop -- will air out all weekend. "It'll be a hybrid between college and commercial because we're selling spots," says Dena Marshall, the class instructor. "It was a brainstorm among the students. They wanted to stay on the air during the hiatus from WKPX-FM. It'll be alternative in that we're open to anything, including portions of old radio dramas that we'll rebroadcast, and lots of alternative/progressive music." (To contribute in any way, write to R.A.W., c/o WSRF, 3000 SW 60 Ave., Ft. Lauderdale, FL 33314.)
Waste words, not time: This Friday at Churchill's: Big Love and Holy Terrors. Giant Step, hot rockers from Tally, recording at Criteria, smoked the crowd at Uncle Sam's. The Dillengers blast Sam's this Friday.
I don't give a fuff if he blocks chords or not, jim, Mike Gerber means it mean and sharp when he sits down at a piano, he feels it and fills it, and he's one of the best jazz keyers around. Gerber's back in town and is recording a live album at the Music Room, today through Saturday. (Go and your ambient noise might end up on the album.)
The North Miami Beach Pops Orchestra is tuning up for next season, which begins in September, and they're conducting a search for players, particularly cello, viola, bass, and tuba. If you're interested, and you should be, call 948-2986 or 947-9262.
Butthorn of the week: Dwarves, the headliners at a July 7 show at Washington Square. The butthornal band hit the stage and played one song before the rhythm guitarist's amp went hooey, at which point he went off-stage into the middle of the mosh pit, began playing until some skankers got tangled in his amp chord. He had a fit, threw his guitar at the drumset, inspiring the other members of the group to throw their instruments at the drums. The whole set lasted less than three minutes. (Elvis Hitler and Smoke Dog and Titmouse may have made up for it with their early sets, but concertgoers, who paid $8, would still like to toss a big ol' 'horn to Dwarves.)
The media circus: scrape celebrates its first anniversary with its fifth issue -- by far the worst yet. Pick it up and read an interview with Bad Religion ("The way media caters to the lowest common denominator waters down the intellect of everybody"), original new fiction by J.G. Ballard, an on-the-mark explanation of why R.E.M. sucks, a list of Jesus bands and Jesus songs and Jesus albums, and a ton of reviews and other fodder. The issue is so packed with good dope we'll even forgive them for mentioning us. (Note to the editors of scrape: Did you say plugs or drugs?)
Pet corner: It was two years ago that Wheel of Fortune, perhaps the most popular teevy game show ever, banned fur-product prizes. Our side will win. It just takes time.