January 6, 1998

First song. Okay, so the P.A. fizzes out, the vocals become barely audible - what do you do? Play a short, half-hearted set, leaving the headliners to take the heat? Or play with reckless abandon, thrash instruments, and look absolutely fabulous? Fortunately Atlanta's Subsonics chose the latter.

Singer-guitarist Clay, looking like Judy Garland and sounding like (from what I could discern) Marianne Faithful, vamped and slithered with much style. Backed by drummer Buffi Aguero, Sophia Loren with a backbeat, and bassist Kristi, a young Shelly Winters, rocked with a purseful of attitude. They delivered a tongue-in-rouge-cheek set of glam-surf-garage sleaze.

Clay's pubes, Kristi's silver glittery eye jewels, and Buffi's skin-tight whatever it was, along with their crampsmeetsPoisonatanoutletmall cacaphony - galvanized the crowd into a writhing mass of sexed-crazed revelers.

Next up - Orlando's trash heroes, The Hate Bombs. With attendance rising, along with blood alcohol content, who cared about hearing the words? All you had to know was, "Hey!" As in, "Hey, you're going to have fun, like it or not!" The Bombs launched into their set, including such favorites as "She Bit Me" and "You Lied/Haymaker", which were recognizable despite no real sound system.

The party moved full steam ahead... right onto the stage. Mostly fully-lubricated women (with booze, you sleazebags) and a few brazen men. Subsonics Buffi and Kristi, not to be outdone, jumped in on drums and go go boots. No pseudo-preening getoffmystage sensitivity here. Just don't step on my cord and you're okay, baby. That's why these guys are going to be around long after Orlando's new/old radio-ready successes fade. They connect.

You had to see my usually-reserved bespectacled friend Steve frooging, mash-potato-ing, and twisting into the next year. Or Ken's babe, Carol, in her electric blue sparkle dress (custom-tailored by Buffi's own dress designer Renee), and finally, happily-married hetero (or so we thought) Allen, kissing all the boys (me included) on the lips.

Total abandon. What a beautiful mess this night was. HEY!

Mike Schmidt Generally keeps to the highlands of Central Florida, and thus has managed to avoid capture and scientific analysis. Other Articles I've Written