(This one's going to go quick! The Djinn will be appearing @ Stages Theater Center, 1540 N. McCadden Place, Hollywood Ca. 90028. 1 blk E. of Highland, ˝ blk N. of Sunset. It runs Thursdays through Saturdays: 8:00 p.m., leaving you enough time to breeze through Happy Hour over @ the Cat & the Fiddle without a lot of drive time, October 11 - November 17, 2001. Tickets: $20 (and well worth every cent) Reservations: 323.465.1010. If you don't live nearby, take a flight. Stop being jealous. Call and beg for a CD, you know you want it, and they might even send you one for Ten Bucks.)
An evening with Imperial Mantooth is a priceless experience. It should be, the guy cost me some bucks in gentle exhumation of the wallet. Sure, I could have thrown those crumpled bills into the sweaty lap of a rotating naked woman @ Cheetahs. Believe me, friend: With no plan of execution on a postcard Friday night and the world on the cusp of something awful, my female fans weren't having it. The Mantooth is worth handfuls of cash in entertainment value alone. I support his "live for the moment" posture, secretly worshiping it on the sidelines of obscurity. A man of means, the guy really knows how to sh*t the fart out of the poo. He'll forever bring back the shame, making me a better man in the process. As with all great works of flesh and bone, there is a slight defect in his acute personality: Inertia. He sat, suffering from a drawn pout brought on by my refusal to purchase his starved body a pack of cigarettes. Mantooth flew away from the table, making rounds along the outside dinning area of the Cat & Fiddle bar. In approach of total strangers, he came with a forced whine, chiming, "I'm trying to stay off the dope. Can I have a smoke?" It was the best Jan Michael Vincent impression I'd seen in a long time. A joke of course, I was the only one laughing. He came back to the table empty handed. We ordered more beer on the Happy Hour, watching our sky turn purple with uneasiness unmatched. Bad Vibes shivered rings inside the glass at a rapid rate.
Not content with his occupied space, Imperial is a man easily distracted. He spied a mannequin across the street. It stood in an abandoned display window wearing a Hotdog on a Stick uniform, urging a playfulness absent from these last few moments of drink time. For days; I'd been seeing ghosts all around me. I should have heeded these early warnings. Instead, I followed Mantooth as he jerked his way across the road like some juiced-up sh*t-f@ck on a Toilet Duck high. Partway into the intersection, I heard that blue-haired waitress scream, "Hey, Hollywood, F@ck you and your four dollar tip!" It was enough to distract us from our chosen path. We became unaware of the thoroughfare at just the wrong moment. Five seconds into trying to figure out what she'd said, we were met with a SLAM. It was the notorious Lemon-Flavored Juice truck that killed us. We went up into the grill, simultaneously spit onto the sidewalk like a watermelon seed.
Hollywood didn't look any different in death. I saw Imperial's spirit attempt to float away from that tiny square of concrete. My pale hand grabbed it in time to lock his heaven-bound soul in purgatory. I stretched out the neck of his new "cowgirls rule" T-shirt in the process. The city blocks slowly faded into a ghost town. An urgency erupted in my chest, urging my blue hued apparition towards McCadden Place. Imperial didn't want to come, but he seemed to have no choice.
I didn't know where we were going until I reached the end of the street. Of course, we were in Hell. I tried to recount what sin it was that brought me here, but failed in doing so. I should have known the Stages Theater Center would be my internal damnation. You see, I have a phobia of live theater stemming back to childhood. Theatrical works horrify me, hitting the heart in multiple off-center beats. My mom used to throw me in the car with Ann MaGee, who would drive us to some backwoods play put on by the AWHC (Adults Who Hate Children). I don't know if it was the forty-year old stuttering hypochondriac in the badly sewn piglet outfit, or the Shadowed Giant from Jack and the Beanstalk that sent me under the seat of non-recovery. A live ventriloquist dummy after seeing Anthony Hopkins in Magic didn't help either. I tried to gather my whirling suspicions of doom. Me and Mantooth went to the restaurant next door for a quick drink.
There, a Structure Model posing as a bartender whipped us up a Long Island Iced Tea that tasted like no drink you'd expect to find in Hades. This tall, cool order was a song sung by angels. It tasted like a clear blue diamond. If I was ever offered the chance at proposing to a lady, this is what I'd slip on her finger. If you're ever in the area, I highly recommend you stopping by for a quick one. That liquid was enough to cap our interest in the gates of flame. It awaited our tragic excuse for an afterlife.
We went through the fence of Stages, picking up a program on the way. "What the f*ck is this? The Djinn? Mantooth, this is Wishmaster the Musical."
"B., that's fucking awesome." He couldn't contain his grin as we tried to ascend the box office. The glowing harridan behind the glass called me over, "You can't go in without a name."
"It's B. Alan."
"Ah, Mr. Orange." She pointed to my sad reputation on the guest list. Next to it was the word, "Movieweb.com." So that's what sent me into the inferno: All those reviews for Movieweb. God damn it, it's a fact my soul will never be free, "We've been waiting for you. Go on in."
We crept into the theater, taking a seat in the second row from the top. Next to me was another critic, from a Jewish publication. A few isles down, I saw an extremely passionate and friendly member of the press named Smiling Jack Ruby (13thstreet.com, check it out. His is the shit, but you already knew that.). F@ck, critiquing as a platform for employment is a bitch in the hereafter. I'll tell you that much.
The play didn't start right away. A gorgeous Texan brought me and Imperial a few bottles of Heineken. The inside of the theater was elegant in an intimate weather; sure didn't seem like the third ring of fire in Satan's Tree of Hell. But, appearances have always been deceiving. Stages reminded me of those back alley playhouses I'd been forced into while stationed in Argentina. I never did understand the language of what was going on there, but it was pretty in an intense, scary, misplaced way. I had no idea what to except with [the Collective]. Truth be told, The Djinn as Wishmaster the Musical seemed like a pretty f@cking cool idea. I've been a long time fan of Peter Atkins' work, as it ties in nicely with the horror landscape I'm so fond of. It seems he's found a nice position in the spirit world directing plays with Kate McLaughlin. Enthusiasm springs eternal.
I read the back of the program to find out it wasn't a program at all, fortifying my suspicions that me and the Mantooth had perished as mere casualties on Sunset Boulevard. One aspect did intrigue me: "A ROCK & ROLL HORROR MUSICAL." Despite my irrational fear of three-dimensional thespians, I've always held an affinity for odd, misplaced rhythms locked in a surreal landscape (a description fitting what we have here rather nicely), especially if they rock harder than a masochist. Take Raggedy Ann & Andy the Musical: 1976, for instance. Sure, you think it's a dishrag canker sore for four year old girls. Not true, go back and look at the Blue Camel's solo piece and worship it for the soul dividing entity that it is. It's always the musical number that stops the show and makes the world a special place. This was either going to kick ass, or it was going to be a weak, arsty-fartsy moment of self indulgence. It has been done before: Carrie the Musical, Star Wars the Musical, and the notorious Bat Boy. Ah, Bat Boy: It could have, should have, been cool but the songs are so mediocre and on the verge of boring. It ruined a perfect construct. I swallowed the last of my beer, gripped the seat with tight, dead-blue fingers, and hoped for the best.
The theater went black. The first few guitar chords obliterated my expectations, shattering my left cheekbone with an enthusiasm unmatched. Faster than you can recognize the outer beauty of a drop dead gorgeous women, I knew this was going to be something special. The Ensemble hit the stage in painted death face, erupting into A Statement of Intent. It grabbed me, and held me, and kicked me all the way through. A few seconds in, my fist went up in involuntary formation of the metal sign. It was all I could do to curb the fervor building, about to push me over the back of my chair. The Devil had failed at providing Hell, instead plunging me head-first into the best live experience I've had in the last five years.
Anyone who's seen the Wishmaster movies will be familiar with Djinn's arc of occurrences. Peter has taken the best moments of his screenplay and turned them into an almost cheerful anthem of exuberance. It's the impossible done right. A genie is released from his glowing red opal, determined to rule the world. Everyone is granted a wish, it's outcome a literal horror. It'll take the one who relinquished this bastard from his gemstone home to put him back. That only works if her three wishes are done right. I'll admit, a bit of this in execution is incoherent, but I think its mode of bizarre displacement is intentional.
The Djinn is a flashing collection of tight scenes that whip by in an almost discombobulatingly drunken state of urgency. The whole show was off and running before I could even attempt to catch my breath. This is a wonderful, wide aurally intoxicating platform that did everything in its power to increase my blood alcohol level at a fever pitch. I sat in one of those pure white moments that had me in awe of everything I was witnessing. When I go to a club, this is what I want in a rock show. The new Hesher punks are too dumb to know this, making McLaughlin and Atkins two of the most Punk Rock people on the face of the planet at this moment. Their exhibition does rock harder than a masochist. No Lie.
Let's not overlook the kids on stage. The quality of performance here is above spec. I couldn't believe some of the talent apparent on that small throw space. Then I realized…This is LA. Great actors come crawling out of the woodwork upon sight of a Harlan Moen ad in Backstage West. I'm glad these talented understudies of [the Collective] have found such an excellent means of channeling their art. There isn't a rotten one in the bunch. Especially valuable are McLaughlin and Dana Middleton in the roles of Mr. Sponge and Mr. Scrotum. A couple of English Chaps who whine about wanting bigger parts, they are the true glue which holds the overall story together. Their song and dance routine kept scenes rolling into one another, "taking the story where it was financial unfeasible to go." It's in inspired pairing that kept a smile planted on my face the whole way through. I was genuinely surprised at how effectual Kevin Matthew Gregg is in the role of Demarest. He took a character perfected by Andrew Divoff and made it his own, creating a smoothly suave ass-showing of biblical proportions. He delivers two of the best songs in All About the Face and Just a Wish Away, reason enough to claw your way to The Djinn's soundtrack. Out of all the numbers written specifically for the stage by Atkins, only one comes off as a semi-dud. The rest of these somewhat touching songs are enough to propel The Djinn out of its tiny underworld theater and into bigger venues among the living. That may come as an unwanted favor; a lot of what's at play here depends on the intimacy of being squeezed into a tight space with the demon. I wouldn't have traded my seat for the world, especially if it meant never getting to see Jennifer Phinney as Alex. I'm in love with this girl as an actress, and I'm not sure why.
At ninety minutes, the play runs almost as long as the movie, never breaking for intermission: The real penalty for your sins comes if you've imbibed the bottle before hitting the chair. Ouch. In my opinion, it was almost too short. I wanted more; which is the way it should be. I wanted to see it again, right away. Alas, I had no idea what the afterworld held in its coming moments. This experience was a tiny slice of gratification. Surely lawnmower blades over the abdomen were next. Or maybe it'd be Estradasphere on constant repeat in my CD player. Whatever the implications of future pain might be, all I'd have to do is remember the better parts of The Djinn, and everything would be great. I wouldn't say Stages vanquished my fear of live theater; rather it resurrected it in a most frightening manner: Thank you, everyone involved.
After the show, we were ushered into the bar for an immaculate reception of Bloody Maries. This surely had to be the underworld: The barkeeps refused to except tips due to some weird Union Code Efficiency Number unfamiliar to me. After we tied one off, me and Imperial Mantooth were sent into the pitch black streets where we were picked up by a hooded fellow in a taxi. He drove us around aimlessly in an endless search for daylight. It never came, our bones growing weary at every turn.
Three hours into this Hell ride, the spooky dude pulled over and tossed us onto the sidewalk. Our souls drifted into oblivion. A deep sleep like none I'd ever encountered consumed my inner being. It was the pull back to life. I was awoken by Roof DH of Green Jell-O (who later changed their name to Green Jelly due to legal reasons). In an act of kindness, he bought me and the Mantooth a couple of breakfast burritos. I have no idea how we ended up in Silverlake. I turned to Imperial, glad to be back amongst the living, "I don't remember what happened, but I recall seeing the coolest show last night."
"I know. I'm trying to stay off the dope." Indeed.
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