Inebriated charlatans assembled, I and my cohorts sat on a high perch above the legendary Whisky stage, observing at a safe distance, the well played yet somehow tedious bore of the reggae tinged punk band who opened proceedings. As they meandered in the foreground I found myself growing restlessly bored. Cue- more alchohol.

    The next "group" was not even a band perse but a two man duo which suffice it to say could have sold itself as a comedy team.The obese singer/guitarist (who could be anybody's middle age father) attempted to liven up the duldrums with "C'mon everybody, get drunk" rants which served as nothing more than listless, juvenile jargon, but they had a slight thrash edge to them which was cool. I'll file them in the "so bad they were almost good" category.

   Now, on to more dark and ominous pastures. Hollywood death punker's Delphic Sibyl were next. Like piranhas at feeding time they tore into their set with bloodlusting glee. Their decompositional traits are similar to The Misfits with a tinge of The Damned and their image is a graven hodgepodge of esoteric, gothic bondage mixed with B movie monster trappings. Lead groveller Johnny was quite alluring, dazzling the crowd with titillating tales of morbidity and woe and a costume part midnight horror host, part armor laden zombie skateboarder. Intriguing songs such as "Near Dark", "Vampire Surf" and "Omen Of Bats" transported me through a portal in time to an arcane world, not dissimilar to the band who performed at the school gymnasium  in 'Nuke 'em High yet set in the cemetery of Plan 9 From Outer Space. Macabre chic, indeed. Rounding out this rancid wretch of rotten raconteurs are the well chiseled, nosferatu laden features of bassist "Karim Ortega" a virale creature of ill repute, clambering amongst the perilous ruins of stage right's domain. Supplying the blood of his victim's in sound vibration form, he throttles and possesses the curious onlookers with a vivacious steed that has them praying to get home before the sun arises. The quaint guitarist is the shy, less animated one. But, I'll bet he has more than mere skeletons in his closet...he, he,he! and the drummer hammered his coffin lids with the fervor of a Robo'esque mannequin on speed. All in all a grand, theatrical presentation on a dimestore budget. Guaranteed to please serial killers, horror mavens, drunkards and common patrons alike. Go see them next time they are in town unearthing some crypts, before you find yourself occupying one...for all eternity.
(Slight intermission- cue legends)

  Straight from the grave to the stage , garroting the wankers and think tankers like jack the ripper on a bender, The Undead helmed their rat laden  ship right upon the shore of the Sunset Strip. Dating back to 1980 and formed in the dismal subterrenean throes of the east village in New York and led by scene stalwart Bobby Steele, The Undead were one of the progenitors of horror punk. Only the post mortem B movie antics of The Misfits are a precursor. And now, I'm seeing them live. Or is that...undead? Like a Serbian missile attack they launched into their set. Bobby Steele led the feral punk rock onslaught with a downstroking flail that could rival Johnny Ramone at his most pissed off, adrenalized best. The band had an almost surf rock aesthetic buried deep within their Fear by way of 45 Grave mongrel sway. A 60's do wop jangle lurking amongst the cobwebs and hot rod cutlery of 1950's creature features. Yes indeed, all of this transcribed through music. Anyway, onto just that.

  Bursting forth from their malefic tombs the group hammered our senses with a triple attack of dread. "Evening Of Desire", the musty reminisces of "In 1984" and finally rambunctiously rounded out by the crudgingly creepy howls of "Be My Ghoul". Now "things" got interesting as Mr Steele introduced a dusty oldy from the cellar. A little dirty some of you boils and ghouls may recognize- "London Dungeon" by The Misfits, only this time the old dragster ran a bit faster. A revamped tank full of high octane fuel driven by a new exuberance and rage. 60's nostalgia was also impressed upon as those dementedly delightful chords of yesteryear were given an asskicking by the ravaging vixen Diana Steele and her rustic, medieval battle axe. "Hearse Song" contained a hyper textualized drum Lagatoe by skin ripper Joe Stoker and the skeletol fiend on Bass Jason Fresta rumbled the deceased In their rotting throes with his low end aftershocks.

   Another Misfits class-sick tore through the halos of the attendee angels and a slackers moshpit erupted in approval as "Halloween" was exhumed from it's dulcet coffin, allowed to breathe once again the air of the city's drug addled escapists. And boy, did it roar. Loudly.

Rounding out the kooky chicanery of all things rot 'n roll was 'Ratfink", an homage to that hot rod revving, methane letting, anti-hero (and nemesis of Mickey Mouse) championed by kitsch culturalists worldwide.Ahhhhhh, a beautifully morbid, moonlit night of Rock 'n Roll draws to a close. Senses thwarted, I dragged my future corpse frame back to my hovel to prepare for bodily rejuvenation before the sun's interference.