Once upon a Saturday night (Jan. 8, to be exact) at Tremont Music Hall, magical things happened. Celebrities rose from the grave to tease us, dancing down to pasties and wrestling. Wizards who called themselves Manchovy rocked the house with sweet tunes and ate pizza with a sultry dancing lobsterman. DJ SIN spun the night away while the less adventurous zombie stars broke it down on the dance floor. And The Body Bags and Prowler brought in the rest of the night when we had all taken in too much of the magical juice that the land of Tremont has to offer.
I must say that when Gore-A-Licious Productions takes over a joint, it becomes a different world altogether. Even if you aren’t into the music on the bill there is something for everyone. Simply being a spectator of these lovely ladies’ performances is worthy of your time. Honestly, how can you go wrong with bombshells dancing in cages dressed as post-mortem Charlie Chaplin, Marilyn Monroe and The Black Dahlia? Not to mention, how many opportunities does one have to dress up like it’s Halloween? Even if you didn’t know how to display the side effects of your death of choice, Gore-A-Licious took care of you with immensely talented make-up artists that in a matter of minutes could make you look screen-ready for a B-rated horror flick.
After everyone got all made up, a costume contest took the stage and “Oxyclean/Oxycotin” wielding Billy Mayes and Shaft duked it out for the grand prize while the remaining contestants were hilariously declared dead due to anal sex, thanks to the Elder Statesman’s twisted MCeeing. I can’t rave enough and it would be a futile attempt to tell you more than this sampling of the great time that I had that night. Between the atmosphere, eclectic people, rad and creative performances and Tremont bartender, Lisa Barr’s famous orange juice margaritas, I could not have asked for more.
— Jennifer Bement
See photos from the event here.
Over the years, the Milestone has earned a strong reputation for its ability to get people wasted drunk. It is often said by those of us who have frequented the place that there is regular “bar drunk” and then there’s “Milestone drunk.”As on a Monday night you could end up slipping into this booze vortex, New Year's tends to be the most vulnerable time to visit a rare form of inebriation.
Because of this, I have often been the girl who barely makes it past midnight due to a copious amount of Jameson and a DD, but for some reason this year I just didn’t feel like making a deal with Satan and allowing myself to throw down with the rest of my fellow “Milestoners.” For the first time in my adult life, I spent New Year's sober and, as a result, got to witness and remember some of the best music and social interactions of my lifetime.
I was stoked from the moment I had seen the line-up. Little Bull Lee+Weekenders+Hectagons+Emotron+Mr. Invisible=Dance party by the end of the night in my book and that is exactly what happened. As The Emotron went on at midnight, everybody took their shot of choice and began getting down to the catchy tunes and mystically bizarre performance. By the end of The Emotron’s set as he stripped down to his tumor-esque sci-fi suit, people had began the final binge and ended up giving in to the temptation of shaking their hips: the dance party had begun.
It’s kind of funny to see a bunch of metal and punk rock kids dancing their asses off, but I suppose it is a natural reaction that is often held back. I, however, lack shame when it comes to dancing with a complete disregard of my ability to stay on beat or who is watching me — so I joined in, eating up every moment of the unity and mirth we were experiencing. The dance party continued throughout Mr. Invisible’s set with vigor and thereafter thanks to Jonathan Hughes’ famous mix. By 3 a.m., everyone was getting told to leave but we were having such a good time that it was almost impossible.
The Milestone’s New Year's celebration was a successful and fantastic way to bring in 2011. And I'm super glad that I managed to remember every moment of it.
After suffering through three weeks of withdrawal from the “bro-downs” the well-established west side music venue The Milestone has become famous for offering, the renovation and sanitation is complete and Dec. 12 marked the grand re-opening of the spot under the new ownership of Jonathan Hughes.
Since I've grown up going to the Milestone, I couldn’t even think about missing my first opportunity to witness the changes resulting from almost a month’s blood, sweat and love. And wow, it was completely baffling to walk into a place I have been countless times before and have to do a double-take.
For the first time ever, I can honestly say that the Milestone is clean. Yes, I said it: The Ghetto Fortress is clean. I wouldn’t go as far to say it's safe to sit on the toilet or roll around on the floor (as I have seen many drunken people try before), but by Lord the prized graffiti adorning the walls is no longer covered in layers of ancient filth. And the bathrooms seem to have lost their permanent smell of stale urine. In fact, the air felt fresh and moderately sterile, truly reminiscent of the new chapter this historic establishment has ahead of it.
Despite the fresh appearances, not much else seemed different since this great change of hands. Doors still opened at 8 p.m., and the show started roughly at 9 p.m.; Andy the Doorbum was still there to greet you; and there was still awesome music from regular acts: Blossoms, The Young, Quiet Hooves, Whatever Brains and Yardwork. Joyful faces of loyal patrons and show-goers lined the bar and stage, drinking, dancing and celebrating the fresh start and shocking cleanliness of a well-loved and appreciated venue. (A venue so appreciated that students sat studying for their upcoming finals in between taking ganders at performances and laughing with friends.)
By the end of the night, it was so packed that it became difficult to navigate through the crowd. I must say, although it was very sad to see Neal MF Harper turn in his hat, the Milestone era that lies ahead appears just as amazing as the one before it.
— Jennifer Bement
The Deal: “Breastival,” kicked off its third year of saving the “boobies” at Snug Harbor this Saturday. It was only fitting that the event was hosted by the Pink Anarchists.
The Good: Music by Cement Stars, Fat Camp and Small Talk Industries and a special performance by punk-drag extraordinaires: Lilith DeVille and Bethann Phetamine kept the night alive and … well, interesting! Like always, every type of character attended and could be found dancing by the stage or fueling up at the bar. The best part about the night, all proceeds went to “The Keep A Breast Foundation.”
The Bad: Nothing could be bad about mixing boobies with bars! But really, the event was a hit. Let’s not forgot about the scrumptious bake sale, offering cute cupcakes for only $1.
The Verdict: Bottom line, if all cause-worthy events were this fun, I’d want to help out a different charity every night!
The Deal: Well-known spinner DJ Scratch rocked the one's and two's with a tribute to 90s music at Marigny on Sunday, Nov. 21.
The Good: DJ DR got the crowed warmed up and by the time Scratch hit the stage, most people were already partying. He took the vibe to the next level serving up a host of 90s hits including Naughty by Nature’s “O.P.P.,” Al B. Sure’s “Night and Day,” A Tribe Called Quest’s “Elektric Relaxation” and Bell Biv Devoe’s “I Thought It Was Me.” Just when you thought he couldn’t possibly top the last jam, Scratch seamlessly hit you with something even hotter.
The Bad: Scratch’s set could have lasted a little longer. After all, he was the headliner, but on the flip side leaving your fans wanting more can be a great marketing tactic. There are only a handful of DJ’s in the area that specialize in 90s hip-hop and R&B and even fewer who do it as well as he does. That being said, he’s in no real danger of losing hard-core fans to the competition.
The Verdict: 90s music definitely still has a place in the heart of Charlotteans and so does DJ Scratch. He did his part to rekindle the love affair of Q.C. natives with soulful 90’s jams and it seems certain that those who came out to the show will be humming some of their favorite 90’s tunes to themselves for at least for the rest of the week.
— Debra Renee Seth
The Deal: At Tilt (Is it a sports bar, dive bar, nightclub? Who knows!) on Saturday night, The “Social Flockers” (who use the title as an excuse to simply flock, socialize, drink, and drink some more) met at the “3 in 1 spot” to have some “Flocker “ fun.
The Good: The crowd was all smiles (but who wouldn’t be with an open bar in sight?) There wasn’t a dull face to be seen on any Flocker in the gaggle. Ladies, gentleman, boys and girls … they all partied until they couldn’t party any more (or at least until the open bar ran dry.)
The Bad: Well, unless you enjoy having the shoulder room of an airline passenger … you wouldn’t have been thrilled with the amount of room in the place. It could have been the free drinks that had them “flocking” to the bar … but it caused too much congestion there and not enough action on the dance floor.
The Verdict: This group definitely owes up to be the “fun, drama free, and down to earth” characters they say they are. There were absolutely no cat fights, drink throwing or other shenanigans all night (way to go, Charlotte!). Tilt is a hidden treasure in the Uptown nightlife scene.
Gay Bingo — a charity event for RAIN — rocked the stage for the very last time this weekend at the Grady Cole Center. I'm sorry to say this was my very first time ever attending — and I was SO CLOSE to winning in one of the games, darn it!
Here is a video clip from one of the performances, taken by yours truly. (Sorry it's shaking in the beginning; I was excited!)
And here are some random shots from the evening ...
Doc and Matt from the Matt & Ramona Show get down in drag.
The BVDs' opening number.
Hostess Shelita Hamm makes her entrance.
I’m rarely starstruck. There’s the occasional, “Oh shit, I traded him on Madden” or “What reality show is she from again?” but otherwise, I’m oblivious to a person’s celebrity status.
Recently, I was having drinks at Common Market, shooting the shit and blowing a Tuesday night, when a friend of mine came through with some dude I’d never met. We started talking about music, bands and playing styles, but I felt myself slowly pulling away.
Years of covering music for CL has desensitized me to people telling me about their band or their album. Seriously, everybody has a band or an album. While some are really good and are destined for modest success and decent followings, for the most part, it’s in one ear and out the other. So when this guy started talking about his band performing all over the place, I was essentially tuned out. That was until he said something about meeting ?uestlove, the iconic, afro’d drummer from The Roots. That made me perk up.
Apparently his band wasn’t doing hole-in-the-wall gigs, or little, local shows. He was talking about performing on Late Night with Jimmy Fallon and Lopez Tonight. I smelled bullshit but wasn’t about to call him on it.
After catching a solid buzz on the patio, we walked through the alleys by The Penguin, past the little cab company, across the CVS parking lot, to Elizabeth’s Billiards. On our way, he explained to us how he ended up in Charlotte and how good it felt to get a break. The whole time I was thinking, he’s cool but he can’t be serious. How many local bands are getting that kind of national attention?
A few Kamikazes in — a drink I highly recommend if you’re ever at EB’s — we both proved to be equally terrible at pool. Our mutual friend started telling me about how legit this dude’s band really is. “His manager is fucking Randy Jackson,” he laughed. Now I had to do some research.
My sobriety and my Blackberry weren’t in sync right then, so it was later that night when I Google’d his band, Paper Tongues. Holy shit! He wasn’t lying. Every detail checked out. Sure enough, he was their bass player. Randy Jackson was their manager. They’d been on Lopez and Fallon this year. What blew me away even more was their album had been in the Billboard 200 where it was described as “Phoenix-meets-Beastie Boys.” And from Charlotte? That’s crazy.
In my defense, nobody jumped out and recognized him, but I guess you never know who you’re drinking with in Plaza Midwood.
A strip club is hardly the place you expect to see familiar faces from your childhood. Then again, you never know what you’re going to see at $2 Tuesdays at Club Onyx. $2 entry before midnight, $2 drink specials and even $2 dances for a portion of the night — the fun is kind of just built in.
This night in particular, the crowd was livelier than usual with friends coming out to support Onyx staples, Kyphi and Bree, for their birthdays. Kyphi, who’s not a dancer, does an annual show to celebrate her big day, and it was a madhouse in anticipation.
Killing time until the main event, I felt like I was at a Young Jeezy listening party. Literally all of his material got played. Better yet, it felt like I was in the backseat of a Chevy on Beatties Ford Road. Booming bass, indecipherable words ... yep, it felt like high school again — well, high school with exotic dancers.
The surrounding cast only enhanced that feeling. It was weird catching up with people I haven’t seen since middle school Language Arts class or high school graduation and trying to sum up the past six to 10 years of my life in a sentence. What common ground is there with someone who has three kids and all I can really talk about is college and journalism? Entertaining nonetheless.
In addition to the ass-bouncing, pole-climbing and reunion chatter, the most notable conversation I overheard was between two dudes explaining why a salty guy in the club lost his girl in the past. “She don’t wanna fuck with a crackhead; she wanna fuck with a crack dealer, ya feel me?” Classic.
Around 1:40 a.m., the main event was underway. The birthday girls headed to the stage in boxer’s robes as the other dancers and patrons pushed their way toward the stage. It took seconds for money to cascade down cartoonishly.
For Kyphi not to be a dancer, she could have fooled me. She had moves, and most importantly, “tools” to convince people otherwise. That was a real surprise. Bree took “Look ma, no hands” to a whole ’nother level, hanging from the ceiling with her knees as money continued to shower.
Headed out the door just in time to see someone get jacked up by security, I had a smile on my face and could only think, “Eat your heart out BET: Uncut.”
Panthers games are really no place for the hungover.
I woke up late one Sunday morning, confused and surrounded by empty beer bottles, a half-drunk Gatorade and other remnants of a great 24th birthday. I knew I was in for a rough day.
After a groggy phone call informed me kick-off was in an hour, I got up to make moves. My hangover let me know early on that it would have a say in how this day would go. I grabbed my wallet to head out the door and was confused to see it stuffed with $1 bills — did I stop off at a strip club the night before somewhere between Liberty East and home?
My pores reeking of Hennessy Black, Bacardi 151, countless beers and saki, the hangover had heightened my senses in a way only a hangover can. I needed shades to stand the sun when I stepped outside into a light but steady shower and made the methodical walk to Bank of America Stadium, battling tailgates blaring hair metal and fighting the urge to vomit at the sight and smell of food.
Bombarded by an obnoxious sea of humanity, I dragged my ass up to the cheap seats where I sat directly in front of a couple, who, by the looks of the water bottle turned dip cup for chewing tobacco, wasn’t going to make my day any better.
I was sadly within earshot of all their annoying, uninformed conversations. First, it was him incorrectly explaining the rules. Later, she insisted that two guys seated to our left were twins (they weren’t). Eventually, they had the proverbial domestic dispute over the phone when she got lost trying to find her way back from a nacho run.
The only solace in that day was a pocket of Bengals fans intent on ruining our section’s Sunday with matching paraphernalia and surprisingly organized cheers (I can appreciate collective asshole behavior).
Sobriety set in just after halftime. Relieved, that euphoria wore off almost instantly with the realization that I was sitting in the rain and watching one of the worst teams in the NFL stink it up. Only another hangover could drown out the pain of having paid to see this. Scrolling for Raiders scores on my Blackberry and waiting for high jinks that would never happen from Chad Ochocinco or Terrell Owens, I welcomed myself to 24.
Mike McCray, a Charlotte native and North Carolina A&T grad, is a city explorer, neighborhood partier and dress code ignorer who shakes his head at DJs getting away with bad blends, girls pretending to be drunk and grown men with low tolerances for alcohol. Follow him on Twitter.
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