"Man, I'm the best there ever was," boasts Dean with a flash of his Crest-fortified chompers. "Just look at me." The 34-, er, 24-year-old Sunset resident has never been to the Last Day Saloon before, but he and his formidable blond pompadour are in full force at the Superbooty show Friday night. After all, he grew up in Philly, where disco and bad hair are still king and the Cheez Whiz flows like wine.
"Yep, I like cheesesteaks, women, and money," Dean says, posing surprisingly bashfully for the camera, "but not in that order." After a small tug at the buttons on his woven vest (no shirt), he pushes his way toward the bar in search of a warm woman and a cold beer, his cowboy boots sticking irksomely to the beer-soaked floor.
"It's time," announces a man from the tinsel-strewn stage, "to revisit the age of Welcome Back, Kotter, when brown and orange were beautiful." The crowd, conservatively clad, for the most part, in bluejeans and black shoes, erupts into cheers and surges forward as the 16-piece disco revival band boogies into the spotlight. Lead vocalist Skippy Tornado, wearing a red vinyl coat and a blue wig, spins the mini disco ball lashed to his neck. "It's a Booty party!" he shouts as his tassled and go-go-booted backup singers thrust their way into K.C. & the Sunshine Band's "That's the Way (I Like It)." Superbooty may sound like it's playing to work off a weeklong bender, but this mob doesn't care. They're here to sweat to the oldies like "Super Freak" and "Disco Inferno."
Wasn't it just yesterday that Dazed and Confused hit the big screen and Brenda and her minions were sporting velvet chokers on 90210? Once again, malls are bursting with smiley faces and bell-bottoms and fashion designers are touting the return of the decade that just won't die. Other revivals come and go, but local bands and DJs have been strutting in the '70s for close to a decade. On this same Friday night, over 600 polyester-shirted, wraparound-skirted fans are gathered for Grooveline, an L.A. band flown up weekly for a running weekend engagement at the DNA Lounge.
"They are so hot!" breathes a smitten Mission-dweller as three foxes in large Afro wigs saunter onstage in a cloud of smoke. "There he is," she squeals, tying her baby-T halter-style and fixing her gaze on the latest arrival, a young, Jagger-esque bass player who swaggers with studied expertise.
DJ BB Hayes fades "Play That Funky Music," and two imposing bodyguards -- one in a white dress jacket, the other in black -- take their positions at opposite sides of the stage. Svelte frontman Larry G. Parker (formerly of Liquid Sky) tantalizes the ladies with his floral flares and -- swoon! -- an open tuxedo shirt, then launches into a dead-on rendition of "Boogie Nights" complete with mandatory butt-wiggling and some well-executed full-band choreography.
"You're the coolest," Parker coos while admirers -- men and women -- clamber to touch his outstretched hand. "Let's have ourselves a little party," he continues, shaking his perfect "star attribute" in the face of several beaming fans. Making love to the crowd with his microphone, Parker purrs through "Celebration" while Lincoln Kennedy, the bass player, licks his lips with precision.
"They've got to be gay," grumbles a Marina man. "No straight guy can move like that."
Meanwhile, a large group of lipsticked bettys and two men "on the list" try to talk their way past backstage security. "Every week there's more of them," says an incredulous guard. "We had to block off the stairs because girls kept rushing the stage. Guys like 'em, too." He points to the front row, where a man clutches the hem of Parker's pant leg as he croons the Commodores' "Easy."
"It's all just voluntary suspension of belief," comments an unimpressed friend with a severe headache. "They think they're superstars, and, luckily for them, the crowd wishes they were."
Isn't that the point? If you want to be a star, just act like one.
By Silke Tudor
