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I LOVE THE NIGHTLIFE by Carla Ridge "Hello, Daddy, Hello, Mom, I'm Your Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch Cherry Bomb!"
Pauley, J.C., Lissa, Katie and Claudia took the stage like they OWNED it, like it was their BIRTHRIGHT. Blasting off with the opening strains of "Crazy Train," then whip-cracking into one of their commanding originals, the quintet cranked out an air-tight, high-energy crunch that suggested not only The Runaways, early Blondie and melodic Hole, but also Green Day and The New York Dolls (on a good day - Johansen WISHES he were Pauley). They swaggered, they strutted, they marked their aural territory, lobbing one hook-spiked, harmony-buzzed grenade after another.
Of course, it's the glittery, gauzy, hot-pantsed sum of the parts that makes this unit run like a prewar German train - but what parts! Pauley's firewater vocals and confrontational, penetrating regard of the audience made my constant companion - you know Alex by now - swoon repeatedly (ever the sensitive soul, he gasped after the performance had wrung us both wet: "That was an emotional experience for me; I welled up."). J.C.'s "don't fuck with me" mastery of her flying V and chunky sandpaper rhythms restored air guitar's good name with thundering aplomb. Katie's Paul McCartney-meets-Sid Vicious bottom, sterling backup and virtuosic head-banging (pink-head banging, no less) kept the circuitry grounded. Lissa scorched with tasty, tuneful leads - and Lord have mercy, the girl plays an SG (invented by Les Paul for wife Mary Ford; yes, that WILL be on the test). And then there's Claudia, who pounded those skins like Dave Grohl on a PMS rampage - THE GIRL IS A MONSTER. Seriously, her facial expressions convinced me she wanted to kill us as well as her kit.
Which is something all girls should realize, whether they actually get onstage or just act like they belong there. No, I'm not a rock star, but I play one on the TV of my life. I grant myself a rock star's impunity, and you should, too. Catch Lo-Ball if you can at the Dragonfly on July 12 at 10:15 pm. Those of you who do not reside in Los Angeles can see and hear the girls in all their glory this month on E! Entertainment's "Hollywood Nights II." Their music can also be found on MP3.com: www.mp3.com/LoBall. Do think of Carla when you rock on with your frock on - and make sure it's short and shiny. Love (and rockets), Carla |
That
was me during my recent encounter with Lo-Ball, a blistering rawwwk
experience that found Carla throwin' goat like a head-bangin', mullet-haired
Dokken dude of yore. The truly outstanding thing about this band has
nothing to do with them, however; it's all about me (of course). I am
now a slave to their groove because of how it made ME
feel - like a rock star. Their set at Pink's (during a music conference
in Vegas) made me want to drink a bottle of Jack, shoot a bag o' smack,
pick a fight out back and get a groupie on her back. 
Standouts
included the smirking throwdown of "Rock Star," the power balladry of
"Lipstick & Aspirin," the galloping bravado of "Uncomplicated" and the
sing-along pop of "Too Late" (which classes up the Michelle Pfeiffer/Harrison
Ford vehicle "What Lies Beneath" - reason enough to catch that flick).
It
so warms the rock cockles of my heart to encounter a band whose chops
and songs match its attitude, but there's no underestimating attitude
here. WARNING: I'm about to fly in the face of traditional feminism,
so the whiny vaginas among you might want to skip over the rest of this
graph. Lo-Ball has sucker-punched me so BECAUSE
THEY ARE CHICKS (If they were boys, I would have said, "Great
show" and maybe kept an eye out for them; I would not have wanted to
establish a religion around them.). 
Stating
this, however, in no way diminishes their power. Nor does my observation
that the "we don't care if you like us" insouciance at the heart of
Lo-Ball's appeal is attributable to how completely they own their status
as chicks who rock. Almost to a one, the many boy players I know miss
the forest of their performances, fretting over the trees of flat notes,
flubbed guitar parts, drumbeats turned too far around - mistakes the
audience is unlikely to notice. I doubt these girls do that. I suspect
their confidence and pride in being chicks who rock makes such self-deprecation
wholly unnecessary.