Straight and Frankenstein tall stood Kim Fowley in the low-roofed Redwood Lounge last weekend. Presiding over another installment of “Hollywood Sexual Underground”, the legendary songwriter-producer-impresario was haranguing a roomful of sweating freaks and lovelies when I clambered in off the street on another boiling hot Friday night. “Are there any lesbians or drunks in the house tonight?” he intoned from somewhere near the ceiling, glowering about the narrow room like a rock ‘n’ roll Vincent Price.

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I’d faithfully missed most of the other hallucino-treats on hand the previous week, from the Acid Mothers Temple/Kinksi overandunder at the Echo on Friday to a Westside underground trance bash with FatFinger, Mark Zambala that failed to go off due to venue problems. Yes, in my decadent search for cheap out-of-head thrills post-rock revisionism that lead me to concert-hall mutations of the Bach family and writhing before cracked speakers in dust-storms, I’ve come to be overawed by traditional Balinese court music.

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