After the din of ‡ ended, Zombelle got set up. She and her collaborator were decked out like Vampire Hunter D. With a kaoss pad noise wash underneath, Zombelle gesticulated hurling reverb drenched sixties truisms. A broken guitar lay on the floor, plugged in I suppose. Most people stood in awe at what could be called an avante-Zombelle set.

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Kim Fowley once famously recommended Hollywood as a place for the cynical who’ve fouled their nests elsewhere. While it’s impossible not to marvel at the agglomeration of shitheels hoofing it in this basin, few can remain cynical around the fellow’s female entourage, most of which were running rampant at his Lipstick Orgy extravaganza at the Knit last Wednesday, the 20th. The tall and glowering host, father of a hundred chart hits across the decades and busy these days as ever, left briefing details to Christie Blood, the entirely delightful mistress-of-ceremonies for further cozening. Fowley’s shows always remind me of mid-1960s A.I. P. joint Dr. Goldfoot & the Bikini Machine, in which Vincent Price attempts to conquer the world with an elite force of pulchritudinous chickbots molded to every kink in ruling-class chauvinistic taste.

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