GOOD ART, GARBED PEOPLE: The name of the game is "Costume or Evening Wear?" The best rounds occur when at least two disparate yet strangely kindred occasions coincide.For example, last Halloween, the band I was playing in at the time opened for Bret Michaels, lead singer for '80s hair-metal icons Poison, at venerable St. Pete outdoor venue Jannus Landing. People gathered in clusters, gesturing with their cocktails and playing "Costume or Evening Wear?" Was the 40-year-old soccer mom in the torn thigh-high fishnets and micro-mini sporting her usual concert attire, or dressed up in the spirit of the holiday? What about the guy with the buzz-cut and the leather chaps over his jeans — lifelong rocker whose job prohibits long hair, or October 31st enthusiast gunning to win a look-alike contest as Freddy Mercury?
Maybe it sounds a little mean, but come on. You don't get duded up like that to not be noticed.
The third installment of up-and-coming Tampa exhibition series/interactive multimedia show/theme party Bad Art for Bad People looked to be a perfect place for a round or two. After all, the theme was "Everyday Is Halloween," and costumes were encouraged. Plus, it was held on one of downtown Tampa danceteria Club Underground's Goth-ier nights. Put those two things together, and the people-watching potential soars.
I was a bit disappointed at first — in the crowd, not the excellent work by artists like Stephen Blickenstaff, Tim Rowland, Pooch and Bob White. Pooch and White provided definite highlights with vibrant religious iconography and evocative photography, respectively. And Jimbo Bloodworth's stuff was uniquely unsettling; Was that one canvas truly covered with real blood?
But no one was going to confuse White's Santa suit with a sartorial pledge of allegiance to The Dark Side as he stood just inside Underground, handing out free copies of national hip-art magazine Juxtapoz. The 34-year-old graphic designer is a member of the informal co-op of artists that conceived Bad Art for Bad People both as a means of exposure, and as a way to rebel against the conventions and clichés associated with traditional showings. Previous Bad Art soirees have included performances by punk and metal bands. All of them include patron-participation opportunities; at Underground, a booth invited attendees to make their own mask or (presumably black-clad and brooding) sock puppet.
"It's less pretentious," said Ben Mack, a novelist who just relocated to the Bay area from Atlanta. "It's a community thing because you don't have the buildup yet. The competition isn't here yet."
By the second hour, it was time to play "Costume or Evening Wear?" Was that long-haired young man with the black-and-white face makeup here for the art show, or was he a Saturday-night Underground regular? (For that matter, was he supposed to be a member of European black-metal band Dimmu Borgir, or just really bad at re-creating classic Kiss?) Art aficionados of all stripes wandered around, looking at the work; done-up clubgoers wandered around looking at the art aficionados, as if jeans and T-shirts and middle age constitute the epitome of weirdness in their shadowy universe. Seriously, I saw camouflage hot pants.
The mask-and-puppet booth, helmed by artist Sweet Pea, didn't see a lot of action for the first half of the exhibit. White later told me this was fairly normal, but that inhibited attendees generally loosened up and later dug in, to their delight.
"You get some hesitant people who do it and end up really enjoying it," he said. "It turns out to be one of their favorite things. Sweet Pea usually has a story like that for every event."
I PROMISED MYSELF I WOULDN'T CRY: On Saturday, a buttload of Bay area musicians and fans gathered at eminently worthy St. Pete watering hole Limey's Pub to say goodbye to Tony Dolan. Dolan, a multi-instrumentalist and songwriter who's played drums for The Gita and The Cuban Sandwich Crisis, leaves Pinellas this week for Chicago.Several friends got up to play some songs in Dolan's honor, before an extended set of jam-pop tunes by The Cuban Sandwich Crisis (about whom Car Bomb Driver singer Dave Reeder deadpanned, "Great name, but it might be a bit too, ah, regional"). Dudes in baseball caps were constantly recruiting other dudes in baseball caps to lift one end of the outdoor pool table in order to free lodged balls. Folks could choose between the sweltering, humid patio outside and the sweltering, sweaty throng inside. Former 97X morning jock Napoleon said some hilarious and truly disturbing things in mixed company on the subjects of little people and fellatio.
All in all, it was a bittersweet blast, one that lent credence to the time-honored belief that some musicians can consume heroic quantities of alcohol and still perform adroitly, but most can't.
THIS IS WHY I NEVER GIVE DIRECTIONS: My column about the Hurricane Charley near-miss two issues back suffered from a certain geographical dyslexia. I somehow got east and west transposed, with regard to the Gandy Bridge. My sense of failure is only somewhat mollified by the fact that it got by a couple of editors as well. This goes a long way toward explaining why it's so tough to get hold of anybody at the Planet for two hours around midday — we're all somewhere in the same car, trying to find some restaurant somebody heard was around here somewhere.
scott.harrell@weeklyplanet.com
This article appears in Sep 1-7, 2004.