The Viper Room, April 24, 1999:
L. says there’s a lot of competition tonight. Smashing Pumpkins down the street (Roxy or Whiskey), Del Fi anniversary at Spaceland, Giant Robot rave downtown… but it still doesn’t come close to explaining the vast desolation here. You can see the floor (black-flecked linoleum), polished edge of the bar (oak), follow the squares of light case by the endlessly, way-too-enthusiastically spinning disco ball. Must be a terrifying flop for two women whose adult lives have been based on fandom — to have none. Or so little as represented here tonight. They must want to skip out as badly as I did on the way over here, in traffic, or as I do now, feeling like a conspicuous gargantuan hovering at the end of the bar.
It’s so small here. It’s a tiny space, a fraction the size of Spaceland (maybe the size of its upstairs bar), half the size of Brownie’s in New York. Well, that’s not counting the VIP areas backstage, which I assume are multi-chambered and lush. With such a small space and such a notorious name, you’d think on a Saturday they’d have a built-in crowd that would at least lend the space a feeling of aliveness. Instead, it seems like a bar after hours.
I ran into L. & L. in the parking lot. They said they were running out for a cappucino, but maybe they’re not even planning to return. Yikes, I just feel sorry for everyone.
I like how little this notebook is. I’ve written almost nothing but I’ve filled up 3 pages. I’m working so hard.
Hmmm, DJ’s pulled an interesting Jefferson Airplane track — sounds really garage-y. And a little slow. We must be getting treated to some late ’60s gems but I’m a little too clueless to know exactly what they are. That would be me and the other 6 or 8 folks lurking around the edges of the room.
I can’t help but think about S.’s first wife, who worked here. There are 3 waitresses hanging out at the end of the bar — what else is there to do? — and they’re all polished and beautiful, like out of a magazine. But there’s still a creepy and eerie vibe — no, there’s no creepy vibe. But it’s hard not to think that people come to this place, then they die. ‘Cause they do.
“How’s the audition?” the bartender asks his buddy, as if on cue.
Percent of balding men : men with no discernible hair loss — 90:10. Or I guess that’s 9:1. But wait, let’s get an accurate count. 11:2 plus 2 with suspiciously jaunty hats. Apparently the lead singer of The Knack will be here — I wonder if he’s the Bob Geldof-y guy in the top hat, the dude with the graying Frampton-y locks, or if he’s cloistered backstage. Where apparently Rosanna Arquette is hanging out.
Oh, the tourists are a-rollin in. There are two overbuff dudes with buzz cuts and their t-shirts tucked into their jeans. They’re cruising for chicks. Is there really some part of the country where this look signals anything to women? (other than Go Away – Boys Club – Closed?)
[the show begins. L. & L. have returned.]
Rodney Bingenheimer introduced Pamela DesBarres: “When I first met her, my hand was down her blouse.”
– was dubbed Queen of the Groupies by Bryant Gumbel on her first book promo TV appearance
– followed Jesse Jackson on Larry King.
She reads from I’m With the Band, and breaks away to tell anecdotes — like, for example, that she did an abstract painting in high school which was actually what she imagined to be Mick Jagger’s balls — I’d wager they’re also in the book.
L. & L. have bailed, leaving me with a brown-paper wrapped package of incense by mistake.
[back to Pamela DesBarrres] “My time is up!” she whines. No response. She tries again. A few weak pleas of “no” moan out from the corner.
She reads her story of meeting Frank Zappa. Then GTOs, then Zappa hooked her up with the Plaster Casters. They taped the phone conversation, 30-plus years ago [and now play it back]. “I sound so young!” she exclaims, interrupting herself interrupting Cynthia Plaster Caster. Me, I’m just struck by how Chicahhgohan her voice sounds.
[Cynthia Plaster Caster takes the mic.]
“I love to talk about dicks as much as I like to fuck ’em, cuz it takes the edge off my shyness…. In 1964 I was 17, Catholic, and still a virgin.” [she asked herself] “How was I going to stand out from all the other groupies? I needed some kind of schtick.” [on April 23, 1966, had a weekend assignment for art class: make a plaster cast of something solid]. “Had to break into school to steal the plaster. We became the Plaster Casters! We were the talk of the Dick Clark Caravan!” [made a logo, kit, calling cards]
– lab coat
– ruler
– wax
– molding clay
– aluminum foil
– “lifelike models of hampton wicks” (on card) (hampton wick=Cockney slang for “dick”)
Noted: needed to lube the pubes. “In 1968, Frank Zappa called me an artist. I have no desire to retire. I cast cock whenever I feel like it.”
[more discussion of plaster dick casting, some of which I catch — she wishes she’d done Serge Gainsbourg, took two years to get Jimi Hendrix. Some I miss.]
Pamela: She should do dildos!
Cynthia Plaster Caster: How about miniatures?
