This week, we continue outing the old and butting in on the new.
First, on Thurs., July 27, I caught the most engaging band I've seen in a looooong time. Cali quartet Eagles of Death Metal -- opening for Peaches at the Variety Playhouse -- freewheeled through raunch 'n' roll led by Jesse Hughes, who, sporting a resplendent pornstache, yelped like a glam greaser-meets-vintage WWF manager. I can't endorse an act more firmly. Speaking of firmly, that's surely how some attendants felt during MJQ's vintage lingerie show the same night. Eventually Peaches and her drummer made an appearance, or so say pictures at www.mjqforums.com (frightening -- they allow cameras).
Friday was a send-off for the Agave Cowgirl, who for the next three months spreads herself across Europe (take that as you will). Then Saturday my friend Susannah (den mother of the North Highland Pub) said auf wiedersehen to her 20s.
I was invited to Jermaine Dupri's Celebrity Weekend at Buckhead's InterContinental Hotel, but it was a "White Party," and even the ATL's midnight mayor can't force me to dress like a marshmallow. And Wild Bill's in Duluth celebrated three years of business in front and party in back. Unfortunately, I misplaced my magnanimous G 'N R belt buckle so opted out; still, my hat tips to mechanical bull Zeus and every "Wild child."
Instead, I visited Halo -- Midtown's contemporary concrete lounge tucked into the basement of the Biltmore -- which was celebrating five years. Halo is your neighborhood bar ... if your neighborhood had a 212 area code. This Manhattan-style speakeasy with its unmarked door attracts both the sleek and the would-be slick, and all were in abundance Sat., July 29.
With a line out the door, Halo proved a beacon to chichi cherubs and angels with dirty faces. Inside, the narrows radiated with top-shelf grins as patrons luxuriated in the long-torso Latin shimmy of Turntables on the Hudson's midnight-hour deep house. The bar bustled, others hustled and the adventures of an anime frog-boy projected on one wall. Among those seen partying along the boutique bunker's Winchester stairways was Lily, webmistress of Lunar Magazine.
Ducking home a little after 2 a.m., I made my way from a club full of foxes to clubbing foxes. As I desperately burned off caffeine, I caught a snippet of National Geographic's "Killer Canines," during which little critters hunted to drum 'n' bass. Delirious, perhaps, I giggled myself to sleep watching fluffy and fierce arctic foxes -- certainly a more satisfying "white party" was unlikely to be found.
RedEye celebrates going out and going off. Send comments to email@example.com, but hand-scrawled hate mail is preferred.
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